Phelim Otoole's Courtship and Other Stories. William Carleton

“be gorra, ma'am, you've played the puck entirely wid me. Faith, I'm gettin' fonder an' fonder of her every minute, your Reverence.”

      He set his eye, as he uttered this, so sweetly and significantly upon the old house-keeper, that the priest thought it a transgression of decorum in his presence.

      “I think,” said he, “you had better keep your melting looks to yourself, Phelim. Restrain your gallantry, if you please, at least until I withdraw.”

      “Why, blood alive! sir, when people's fond of one another, it's hard to keep the love down. Augh, Mrs. Doran! Faith, you've rendhored my heart like a lump o' tallow.”

      “Follow me to the parlor,” said the priest, “and let me know, Bridget, what sum I am to give to this melting gallant of yours.”

      “I may as well get what'll do the weddin' at wanst,” observed Phelim. “It'll save throuble, in the first place; an' sackinly, it'll save time; for, plase Goodness, I'll have everything ready for houldin' the weddin' the Monday afther the last call. By the hole o' my coat, the minute I get the clo'es we'll be spliced, an' thin for the honeymoon!”

      “How much money shall I give him?” said the priest.

      “Indeed, sir, I think you ought to know that; I'm ignorant o' what 'ud make a dacent weddin'. We don't intend to get married undher a hedge; we've frinds an both sides, an' of course, we must have them about us, plase Goodness.”

      “Be gorra, sir, it's no wondher I'm fond of her, the darlin'? Bad win to you, Mrs. Doran, how did you come over me at all?”

      “Bridget,” said the priest, “I have asked you a simple question, to which I expect a plain answer. What money am I to give this tallow-hearted swain of yours?”

      “Why, your Reverence, whatsomever you think may be enough for full, an' plinty, an' dacency, at the weddin'.”

      “Not forgetting the thatch for me, in the mane time,” said Phelim. “Nothin' less will sarve us, plase your Reverence. Maybe, sir, you'd think 'of comin' to the weddin' yourself?”

      “There are in my hands,” observed the priest, “one hundred and twenty-two guineas of your money, Bridget. Here, Phelim, are ten for your wedding suit and wedding expenses. Go to your wedding! No! don't suppose for a moment that I countenance this transaction in the slightest degree. I comply with your wishes, because I heartily despise you both; but certainly this foolish old woman most. Give me an acknowledgment for this, Phelim.”

      “God bless you, sir!” said Phelim, as if he had paid them a compliment. “In regard o' the acknowledgment, sir, I acknowledge it wid all my heart; but bad luck to the scrape at all I can write.”

      “Well, no matter. You admit, Bridget, that I give this money to this blessed youth by your authority and consent.”

      “Surely, your Reverence; I'll never go back of it.”

      “Now, Phelim,” said the priest, “you have the money; pray get married as soon as possible.”

      “I'll give you my oath,” said Phelim; “an' be the blessed iron tongs in the grate there, I'll not lose a day in gettin' myself spliced. Isn't she the tendher-hearted sowl, your Reverence? Augh, Mrs. Doran!”

      “Leave my place,” said the priest. “I cannot forget the old proverb, that one fool makes many, but an old fool is worse than any. So it is with this old woman.”

      “Ould woman! Oh, thin, I'm sure I don't desarve this from your Reverence!” exclaimed the housekeeper, wiping her eyes: “if I'm a little seasoned now, you know I wasn't always so. If ever there was a faithful sarvant, I was that, an' managed your house and place as honestly as I'll manage my own, plase Goodness.”

      As they left the parlor, Phelim became the consoler.

      “Whisht, you darlin'!” he exclaimed. “Sure you'll have Bouncin' Phelim to comfort you. But now that he has shut the door, what—hem—I'd take it as a piece o' civility if you'd open my eyes a little; I mane—hem—was it—is this doin' him, or how? Are you—hem—do you undherstand me, Mrs. Doran?”

      “What is it you want to know, Phelim? I think everything is very plain.”

      “Oh, the divil a plainer, I suppose. But in the mane time, might one axe, out o' mere curiosity, if you're in airnest?”

      “In airnest! Arrah, what did I give you my money for, Phelim? Well, now that everything is settled, God forgive you if you make a bad husband to me.”

      “A bad what?”

      “I say, God forgive you if you make a bad husband to me. I'm afeard, Phelim, that I'll be too foolish about you—that I'll be too fond of you.”

      Phelim looked at her in solemn silence, and then replied—“Let us trust in God that you may be enabled to overcome the weakness. Pray to Him to avoid all folly, an' above everything, to give you a dacent stock of discration, for it's a mighty fine thing for a woman of your yea—hem—a mighty fine thing it is, indeed, for a sasoned woman, as you say you are.”

      “When will the weddin' take place, Phelim?”

      “The what?” said Phelim, opening his brisk eye with a fresh stare of dismay.

      “Why, the weddin', acushla. When will it take place? I think the Monday afther the last call 'ud be the best time. We wouldn't lose a day thin. Throth, I long to hear my last call over, Phelim, jewel.”

      Phelim gave her another look.

      “The last call! Thin, by the vestment, you don't long half as much for your last call as I do.”

      “Arrah, Phoilim, did you take the—the—what you wor wantin' awhile agone? Throth, myself disremimbers.”

      “Ay, around dozen o' them. How can you forget it?”

      The idiot in the corner here gave a loud snore, but composed himself to sleep, as if insensible to all that passed.

      “Throth, an' I do forget it. Now, Phelim, you'll not go till you take a cup o' tay wid myself. Throth, I do forget it, Phelim darlin', jewel.”

      Phelim's face now assumed a very queer expression. He twisted his features into all possible directions; brought his mouth first round to one ear and then to the other; put his hand, as if in great pain, on the pit of his stomach; lifted one knee up till it almost touched his chin, then let it down, and instantly brought up the other in a similar manner.

      “Phelim, darlin', what ails you?” inquired the tender old nymph. “Wurrah, man alive, aren't you well?”

      “Oh, be the vestment,” said Phelim, “what's this at all? Murdher, sheery, what'll I do! Oh, I'm very bad! At death's door, so I am! Be gorra, Mrs. Doran, I must be off.”

      “Wurrah, Phelim dear, won't you stop till we settle everything?”

      “Oh, purshuin' to the ha'p'orth I can settle till I recover o' this murdherin' colic! All's asthray wid me in the inside. I'll see you—I'll see you—Hanim an dioul! what's this?—I must be off like a shot—oh, murdher sheery?—but—but—I'll see you to-morrow. In the mane time, I'm—I'm—for ever oblaged to you for—for—lendin' me the—loan of—oh, by the vestments, I'm a gone man!—for lendin' me the loan of the ten guineas—Oh, I'm gone!”

      Phelim disappeared on uttering these words, and his strides on passing out of the house were certainly more rapid and vigorous than those of a man laboring under pain. In fact, he never looked behind him until one-half the distance between the priest's house and his father's cabin had been fairly traversed.

      Some misgivings occurred to the old housekeeper, but her vanity, having been revived by Phelim's blarney, would not permit her to listen to them. She had, besides, other motive to fortify her faith in his attachment. First, there was her money, a much larger sum than ever Phelim could expect with any other woman, young or old; again, they were to be called on the following Sunday, and she knew that when a marriage affair proceeds