Chapter VI (3)

"Pooh! I'll bet my life, against"----

"What it's worth, Mr. Mark--just nothing at all."

"True for you, now, Bridget; true for you," and Mark suddenly quitted the house in such real sorrow that it touched for a moment even Bridget's heart; but only for a moment. Pshaw! thought she, let him fret; it will do him good, and make the joy greater when he comes to know the truth. A hunt would be nothing without hedges and ditches. Proceeding to the window, she uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Ha! as I live, here comes Peg herself. She must meet Mark; what fun! He sees her and stops short; what a quandary he's in. She sees _him_! How the little fool blushes; now they meet. Mark doesn't take her hand. I wonder what he's saying. 'It's a fine day,' I suppose, or something equally interesting; he passes on, and Peg looks as scared as if she had seen a ghost."

A sudden thought at this moment seemed to strike Bridget; she clapped her hands together and laughed a little, sharp laugh, saying, "I'll do it, I will; I'll have a bit of fun with Peg, too," so she pretended to be very busy at her spinning-wheel as Peggy entered, and hanging up her, cloak and bonnet, sat down without saying a word.

"Ah! Peg," Bridget began, "is that you? Mark has just been here."

"Indeed?" replied Peggy, twisting up one pretty curl so tightly as to hurt her head.

"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."

"_double_" 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.

"Then, it's no use in my telling you," continued Pat, "how every life-dhrop of my heart was devoted to that same girl, how every wakin' thought, an' every sleepin' dhrame was filled up with her; now I've lost her, and the sunshine of my life is gone with her for ever."

"I know it all."

"But what--what am I to do? tell me, or I shall go mad."

"Thry your luck somewhere else."

"Pshaw! I might as well thry to stop the tide with a pitchfork."

"You do really love her, then?"

"Love her! Why do you ask? Do you doubt it?"

"I do."

"That shows how much you know, and now I doubt your power to tell any one's thoughts, since you can't tell mine."

"Oh, yes, but I can, if you want me to prove it, I'll tell you who you're thinking of at this moment."

"Do, and I'll believe anything."

"_Cousin Pether!_"

Pat fairly started from his seat; large drops suddenly gathered on his brow; he was frightened.

Biddy, seeing her advantage, went on: "You're a purty fellow, to call my power in question. I've a great mind to make you feel it in airnest. Will I go on or not?"

"Go on; anything," said Pat; "I'll say no more."

Biddy then shuffled the dirty pack of cards, cut and set them out in her lap, saying, as she proceeded: "Bad--nothing but bad luck. There, that queen of clubs is your sweetheart, and that knave of hearts must be Cousin Pether; he's rather carroty-headed."

Pat groaned.

"Here's a wedding," Biddy went on, "and lots of money, to who? Let me see: if it isn't to that knave of hearts again."

"Curse the knave of hearts," cried Pat, starting up, "I have had enough of this. I do believe you've been playin' wid me all this time. Good-bye"----

"Stay one minute; you think I've been playing with you, eh?" said the old witch, rising, and speaking in a mysteriously solemn tone of voice, "Young man, have you strength of mind enough to look upon the magic glass, and have your _eyes_ convinced?"

"What mean you?" exclaimed Pat.

"To show you what you least wish to see--Norah and her cousin in each other's arms."

"Impossible; you're juggling with me now; you cannot show me that."

"_Look!_" screamed old Biddy, tearing back the dingy curtain--and there, sure enough, within the frame of the mirror, locked in each other's embrace, were _Norah_ and _Peter_.

The suddenness of the disclosure, combined with the terror of the moment, acting upon a frame rendered weak from apprehension, made the blood rush into the brain of the unfortunate lover, and without uttering a sound, he fell heavily to the floor in a faint.

It was some time before he was restored to consciousness, when the first form that fell upon his sight was that of the detested Peter. He shut his eyes in the misery of unavailing rage, but opened them again in astonishment, as a well-known voice whispered in his ear:

"Dear Pat, it's your own Norah that's beside you."

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 nobody 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 paycock, wid a _blew_ coat on his back, covered over wid brass buttons, 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 stitch 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 God, 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 muff, 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 glass 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, coarse '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 assistance 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 appetite 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 butther 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."

"Where did 'baccy come from, Corney?" inquired Mary.

"Why, from 'Meriky; where else?" he replied, "that sint us the first pitaty. Long life to it, for both, say I!"

"What sort of a place is that, I wonder?"

"'Meriky, is it? They tell me it's mighty sizable, Moll, darlin'. I'm towld that you might rowl England through it, an' it would hardly make a dent in the ground; there's fresh water oceans inside of it that you might dround Ireland in, and save Father Matthew a wonderful sight of throuble; an' as for Scotchland, you might stick it in a corner of one of their forests, an' you'd niver be able to find it out, except, may-be, it might be by the smell of the whisky. If I had only a thrifle of money, I'd go an' seek me fortune there."

"Arrah, thin, what for Corney?"

"Oh! I don't know; I'm not aisy in me mind. If we were only as rich now as Phil Blake, how happy we might be!"

There was the cloud that shut out content from Corney's heart--far-sighted envy, that looks with longing eyes on distant objects, regardless of the comfort near. Most stupid _envy_, which relinquishes the good within its grasp to reach at something better unattainable, and only becomes conscious of its folly when time has swept away the substance and the shadow.

"It was the fairies that gave it to him," resumed Corney, as though communing with himself, while poor Mary, with a fond wife's prescience, mourned, as she foresaw that the indulgence of this new feeling would, most probably, change her hitherto industrious mate into an idle visionary.

"_The Fairies!_--An' why the divil shouldn't they give one man a taste of good luck, as well as another? I'll do it--I will--this very blessed night--_I'll do_ it!"

"Do what?" interrupted Mary, in alarm.

"Oh, nothing, nothing!--an' yet, I've niver kept anything from you, Molly, an' I don't know why I should now! Sure, it's you that'll have the binifit of it, if it comes to good."

"Dear Corney," replied Mary, "I'm happy enough as it is, so long as Heaven gives us strength to provide for each other's wants, an' you continue to be, what you always have been, a good husband to me. I'd rather not be throubled with any more."

"It's nothin' but right for you to say so, Mary, darlin'," returned Corney; "but now, supposin' that I could make a lady of you--eh? Think of bein' able to wear a fine silken gound, an' a beautiful sthraw bonnet, wid a real feather stuck in it; wouldn't you jerk your showlders to show off the silk, an' toss your purty head for to humor the feather?"

I must confess Mary's heart did flutter a little, at the mention of the silk gown and the feather. Corney saw his advantage, and continued,

"You know how it was Phil got his money; it was by sleepin in a _fairy circle_. I know where there's one, an' wid a blessin', I'll thry it meself."

"You won't be so foolish, Corney?"

"May I niver taste glory, if I don't do it!"

Of course, after that solemn, though doubtful obligation, Mary dared not endeavor to dissuade him from following out his intention, notwithstanding the most melancholy forebodings of kidnapping, fairy-blighting, and all the terrors associated with supernatural agency, filled her imagination.

The evening was now far advanced, and Corney, having finished his pipe, rose to go.

"Come, Molly," he exclaimed, gaily, "kiss me before I start, an' wish me iligant luck."

Mary, with tearful eyes, replied, "Dear Corney, if you had all the luck I wish you, you wouldn't have to go out into the cowld to hunt for it."

"Well, God bless you, darlin', if I don't come back to you Cornalius O'Carrol, Esquire."

"You'll come home my own dear, contented husband."

"We'll see," said Corney, and away he went.

It was nothing but reasonable that he should pay a visit to the "Cross Kays" before he went on his fairy hunt, and it was nothing but natural upon his arrival there, to find his resolution had receded so far that it took sundry pots of beer to float it up again. At last, brimful of that unthinking recklessness, which the intoxicated generally mistake for courage, off he started on his expedition, singing remarkably loud, in order to persuade any lurking feeling of cowardice that might be within him, that he wouldn't be influenced by it a morsel. As he neared the village church, however, his voice unconsciously subsided into utter silence; there was a short cut through the churchyard to the place of his destination, but he made a full stop at the little stile; many and many a time had he crossed it night and morning, without a thought, and now it seemed to call up ghostly images; the wind as it moaned through the trees, appeared to address itself particularly to him; it wasn't more than a stone's throw to the other side, and he wanted to clear it with a bound. At this moment the rusty old clock suddenly squeaked and boomed out upon the startled air. The first stroke, so sharp and unexpected, shattered Corney's nerves like a stroke of paralysis; recovering from his fright, he laughed at his folly, but the sound of his own voice terrified him still more. It was not familiar to him--he didn't know it! A fancy came into his head that somebody was laughing for him, and he fairly shivered!

A sudden thought relieved him: there was no occasion to go through the churchyard at all!

"What a fool I am," thought he, "it isn't so far round, and there's plenty of time. Divil take me if I wouldn't go home agin, only Mary would think me such a coward, besides, didn't Phil do it? That's enough; faint heart never won anything worth spakin' of--so here goes."

About half an hour's walk brought him to the meadow in which lay the object of his search--a fairy-circle. Now this same fairy-circle, is nothing more nor less than a ring of grass, which, from some cause or another, probably known to botanists, but certainly a mystery to most people, is of a different shade of color to that which surrounds it. Tradition celebrates such places as the favorite resort of fairies, by whom they were formed, that they might pursue their midnight revelry without fear of danger from inimical powers. The Irish peasantry carefully avoid trespassing on those sacred precincts, and indeed scarcely ever pass them without making a reverential bow.

Our ambitious friend, Corney, hesitated for some time, before he entered the magic enclosure, exceedingly doubtful as to the treatment he should receive; at last, swallowing his trepidation with a spasmodic gulp, he placed one foot within the circle, taking care to propitiate the invisibles on whose exclusive property he was so unceremoniously intruding.

"The blessin's on all here," said he, "an' I hope I'm not disturbin' any frolic or business that yez may be indulgin' in. It's mighty sleepy that I am, an' if yer honors would give me lave to recline meself atop of the grass, an' make it convanient not to stick any rheumaticks into me for takin' such a liberty, I'd recaive it as a compliment. If it's a thing that I happen promiscuously to thread on anybody's toes, I have no manin' whativer in it. By your laves, I'm goin' to lie down, an' I'll drop aisy, in order that I mayn't hurt anything."

So saying, Corney let himself down very gingerly, and lay full length within the fairy circle; he was one of those weather-proof individuals to whom the meadow-grass was as good as a feather-bed. Consequently what with the walk and the beer, it wasn't many minutes before he was snoring fast.

He hadn't been asleep, as he thought, an instant, before he felt an innumerable quantity of tiny feet traversing him all over; with regular step they marched up his throat, and scaled his chin; making two divisions up his cheeks, they arrived at his eyes, where they commenced tugging at the lids until they were forced open; the sight that met his view filled him with dreadful wonder. The circle of meadow, in which he had barely room to stretch himself out, formed all he could see of earth. Church, village, country, all had vanished; he rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was nothing; with an inexpressible sensation of awe, he turned round, and creeping cautiously to the edge of the circle, gazed downward, and could just discover the village he had quitted about a mile below; with still increasing dread, he was now aware that he was gradually mounting higher and higher. One more look, villages, cities, countries, were blended into an undistinguishable mass, and soon the globular form of the earth appeared, thoroughly defined, swinging in the air.

He then became sensible of a tremendous heat, which increased in intensity, until he found to his dismay that he was rapidly shrinking in size; his flesh dried up, shrivelled, cracked, and clasped his diminishing bones tighter, until at last he was not bigger than a respectable fly. "This is mighty quare," thought Corney, "there's a great lot of things like me frolicin' about. I feel as light as a feather. I wonder if I couldn't make one among them." So saying, he bounded up, and to his great amazement found that he had literally jumped out of his skin. He perched upon his own head, which had resumed its natural size and flying off, found himself floating securely in the air, while the carcass which he had just deserted fell, fairy-circle and all, rapidly towards the earth, and finally, also disappeared. Oh! the pranks that Corney played in the first delight of being able to fly; he dived down, he careered up, he threw mad summersets like a tumbler-pigeon--so light and buoyant had he become, that the passing vapors served him for a resting-place; he was happy, intoxicated with glee, thousands upon thousands of atomies gambolled around him like gnats in a sunbeam, the whole surrounding expanse was instinct with joyous life.

And they knew Corney, and saluted him as he passed by, with a compliment.

"Hallo!" said they, "here's Corney O'Carrol; how are you, Corney? It's well you're looking;" and Corney was astonished at the extensive nature of his atmospheric acquaintance.

"How do you like a fairy's life, Corney?" said one slim, midge-waisted chap.

"Iligant, your fairyship, iligant," said Corney.

"Then, I'd advise you to make the most of it, while it lasts. You'll soon have to appear before our king, and if you don't give a satisfactory reason for seeking him, woe betide you."

"Don't be frightened, sir," said Corney; "I've rayzon enough for comin', to satisfy any dacint-disposed fairy."

"Doubtful," said the good-natured elf, and off he flew.

"Stupid sperrit," thought Corney, and over he tumbled in mad recklessness, enjoying actually, that delicious sensation which sometimes occurs to people in dreams--the ability to skim through the air with the speed and safety of a bird. What struck Corney most particularly was the universal expression of glee which prevailed; nothing could he hear but a universal hum, which rose and fell on the ear with a purr-like undulation, such as one might imagine would proceed from a paradise of remarkably happy cats.

While Corney was thus revelling in his new-found element, he was suddenly accosted by two very genteel fairies. "Mr. Cornelius O'Carrol, we presume?" said they.

"There's not a doubt of it, gintlemen," replied Corney.

"We have come to have the honor of conducting you into the presence of our king," they continued.

"With a heart and a half," said Corney; "where might his majesty domesticate?"

"In yonder goold-tinted cloud, a few seconds' fly from this; follow us."

Upon nearing the regal abode, Corney observed sundry small substances, like duck-shot, dropping downward. "What's thim?" inquired he of his conductors.

"Oh!" answered one, "only a few discontented souls, who, like you, have sought our king, and haven't given sufficient reason for troubling him with their complaints."

Corney began to feel nervous, but coming to the conclusion that he had as good a right to be enriched through fairy agency as ever Phil Blake had, he put on a bold front, and was ushered into the presence of the fairy potentate. There, a sight of such dazzling splendor presented itself to his view, that, as he said himself, "You might as well try to count the stars of a frosty night, or look right into the sun's heart of a summer's day, as to give the slightest notion of the grandeur that surrounded me." All he could compare it to, was, a multitude of _living jewels_ of every variety of hue, sparkling and flashing in perpetual light.

As soon as he could collect his scattered senses, he heard a voice exclaim, "What, ho! soul of O'Carrol, approach!"

"So I'm thravelin' without my trunk this time, any way," thought Corney, as he advanced toward the voice.

It continued, "Soul of a mortal, why hast thou sought our presence?"

"May it plaze yer majesty," Corney began to stammer out, "bekase I was a trifle unaisy in me mind."

"What about?"

"In regard of the scarcity of money, plaze your reverence."

"What is your trade?"

"A shoemaker, sir."

"Cobbler, you mean," said the voice, severely. "No lying here; recollect your poor, miserable, naked soul stands before us."

Corney thought of the height he'd have to fall, and trembled.

"You can't get work, I suppose," the voice returned.

"Too much of it, if it plaze yer honor. I niver have a minute to spare."

"For what?"

"Why, yer honor, to--to----"

"Remember the punishment of prevarication. To what?"

"To take a drink."

"Then you have no home?"

"Oh, yes, but I have, sir."

"But 'tis pleasanter to lounge in a tap-room?"

"A trifle, may-be, your honor."

"Perhaps you have no wife to make your home comfortable?"

"Have't I though; the best that ever drew the breath of life," cried Corney, with a loving remembrance of Mary.

"Poor fellow," continued the voice; "your situation is deplorable, it appears. You have a good trade, an excellent wife, a comfortable home, and yet you are discontented."

Corney felt himself resolving into a leaden pellet.