“An’ what if they do hear? It were a sore pity they should be sthruck deaf to plaze ye,” replied Biddy, her eyes flashing with excitement. “I would ye were in ould Ireland, or, for the matther o’ that, in purgatory itself.”
“We would—” said the priest.
“No doubt o’ it. But it’s here I am, at yer service,” interrupted Biddy.
“Yes, and it’s here ye’ve been bought for a wee pinch o’ tae and a few poor, lean chickens. Sowl and body ye’ve been bought, and a mighty poor bargain have the blind purchasers made o’ it.”
“Plazing yer riverence, ye know nought o’ what ye are saying, and small throuble ye’ll make wi’ yer idle words. It’s not a turkey, duck, or hen could buy Biddy Dillon. Ye’ve tried it yerself, father, and so ye know.”
“It’s a black heart ye have,” said the priest, whose courage was hardly equal to his anger, and whose valour speedily cooled before resolute opposition. “It’s blacker than ink ye are, Biddy Dillon, with the wicked heresy.”
Like most Irish women, Biddy was well skilled in the art of scolding, and among her neighbours was considered rather more expert in the business than themselves. When angry, abusive epithets seemed to fall as naturally from her tongue as expressions of endearment when she was pleased.
“A black heart, did ye say?” she cried, rising and facing the priest, who involuntarily retired a step from her; “the same to yerself! An’ ye were bathed in Lough Ennel, and rinsed in the Shannon at Athlone, it would not half clane out the vile tricks ye are so perfect in. A black heart has Biddy Dillon? An’ ye were ducked and soaked over night in the Liffey mud at Dublin, ye were claner than now? A black heart? An’ yerself an ould penshioner, idle and mane, stirrin’ up a scrimmage in an honest woman’s house, and repeating yer haythenish nonsense, an’ ye able and sthrong to take hould o’ the heaviest end o’ the work! Are ye not ashamed? What are ye good for?”
“The saints preserve us! what a tongue the woman has!” exclaimed Father M‘Clane, making a futile effort to smile, as he turned his face, now pale as death, toward the company. “But I have no time to stay longer. I warn ye all, my friends, to kape away from this accursed house, and to turn a deaf ear to all that is said to ye here. Your souls are in peril. Ye are almost caught in the snare. Ye should run for yer lives before ye perish entirely. I shall remember you, Biddy Dillon.”
“In course ye will. An’ ye show yerself here again, barrin’ as a peaceable frind or ould acquaintance, ye’ll find yerself remimbered too, honey.”