“You think so, boy,” cried he, with a saucy smile. “Little you know the way we live in the West, here;” and he tossed off the liquor before the other could stop him. The empty glass had scarcely been replaced on the table, when all the former signs of drunkenness had come back again, and in his bloodshot eyes and swollen veins might be seen the very type of passionate debauch.
“Not ask me to their houses!” cried he, hoarse with passion. “Who wants them? Not invite me! Did I ever seek them? The dirty, mean spalpeens, don't I know the history of every one of them? Could n't I expose them from one end of the county to the other? Who 's Blake of Harris-town? He 's the son of Lucky Magarry, the pedler. You don't believe me. I had it from Father Cole himself. Lucky was hanged at Ennis. 'Ye want a confession!' says Lucky, when he came out on the drop; 'ye want a confession! Well, I suppose there's no use in keeping anything back now, for ye 'll hang me at any rate, and so here it's for you. It was I murdered Mr. Shea, and there was nobody helping me at all. I did it all myself with a flail; and be the same token, it 's under Mark Bindon's tombstone this minute. There now, the jury may be azy in their minds, and the judge, and the hangman, too, if he cares about it. As for his honor the high sheriff,' said he, raising his voice, 'he 's a fine man, God bless him, and the county may be proud of him; for it was he ferreted out all about this business! And faix, notwithstanding all, I 'm proud of him myself, for he 's my own son!' And as he said that he dropped on his knees and cried out that he might never see glory if there was a word of lie in anything he said then! So that's what Blake got for his zeal for justice!”
And as Magennis finished, he burst into a wild, fiendish laugh, and said,—
“There 's the country gentry—there 's the people won't know Magennis and his wife!—ay, sir, his lawful, married wife! Let me see that you or any other man will deny it, or refuse to treat her as becomes her station.—Joan! Joan!” shouted he, striking the poker violently against the chimney; and with hot haste and intense anxiety the poor girl rushed into the room the moment after. “Sit down here, ma'am,” said Magennis, rising, and placing a chair for her beside his own, with an affectation of courtesy that savored of mockery,—“sit down, I say,” cried he, stamping his foot passionately. “That's my wife, sir! No man that sits at my board shall behave to her as anything else.”
“I have ever treated her with respect,” said Massingbred, “and shall always continue to do so.”
“And it's better for you to do so,” said the other, fiercely, the bullying spirit rising on what he deemed the craven submission of his guest.
Meanwhile the girl sat trembling with terror, not knowing what the scene portended, or how it was to end.
“The herd's daughter, indeed! No, sir, Mrs. Magennis, of Barnagheela, that's her name and title!”
At these words the poor girl, overcome with joy and gratitude, fell down upon her knees before him, and, clasping his hand, covered it with kisses.
“Is n't that pretty breeding!” cried Magennis, violently. “Get up, ma'am, and sit on your chair like a lady. The devil a use in it, do what you will, say what you will,—the bad 'drop' is in them; and whatever becomes of you in life, Massingbred, let me give you this advice,—never marry beneath you!”