“Take that, you owld faggot!” cried Matty, as she shook Mrs. Rooney's tributary claret from the knuckles which had so scientifically tapped it, and wiped her hand in her apron.
The old woman roared “millia' murthur” on the floor, and snuffled out a deprecatory question “if that was the proper way to be received in her son's house.”
“Your son's house, indeed!” cried Matty. “Get out o' the place, you stack o' rags.”
“Oh, Andy! Andy!” cried the mother, gathering herself up.
“Oh—that's it, is it!” cried Matty; “so it's Andy you want?”
“To be sure: why wouldn't I want him, you hussy? My boy! my darlin'! my beauty!”
“Well, go look for him!” cried Matty, giving her a shove towards the door. “Well, now, do you think I'll be turned out of my son's house so quietly as that, you unnatural baggage?” cried Mrs. Rooney, facing round, fiercely. Upon which a bitter altercation ensued between the women; in the course of which the widow soon learnt that Andy was not the possessor of Matty's charms: whereupon the old woman, no longer having the fear of damaging her daughter-in-law's beauty before her eyes, tackled to for a fight in right earnest, in the course of which some reprisals were made by the widow in revenge for her broken nose; but Matty's youth and activity, joined to her Amazonian spirit, turned the tide in her favour, though, had not the old lady been blown by her long run, the victory would not have been so easy, for she was a tough customer, and left Matty certain marks of her favour that did not rub out in a hurry—while she took away (as a keepsake) a handful of Matty's hair, by which she had long held on till a successful kick from the gentle bride finally ejected Mrs. Rooney from the house.
Off she reeled, bleeding and roaring, and while on her approach she had been blessing Heaven and inventing sweet speeches for Matty, on her retreat she was cursing fate and heaping all sorts of hard names on the Amazon she came to flatter. Alas, for the brevity of human exultation!
How fared it in the meantime with Andy? He, poor devil! had passed a cold night, tied up to the old tree, and as the morning dawned, every object appeared to him through the dim light in a distorted form; the gaping hollow of the old trunk to which he was bound seemed like a huge mouth, opening to swallow him, while the old knots looked like eyes, and the gnarled branches like claws, staring at and ready to tear him in pieces.
A raven, perched above him on a lonely branch, croaked dismally, till Andy fancied he could hear words of reproach in the sounds, while a little tomtit chattered and twittered on a neighbouring bough, as if he enjoyed and approved of all the severe things the raven uttered. The little tomtit was the worst of the two, just as the solemn reproof of the wise can be better borne than the impertinent remark of some chattering fool. To these imaginary evils was added the reality of some enormous water-rats that issued from an adjacent pool and began to eat Andy's hat and shoes, which had fallen off in his struggle with his captors; and all Andy's warning ejaculations could not make the vermin abstain from his shoes and his hat, which, to judge from their eager eating, could not stay their stomachs long, so that Andy, as he looked on at the rapid demolition, began to dread that they might transfer their favours from his attire to himself, until the tramp of approaching horses relieved his anxiety, and in a few minutes two horsemen stood before him—they were Father Phil and Squire Egan.