“ ‘Och—give me your hand—shower the blessings on my head,’ he exclaimed, dancing round the room, ‘sure and I’m in heaven the day—ouch, ullabaloo, was there iver such luck?—ten thousand acres, the dear sowl, and a rint roll as long as a rigiment’s line: I’m a made man—hurrah!’ and throwing his cap up he caught it again, and then capered around the room, even carrying his antics so far as to leap over sundry chairs. I was nearly dying with laughter—and as yet I was totally ignorant of the cause of this joy.
“ ‘What do you mean?’ said I, ‘you haven’t told me what all this congratulation is to be about.’
“Never did I see a fellow look more astonished than Tim. He stopped still, stared at me incredulously, and then gave vent to his wonder.
“ ‘Blood and ages, and is the man drunk? Don’t ye know it’s all about Miss Araminta Wheeler, and the immense fortune she’s to bring me? The only living child—all the rest dead of scarlet fever, praise to the saints! and her owld father expected to kick the bucket everyday. Ouch, ullaloo-o-o, ain’t I the happy man? It’s marry the girl I will, this blessed week.’
“ ‘But will the ‘owld father’ consent—eh! Tim?’
“ ‘Divil a bit do I care whether he consents or not, if the daughter says ‘yes’—oh! such a jewel of a woman,—and what an iligant pattern the young O’Donnells will be!’
“ ‘Suppose the father guards her too well to permit an elopement? That dragon of an aunt looks as if she was kept to play the duenna.’
“ ‘Arrah, my lad,’ said Tim, with a knowing wink, ‘I’ll soon fix that, or my name isn’t Timothy O’Donnell, of Ballywhangle, of the county of Clare, standing six feet two in my stockings. Can’t I pretend to make love to the owld hag when the niece isn’t by? Oh! trust me for brushing the dew into her eyes.’
“I saw no more of Tim for nearly a week, except occasional glimpses caught of him at balls and concerts, where he was in attendance on his charmer and a spectral looking spinster, whom I recognised as the aunt. As I wanted to give him a fair field—keep the bottle lively—I did not approach them; so I had no opportunity of judging his success, until one morning he burst into my room vociferating that he had got a note from his charmer, in answer to one he had sent the day before, in which she consented to elope with him that very night. He called on me to ask me to get a post-chaise; for, in order to avoid the publication of banns, they would have to be united in another state. Tim was in such raptures that he couldn’t attend to any matter-o’-fact business, so I promised all he asked, and he left me, singing as he went, ‘Come, haste to the wedding,’ and cutting all sorts of extravagant antics.
“Midnight was the hour fixed on for the affaire, and, punctual to the minute, Tim’s post-chaise drew up a few rods from his charmer’s door, while the gallant lieutenant himself, springing out, made all haste to the rendezvous. The night was black as pitch—you could have cut the darkness out in slices—and a wild wind blew over the fields, roaring away down in the woods, like a gale in the rigging of a line-of-battle ship. Tim could scarcely pick his way along through the garden, but at length, after sundry tacks, he gained the front of the house,—yet not a sign of a living being could he see. He began to fear that his charmer’s heart had failed her, but at that instant he perceived a dark moving object just ahead of him, and hurrying forward, he soon recognised his future bride, muffled and cloaked for the journey.