“Far!” he contemptuously ejaculated—“a few dirty mile, an’ the horses atin’ their heds aff. Lily av the Valley darted through her stall this mornin’, an’ it tuk me an’ a cupple more for to hould Primrose.”
This was special pleading with a vengeance.
“Mebbe the gintleman wud take a gun. Give him a lind av Miss Blake, sir. She goes aff soft an’ aisy, an’ wudn’t rub the dew aff th’ eyebrow av a grasshopper. Blur an’ ages, Masther Fred! for th’ honor av ould Ireland give him a shot. The birds is as thick as hayves, an’ he cudn’t miss thim no more nor a haystack; an’ shure,” he added, “anything he misses I’ll be on the luk out for, so betune us we’ll make it soft anyhow.”
“It’s not to be done, Ned; besides, Miss Hawthorne accompanies her father, and she possibly would not like to separate from him.”
“Bad cess to thim for wimmen!” he muttered, as he tossed the gun across his shoulders; “they spile everything. I wish they wor niver invinted.”
In the course of post two very polite letters reached us, one addressed to my mother from Miss Hawthorne, the other to myself from the M.P., accepting the invitation and stating that the writer would leave Dublin by the one o’clock train upon the following day, reaching Ballyvoreen station at 5.30.
The letters were excellently well written, both as regards style and caligraphy, especially that of the lady, whom I now felt assured must be a distinguished member of the Social Science or of the British Association.
“They will be here to-morrow, mother. How on earth are we to amuse them? We are in for it now, and must do our best to make their visit agreeable. I know little, and care less, about Home Rule, so I’ll hand Mr. Hawthorne over to Myles Casey, of Loftus Park, who opposed our present member. Father O’Dowd, too, will give this base, bloody, and brutal Saxon enough to think about for a dozen sessions of Parliament. I’ll do my part like a man.”
“We must give a dinner-party,” said my mother with a weary sigh, visions of unpacking the family plate, which had not seen the light of day since my poor father’s death, floating across her mind’s eye. “I can drive Miss Hawthorne about the country and pay visits.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about her, mother. She’ll be able to amuse herself. Show her the old quarry at Rathnamon, and she can geologize until she’s black in the face. Or bring her to Carrignageena, and she’ll find ferns to bother her; and if she’s a dab at antiquities, the old church at Bohernacapple ought to put her on the treadmill for a week. There is one tombstone there that has bewildered Sir William Wilde and the entire Royal Irish Academy.”