And Meny—poor heart-stricken Meny—loving as none but the true and simple-minded can love, the extent of her grief was such as the true and simple-minded only can know; and yet there was worse in store for her. Shortly after this consummation of her mother’s fame, a whisper began to creep through the village—a whisper of dire import, portending death and disaster on some luckless wight unknown—“Peggy Moran has something on her mind.” What could it be? Silent and mysterious she shook her head when any one ventured to question her—the pipe was never out of her jaw unless when she slept or sat down to her meals—she became as cross as a cat, which to do her justice was not her wont, and eschewed all sorts of conversation, which most assuredly was not her wont either. The interest and curiosity of her neighbours was raised to a most agonising pitch—every one trembled lest the result should be some terrible revelation affecting himself or herself, as the case might be: it was the burden of the first question asked in the morning, the last at night. Every word she uttered during the day was matter of speculation to an hundred anxious inquirers; and there was every danger of the good people of Ballycoursey going absolutely mad with fright if they were kept any longer in the dark on the subject.
At length there was a discovery; but, as is usually the case in all scrutinies into forbidden matters, it was at the cost of the too-daring investigator. Peggy and Brian were sitting one night before the fire, preparing for their retirement, when a notion seized the latter to probe the sorrows of his helpmate.
“’Deed it well becomes you to ax,” quoth the wierd woman in answer to his many and urgent inquiries; “for Brian, achorra machree, my poor ould man, there’s no use in hiding it—it’s all about yourself.”
“No, then!” exclaimed the surprised interrogator; “the Lord betune us an’ harm, is it?”
“’Deed yes, Brian,” responded the sybil with a melancholy tone, out of the cloud of smoke in which she had sought to hide her troubles. “I’m thinking these last few days you’re not yourself at all at all.”
“Tare an ounties! maybe I’m not,” responded he of the doubtful identity.
“Do you feel nothing on your heart, Brian achree?”
“I do; sure enough I do,” gasped poor Brian, ready to believe anything of himself.
“Something like a plurrisy, isn’t it?” inquired the mourner.
“Ay, sure enough, like a plurrisy for all the world, Lord betune us an’ harm!”