Woe, woe, woe!—Mick Finnegan has sent a message of fond encouragement to his sweetheart, which she never must hear, for typhus, the scourge of Ireland, has made her his victim, and the daisies have already rooted on her grave, and are blooming there as fresh and fair as she used to be herself; and the wounds of her kindred are opened anew, and the death-wail is raised again, as wild and vehement as if she died but yesterday, although six weeks have passed since they bore her to Saint John’s.
What comes next?—“Johnny Golloher has got married to a Munster girl with a stocking full of money;” and Nanny Mulry laughs at the news until you’d think her sides ought to ache, and won’t acknowledge that she cares one pin about it—on the contrary, wishes him the best of good luck, and hopes he may never be made a world’s wonder of; all which proceedings are viewed by the initiated as so many proofs positive of her intention, on the first convenient opportunity, to break her heart for the defaulting Mr Golloher.
But among the crowd of earnest listeners who thus attended to gratify their several curiosities by the perusal of Dinny’s unexpected letter, none failed to remark the absence of her who in the course of nature was, or should be, most deeply interested in the welfare of the departed swain. Nelly Dolan never came near them. In the hovel where the poor outcast had been permitted to take up her abode when turned out of doors by her justly incensed father, she sat during the busy recital, her head bowed down and resting upon the wheel from which she drew the support of herself and her infant. Now and then a sob, almost loud enough to awaken the baby sleeping in a cleave beside her, broke from her in spite of herself; while her mother, who had ventured to visit her on the occasion, sat crouched down on the hearth before her, and angrily upbraided her for her sorrow.
“Whisht, I tell you, whisht!” exclaimed the old crone, “an’ have a sperrit, what you never had, or it wouldn’t come to your day to be brought to trouble by the likes of him.”
“Och, mother darlint,” answered the sufferer, “don’t blame me—it’s a poor thing, God knows, that I must sit here quiet, an’ his letter readin’ within a few doors o’ me.”
“Arrah, you’d better go beg for a sight of it,” rejoined the angry parent with a sneer; “do, achorra, ontil you find out what little trouble you give him.”
“It’s not for myself, it’s not for myself,” answered the sobbing girl. “I can do without his thoughts or his favours; all I care to know is, what he says about the babby.”
“Pursuin’ to me!” exclaimed her mother, “but often as you tempted me to brain it, an’ that’s often enough, you never put the devil so strong into my heart as you do this minute. So be quiet, I tell you.”
“Och, mother, that’s the hard heart.”
“Musha, then, it well becomes you to talk that way,” replied her mother. “If your own wasn’t a taste too soft in its time, my darlint, your kith an’ kin wouldn’t have to skulk away as they do when your name’s spoken of.”