As a last resource, Dennis Costigan was reminded of his promised mission to Miles Kavanagh, to “coax him to settle his daughter out of hand,” and for the repose of the neighbourhood he agreed to do so. He now felt a warm friendship for both father and daughter, and it would make him really happy if he could be the means of assisting pretty Kate to a husband every way worthy of her. Still he had not brought himself to wish his son married to her, for he had taken it into his head that Jem was entitled to a girl with a couple of hundreds at least, and since his late loss he was more anxious on that score than ever.
At last, deeming himself bound in honour to delay no longer from fulfilling his promise, Mr Costigan gravely proceeded to Miles Kavanagh’s cottage. He found the “flower of Forth” busily engaged in her little kitchen, scouring her deal tables and chairs, and singing merrily as she scoured. The labour had thrown a lovely glow over her fine face, and her smile was really bewitching as she welcomed Mr Costigan, and handed him a chair.
“Is yer father within, Miss Kavanagh?” inquired Dennis, as kindly as the recollection of his son’s untoward situation would permit.
“He is not, Mr Costigan,” Kate replied, “but I think he will be here presently, so you have nothing for it but to sit with a wild girl like me till he comes in.”
Down plumped Mr Costigan, and to look at him one would imagine he had come a-suitoring himself, so awkward and confused did he seem while obliged to continue alone with the beautiful “plague upon earth.” He turned his head away from her, stuck an old pipe in his mouth for employment’s sake, and preserved a dead silence for ten minutes. Kate, perceiving his mood, troubled him with little chat. At length, tired of waiting for the father, the missionary condescended to address the daughter; and she, judging from the contortions of his phiz, thought the effort cost him as much as a spasm of cholera morbus.
“Hem! haw! hum! I wondher very much that you don’t think ov changin’ yer state, Miss Kavanagh. The marriage life is the happiest life ov all, as I know (sighing deeply), an’ I would recommend ye to thry it:” and he launched into a long harangue in praise of the honourable state, its happiness, comfort, and safety, compared to a single life—so full of peril to a female; to all of which our “belle o’ the barony” listened, and assented as demurely as could be wished. After lauding the state, and urging the necessity of it, he next proceeded to point out the most eligible match in his opinion, recommending of all things “an independent man, unburthened by fathers, mothers, sisters, or brothers; a single man in every sense, with whom she could have everything her own way, and no one to interfere;” and he named several whom he considered would be unexceptionable, but to all of whom our Kate had a quick and characteristic objection, as prompt and ready as if she had anticipated the visit of the matrimonial delegate, and guessed his errand. This is a specimen of the colloquy. After mentioning several others,
“Well, what do you think ov long Jem Whalen?”
“Why, that one pair of tongs in one house is enough.”
“Oh, that won’t do! What do ye think ov John Barry? he’s a snug, warm fella.”
“Warm enough, for he’s the dickens for fightin’!”