“Well, an’ what takes him to dances?” said the farmer in a heat. “Sure the like shred ov him ought to stay at home an’ mind his bisness.”
“Pulliliew! is that the feelin’ ye has for yer fella-craithurs, Misther Costigan. But indeed I often sed that same to him myself. ‘Stay at home, honey,’ I says to him, ‘an’ don’t be losin’ yer sleep an’ flittherin’ yer slippers at them dances.’ ‘Hould yer whisht, mother,’ he’ll say to me thin (for he is a mighty obaydient child), ‘love sthrikes the little as well as the big, an’ I wouldn’t have a sowl above buttons if I wouldn’t take every opportunity ov meetin’ an’ coortin’ Kate Kavanagh.’ So ye see the win’ sits in that quarther, Misther Costigan.”
Mr Costigan actually stamped on the floor with passion when he heard the name of Kate Kavanagh; and as the tailor’s mother perceived unusual anger in his countenance, she flattered herself that it was all sympathy for her “darlint Jemmy,” and she hastened to give him the particulars “ov the murdher” foul and unnatural. “So now, my darlint Misther Costigan,” she concluded, “his poor eyes is black an’ blue, and closed up into the bargain, an’ he couldn’t handle a needle if it was for Misther Grogan Morgan himself—God bless him for the fine lan’lord that he is.”
If poor Mrs Nowlan knew but all, little sympathy had her wealthy visitor for her battered son, when he understood the cause of his woes, and her pathetic touches of tenderness went for nothing. Muttering something about “hanging all fools and mothers of fools,” he took a gruff leave of the widow, and returned home with his cloth. There was no other tailor nearer than Wexford, and it was fated that he should wear his old brown coat at the wedding. But that was not his only annoyance. The evening before he set out on his journey, he found that the horse he intended to ride wanted two shoes; and fearing to trust his sons (both of whom were smitten with the “belle o’ the barony”) in their present plight, he brought the animal to the forge himself. No smith was to be found. “Arrah, where the d——l is he?” cried the farmer, quite exasperated, and addressing a girl standing knitting at the door of a house near the forge.
“Sorra bit ov us knows, Misther Costigan,” replied the damsel; “but we’re guessin’ that he is either at the public house, or at Miles Kavanagh’s, hankerin’ afther his daughther, for betwixt the two places he spinds the most ov his time.”
Dennis Costigan said nothing, but he raised up his hands and eyes—eloquence more expressive than words. Kate Kavanagh again!
As he returned with his unshod horse, he pondered while jogging along. “What should be about that Kate Kavanagh above all girls to set a whole parish astray?” And as he could find no solution of the enigma short of sorcery, he set it down that she was “Ould Nick in petticoats!” “My two hopeful sons is mad afther her.” said he, soliloquising; “the unfortunate counsellor is fairly cracked about her; the smith is grown wild, an’ the tailor knocked stupid; heaven only knows what way the carpinther an’ mason is, for she has all the thrades, I’m thinkin’; an’ now all I pray is that she may charm some thrav’ling tinker, an’ that he may carry her off body an’ bones for the pace ov the counthry!” Ah! little did honest Dennis know who was to be the next victim of merciless Kate Kavanagh!
Well, next morning he set out for Bargie, after taking an affectionate farewell of his good little wife, and after cautioning her repeatedly to have a constant look-out after the “boys and Kate Kavanagh.” Fain would he have persuaded his eldest son to accompany him to the wedding, but Jem pathetically pleaded “pains in his bones an’ headache” (heartache he should have said), and his father very unwillingly set off without him.
Our farmer had only ridden a few miles, when, coming to a village, like a true son of the soil he should stop at the “public” to taste the “mountain dew.” Early as it was in the morning, it appeared there were others as interestingly engaged, and vociferating loudly on some important topic. Whatever it might be, our friend Dennis thought it could be no concern of his, and without making any inquiry he called for his dandy of punch. Overhead the revellers kept up a most astounding debate; presently were heard shouts, curses, hustling, and blows, and the next instant half a dozen combatants came head foremost tumbling down the steep and narrow stairs together!
“Fight it out fair, ye vilyens,” roared the hostess, as her face flamed and her eye fired, “but fight it out ov my house. Into the street with every mother’s son ov ye, or know for what!” and seizing a pewter beer quart, she leaped over the counter, and pummelled the backs and heads of all within her reach, till she actually cleared them out of her house.