“Thank God for it! Hav’n’t we a good right to be grateful to him any way? An’ is my little man to be christened to-day?”
“Indeed he is—the gossips will be here presently, an’ so will her mother. But, Rose, dear, will you take the ordherin’ of the aitin’ an’ drinkin’ part of it?—you’re betther up to these things than we are, an’ so you ought, of coorse. Let there be no want of any thing; an’ if there’s an overplush, sorra may care; there’ll be poor mouths enough about the door for whatever’s left. So, you see, keep never mindin’ any hint she may give you—you know she’s a little o’ the closest; but no matther. Let there, as I said, be enough an’ to spare.”
“Throth, there spoke your father’s son, Corny; all the ould dacency’s not dead yet, any how. Well, I’ll do my best. But she’s not fit to be up, you know, an’ of coorse can’t disturb us.” The expression of her eye could not be misunderstood as she uttered this. “I see,” said Corny—“devil a betther, if you manage that, all’s right.”
“An’ now I must go in, till I see how she an’ my son’s gettin’ an: that’s always my first start; bekase you know, Corny, honey, that their health goes afore every thing.”
Having thus undertaken the task required of her, she passed into the bedroom of Mrs Keho, whom she found determined to be up, in order, as she said, to be at the head of her own table.
“Well, alanna, if you must, you must; but in the name of goodness I wash my hands out of the business teetotally. Dshk, dshk, dshk! Oh, wurra! to think of a woman in your state risin’ to sit at her own table! That I may never, if I’ll see it, or be about the place at all. If you take your life by your own wilfulness, why, God forgive you; but it mustn’t be while I’m here. But since you’re bent on it, why, give me the child, an’ afore I go, any how, I may as well dress it, poor thing! The heavens pity it—my little man—eh?—where was it?—cheep—that’s it, a ducky; stretch away. Aye stretchin’ an’ thrivin’ an, my son! Oh, thin, wurra! Mrs Keho, but it’s you that ought to ax God’s pardon for goin’ to do what might lave that darlin’ o’ the world an orphan, may be. Arrah be the vestments, if I can have patience wid you. May God pity you, my child. If anything happened your mother, what ’ud become of you, and what ’ud become of your poor father this day? Dshk, dshk, dshk!” These latter sounds, exclamations of surprise and regret, were produced by striking the tongue against that part of the inward gum which covers the roots of the teeth.
“Indeed, Rose,” replied her patient, in her sharp, shrill, quick voice, “I’m able enough to get up; if I don’t, we’ll be harrished. Corny’s a fool, an’ it’ll be only rap an’ rive wid every one in the place.”
“Wait, ma’am, if you plaise. Where’s his little barrow? Ay, I have it. Wait, ma’am, if you plaise, till I get the child dressed, an’ I’ll soon take myself out o’ this. Heaven presarve us! I have seen the like o’ this afore—ay have I—where it was as clear as crystal that there was something over them—ay, over them that took their own way as you’re doin’.”
“But if I don’t get up”——
“Oh, by all manes, ma’am—by all manes. I suppose you have a laise o’ your life, that’s all. It’s what I wish I could get.”