“I’ll tell ye that,” replied the ratcatcher.
“It was late in the winter, the year after the French, ** and Christmas Eve, into the bargain. Well, there was to be a cake *** at Croneeinbeg and as I was then fond of a dance, I set out after dark for the village. Before I got half-way, who should I meet but Mary Connor. She was the natest girl within thirty miles, and had been only married a bare fortnight. I heard her sob as I came up, and when I bid her the time of the day, she couldn’t answer, the poor cratur, for the grief was fairly choking her. ‘Death an’ nous,’ says I, ‘Mary darling, has any thing happened to yourself or the man that owns ye?’
“‘Nothing,’ says she, ‘copteeine avourneeine, **** only we’re both fairly ruined.’ ‘Ruined?’ said I. ‘Och hone! it’s God’s truth,’ says she-and between tears and sobs the poor girl managed to tell me her misfortune.”
* A disgusting penalty then attached to treason.
** In Connaught, for many years after Humbert’s descent upon
the coast of Mayo, events were dated from that occurrence.
*** At village dances, a cake is generally provided by the
owner of the house, which the most liberal gallant
purchases, and presents to his mistress.
**** “Captain darling.”
“‘Copteeine,’ says she, ‘ye know Tim Maley of Ramore?’ ‘Troth, and I do,’ says I, ‘and I know nothing good of the same lad—an infarnal ould skin-flint, who would rob his own father if he could. Whenever I want a sheep, I always give him the preference, and choose one that has his brand upon it.’ ‘May the Lord reward ye,’ says she, ‘for so doing, Well, copteeine, for two years he has been comin’ about our place, and when the times got bad, and my father and my husband were druv’ for rent, they borrowed money at gompeein * from the miser. Well, they thought to pay it, with and with, ** but the crippawn *** seized the cattle, and the grate snow kilt the sheep, and the devil a scurrick could they make up between them for the ould sinner, when their note fell due. Well, ye know that Pat and I were promised for two years, but as the world went hard against us, we were afeard to get married. On Monday come three weeks, we were sittin’ round the fire, heavy-hearted enough, when the latch was lifted softly. I thought it was Pat, but who should it be but ould Maloy. In he comes, coughing, with his “God save all here,” and draws a stool to the fire. “Ye’r kindly weleome,” says my father. “I hope so,” says the miser, “for I am come for at laste a part of the money that you and Pat Grady, (manin’ my husband,) are due me.” My poor father turned pale as a cloth. “Mister Maley,” says he, mistering the ould ruffin, to plase him ye know; “you’ve heard of our loss—may the Lord look down upon us!” The miser gave a cough, “An’ am I,” says he, “to get nather less or more of what I lent ye?” My poor father gave a groan. “Mary,” says the ould divil to me, “put the boult in the door, and come here and sit beside me.” Well, copteeine, my heart grew cold, an’ I don’t know why the fear came over me so, but I did what he desired me, and came and sate down, but with my father betune us. “Well,” says be, “you’re asking time, Phil Connor, an’ may be, I might give it to ye—ay, an’ maybe I’ll do more—for I’ll make Mary my lawful wife, and forgive ye the debt along with it.” The light left my eyes as he said so; and when my poor father looked over at me so heart-broken, I thought I would have dropped. “What do ye say to the offer?” said ould Maley. “Och hone!” says my father, “it’s a grate honour ye do my little girl; but, Mister Maley, dear, ye’r too ould for her.” The miser bit his lip; “An’ do ye refuse me for a son-in-law?” says he, in a rage. “Let me just talk to the gentleman, father darlin’,” says I, for I knew we were in the ould villain’s power, and I thought that I might sofen him. My father left the cabin, ould Maley pulled in his stool, took me by the hand, and begun palaverin’ me, thinkin’ I would consint; “And now, Mary,” says he, “what have ye to say? Take me, or lave me, as ye like it.”
“Mister Maley,” I said, “maybe I may offind ye; but if I don’t spake the truth, I’ll be guilty before God. I love another dearly, and niver could like you; and think of the sin, and shame, and sorrow, it would cause, if I desarted him because he’s poor, and married you because ye’r rich. Look out for some woman of your own years, for ye’ll niver be happy with a girl.” He hardly waited to the end, but jumped upon his legs, and swarin’ he would lave us without a cloot, **** and beggar us root and branch, he flung out of the cabin like a madman.
* An Irish term for usurious interest.
** Anglicè—by instalments.
*** A fatal disease to which the black cattle of mountain
districts are frequently exposed
**** Anglicè—a head of cattle.
“‘Well, copteeine, when Pat came afterwards, and heard the story, he cursed, and I cried, till, in sheer despair, we determined to marry at once—and, the Lord forgive us! we done it out of the face, and ran away next morning.
“‘Well, we thought that God would stand our friend, and that, bad as the ould miser was, sure he wouldn’t ruin, out and out, two poor craturs that had just got married; but a week showed that Maley—bad luck attind him!—was bent on our destruction. One night, and unknownst to us, every four-footed baste my father or my husband owned, was driven to the pound, and yesterday they were canted for anything they would bring. Poor Pat returned three hours ago almost broken-hearted, and all I had to offer my weary husband was a dry potatoe.’ Poor girl! she burst into a flood of tears, and every sob she gave, I laid it heavy on my soul, ather to right her, or revenge her.
“‘Well, copteeine,’ she went on, ‘every cloot was sould but one milch-cow that fell lame upon the road: I looked at my husband’s sorry dinner—and, for his sake, I determined to humble myself to that wicked ould man, and beg from him the lame cow. Off I set, unknownst to Pat, took the short cut across the fields, and in an hour reached Maley’s. He looked at me as I entered the cabin, and the grin of hell was on his face. Well, he spoke me fairly at first; “Come in, astore,” he said, ladin’ me into the inside room. Feaks, I thought he was going to be kind at last; but och! copteeine, it was only mockery he meant after all. “An’ so ye want the lame cow?” says he, beginnin’ the conversation. “Yis, Mister Maley,” says I, “if it’s agreeable to ye; I would ask it as a favour.”