“Phew! Go on, Marc.”
“She wants me to marry her!”
“And, I suppose, has pressing reasons for making the request?”
“The devil a reason, only she took me to a cake.” ** “I comprehend the rest.”
“Feaks! it was all her own fault—she would keep dancing to the last. The night was dark, and we were hearty. *** I lost my way—and she her character.”
* Anglice, foster-brother.
** Cakes are nightly assemblies common in the ‘west of
Ireland, and holden for the purposes of dancing, drinking,
and courting. In returning from these festive meetings,
ladies’ reputations and gentlemen’s skulls are occasionally
severely damaged.
*** Anglicê, nearly drunk.
“Well! and why not repair the damage, Marc?”
“Is it me! and she four years older? By this book”—and he kissed his hat religiously—“for all the ladies and priests that ever wore cap or vestment, I would not marry ye, Kitty O’Dwyer!”
“Well, Marc, you are upon this point the best judge.”
“There’s no use in concealing anything, and you, my foster-brother, Master Hector. Kitty’s a great Catholic, and a Carmelite to boot—and my lady and Father Grady will fairly banish me the country, when they hear that it was through me she got the blast.”