“We were sitting at the time under the shade of a rowan-tree, and I had only one answer to make—I pulled her to my breast, where she laid her head and cried like a child with her cheek against mine. My own eyes weren't dry, although I felt no sorrow, but—but—I never forgot that night—and I never will.”
He now paused a few minutes, being too much affected to proceed.
“Poor Shane,” said Nancy, in a whisper to Andy Morrow, “night and day he's thinking about that woman; she's now dead going on a year, and you would think by him, although he bears up very well before company that she died only yestherday—but indeed it's he that was always the kind-hearted, affectionate man; and a better husband never broke bread.”
“Well,” said Shane, resuming the story, and clearing his voice, “it's great consolation to me, now that she's gone, to think that I never broke the promise I made her that night; for as I tould you, except in regard to the duck-egg, a bitther word never passed between us. I was in a passion then, for a wonder, and bent upon showing her that I was a dangerous man to provoke; so just to give her a spice of what I could do, I made Larry feel it—and may God forgive me for raising my hand even then to her. But sure he would be a brute that would beat such a woman except by proxy. When it was clear dark we set off, and after crossing the country for two miles, reached my uncle's, where a great many of my friends were expecting us. As soon as we came to the door I struck it two or three times, for that was the sign, and my aunt came out, and taking Mary in her arms, kissed her, and, with a thousand welcomes, brought us both in.
“You all know that the best of aiting and dhrinking is provided when a runaway couple is expected; and indeed there was galore of both there. My uncle and all that were within welcomed us again; and many a good song and hearty jug of punch was sent round that night. The next morning my uncle went to her father's, and broke the business to him at once: indeed it wasn't very hard to do, for I believe it reached him afore he saw my uncle at all; so she was brought home* that day, and, on the Thursday night after, I, my father, uncle, and several other friends, went there and made the match. She had sixty guineas, that her grandfather left her, thirteen head of cattle, two feather- and two chaff-beds, with sheeting, quilts, and blankets; three pieces of bleached linen, and a flock of geese of her own rearing—upon the whole, among ourselves, it wasn't aisy to get such a fortune.
* One-half, at least, of the marriages in a great portion of
Ireland are effected in this manner. They are termed
“runaway matches,” and are attended with no disgrace. When
the parents of the girl come to understand that she has
“gone off,” they bring her home in a day or two; the friends
of the parties then meet, and the arrangements for the
marriage are made as described in the tale.
“Well, the match was made, and the wedding day appointed; but there was one thing still to be managed, and that was how to get over standing at mass on Sunday, to make satisfaction for the scandal we gave the church by running away with one another—but that's all stuff, for who cares a pin about standing, when three halves of the parish are married in the same way! The only thing that vexed me was, that it would keep back the wedding-day. However, her father and my uncle went to the priest, and spoke to him, trying, of coorse, to get us off it, but he knew we were fat geese, and was in for giving us a plucking.—Hut, tut!—he wouldn't hear of it at all, not he; for although he would ride fifty miles to sarve either of us, he couldn't break the new orders that he had got only a few days before that from the bishop. No; we must stand*—for it would be setting a bad example to the parish; and if he would let us pass, how could he punish the rest of his flock, when they'd be guilty of the same thing?
* Matches made in this manner are discountenanced by the
Roman Catholic clergy, as being liable to abuse; and, for
this reason, the parties, by way of punishment, are
sometimes, but not always, made to stand up at mass for one
or three Sundays; but, as Shane expresses it, the punishment
is so common that it completely loses its effect. To
“stand,” in the sense meant here, is this: the priest, when
the whole congregation are on their knees, calls the young
man and woman by name, who stand up and remain under the
gaze of the congregation, whilst he rebukes them for the
scandal they gave to the church, after which they kneel
down. In general it is looked upon more in fun than
punishment. Sometimes, however, the wealthier class
compromise this matter with the priest, as described above.
“'Well, well, your Reverence,' says my uncle, winking at her father, 'if that's the case, it can't be helped, any how—they must only stand, as many a dacent father and mother's child has done before them, and will again, plase God—your Reverence is right in doing your duty.'
“'True for you, Brian,' says his Reverence, 'and yet, God knows, there's no man in the parish would be sorrier to see such a dacent, comely young couple put upon a level with all the scrubs of the parish; and I know, Jemmy Finigan, it would go hard with your young, bashful daughter to get through with it, having the eyes of the whole congregation staring on her.'