“M'Murt, call in Catharine Tyrrell.”
“Yes,” said Phil, “call in Widow Tyrrell. Now, Solomon, only you have no relish for anything except what's sanctified and spiritual, you would say that here comes such a specimen of Irish beauty as you have seldom seen.”
“I never had any objection,” said Solomon, who, in spite of all his gravity, betrayed an alertness on this occasion that was certainly not usual to him;—“I never had any objection to look upon any work from His hand, with pleasure. Indeed, on the contrary, I often felt that it raised my sense of—of what was beautiful, in such a way that my feelings became, as it were, full of a sweet fervor that was not to be despised; I will consequently not decline to look upon this comely widow—that is—in the serious light I mention.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Tyrrell? I hope you have not got much wet?” said Val, turning round very blandly.
“Oh, Mrs. Tyrrell, I hope you're very well,” followed Phil; “I fear you have got wet—have the goodness to take a chair, Mrs. Tyrrell—and a glass of wine, ma'am.”
Mrs. Tyrrell took a chair, but she declined the glass of wine. Mrs. Tyrrell had been the wife of a young husband, who died in his twenty-fourth year, just when they had been about a year and a half married. She was herself, on the day in question, about the same age as her husband when he died. She had been a widow just two years, and had one child, a son. She was indeed a beautiful woman—in fact a very beautiful woman, as one could almost see in her humble condition of life. Her tresses were a raven black, but her skin was white and polished as ivory. Her face was a fine specimen of the oval—her brows exquisitely pencilled—and her large black, but mellow eyes, flashed a look that went into your very heart. But, if there was anything that struck you as being more fascinating than another, it was the expression of innocence, and purity, and sweetness, that lay about her small mouth and beautifully rounded chin. Her form was symmetry itself, and a glimpse of the small, but beautiful foot and ankle, left no doubt upon the mind as to the general harmony of her whole figure. On this occasion there was a positive air about her which added to the interest she excited; for, we believe, it may be truly observed, that beauty never appears so impressively or tenderly fascinating, as when it is slightly overshadowed with care. We need scarcely say, that there was a great deal of contrast in the gaze she received from Phil and our friend Solomon. That of Phil was the gross, impudent stare of a libertine and fool—a stare, which, in the eye of a virtuous woman, soon receives its own withering rebuke of scorn and indignation. That of Solomon, on the other hand, was a look in which there lurked a vast deal of cunning, regulated and sharpened by experience, and disguised by hypocrisy into something that absolutely resembled the open, ardent admiration of a child, or of some innocent man that had hardly ever been in the world. There was, however, a villainous dropping of the corners of the mouth, with an almost irrepressible tendency to lick the lips, accompanied with an exudation of internal moisture from the glands—vulgarly termed a watering of the teeth—which, to a close observer, would have betrayed him at once, and which were evident from the involuntary workings of his whole face.
“Mrs. Tyrrell,” said Val, “I am glad to hear that you are making considerable improvements on your farm.”
“Improvements, sir,” replied the widow in amazement; “I don't know who could have told you that, sir. Didn't my potato crop fail altogether with me, and my flax, where I had it spread on the holme below, was all swept away by the flood.”
“I am sorry to hear that, Mrs. Tyrrell;—we are very hard up for money here, and the landlord doesn't know on what hand to turn; I must raise a large sum for him forthwith:—indeed to tell you the truth, I have received instructions that are not at all pleasant to myself—I am to let no one pass, he says, and if I cannot get the rent otherwise, I am to enforce it. Now this is very unpleasant, Mrs. Tyrrell, inasmuch as it compels me to take steps that I shall feel very painful.
“God help me, then,” replied the poor young woman, “for, as to rent, sir, I have it not; and, indeed, Mr. M'Clutchy, what brought me here to-day, was to ask a little time, just till I get my butter made up and sold.