“Troth, the grace o' God, I fear,” replied Darby, humbly.
“And what brings you to me then? I mean, sirra, what's your business now?”
“Why, sir, devil a one o' me but's come jack to the ould creed. Troth, your Reverence, the impressions you made on me the day we had the great argument, was, wondherful. Be my sowl, it's yourself that can send home the whi—word, your Rev-a-ence, in a way that it won't aisly be forgotten. How-an-iver, sure hell resave the wie o me, but threwn back his dirty religion to Lucre—an' left him an' it—although he offered, if I'd remain wid them, to put Johnny Short out, and make me full gaoler. My Lord,' says I, 'thruth's best. I've heard both sides o' the argument from you and Father M'Cabe; an' be me sowl, if you were a bishop ten times over, you couldn't hould a candle to him at arguin' Scripture; neither are you the mild and forgiving Christian that he is. Sure I know your church well,' says I up to him. 'It's a fat church, no doubt; an' I'll tell you what's in it.'”
“'What's that, you backslidin' vagabone?'” says he.
“'Why, then, plenty of mait,' says I, 'but no salvation;' an' salvation to me, your Reverence, but he got black over the whole face and shullers wid rank passion. But sure—would your Reverence come a little more this way; I think the men's listenin' to us—but sure,” continued Darby, in a low, wheedling, confidential, and friendly voice, “sure, sir, he wanted me to prosecute you for the religious instruction—for trath it was nothing else, glory be to God—that you gave me the day of the argument; an'—-now listen, your Reverence—he offered me a bribe if I'd do it.”
“What bribe!”
“Why, sir, he put his hand, under his apron—sure he has a black silk apron on him now, jist for all the world like a big man cook, dressed out in murnin'—he put his hand undher his apron, and wid a hitch got it into his breeches pocket—'here's a fifty pound note for you,' says he, 'if you'll prosecute that wild priest—there's no end to his larnin,' says he, 'and I want to punish him for it; so, Darby, here's a fifty pound note, an' it'll be yours when the prosecution's over; and I'll bear all the expenses besides.'”
“And what did you say to that?” asked the priest.
“Troth,” replied Darby, “I jist bid him considher his fifty pound note as waste paper—an' that Was my answer.”
“And there's mine, you lying, hypocritical scoundrel,” said the priest, laying his whip across the worthy bailiff's shoulders; “you have been for thirty years in the parish, and no human being ever knew you to go to your duty—you have been a scourge on the poor—-you have maligned and betrayed those who placed confidence in you—and the truth is, not a word ever comes out of your lips can be believed or trusted; when you have the marks of repentance and truth about you, I may listen to you, but not until then—begone!”