The Bunsby papers Part 18

"Who? who?" cried Peg, now sensibly agitated, "do tell me, there's a dear."

Not she, not a bit of it, but lingered with feminine ingenuity, now making as though she recollected the name, and then with a shake of her head, pretending to dive back into memory, just as the inquisitors of old used to slacken the torture, to enable the recipient to enjoy another dose.

"Now I have it," said she, "no, I haven't; I do believe I've forgotten who it was, but this I know, it was the pleasantest-mannered and nicest young fellow in the whole heap."

"Then it _must_ have been Mark!" exclaimed Peg, throwing prudence overboard, and fixing her large, eloquent eyes full on Bridget's mouth, as if her everlasting fate depended upon the little monosyllable about to issue from it.

"It _was_ Mark! that _was_ the name!"

Peggy gave a gasp, while Bridget went on, with a triumphant twinkle in her wicked little eye which did not show over-favorably for her humanity.

"_Mark Brady!_" dwelling on the name with slow, distinct emphasis, which made Peggy's heart jump at each word as though she had received an electric shock.

She knew the tenderest part of the sentient anatomy, Bridget did, and took intense delight in stabbing exactly there; not mortal stabs, _that_ would be mercy, but just a little too far for tickling. That sort of a woman was Bridget, who, if possessed of an inc.u.mbrance in husband shape, would take infinite pains to discover the weakest points in his temper, and industriously attack those quarters, piling up petty provocations, one upon another; none in themselves of sufficient importance to induce a sally, but making altogether a breastwork of aggravation, that must at last o'ertop the wall of temper. And if the unfortunate besieged don't take his hat, and make a not very honorable retreat, philosophy will be obliged to strike its flag, the signal for a civil war, which, like all such unnatural conflicts, strikes at the root of all domestic comfort, and whichever side may remain the victors, the trophy is a home destroyed.

But to return to Peg, for whose benefit I have indulged in the foregoing rather spiteful digression, in order that she might have time to recover herself; or rather, I should say, to be thoroughly conscious of the extent of her unhappiness. Remember, 'tis her first grief, so pardon its intensity. Phantoms of crutches and of wooden legs came crowding on her imagination, contrasting themselves with the curious agility with which poor Mark had "_beat the floor_" in the merry jig, until he made it echo to every note of the pipes. Then rose up vague spectres of sanguinary-minded surgeons, with strange butcherly instruments; then she saw nothing but fragmentary Marks, unattached legs, a whole room-full dancing by themselves; there they were, twisting and twirling about, in the various difficult complications of the "toe and heel," "double shuffle," "ladies' delight," and "cover the buckle;" she shut her eyes in horror, and was sensible of nothing but a gloomy blood-red. There's no knowing to what lengths her terrible fancies might have gone, had they not been dispersed like wreaths of vapor by a hearty laugh from the mischievous Bridget. Peggy opened her eyes in astonishment. Was she awake? Yes, there was her cousin enjoying one of the broadest, merriest, wickedest laughs that ever mantled over the face of an arch little female.

"Poor Mark!" she cried, and then burst forth again into ringing laughter, which dimpled her crimson cheeks like--what shall I say?--like a fine healthy-looking cork-red potatoe, an Irish simile, I must say; but had we seen Bridget, and were acquainted with the features of the aforesaid esculent, I'm pretty certain you would acknowledge its aptness.

"What in the name of gracious are you laughing at?" exclaimed Peggy, a gleam of hope breaking on the darkness of her thought.

"Why, that you should take on so, when I told you Mark had broken his leg," gaily replied Bridget.

"Hasn't he?"

"Not half as much as your poor little heart would have been broken if he had," said the tormentor.

"Bridget! Cousin!" said poor Peg, now enduring much more pain from the sudden revulsion of feeling, "you should not have done this; you have crowded a whole life-time of agony in those few moments past."

"Well, forgive me, dear Peggy. I declare I didn't know that you had the affection so strong on you, or I wouldn't have joked for the world. But now, confess, doesn't it serve you right, for not confiding in me, your natural born cousin? Did I ever keep a secret from you? Didn't I tell you all about Pat Finch, and Johnny Magee, and Jack, the hurler, eh?"

"But not one word about Edward Riley, with whom you danced so often to-night," observed Peg, with a very pardonable dash of malice.

It was now Bridget's turn to change color, as she stammered out, "I--I was going to, not that I care much about _him_; no, no, Mark is the flower of the flock, and I've a mighty great mind to set my cap at him myself."

Peggy smiled, a very small, but a peculiar, and it might have been, perfectly self-satisfied smile, as she replied: "Try, Miss Bridget, and I wish you success."

"Truth is scarce when liars are near," said Bridget. "But I say, Peg, does Mark know you love him so hard?"

"Don't be foolish; how should he?"

"Did you never tell him?"

"What do you take me for?"

"Did he never tell _you_?"

"What do you take _him_ for?"

"For a man, and moreover a conceited one; don't you mean to let him know his good fortune?"

"It isn't leap year, and if it was, I'd rather die than do such a thing," said Peggy!

"Come, I'll bet you a new cap, that I mean to wear at your wedding, you _will_ let him know the state of your feelings, and that, before a week is over your head," provokingly replied Bridget.

Peggy, said nothing. Prudent Peg.

"Is it a bet?"

"Yes, yes, anything, but go to sleep, or we shan't get a wink to-night."

"True for you, cousin, for it's _to-morrow_ already! Look at the daybreak, how it has frightened our candle, until it's almost as pale as your cheek."

"Good night, Bridget."

"Good night, dear Peg, don't forget to remember your dreams. Recollect it's morning, now, and whatever we dream, _is sure to come true_."

Before she slept, Bridget formed a project in her mind to ensure the winning of her bet. What it was, it will be time enough to find out by-and-by.

Very early in the day, Mark Brady and Ned called to inquire after the health of their respective partner. It so happened that Bridget received them; and very quickly, for she was one of those tyrants in love who make their captives feel their chains, on some frivolous pretence or another, dismissed her swain and began to develop her plot with Mark.

Now, Mark, I may as well tell you now as at any other time, was a very favorable specimen of a cla.s.s I regret to say, not over numerous in Ireland; a well to-do farmer, his rent always ready, his crops carefully gathered, and a trifle put by yearly, so that he enjoyed that most enviable condition in life, "a modest competence." As to his personal appearance, there's scarcely any occasion to describe that, for, with the exception of one individual, I don't suppose he has a feature or characteristic which would be considered by any one at all uncommon or interesting. Suffice it to say, Mark was a _man_! A volume of eulogy could not say more.

And, moreover, Mark _did_ love pretty Peggy May; with a whole-hearted, manly, and unselfish love, he loved her. I tell you this, dear reader, in order that you may not waste time in speculating on the subject of Mark's thoughts, as he sat silent and fidgety, a pa.s.sive victim to the mischievous Bridget, who, shrewd little puss, knew every turn of his mind as though imprinted on his face; and for the matter of that, so they were, in nature's own characters, type most readable.

Mark was apparently very busy, sketching imaginary somethings on the floor with his blackthorn stick, and seemingly unconscious of Bridget's presence, when she suddenly interrupted his revery by saying:

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Brady!"

"Eh! what!" he replied, blus.h.i.+ng 'till it fairly stung his cheek like a million of needles. "A penny, is it, Miss? faith, an' it's _dear_ they'd be at that same."

"And what might you be thinking of, may I ask, Mr. Mark?" said Bridget, accompanying the question with one of her very sweetest smiles.

"Just nothing at all, Miss," replied Mark.

"'Nothing!' then they _would_ be '_dear_,' and that's true Mark; but supposing, now," she continued, archly; "I only say, supposing it happened to be your sweetheart you were thinking of, you might find another meaning for that same little word!"

Mark felt as though he had been detected in some fault, as he replied, sketching away on the floor faster than ever, "But what if I hadn't a sweetheart to think of, Miss O'Conner." It was a miserable attempt at prevarication, and he felt that it was.

"Why, then, I should say, as you're not blind, it's mighty lucky that you don't carry such a thing as a heart about you. I'd be ashamed if I were you, rising twenty years old, and neither crooked nor ugly; it's disgraceful to hear you say so--a pretty example to set to the boys!"

"True for you, and so it is," said Mark, "and more betoken, it's a much greater shame for me to tell any lies about the matter; I _have_ a sweetheart, though she doesn't know it; ay, and have had one for this nigh hand a twelve-month."

"Only to think," replied Bridget, casting down her eyes, and affecting to conceal some sudden emotion, "and for a twelve-month nigh hand! Oh, dear! I don't feel well!"

Mark was puzzled, in point of fact, embarra.s.sed. There was something in Bridget's manner which he couldn't understand; he had a vague presentiment that there was a mistake somewhere, but when she, pretending to be overcome, flung herself into his arms, the truth burst upon him at once. He was in a precious dilemma; Bridget was in love with him, and he felt downright ashamed of himself for being so fascinating. What he was to do, or how to extricate himself, he couldn't tell, as she, casting a fascinating glance right at him, said, softly:

"Dear Mark, those good-looking eyes of yours told me of your love, long, long before your lazy tongue."