The Bunsby papers Part 20

Mark, who, since his conversation with Bridget, had seriously contemplated suicide, but was puzzled about the best mode of making away with himself, had come to the conclusion that to enter the army as a common soldier would be the least criminal, although certainly the most lingering process, and it was to lacerate his feelings by a parting interview with his dearly-loved Peg, before he consummated the act of enlistment, that he now came.

Arrived at the door, he hesitated a moment, then giving one big gulp, he lifted the latch and entered. There he saw Peggy herself, looking straight into the fire, never once turning aside or raising her eyes, proof positive to Mark, if he wanted it, that she cared nothing for him. He sat down, and for several minutes there was a dead silence.

Mark had fully intended to say something frightfully cutting to his sweetheart, but as he gazed upon her white, sad face, his resentment vanished, and he felt more inclined to implore than to condemn. He wanted to speak, but what to say he had not the remotest idea. At last Peg broke the silence, by murmuring softly, as though it were but a thought, to which she had given involuntary expression--

"May you be happy, Mark! May you be happy!"

"Happy!" echoed Mark, with a sharp emphasis, that thrilled painfully through Peggy, "Faith, it's well for _you_ to be wis.h.i.+ng me happiness."

"Indeed, indeed I do, Mark--I mean Mr. Brady," meekly replied the poor girl.

"Oh, that's right!" said Mark, bitterly. "Mr. Brady! It used to be Mark."

"But never can again."

"You're right! never!"

"Never!" and poor Peggy sighed deeply.

After another embarra.s.sing pause, broken only by a sort of smothered sound, which _might_ have been the wind, but wasn't, Mark started up, exclaiming:

"I see my company is displeasing to you, but I shan't trouble you long.

That will be done to-morrow which will separate us for ever."

"To-morrow! so soon?" replied Peggy, with a stifled sob.

"Yes! the sooner the better. What is it _now_ to you?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! But I thought--that is--I'm very, very foolish."

Poor Peggy's heart overflowed its bounds; burying her face in her hands, she burst into tears.

Mark didn't know what to make of it. She must have liked me a little, thought he, or why this grief? Well, it's all my own fault. Why didn't I tell her of my love, like a man? and not sneak about, afraid of the sound of my own voice. I've lost her, lost the only thing that made life to me worth enduring, and the sooner I relieve her of my presence the better.

"Miss May! Peggy!" he said, with an effort at calmness, "this is the last time we may meet on earth; won't you give me your hand at parting?"

Peggy stretched out both hands, exclaiming through her tears--"Mark!

Mark! this is, indeed, cruel!"

"It is, I know it is!" said Mark, brus.h.i.+ng away an obtrusive tear. "So, G.o.d bless you, and good angels watch over you; and if you ever cared for me"----

"If I ever cared for you! oh, Mark!"

"Why! did you?" inquired Mark.

"You were my only thought, my life, my happiness!" There was the same curious sound from the chamber door, but the innocent wind had again to bear the blame. Peggy continued--"Mark, would that you had the same feeling for me!"

"I had! I had!" frantically he replied. "And more, oh! much more than I have words to speak. Why didn't we know this sooner?"

"Ah! why, indeed?" sadly replied Peggy, "but it is too late."

"_double_" replied Mark, "_too late!_"

"Not a bit of it!" exclaimed Bridget, bursting into the room, streaming with tears of suppressed laughter, "Don't look so frightened, good people; I'm not a ghost. Who lost a new cap? eh, Peg. And more, betoken, who is likely to lose a new gown? I'll have my bets, if I die for it. So, you've spoke out at last, have you? You're a pretty pair of lovers. You'd have gone on everlastingly, sighing and fretting yourselves, until there wouldn't have been enough between you to make a decent fiddlestring, if I hadn't interfered."

"You?" cried Peggy and Mark, simultaneously.

"Yes, indeed, it made me perfectly crazy to see the two of you groaning and fussing, without the courage to say what your hearts dictated.

There, go and kiss each other, you pair of noodles."

It is hardly necessary to say that Bridget's explanation brought about a pleasant understanding between all parties, and it will be only needful to add that a few weeks afterwards there was a _double_ wedding at the little parish chapel. One of the brides wore a bran new calico gown of such wonderful variety of color, and moreover a new cap of so elaborate a style of decoration, that she was the admiration and, of necessity, the envy of the entire female population.

Bridget had won both her wagers, thereby establis.h.i.+ng, just as infallibly as all such matters _can_ be established, the truth of the old saying:

_The dream of the morning is sure to come true._

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

"Show his eyes, and grieve his heart, Come like shadows so depart."

SHAKSPEARE.

The insatiable desire to penetrate the dark veil of futurity, which pervades all cla.s.ses, from the highest to the lowest, renders the occupation of the _Fortune-Teller_ one of considerable profit. In no part of the world are there so many professors of the _art_, as in Ireland. The most insignificant village has its cunning person, of one s.e.x or the other, whose province generally is to cure bewitched cattle, be well acquainted with all the scandalous gossip of the vicinity, and give advice and a.s.sistance in all delicate and difficult affairs of the heart; added to which, in some instances, a "_trifle of smugglin'_,"

and in all, the vending of interdicted drink: _Potieen_, that had never seen the ill-looking face of a gauger; a kind of liquid fire you might weaken with aquafortis, that would sc.r.a.pe the throat of an unaccustomed drinker as if he had swallowed a coa.r.s.e file, but which our seasoned tipplers "_toss off_," gla.s.s after gla.s.s, without a grin, their indurated palates receiving it like so much water.

The cla.s.s of individuals who take up, or are instructed in the mysteries of Fortune-telling, combine rather antagonistic elements.

They are generally the shrewdest, cunningest, cleverest, laziest people you can find. Studying, and understanding to a charm, the most a.s.sailable points of human nature, they obtain from their applicants, by circuitous questioning, the precise nature of their expectations; then dexterously "_crossing the scent_," with an entirely different subject, astonish them at last by expounding their very thoughts. Nor are the old-established mysteries, the appliances and incantations omitted, although they necessarily must be of a simple and curious nature; the great oracle, the cards, is brought into requisition on all occasions, varied by a mystic examination of tea-grounds, melted lead, and indeed, sometimes in imitation of the ancient soothsayer, _facilis descensus_, by the sacrifice of some poor old cat.

Bridget Fallow, or _Biddy na Dhioul_, as she was most commonly designated, was an extraordinary specimen of the genus. Many a heart-breaking was averted through her agency, and numberless the strange doings ascribed to her powers of witchcraft. The love-stricken _"from all parts of the country round,"_ a comprehensive Irish phrase, signifying a circuit of some twelve or fourteen miles, consulted ould Biddy, daily. Immense was her mystic reputation, and very many the _"fippenny bits,"_ the smallest piece of coin that could be obtained to _"cross her hand,"_ did she sweep into her greasy pocket, from the credulous of either s.e.x.

It would be difficult to describe accurately the temple of this particular dispenser of fortune. Bent nearly double, partly from age, and partly to give greater effect to her divinations (for the older a witch appears, the more credit is given to her skill), she sat, or rather crouched in a small, dimly-lighted room, surrounded by some dozen cats, of all ages and complexions, from playful kittendom to grave and reverend cat-hood; black, white, pie-ball'd, skew-ball'd, foxy, tortoise-sh.e.l.l, and tab. Now, those companions of Biddy's were held in especial horror by her visitors, who firmly believed them to be familiar demons, attendant on her will. But never were animals so libelled, for they were in truth, as frolicsome and mundane specimens of the feline, as ever ran after a ball of worsted. Biddy was fond of her cats, and though naturalists doubt the sincerity of cat-love, they certainly appeared to be greatly attached to her; night and day did those three generations of puss gambol about her; perhaps, indicating their preference for still life, they looked upon Biddy, as, in rigid mobility, she sat motionless and silent, inly enjoying their pranks, as merely a portion of the furniture, and so had as much right to jump on her shoulder, and hunt each other's tail, over and about her as upon anything else in the room. Certain it is they did not respect her a whit more than an old table, and Biddy, delighted with such familiarity, put no restraint on their impertinence. A dingy curtain, reaching half-way across the room, concealed a large, rudely-finished mirror-frame, which Biddy found extremely useful on several occasions.

There were none of the awe-compelling accessories of the magic art, no alligator stuffed, no hissing cauldron, no expensive globes; nothing, save an old black-letter folio, Biddy's universal book of reference, and a terribly dirty pack of cards, the marks nearly effaced from constant use, being the second, which, in a long life of fortune-telling, she had ever consulted. Adapting her mode of operations to the wish of her applicant, Biddy had various ways of penetrating the clouds of futurity, enumerating them to the curious visitor as follows: "Wirra, thin, it's welcome that yez are to ould Biddy na Dhioul; may you niver know sickness, sorrow, poverty, or disthress. It's myself that can tell yer fortune, whativer it is. I can tell it be the stars, or the cards, be the tay-grounds, coffee-grounds, meltid lead, or baccy-ashes; be signs, an' moles, an' dhrames; be the witch's gla.s.s, or be yer own good-lookin' hand."

The great secret of Biddy's success was, that all her auguries presaged _some_ amount of good, and it was observed that the larger the piece of silver with which her hand was crossed, the more extensive was the fortune predicted. A "_fippenny-bit_," might produce a "_smart boy for a husband_," but "_half a crown_" would insure a "_jaunting car_," or, hint obliquely at "_the young masther_," give mysterious foreshadowings of "_silken gounds_," and an "_iligant family of childher_." A cute old soul was Biddy, and extensive the knowledge experience had given her of the pregnable points of general character. Why should we not give her a call?

I'll just tell you a few secrets, known only to two or three individuals besides myself, and as some of them will be very likely to need Biddy's a.s.sistance, we shall unceremoniously accompany them on their visit.

It is Sunday; ma.s.s is just over; the sober gravity of the morning (for no people are more earnest in the performance of their religious duties during the time so allotted, than are the Irish peasantry), is beginning to change to a general aspect of enjoyment. The girls in their neat, clean dresses, are tripping along homeward; and many a bonnet and shawl, or calico dress, is descanted upon, praised or censured according to the opinion of the speaker, for the universal duty of the feminine chapel or church-goer, is to criticise at intervals the dresses of her neighbors.

"Athin, Mary," says one, "_did_ you ever see such a pattern of a gound as _Miss_ Machree had on her back this blessed day; if it hadn't as many colors in it as would make nigh hand half a dozen rainbows, I hope I may turn into a _nagur_. I declare to my goodness, I wouldn't give my ould washed-out gound for two of the likes of it."

Wouldn't she?

"True for you, Nell," replies another, "an' did you remark _purty_ Norah, as the boys call her? Purty, indeed! it wouldn't take blind Barty, the piper, a month of Sundays to see all the purty there is about her. _I_ wouldn't be seen with such a nose on _my_ face; an'

she comin' over us wid the pride of a sthraw bonnet, this beautiful summer's day; the hood of an ould grey cloak was good enough for the mother before her, to wear. It isn't disgracin' my mother's memory I'd be, by puttin' sthraw bonnets on my head."