“I’m going, Master Hector, to try my fortune either in England, or the North.”
“What! and quit my father’s service? Think well of this, Marc.”
“Why, troth, I can’t hold the place, and all on account of an accident.”
Marc picked the hat anew. “I’m in the middle of trouble, and the sooner I’m off, the better.”
“Broken heads or broken vows; or, probably, a mixture of both?”
“Devil a head I broke since the fair of Carrick, and the Carneys brought it on themselves; and in honesty I’m at every man’s defiance,” returned the fosterer.
“Then what would you do in England, may I ask?”
“What would I do in England?” he repeated, like an echo. “Can’t I do anything?--shear, mow, wisp a horse, whip hounds, jump two-and-twenty feet, throw stone and sledge--and take my own part in fair and pattern?”
“Friend Marc, most of these accomplishments would only secure you a lodging in the cage, or a settlement in the stocks. But, in a word, what brings you away?”
“Just Biddy O’Dwyer, the dairymaid--the devil’s luck attend her!”
“And, I suppose, has pressing reasons for making the request?”
“The devil a reason, only she took me to a cake.” ** “I comprehend the rest.”
“Feaks! it was all her own fault--she would keep dancing to the last. The night was dark, and we were hearty. *** I lost my way--and she her character.”
** Cakes are nightly assemblies common in the ‘west of Ireland, and holden for the purposes of dancing, drinking, and courting. In returning from these festive meetings, ladies’ reputations and gentlemen’s skulls are occasionally severely damaged.
“Well! and why not repair the damage, Marc?”
“Is it me! and she four years older? By this book”--and he kissed his hat religiously--“for all the ladies and priests that ever wore cap or vestment, I would not marry ye, Kitty O’Dwyer!”
“Well, Marc, you are upon this point the best judge.”
“There’s no use in concealing anything, and you, my foster-brother, Master Hector. Kitty’s a great Catholic, and a Carmelite to boot--and my lady and Father Grady will fairly banish me the country, when they hear that it was through me she got the blast.”
“Rebel, Marc! Refuse, point-blank. Hold out manfully--and neither priest, nor bishop, can make you marry, if you don’t like it.”