Mrs. Rooney continued her dignified pace as long as she was in sight of Lavery, but the moment an angle of the road screened her from his observation, off she set, running as hard as she could, to embrace her darling Andy, and realise with her own eyes and ears all the good news she had heard. She puffed out by the way many set phrases about the goodness of Providence, and arranged at the same time sundry fine speeches to make to the bride; so that the old lady's piety and flattery ran a strange couple together along with herself; while mixed up with her prayers and her blarney, were certain speculations about Jack Dwyer--as to how long he could _live_--and how much he might _leave_.
It was in this frame of mind she reached the hill which commanded a view of the three-cornered field and the snug cottage, and down she rushed to embrace her darling Andy and his gentle bride. Puffing and blowing like a porpoise, bang she went into the cottage, and Matty being the first person she met, she flung herself upon her, and covered her with embraces and blessings.
Matty, being taken by surprise, was some time before she could shake off the old beldame's hateful caresses; but at last getting free and tucking up her hair, which her imaginary mother-in-law had clawed about her ears, she exclaimed in no very gentle tones--
“Arrah, good woman, who axed for _your_ company--who are you at all?”
“Your mother-in-law, jewel!” cried the Widow Rooney, making another open-armed rush at her beloved daughter-in-law; but Matty received the widow's protruding mouth on her clenched fist instead of her lips, and the old woman's nose coming in for a share of Matty's knuckles, a ruby stream spurted forth, while all the colours of the rainbow danced before Mrs. Rooney's eyes as she reeled backward on the floor.
“Take that, you owld faggot!” cried Matty, as she shook Mrs. Rooney's tributary claret from the knuckles which had so scientifically tapped it, and wiped her hand in her apron.
The old woman roared “millia' murthur” on the floor, and snuffled out a deprecatory question “if that was the proper way to be received in her son's house.”
“_Your_ son's house, indeed!” cried Matty. “Get out o' the place, you stack o' rags.”