Phelim Otoole's Courtship and Other Stories. William Carleton

      When Phelim presented himself at home, he scarcely replied to the queries put to him by his father and mother concerning his interview with the priest. He sat down, rubbed his hands, scratched his head, rose up, and walked to and fro, in a mood of mind so evidently between mirth and chagrin, that his worthy parents knew not whether to be merry or miserable.

      “Phelim,” said the mother, “did you take anything while you wor away?”

      “Did I take anything! is it? Arrah, be asy, ould woman! Did I take anything! Faith you may say that!”

      “Let us know, anyhow, what's the matther wid you?' asked the father.

      “Tare-an'-ounze!” exclaimed the son, “what is this for, at all at all? It's too killin' I am, so it is.”

      “You're not lookin' at Sam Appleton's clo'es,” said the father, “that he lent you the loan of, hat an' all?”

      “Do you want to put an affront upon me, ould man? To the divil wid himself an' his clo'es! When I wants clo'es I'll buy them wid my own money!'

      “Larry,” observed the mother, “there's yourself all over—as proud as a payoock when the sup's in your head, an' 'ud spake as big widout the sign o' money in your pocket, as if you had the rint of an estate.”

      “What do you say about the sign o' money?” exclaimed Phelim, with a swagger. “Maybe you'll call that the sign o' money!” he added, producing the ten guineas in gold. The father and mother looked at it for a considerable time, then at each other, and shook their heads.

      “Phelim!” said the father, solemnly. “Phelim!” said the mother, awfully; and both shook their heads again.

      “You wor never over-scrupulous,” the father proceeded, “an' you know you have many little things to answer for, in the way of pickin' up what didn't belong to yourself. I think, too, you're not the same boy you wor afore you tuck to swearin' the alibies.

      “Faith, an' I doubt I'll haye to get some one to swear an alibi for myself soon,” Phelim replied.

      “Why, blessed hour!” said Larry, “didn't I often tell you never to join the boys in anything that might turn out a hangin' matther?”

      “If this is not a hangin' matther,” said Phelim, “it's something nearly as bad: it's a marryin' matther. Sure I deluded another since you seen me last. Divil a word o' lie in it. I was clane fell in love wid this mornin' about seven o'clock.”

      “But how did you get the money, Phelim?”

      “Why, from the youthful sprig that fell in love wid me. Sure we're to be 'called' in the Chapel on Sunday next.”

      “Why thin now, Phelim! An' who is the young crathur? for in throth she must be young to go to give the money beforehand!”

      “Murdher!” exclaimed Phelim, “what's this for! Was ever any one done as I am? Who is she! Why she's—oh, murdher, oh!—she's no other than—hem—divil a one else than Father O'Hara's housekeeper, ould Biddy Doran!”

      The mirth of the old couple was excessive. The father laughed till he fell off his stool, and the mother till the tears ran down her cheeks.

      “Death alive; ould man! but you're very merry,” said Phelim. “If you wor my age, an' in such an' amplush, you'd laugh on the wrong side o' your mouth. Maybe you'll tarn your tune when you hear that she has a hundhre and twenty guineas.”

      “An' you'll be rich, too,” said the father. “The sprig an' you will be rich!—ha, ha, ha!”

      “An' the family they'll have!” said the mother, in convulsions.

      “Why, in regard o' that,” said Phelim, rather nettled, “if all fails us, sure we can do as my father and you did: kiss the Lucky Stone, an' make a Station.”

      “Phelim, aroon,” said the mother, seriously, “put it out o' your head. Sure you wouldn't go to bring me a daughter-in-law oulder nor myself?”

      “I'd as soon go over,” (* be transported) said Phelim; “or swing itself, before I'd marry sich a piece o' desate. Hard feelin' to her! how she did me to my face!”

      Phelim then entered into a long-visaged detail of the scene at Father O'Hara's, dwelling bitterly on the alacrity with which the old housekeeper ensnared him in his own mesh.

      “However,” he concluded, “she'd be a sharp one if she'd do me altogether. We're not married yet; an' I've a consate of my own, that she's done for the ten guineas, any how!”

      A family council was immediately held upon Phelim's matrimonial prospects. On coming close to the speculation of Miss Patterson, it was somehow voted, notwithstanding Phelim's powers of attraction, to be rather a discouraging one. Gracey Dalton was also given up. The matter was now serious, the time short, and Phelim's bounces touching his own fascinations with the sex in general, were considerably abated. It was therefore resolved that he ought to avail himself of Sam Appleton's clothes, until his own could be made. Sam, he said, would not press him for them immediately, inasmuch as he was under obligations to Phelim's silence upon some midnight excursions that he had made.

      “Not,” added Phelim, “but I'm as much, an' maybe more in his power, than he is in mine.”

      When breakfast was over, Phelim and the father, after having determined to “drink a bottle” that night in the family of an humble young woman, named Donovan, who, they all agreed, would make an excellent wife for him, rested upon their oars until evening. In the meantime, Phelim sauntered about the village, as he was in the habit of doing, whilst the father kept the day as a holiday. We have never told our readers that Phelim was in love, because in fact we know not whether he was or not. Be this as it may, we simply inform them, that in a little shed in the lower end of the village, lived a person with whom Phelim was very intimate, called Foodie Flattery. He was, indeed, a man after Phelim's own heart, and Phelim was a boy after his. He maintained himself by riding country races; by handing, breeding, and feeding cocks; by fishing, poaching, and serving processes; and finally, by his knowledge as a cow-doctor and farrier—into the two last of which he had given Phelim some insight. We say the two last, for in most of the other accomplishments Phelim was fully his equal. Phelim frequently envied him his life. It was an idle, amusing, vagabond kind of existence, just such a one as he felt a relish for. This man had a daughter, rather well-looking; and it so happened, that he and Phelim had frequently spent whole nights out together, no one knew on what employment. Into Flattery's house did Phelim saunter with something like an inclination to lay the events of the day before him, and to ask his advice upon his future prospects. On entering the cabin he was much surprised to find the daughter in a very melancholy mood; a circumstance which puzzled him not a little, as he knew that they lived very harmoniously together. Sally had been very useful to her father; and, if fame did not belie her, was sometimes worthy Foodie's assistant in his nocturnal exploits. She was certainly reputed to be “light-handed;” an imputation which caused the young men of her acquaintance to avoid, in their casual conversations with her, any allusion to matrimony.

      “Sally, achora,” said Phelim, when he saw her in distress, “what's the fun? Where's your father?”

      “Oh, Phelim,” she replied, bursting into tears, “long runs the fox, but he's cotch at last. My father's in gaol.”

      Phelim's jaw dropped. “In gaol! Chorp an diouol, no!”

      “It's thruth, Phelim. Curse upon this Whiteboy business, I wish it never had come into the counthry at all.”

      “Sally, I must see him; you know I must. But tell me how it happened? Was it at home he was taken?”

      “No;