The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes. John Brougham
am the spirit of your evil thoughts," replied the other, in a rich, full tone, bending her lustrous eyes upon the questioner in a way that made his heart bound.
"Oh! you are, are you," he gasped out; "faix, and I don't know, if it's welcome you ought to be, or not; but, for the sake of good manners, I'd ax you to sit too, av I had the convaynience."
"You called upon us both, just now," said the good spirit.
"And we are here," continued the other; "so choose between us, which you will entertain."
"Couldn't I be on the safe side, and entertain the both of yez?" suggested Dan, with a propitiatory wink to each.
"That is impossible," replied the good spirit. "We only meet when there's contention in a mortal mind whether he shall the right or wrong pursue. Did you not wish but now that you could change conditions with the rich man opposite?"
"Well, then, I may's well let the whole truth out, seein' that you're likely to know all about it; I did wish somethin' of the sort."
"And a very reasonable wish it was," said the dark spirit, on his left.
"A very foolish wish," firmly observed the fair one.
"I don't agree with you," replied the other.
"You never do," said the good spirit.
"Nor ever will!"
"I don't lose much by that" —
"Ladies, darlin'," interposed Dan, "I'd rayther you wouldn't disthress yerselves on my account."
"Don't be alarmed, my good friend," said the fair spirit. "We never can agree; but, how do you resolve? Is it still your wish to stand in the Squire's shoes?"
"Top-boots?" suggested Dan.
"Of course it is," replied the evil spirit for him. "Who would not have such wish, to pass his days in luxury and ease, not labor – pinched, in care and penury?"
"Thrue for you," observed Dan, approvingly.
"But who would give up even a small share of joy, contentment, and domestic love, to seek, perchance, for more, perchance, for less?" replied the other.
"There's rayson in that," said Dan.
"Aye, but the boy," said his left-hand companion; "see what a glorious life the heir to such a wealthy man would lead."
"That sets me heart bubblin' like a bilin' pot," cried Dan, joyously.
"You are resolved, then, to be ruled by me?" demanded the suggester of evil thoughts.
"Indeed, and I am, that I am, just for the sake of the babby," said Dan.
"Follow, and I will point out a way," said the dark spirit, gliding towards the door. Dan made a movement to follow, when his footsteps were arrested by a chorus of invisible voices, small, but distinct, and musical as a choir of singing birds, that appeared to sound within his very brain, so that he heard every word as clearly as though he had uttered it himself.
Every mortal has his grief:
Each one thinks that his is chief.
Better keep your present lot,
Than to tempt – you don't know what.
Irresolution made him falter on the threshold through which the spirit of evil thoughts had just passed; it was but for an instant, however, for the same tiny voices sang within his heart the blessings and the joys of wealth, and, above all, the image of his darling child, made happy in its possession.
"Here goes," said he. "The divil a pin's point does it matther what comes of me, so that luck lays a howld of the little gossoon." So saying, he followed the dark spirit, while the other bowed its lovely head upon its breast, and shedding tears of anguish for the tempted one, whose weakness she had not the power to strengthen, slowly and pensively came after, resolved not to abandon her charge while there was yet a hope to save.
CHAPTER III
Our selfish pleasures multiply amain,
But then their countless progeny is pain.
We left the great Squire Bulworthy, preparing to astonish the neighborhood, which he assuredly succeeded in doing, but not in a style at all creditable or satisfactory to himself.
It would appear, indeed, as though the hearty, but uncharitable wish of the irritated cobbler, was curiously prophetic, for, before the purse-proud couple had achieved the half of their accustomed promenade, Mr. Bulworthy's extremities were suddenly and unceremoniously fastened upon by an unusually severe gripe of that enemy to active exercise – the gout. So sharp was the pain, that the Squire roared out right lustily, and executed such a variety of absurd contortions that he became an object of intense amusement, rather than sympathy, to the vagabond portion of the neighborhood.
There being no such extemporaneous means of transit as hacks, or "hansoms," attainable, there was nothing for it but to suffer; so, leaning heavily upon a couple of stray Samaritans, whose commiseration was warmly stimulated by the promised shilling, he managed, by slow and agonizing efforts, to shuffle home, attended by his silent and unsympathizing spouse.
After having undergone the excruciating process of unbooting – an operation whose exquisite sensations are known only to the initiated – he screamed for his universal panacea, whisky-punch. The materials were brought in an incredibly short space of time, for Bulworthy was murderous in his gouty spells. Half a dozen stiff tumblers were disposed of with Hibernian celerity, and the hurried household began to congratulate itself upon a prospect of quiet. Vain hope! "dingle, dingle, ding!" went the big bell at the Squire's elbow. Up started, simultaneously, Barney and Mary from the dish of comfort they were laying themselves out to indulge in down stairs – in their eagerness, tumbling into each other's arms. Barney rushed up the stairway, while Mary listened – as Marys always do, when there's anything interesting going on – receiving, however, in this instance, ample reward for such a breach of good manners, being nearly prostrated by a book flung at Barney's head, to hasten his exit, by the suffering Squire. What the missile had only half done, Barney finished; for, taking the kitchen-stairs at a slide, he came plump against the partially-stunned listener, and down they both rolled comfortably to the bottom. However, as there were no bones broken, the only damage being what Mary called, "a dent in her head," they soon picked themselves up again.
"Well," says Mary, "how is he now?"
"Oh, murdher alive, don't ax me," replied Barney, rubbing his bruises, "it's my belief that there never was sich a cantankerous ould chicken sence the world was hatched. It's a composin' draft that he's schreechin' for now, as av a gallion of punch, strong enough to slide on, wasn't composin'."
In due time, he had his "composin' draft," which, as it contained a pretty considerable dose of laudanum, sufficed, together with his other potations, to lull the pain somewhat, and give him comparative quiet; this was a famous opportunity for Mrs. Bulworthy, who immediately proceeded to "improve" it.
"Now, Pether, dear," said she, with an attempt to modulate her saw-cutting voice into something approaching to tenderness, which was a failure. "Oh! think upon the situation of your soul, and look over one of these comforting works."
Peter groaned inwardly, but said nothing.
"Grace," she went on, "is never denied, even to the most hardenedest sinner."
Peter threw his head back and closed his eyes, in the forlorn hope that she would respect his simulated slumber; but she was not a woman to respect anything, when her "vocation" was strong on her.
"It's criminal in you, Peter," she shouted, "to neglect your spiritual state; suppose you were to die, and it's my belief you will, for you're looking dreadful, what a misery it would be to me; I'd never forgive myself; oh! Pether, Pether, do read this true and beautiful description of the place of torment you're a blindly plunging your sowl into."
This was too much for the already tortured sinner. "Get out!" he roared. "Don't bother; there's a time for all things, you indiscreet and unnatural apostle of discomfortableness, what do you worry me for now, when you see me enjoyin' such a multiplication of bodily