--Hycy and a Confidant
Hycy Burke was one of those persons who, under the appearance of a
somewhat ardent temperament, are capable of abiding the issue of
an event with more than ordinary patience. Having not the slightest
suspicion of the circumstance which occasioned Bryan M'Mahon's
resentment, he waited for a day of two under the expectation that his
friend was providing the sum necessary to accommodate him. The third
and fourth days passed, however, without his having received any reply
whatsoever; and Hycy, who had set his heart upon Crazy Jane, on
finding that his father--who possessed as much firmness as he did of
generosity--absolutely refused to pay for her, resolved to lose no more
time in putting Bryan's friendship to the test. To this, indeed, he was
urged by Burton, a wealthy but knavish country horse-dealer, as we said,
who wrote to him that unless he paid for her within a given period, he
must be under the necessity of closing with a person who had offered
him a higher price. This message was very offensive to Hycy, whose
great foible, as the reader knows, was to be considered a gentleman, not
merely in appearance, but in means and circumstances. He consequently
had come to the determination of writing again to M'Mahon upon the same
subject, when chance brought them together in the market of Ballymacan.
After the usual preliminary inquiries as to health, Hycy opened the
matter:--
“I asked you to lend me five-and-thirty pounds to secure Crazy Jane,”
said he, “and you didn't even answer my letter. I admit I'm pretty
deeply in your debt, as it is, my dear Bryan, but you know I'm safe.”
“I'm not at this moment thinking much of money matters, Hycy; but,
as you like plain speaking, I tell you candidly that I'll lend you no
money.”
Hycy's manner changed all at once; he looked at M'Mahon for nearly a
minute, and said in quite a different tone--
“What is the cause of this coldness, Bryan? Have I offended you?”
“Not knowingly--but you have offended me; an' that's all I'll say about
it.”
“I'm not aware of it,” replied the other---“my word and honor I'm not.”
Bryan felt himself in a position of peculiar difficulty; he could not
openly quarrel with Hycy, unless he made up his mind to disclose the
grounds of the dispute, which, as matters then stood between him and
Kathleen Cavanagh, to whom he had not actually declared his affection,
would have been an act of great presumption on his part.
“Good-bye, Hycy,” said he; “I have tould you my mind, and now I've done
with it.”
“With all my heart!” said the other--“that's a matter of taste on your
part. You're offended, you say; yet you choose to put the offence in
your pocket. It's all right, I suppose--but you know best. Good-bye
to you, at all events,” he added; “be a good boy and take care of
yourself.”
M'Mahon nodded with good-humored contempt in return, but spoke not.
“By all that deserves an oath,” exclaimed Hycy, looking bitterly after
him, “if I should live to the day of judgment I'll never forgive you
your insulting conduct this day--and that I'll soon make you feel to
your cost!”
This misunderstanding between the two friends caused Hycy to feel much
mortification and disappointment. After leaving M'Mahon, he went through
the market evidently with some particular purpose in view, if one could
judge from his manner. He first proceeded to the turf-market, and looked
with searching eye among those who stood waiting to dispose of their
loads. From this locality he turned his steps successively to other
parts of the town, still looking keenly about him as he went along. At
length he seemed disappointed or indifferent, it was difficult to say
which, and stood coiling the lash of his whip in the dust, sometimes
quite unconsciously, and sometimes as if a wager depended on the success
with which he did it--when, on looking down the street, he observed a
little broad, squat man, with a fiery red head, a face almost scaly with
freckles, wide projecting cheek-bones, and a nose so thoroughly of the
saddle species, that a rule laid across the base of it, immediately
between the eyes, would lie close to the whole front of his face. In
addition to these personal accomplishments, he had a pair of strong bow
legs, terminating in two broad, flat feet, in complete keeping with
his whole figure, which, though not remarkable for symmetry, was
nevertheless indicative of great and extraordinary strength. He wore
neither stockings nor cravat of any kind, but had a pair of strong
clouted brogues upon his feet; thus disclosing to the spectator two legs
and a breast that were covered over with a fell of red close hair that
might have been long and strong enough for a badger. He carried in his
hand a short whip, resembling a carrot in shape, and evidently of such
a description as no man that had any regard for his health would wish to
come in contact with, especially from the hand of such a double-jointed
but misshapen Hercules as bore it.
“Ted, how goes it, my man?”
“_Ghe dhe shin dirthu, a dinaousal?_” replied Ted, surveying him with a
stare.
“D--n you!” was about to proceed from Hycy's lips when he perceived
that a very active magistrate, named Jennings, stood within hearing. The
latter passed on, however, and Hycy proceeded:--“I was about to abuse
you, Ted, for coming out with your Irish to me,” he said, “until I saw
Jennings, and then I _had_ you.”
“Throgs, din, Meeisther Hycy, I don't like the _Bairlha_ (* English
tongue)--'caise I can't sphake her properly, at all, at all. Come you
'out wid the Gailick fwhor me, i' you plaise, Meeisther Hycy.”
“D--n your Gaelic!” replied Hycy--“no, I won't--I don't speak it.”
“The Laud forget you for that!” replied Ted, with a grin; “my ould
grandmudher might larn it from you--hach, ach, ha!”
“None of your d--d impertinence, Ted. I want to speak to you.”
“Fwhat would her be?” asked Ted, with a face in which there might be
read such a compound of cunning, vacuity, and ferocity as could rarely
be witnessed in the same countenance.
“Can you come down to me to-night?”
“No; I'll be busy.”
“Where are you at work now?”
“In Glendearg, above.”
“Well, then, if you can't come to me, I must only go to you. Will you be
there tonight? I wish to speak to you on very particular business.”
“Shiss; you _will_, dhin, wanst more?” asked the other, significantly.
“I think so.”
“Shiss--ay--vary good. Fwen will she come?”
“About eleven or twelve; so don't be from about the place anywhere.”
“Shiss---dhin--vary good. Is dhat all?”
“That's all now. Are your turf _dry_ or _wet_* to-day?”
* One method of selling Poteen is by bringing in kishes of
turf to the neighboring markets, when those who are up to
the secret purchase the turf, or pretend to do so; and while
in the act of discharging the load, the Keg of Poteen is
quickly passed into the house of him who purchases the
turf.--Are your turf wet or dry? was, consequently, a pass-
word.
“Not vary dhry,” replied Ted, with a grin so wide that, as was
humorously said by a neighbor of his, “it would take a telescope to
enable a man to see from the one end of it to the other.”
Hycy nodded and laughed, and Ted, cracking his whip, proceeded up the
town to sell his turf.
Hycy now sauntered about through the market, chatting here and there
among acquaintances, with the air of a man to whom neither life nor
anything connected with it could occasion any earthly trouble. Indeed,
it mattered little what he felt, his easiness of manner was such that
not one of his acquaintances could for a moment impute to him the
possibility of ever being weighed down by trouble or care of any kind;
and lest his natural elasticity of spirits might fail to sustain this
perpetual buoyancy, he by no means neglected to fortify himself with
artificial support. Meet him when or where you might, be it at six
in the morning or twelve at night, you were certain to catch from his
breath the smell of liquor, either in its naked simplicity or disguised
and modified in some shape.
His ride home, though a rapid, was by no means a pleasing one. M'Mahon
had not only refused to lend him the money he stood in need of, but
actually quarrelled with him, as far as he could judge, for no other
purpose but that he might make the quarrel a plea for refusing him. This
disappointment, to a person of Hycy's disposition, was, we have seen,
bitterly vexatious, and it may be presumed that he reached home in
anything but an agreeable humor. Having dismounted, he was about to
enter the hall-door, when his attention was directed towards that of the
kitchen by a rather loud hammering, and on turning his eyes to the
spot he found two or three tinkers very busily engaged in soldering,
clasping, and otherwise repairing certain vessels belonging to that warm
and spacious establishment. The leader of these vagrants was a man named
Philip Hogan, a fellow of surprising strength and desperate character,
whose feats of hardihood and daring had given him a fearful notoriety
over a large district of the country. Hogan was a man whom almost every
one feared, being, from confidence, we presume, in his great strength,
as well as by nature, both insolent, overbearing, and ruffianly in the
extreme. His inseparable and appropriate companion was a fierce and
powerful bull-dog of the old Irish breed, which he had so admirably
trained that it was only necessary to give him a sign, and he would
seize by the throat either man or beast, merely in compliance with the
will of his master. On this occasion he was accompanied by two of his
brothers, who were, in fact, nearly as impudent and offensive ruffians
as himself. Hycy paused for a moment, seemed thoughtful, and tapped his
boot with the point of his whip as he looked at them. On entering the
parlor he found dinner over, and his father, as was usual, waiting to
get his tumbler of punch.
“Where's my mother?” he asked--“where's Mrs. Burke?”
On uttering the last words he raised his voice so as she might
distinctly hear him.
“She's above stairs gettin' the whiskey,” replied his father, “and God
knows she's long enough about it.”
Hycy ran up, and meeting her on the lobby, said, in a low, anxious
voice--
“Well, what news? Will he stand it?”
“No,” she replied, “you may give up the notion--he won't do it, an'
there's no use in axin' him any more.”
“He won't do it!” repeated the son; “are you certain now?”
“Sure an' sartin. I done all that could be done; but it's worse an'
worse he got.”
Something escaped Hycy in the shape of an ejaculation, of which we are
not in possession at present; he immediately added:--
“Well, never mind. Heavens! how I pity you, ma'am--to be united to such
a d--d--hem!--to such a--a--such a--gentleman!”
Mrs. Burke raised her hands as if to intimate that it was useless to
indulge in any compassion of the kind.
“The thing's now past cure,” she said; “I'm a marthyr, an' that's all
that's about it. Come down till I get you your dinner.”
Hycy took his seat in the parlor, and began to give a stave of the “Bay
of Biscay:”--
“'Loud roar'd the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge pours;
The clouds were rent asunder
By light'ning's vivid--'
By the way, mother, what are those robbing ruffians, the Hogans, doing
at the kitchen door there?”
“Troth, whatever they like,” she replied. “I tould that vagabond,
Philip, that I had nothing for them to do, an' says he, 'I'm the best
judge of that, Rosha Burke.' An, with that he walks into the kitchen,
an' takes everything that he seen a flaw in, an' there he and them sat
a mendin' an' sotherin' an' hammerin' away at them, without ever sayin'
'by your lave.'”
“It's perfectly well known that they're robbers,” said Hycy, “and the
general opinion is that they're in connection with a Dublin gang, who
are in this part of the country at present. However, I'll speak to the
ruffians about such conduct.”
He then left the parlor, and proceeding to the farmyard, made a signal
to one of the Hogans, who went down hammer in hand to where he stood.
During a period of ten minutes, he and Hycy remained in conversation,
but of what character it was, whether friendly or otherwise, the
distance at which they stood rendered it impossible for any one to
ascertain. Hycy then returned to dinner, whilst his father in the
meantime sat smoking his pipe, and sipping from time to time at his
tumbler of punch. Mrs. Burke, herself, occupied an arm-chair to the
left of the fire, engaged at a stocking which was one of a pair that she
contrived to knit for her husband during every twelve months; and on
the score of which she pleaded strong claims to a character of most
exemplary and indefatigable industry.
“Any news from the market, Hycy?” said his father.
“Yes,” replied Hycy, in that dry ironical tone which he always used to
his parents--“rather interesting--Ballymacan is in the old place.”
“Bekaise,” replied his father, with more quickness than might be
expected, as he whiffed away the smoke with a face of very sarcastic
humor; “I hard it had gone up a bit towards the mountains--but I knew
you wor the boy could tell me whether it had or not--ha!--ha!--ha!”
This rejoinder, in addition to the intelligence Hycy had just received
from his mother, was not calculated to improve his temper. “You may
laugh,” he replied; “but if your respectable father had treated you in a
spirit so stingy and beggarly as that which I experience at your hands,
I don't know how you might have borne it.”
“My father!” replied Burke; “take your time, Hycy--my hand to you, he
had a different son to manage from what I have.”
“God sees that's truth,” exclaimed his wife, turning the expression to
her son's account.
“I was no gentleman, Hycy,” Burke proceeded.
“Ah, is it possible?” said the son, with a sneer. “Are you sure of that,
now?”
“Nor no spendthrift, Hycy.”
“No,” said the wife, “you never had the spirit; you were ever and always
a _molshy_.” (* A womanly, contemptible fellow)
“An' yet _molshy_ as I was,” he replied, “you wor glad to catch me.
But Hycy, my good boy, I didn't cost my father at the rate of from a
hundre'-an'-fifty to two-hundre'-a-year, an' get myself laughed at and
snubbed by my superiors, for forcin' myself into their company.”
“Can't you let the boy ait his dinner in peace, at any rate?” said his
mother. “Upon my credit I wouldn't be surprised if you drove him away
from us altogether.”
“I only want to drive him into common sense, and the respectful feeling
he ought to show to both you an' me, Rosha,” said Burke; “if he expects
to have either luck or grace, or the blessing of God upon him, he'll
change his coorses, an' not keep breakin' my heart as he's doin'.”
“Will you pay for the mare I bought, father?” asked Hycy, very
seriously. “I have already told you, that I paid three guineas earnest;
I hope you will regard your name and family so far as to prevent me from
breaking my word--besides leading the world to suppose that you are a
poor man.”
“Regard my name and family!” returned the father, with a look of
bitterness and sorrow; “who is bringin' them into disgrace, Hycy?”
“In the meantime,” replied the son, “I have asked a plain question, Mr.
Burke, and I expect a plain answer; will you pay for the mare?”
“An' supposin' I don't?”
“Why, then, Mr. Burke, if you don't you won't, that's all.”
“I must stop some time,” replied his father, “an' that is now. I wont
pay for her.”
“Well then, sir, I shall feel obliged, as your respectable wife has just
said, if you will allow me to eat, and if possible, live in peace.”
“I'm speakin' only for your--”
“That will do now--hush--silence if you please.”
“Hycy dear,” said the mother; “why would you ax him another question
about it? Drop the thing altogether.”
“I will, mother, but I pity you; in the meantime, I thank you, ma'am, of
your advice.”
“Hycy,” she continued, with a view of changing the conversation; “did
you hear that Tom M'Bride's dead?”
“No ma'am, but I expected it; when did he die?”
Before his father could reply, a fumbling was heard at the hall-door;
and, the next moment, Hogan, thrust in his huge head and shoulders began
to examine the lock by attempting to turn the key in it.
“Hogan, what are you about?” asked Hycy.
“I beg your pardon,” replied the ruffian; “I only wished to know if the
lock wanted mendin'--that was all, Misther Hycy.”
“Begone, sirra,” said the other; “how dare you have the presumption to
take such a liberty? you impudent scoundrel! Mother, you had better pay
them,” he added; “give the vagabonds anything they ask, to get rid of
them.”
Having dined, her worthy son mixed a tumbler of punch, and while
drinking it, he amused himself, as was his custom, by singing snatches
of various songs, and drumming with his fingers upon the table; whilst
every now and then he could hear the tones of his mother's voice in high
altercation with Hogan and his brothers. This, however, after a time,
ceased, and she returned to the parlor a good deal chafed by the
dispute.
“There's one thing I wonder at,” she observed, “that of all men in the
neighborhood, Gerald Cavanagh would allow sich vagabonds as they an Kate
Hogan is, to put in his kiln. Troth, Hycy,” she added, speaking to him
in a warning and significant tone of voice, “if there wasn't something
low an' mane in him, he wouldn't do it.”
“'Tis when the cup is smiling before us.
And we pledge unto our hearts--'
“Your health, mother. Mr. Burke, here's to you! Why I dare say you are
right, Mrs. Burke. The Cavanagh family is but an upstart one at best;
it wants antiquity, ma'am--a mere affair of yesterday, so what after all
could you expect from it?”
Honest Jemmy looked at him and then groaned. “An upstart
family!--that'll do--oh, murdher--well, 'tis respectable at all events;
however, as to havin' the Hogans about them--they wor always about them;
it was the same in their father's time. I remember ould Laghlin Hogan,
an' his whole clanjamfrey, men an' women, young an' old, wor near six
months out o' the year about ould Gerald Cavanagh's--the present man's
father; and another thing you may build upon--that whoever ud chance
to speak a hard word against one o' the Cavanagh family, before Philip
Hogan or any of his brothers, would stand a strong chance of a shirtful
o' sore bones. Besides, we all know how Philip's father saved Mrs.
Cavanagh's life about nine or ten months after her marriage. At any
rate, whatever bad qualities the vagabonds have, want of gratitude isn't
among them.”
“'------That are true, boys, true,
The sky of this life opens o'er us,
And heaven--'
M'Bride, ma'am, will be a severe loss to his family.”
“Throth he will, and a sarious loss--for among ourselves, there was none
o' them like him.”
“'Gives a glance of its blue--'
“I think I ought to go to the wake to-night. I know it's a bit of a
descent on my part, but still it is scarcely more than is due to a
decent neighbor. Yes, I shall go; it is determined on.”
“'I ga'ed a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate I fear I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.'
“Mine are brown, Mrs. Burke--the eyes you wot of; but alas! the family is
an upstart one, and that is strongly against the Protestant interest in
the case. Heigho!”
Jemmy Burke, having finished his after-dinner pipe and his daily tumbler
both together, went out to his men; and Hycy, with whom he had left the
drinking materials, after having taken a tumbler or two, put on a strong
pair of boots, and changed the rest of his dress for a coarser 'suit,
bade his mother a polite good-bye, and informed her, that as he intended
to be present at M'Bride's wake he would most probably not return until
near morning.