“Art,” said he, “you know I never was a man of many words; and I'm
not goin' to turn over a new lafe now. To scould you is not my
intention--nor to listen to your promises. All I have to say is, that
you have broken your word, and disgraced your name. As for me, I can put
neither confidence nor trust in you any longer; neither will I.”
A single tear was visible on his cheek as he passed out of the room;
and when he did, Art's violent sobs were quite audible. Indeed, if truth
must be told, Frank's distress was nearly equal to his brother's.
What, however, was to be done? He was too ill to attend his business,
a circumstance which only heightened his distress; for he knew that
difficult as was the task of encountering his master, and those who
would only enjoy his remorse, still even that was less difficult to
be borne than the scourge of his own reflections. At length a thought
occurred, which appeared to give him some relief; that thought he felt
was all that now remained to him, for as it was clear that he could no
longer depend on himself, it was necessary that he should find something
else on which to depend. He accordingly sent an intimation to his master
that he wished to have a few minutes' conversation with him, if he could
spare time; M'Carroll accordingly came, and found him in a state which
excited the worthy man's compassion.
“Well, Art,” said he, “what is it you wish to speak to me about? I hear
you were drunk last night. Now I thought you had more sense than to let
these fellows put you into such a pickle. I have a fine, well-conducted
set of men in general; but there is among them a hardened, hackneyed
crew, who, because they are good workmen, don't care a curse about
either you or me, or anybody else. They're always sure of employment, if
not here, at least elsewhere, or, indeed, anywhere.”
“But it wasn't their fault,” replied Art, “it was altogether my own;
they were opposed to my drinkin' at all, especially as they knew that I
promised Frank never to get drunk agin. It was when Syl Harte proposed
Frank's health, that I drank the whiskey in spite o' them.”
“Syl Harte,” said his master with a smile, “ay, I was thinkin' so; well,
no matter, Art, have strength and resolution not to do the like again.”
“But that's the curse, sir,” replied the young man, “I have neither the
one nor the other, and it's on that account I sent for you.”
“How is that, Art?”
“Why,” said the other, “I am goin' to bind myself--I am goin' to swear
against it, and so to make short work of it, and for fraid any one might
prevent me”--he blessed himself, and proceeded--“I now, in the presence
of God, swear upon this blessed manwil (* Manual) that a drop of
spirituous drink, or liquor of any kind, won't cross my lips for the
next seven years, barrin' it may be necessary as medicine;” he then
kissed the book three times, blessed himself again, and sat down
considerably relieved.
“Now,” he added, “you may tell them what I've done; that's seven years'
freedom, thank God; for I wouldn't be the slave of whiskey--the greatest
of tyrants--for the wealth of Europe.”
“No, but the worst of it is, Art,” replied his m ister, who was an
exceedingly shrewd man, “that whiskey makes a man his own tyrant and
his own slave, both at the same time, and that's more than the greatest
tyrant that ever lived did yet. As for yourself, you're not fit to work
any this day, so I think you ought to take a stretch across the country,
and walk off the consequence of your debauch with these fellows last
night.”
Art now felt confidence and relief; he had obtained the very precise aid
of which he stood in need. The danger was now over, and a prop placed
under his own feeble resolution, on which he could depend with safety;
here there could be no tampering with temptation; the matter was clear,
explicit, and decisive: so far all was right, and, as we have said, his
conscience felt relieved of a weighty burden.
His brother, on hearing it from his own lips, said little, yet that
little was not to discourage him; he rather approved than otherwise, but
avoided expressing any very decided opinion on it, one way or the other.
“It's a pity,” said he, “that want of common resolution should drive
a man to take an oath; if you had tried your own strength, a little
farther, Art, who knows but you might a' gained a victory without it,
and that would be more creditable and manly than swearin'; still, the
temptation to drink is great to some people, and this prevents all
possibility of fallin' into it.”
Art, who, never having dealt in any thing disingenuous himself, was slow
to credit duplicity in others, did not once suspect that the profligates
had played him off this trick, rather to annoy the brother than himself.
It was, after all, nothing but the discreditable triumph of cunning and
debased minds, over the inexperience, or vanity, if you will, of one,
who, whatever his foibles might be, would himself scorn to take an
ungenerous advantage of confidence reposed in him in consequence of his
good opinion and friendly feeling.
The period of their apprenticeship, however, elapsed, and the day at
length arrived for their departure from the Corner House. Their master,
and, we may add, their friend, solicited them to stop with him still as
journeymen; but, as each had a different object in view, they declined
it. Art proposed to set up for himself, for it was indeed but natural
that one whose affections had been now so long engaged, should wish,
with as little delay as possible, to see himself possessed of a home
to which he might bring his betrothed wife. Frank had not trusted to
chance, or relied merely upon vague projects, like his brother; for,
some time previous to the close of his apprenticeship, he had been
quietly negotiating the formation of a partnership with a carpenter who
wanted a steady man at the helm. The man had capital himself, and
was clever enough in his way, but then he was illiterate, and utterly
without method in conducting his affairs; Frank was therefore the
identical description of person he stood in need of, and, as the
integrity of his family was well known--that integrity which they
felt so anxious to preserve without speck--there was of course little
obstruction in the way of their coming to terms.
On the morning of the day on which they left his establishment,
M'Carroll came into the workshop while they were about bidding farewell
to their companions, with whom they had lived--abating the three or four
pranks that were played off upon Art--on good and friendly terms, and
seeing that they were about to take their departure, he addressed them
as follows:--
“I need not say,” he proceeded, “that I regret you are leaving me; which
I do, for, without meaning any disrespect to those present, I am bound
to acknowledge that two better workmen, or two honester young men, were
never in my employment. Art, indeed is unsurpassed, considering his
time, and that he is only closing his apprenticeship: 'tis true, he has
had good opportunities--opportunities which, I am happy to say, he has
never neglected. I am in the habit, as you both know, of addressing
a few words of advice to my young men at the close of their
apprenticeships, and when they are entering upon the world as you are
now. I will therefore lay down a few simple rules for your guidance,
and, perhaps, by following them, you will find yourselves neither the
worse nor the poorer men.
“Let the first principle then of your life, both as mechanics, and men,
be truth--truth in all you think, in all you say, and in all you do; if
this should fail to procure you the approbation of the world, it will
not fail to procure you your own, and, what is better, that of God. Let
your next principle be industry--honest, fair, legitimate industry, to
which you ought to annex punctuality--for industry without
punctuality is but half a virtue. Let your third great principle be
sobriety--strict and undeviating sobriety; a mechanic without sobriety,
so far from being a benefit or an ornament to society, as he ought to
be, is a curse and a disgrace to it; within the limits of sobriety all
the rational enjoyments of life are comprised, and without them are
to be found all those which desolate society with crime, indigence,
sickness, and death. In maintaining sobriety in the world, and
especially among persons of your own class, you will certainly have much
to contend with; remember that firmness of character, when acting upon
right feeling and good sense, will enable you to maintain and work out
every virtuous and laudable purpose which you propose to effect. Do not,
therefore, suffer yourselves to be shamed from sobriety, or, indeed,
from any other moral duty, by the force of ridicule; neither, on the
other hand, must you be seduced into it by flattery, or the transient
gratification of social enjoyment. I have, in fact, little further to
add; you are now about to become members of society, and to assume
more distinctly the duties which it imposes on you. Discharge them all
faithfully--do not break your words, but keep your promises, and respect
yourselves, remember that self-respect is a very different thing
from pride, or an empty overweening vanity--self-respect is, in fact,
altogether incompatible with them, as they are with it; like opposite
qualities, they cannot abide in the same individual. Let me impress
it on you, that these are the principles by which you must honorably
succeed in life, if you do succeed; while by neglecting them, you must
assuredly fail. 'Tis true, knavery and dishonesty are often successful,
but it is by the exercise of fraudulent practices, which I am
certain you will never think of carrying into the business of life--I
consequently dismiss this point altogether, as unsuitable to either
of you. I have only to add, now, that I hope most sincerely you will
observe the few simple truths I have laid down to you; and I trust, that
ere many years pass, I may live to see you both respectable, useful,
and independent members of society. Farewell, and may you be all we wish
you!”
Whether this little code of useful doctrine was equally observed by
both, will appear in the course of our narrative.
About a month or so before the departure of Frank and Art from the
Corner House, Jemmy Murray and another man were one day in the beginning
of May strolling through one of his pasture-fields. His companion was
a thin, hard-visaged little fellow, with a triangular face, and dry
bristly hair, very much the color of, and nearly as prickly as, a
withered furze bush; both, indeed, were congenial spirits, for it is
only necessary to say, that he of the furze bush was another of those
charital and generous individuals whose great delight consisted, like
his friend Murray, in watching the seasons, and speculating upon the
failure of the crops. He had the reputation of being wealthy, and
in fact was so; indeed, of the two, those who had reason to know,
considered that he held the weightier purse; his name was Cooney
Finigan, and the object of his visit to Murray--their conversation,
however, will sufficiently develop that. Both, we should observe,
appeared to be exceedingly blank and solemn; Cooney's hard face, as he
cast his eye about him, would have made one imagine that he had just
buried the last of his family, and Murray looked as if he had a son
about to be hanged. The whole cause of this was simply that a finer
season, nor one giving ampler promise of abundance, had not come within
the memory of man.
“Ah!” said Murray, with a sigh, “look, Cooney, at the distressin' growth
of grass that's there--a foot high if it's an inch! If God hasn't sed
it, there will be the largest and heaviest crops that ever was seen in
the country; heigho!”
“Well, but one can't have good luck always,” replied Cooney; “only it's
the wondherful forwardness of the whate that's distressin' me.”
“An' do you think that I'm sufferin' nothin' on that account?” asked
his companion; “only you haven't three big stacks of hay waitin' for a
failure, as I have.”
“That's bekase I have no meadow on my farm,” replied Cooney; “otherwise
I would be in the hay trade as well as yourself.”
“Well, God help us, Cooney! every one has their misfortunes as well as
you and I; sure enough, it's a bitther business to see how every thing's
thrivin'--hay, oats, and whate! why they'll be for a song: may I never
get a bad shillin', but the poor 'ill be paid for takin' them! that's
the bitther pass things will come to; maurone ok! but it's a black
lookout!”
“An' this rain, too,” said Cooney, “so soft, and even, and small, and
warm, that it's playin' the very devil. Nothin' could stand it. Why it
ud make a rotten twig grow if it was put into the ground.”
“Divil a one o' me would like to make the third,” said Murray, “for
'fraid I might have the misfortune to succeed. Death alive! Only think
of my four arks, of meal, an' my three stacks of hay, an' divil a pile
to come out of them for another twelve months!”
“It's bad, too bad, I allow,” said the other; “still let us not despair,
man alive; who knows but the saison may change for the worse yet.
Whish!” he exclaimed, slapping the side of his thigh, “hould up your
head, Jemmy, I have thought of it; I have thought of it.”
“You have thought of what, Cooney?”
“Why, death alive, man, sure there's plenty of time, God be praised for
it, for the--murdher, why didn't we think of it before? ha, ha, ha!”
“For the what, man? don't keep us longin' for it.”
“Why for the pratie crops to fail still; sure it's only the beginning
o' May now, and who knows but we might have the happiness to see a right
good general failure of the praties still? Eh? ha, ha, ha!”
“Upon my sounds, Cooney, you have taken a good deal of weight off of me.
Faith we have the lookout of a bad potato crop yet, sure enough. How is
the wind? Don't you think you feel a little dry bitin' in it, as if it
came from the aist?”
“Why, then, in regard of the dead calm that's in it, I can't exactly
say--but, let me see--you're right, divil a doubt of it; faith it is,
sure enough; bravo, Jemmy, who knows but all may go wrong wid the crops
yet.”
“At all events, let us have a glass on the head of it, and we'll drink
to the failure of the potato craps, and God prosper the aist wind, for
it's the best for you an' me, Cooney, that's goin'. Come up to the house
above, and we'll have a glass on the head of it.”
The fastidious reader may doubt whether any two men, no matter how
griping or rapacious, could prevail upon themselves to express to each
other sentiments so openly inimical to all human sympathy. In holding
this dialogue, however, the men were only thinking aloud, and giving
utterance to the wishes which every inhuman knave of their kind feels.
In compliance, however, with the objections which maybe brought against
the probability of the above dialogue, we will now give the one which
did actually occur, and then appeal to our readers whether the first is
not much more in keeping with the character of the speakers--which ought
always to be a writer's great object--than the second. Now, the reader
already knows that each of these men had three or four large arks of
meal laid past until the arrival of a failure in the crops and a season
of famine, and that Murray had three large stacks of hay in the hope of
a similar failure in the meadow crop.
“Good-morrow, Jemmy.”
“Good-morrow kindly, Cooney; isn't this a fine saison, the Lord be
praised!”
“A glorious saison, blessed be His name! I don't think ever I remimber a
finer promise of the craps.”
“Throth, nor I, the meadows is a miracle to look at.”
“Divil a thing else--but the white, an' oats, an' early potatoes, beat
anything ever was seen.”
“Throth, the poor will have them for a song, Jemmy.”
“Ay, or for less, Cooney; they'll be paid for takin' them.”
“It's enough to raise one's heart, Jemmy, just to think of it.”
“Why then it is that, an', for the same raison, come up to the house
above, and we'll have a sup on the head of it; sure, it's no harm to
drink success to the craps, and may God prevent a failure, any how.”
“Divil a bit.”
Now, we simply ask the reader which dialogue is in the more appropriate
keeping with the characters of honest, candid Jemmy and Cooney?
“And now,” proceeded Cooney, “regard-in' this match between your
youngest daughter Margaret, and my son Toal.”
“Why, as for myself,” replied Murray, “sorra much of objection I have
aginst it, barrin' his figure; if he was about a foot and a half
higher, and a little betther made--God pardon me, an' blessed be the
maker--there would, at all events, be less difficulty in the business,
especially with Peggy herself.”
“But couldn't you bring her about?”
“I did my endayvors, Cooney; you may take my word I did.”
“Well, an' is she not softenin' at all?”
“Upon my sounds, Cooney, I cannot say she is. If I could only get her to
spake one sairious word on the subject, I might have some chance; but I
cannot, Cooney; I think both you an' little Toal had betther give it up.
I doubt there's no chance.”
“Faith an' the more will be her loss. I tell you, Jemmy, that he'd outdo
either you or me as a meal man. What more would you want?”
“He's cute enough, I know that.”
“I tell you you don't know the half of it. It's the man that can make
the money for her that you want.”
“But aginst that, you know, it's Peggy an' not me that's to marry him.
Now, you know that women often--though not always, I grant--wish to
have something in the appearance of their husband that they needn't be
ashamed to look at.”
“That's the only objection that can bo brought against him. He's the boy
can make the money; I'm a fool to him. I'll tell you what, Jemmy Murray,
may I never go home, but he'd skin a flint. Did you hear anything? Now!”
Murray, who appeared to be getting somewhat tired of this topic, replied
rather hastily--
“Why, Cooney Finnigan, if he could skin the devil himself and ait him
afterwards, she wouldn't have him. She has refused some of the best
looking young men in the parish, widout either rhyme or raison, an' I'm
sure she's not goin' to take your leprechaun of a son, that you might
run a five-gallon keg between his knees. Sure, bad luck to the thing his
legs resemble but a pair of raipin' hooks, wid their backs outwards. Let
us pass this subject, and come in till we drink a glass together.”
“And so you call my son a leprechaun, and he has legs like raipin'
hooks!”
“Ha, ha, ha! Come in, man alive; never mind little Toal.”
“Like raipin' hooks! I'll tell you what, Jemmy, I say now in sincerity,
that there is every prospect of a plentiful sayson; and that there may,
I pray God this day; meadows an' all--O above all, the meadows, for I'm
not in the hay business myself.”
“So,” said Murray, laughing, “you would cut off your nose to vex your
face.”
“I would any day, even if should suffer myself by it; and now good-bye,
Jemmy Murray, to the dioual I pitch the whole thing! Rapin' hooks!”
And as he spoke, off went the furious little extortioner, irretrievably
offended.
The subject of Margaret's marriage, however, was on that precise period
one on which her father and friends had felt and expressed much concern.
Many proposals had been made for her hand during Art's apprenticeship;
but each and all not only without success, but without either hope or
encouragement. Her family were surprised and grieved at this, and the
more so, because they could not divine the cause of it. Upon the subject
of her attachment to Maguire, she not only preserved an inviolable
silence herself, but exacted a solemn promise from her lover that he
should not disclose it to any human being. Her motive, she said, for
keeping their affection and engagement to each other secret, was to
avoid being harassed at home by her friends and family, who, being once
aware of the relation in which she stood towards Art, would naturally
give her little peace. She knew very well that her relations would not
consent to such a union, and, in point of mere prudence and forethought,
her conduct was right, for she certainly avoided much intemperate
remonstrance, as afterwards proved to be the case when she mentioned it.
Her father on this occasion having amused them at home by relating the
tift which had taken place between Cooney Finnigan and himself, which
was received with abundant mirth by them all, especially by Margaret,
seriously introduced the subject of her marriage, and of a recent
proposal which had been made to her.
“You are the only unmarried girl we have left now,” he said, “and surely
you ought neither to be too proud nor too saucy to refuse such a match
as Mark Hanratty--a young man in as thrivin' a business as there is in
all Ballykeerin; hasn't he a good shop, good business, and a good back
of friends in the country that will stand to him, an' only see how he
has thruv these last couple o' years. What's come over you at all? or do
you ever intend to marry? you have refused every one for so far widout
either rhyme or raison. Why, Peggy, what father's timper could stand
this work?”
“Ha, ha, ha! like raipin' hooks, father--an' so the little red rogue
couldn't bear that? well, at all events, the comparison's a good
one--sorra better; ha, ha, ha--reapin' hooks!”
“Is that the answer you have for me?”
“Answer!” said Margaret, feigning surprise, “what about?”
“About Mark Hanmity.”
“Well, but sure if he's fond of me, hell have no objection to wait.”
“Ay, but if he does wait, will you have him?”
“I didn't promise that, and, at any rate, I'd not like to be a
shopkeeper's wife.”
“Why not?”
“Why, he'd be puttin' me behind the counter, and you know I'd be too
handsome for that; sure, there's Thogue Nugent that got the handsome
wife from Dublin, and of a fair, or market-day, for one that goes in to
buy anything, there goes ten in to look at her. Throth, I think he ought
to put her in the windy at once, just to save trouble, and give the
people room.”
“Ha, ha, ha! well, you're the dickens of a girl, sure enough; but come,
avourneen, don't be makin' me laugh now, but tell me what answer I'm to
give Mark.”
“Tell him to go to Dublin, like Thogue; he lives in the upper part of
the town, and Thogue in the lower, and then there will be a beauty in
each end of it.”
“Suppose I take it into my head to lose my temper, Peggy, maybe I'd make
you spake then?”
“Well, will you give me a peck o' mail for widow Dolan?”
“No, divil a dust.”
“Sure I'll pay you--ha, ha, ha!”
“Sure you'll pay me! mavrone, but it's often you've said that afore,
and divil a cross o' Your coin ever we seen yet; faith, it's you that's
heavily in my debt, when I think of all ever you promised to pay me.”
“Very well, then; no meal, no answer.”
“And will you give me an answer if I give you the meal?”
“Honor bright, didn't I say it.”
“Go an' get it yourself then, an' see now, don't do as you always do,
take double what you're allowed.”
Margiret, in direct violation of this paternal injunction, did most
unquestionably take near twice the stipulated quantity for the widow,
and, in order that there might be no countermand on the part of her
father, as sometimes happened, she sent it off with one of the servants
by a back way, so that he had no opportunity of seeing how far
her charity had carried her beyond the spirit and letter of her
instructions.
“Well,” said he, when she returned, “now for the answer; and before you
give it, think of the comfort you'll have with him--how fine and nicely
furnished his house is--he has carpets upon the rooms, ay, an' upon my
sounds, on the very stairs itself! faix it's you that will be in state.
Now, acushla, let us hear your answer.”
“It's very short, father; I won't have him.”
“Won't have him! and in the name of all that's unbiddable and undutiful,
who will you have, if one may ax that, or do you intend, to have any one
at all, or not?”
“Let me see,” she said, putting the side of her forefinger to her lips,
“what day is this? Thursday. Well, then, on this day month, father, I'll
tell my mother who I'll have, or, at any rate, who I'd wish to have;
but, in the mean time, nobody need ask me anything further about it till
then, for I won't give any other information on the subject.”
The father looked very seriously into the fire for a considerable time,
and was silent; he then drew his breath lengthily, tapped the table a
little with his fingers, and exclaimed--“A month! well, the time will
pass, and, as we must wait, why we must, that's all.”
Matters lay in this state until the third day before the expiration
of the appointed time, when Margaret, having received from Art secret
intelligence of his return, hastened to a spot agreed upon between them,
that they might consult each other upon what ought to be done under
circumstances so critical.
After the usual preface to such tender discussions, Art listened with
a good deal of anxiety, but without the slightest doubt of her firmness
and attachment, to an account of the promise she had given her father.
“Well, but, Margaret darlin',” said he, “what will happen if they
refuse?”
“Surely, you know it is too late for them to refuse now; arn't we as
good as married--didn't we pass the Hand Promise--isn't our troth
plighted?”
“I know that, but suppose they should still refuse, then what's to be
done? what are you and I to do?”
“I must lave that to you, Art,” she replied archly.
“And it couldn't be in better hands, Margaret; if they refuse their
consent, there's nothing for it but a regular runaway, and that will
settle it.”
“You must think I'm very fond of you,” she added playfully, “and I
suppose you do, too.”
“Margaret,” said Art, and his face became instantly overshadowed with
seriousness and care, “the day may come when I'll feel how necessary you
will be to guide and support me.”
She looked quickly into his eyes, and saw that his mind appeared
disturbed and gloomy.
“My dear Art,” she asked, “what is the meaning of your words, and why is
there such sadness in your face?”
“There ought not to be sadness in it,” he said, “when I'm sure of
you--you will be my guardian angel may be yet.”
“Art, have you any particular meanin' in what you say?”
“I'll tell you all,” said he, “when we are married.”
Margaret was generous-minded, and, as the reader may yet acknowledge,
heroic; there was all the boldness and bravery of innocence about her,
and she could scarcely help attributing Art's last words to some fact
connected with his feelings, or, perhaps, to circumstances which his
generosity prevented him from disclosing. A thought struck her--
“Art,” said she, “the sooner this is settled the better; as it is, if
you'll be guided by me, we won't let the sun set upon it; walk up with
me to my father's house, come in, and in the name of God, we'll leave
nothing unknown to him. He is a hard man, but he has a heart, and he is
better a thousand times than he is reported. I know it.”
“Come,” said Art, “let us go; he may be richer, but there's the blood,
and the honesty, and good name of the Maguires against his wealth--”
A gentle pressure on his arm, when he mentioned the word wealth, and he
was silent.
“My darlin' Margaret,” said he, “oh how unworthy I am of you!”
“Now,” said she, “lave me to manage this business my own way. Your good
sense will tell you when to spake; but whatever my father says, trate
him with respect--lave the rest to me.”
On entering, they found Murray and his wife in the little parlor--the
former smoking his pipe, and the latter darning a pair of stockings.
“Father,” said Margaret, “Art Maguire convoyed me home; but, indeed, I
must say, I was forced to ask him.”
“Art Maguire. Why, then, upon my sounds, Art, I'm glad to see you. An'
how are you, man alive? an' how is Frank, eh? As grave as a jidge, as
he always was--ha, ha, ha! Take a chair, Art, and be sittin'. Peggy,
gluntha me, remimber, you must have Art at your weddin'. It's now widin
three days of the time I'm to know who he is; and upon my sounds, I'm
like a hen on a hot griddle till I hear it.”
“You're not within three days, father.”
“But I say I am, accordin' to your own countin'.”
“You're not within three hours, father;”--her face 'glowed, and her
whole system became vivified with singular and startling energy as she
spoke;--“no, you are not within three hours, father; not within three
minutes, my dear father; for there stands the man,” she said, pointing
to Art. She gave three or four loud hysterical sobs, and then stood
calm, looking not upon her father, but upon her lover; as much as to
say, Is this love, or is it not?
Her mother, who was a quiet, inoffensive creature, without any principle
or opinion whatsoever at variance with those of her husband, rose upon
hearing this announcement; but so ambiguous were her motions, that
we question whether the most sagacious prophet of all antiquity could
anticipate from them the slightest possible clue to her opinion. The
husband, in fact, had not yet spoken, and until he had, the poor woman
did not know her own mind. Under any circumstances, it was difficult
exactly to comprehend her meaning. In fact, she could not speak three
words of common English, having probably never made the experiment a
dozen times in her life. Murray was struck for some time mute.
“And is this the young man,” said he, at length, “that has been the
mains of preventin' you from being so well married often and often
before now?”
“No, indeed, father,” she replied, “he was not the occasion of that; but
I was. I am betrothed to him, as he is to me, for five years.”
“And,” said her father, “my consent to that marriage you will never
have; if you marry him, marry him, but you will marry him without my
blessin'.”
“Jemmy Murray,” said Art, whose pride of family was fast rising, “who am
I, and who are you?”