Love is of as many patterns, cuts, shapes, and colours as people's
garments; and the loves of Edward O'Connor and Fanny Dawson had very
little resemblance to the tender passion which agitated the breast of
the Widow Flanagan, and made Tom Durfy her slave. Yet the widow and Tom
demand the offices of the chronicler as well as the more elevated pair;
and this our veracious history could never get on, if we exhausted all
our energies upon the more engaging personages, to the neglect of the
rest: your plated handles, scrolls, and mountings are all very well on
your carriage, but it could not move without its plain iron bolts.
Now the reader must know something of the fair Mistress Flanagan who
was left in very comfortable circumstances by a niggardly husband, who
did her the favour to die suddenly one day, to the no small satisfaction
of the pleasure-loving widow, who married him in an odd sort of a hurry,
and got rid of him as quickly. Mr. Flanagan was engaged in supplying the
export provision trade, which, every one knows, is considerable in
Ireland; and his dealings in beef and butter were extensive. This
brought him into contact with the farmers for many miles round, whom he
met, not only every market-day at every market-town in the county, but
at their own houses, where a knife and fork were always at the service
of the rich buyer. One of these was a certain Mat Riley, who, on small
means, managed to live, and rear a son and three bouncing, good-looking
girls, who helped to make butter, feed calves, and superintend the
education of pigs; and on these active and comely lasses Mr. Flanagan
often cast an eye of admiration, with a view to making one of them his
wife; for though he might have had his pick and choice of many fine
girls in the towns he dealt in, he thought the simple, thrifty, and
industrious habits of a plain farmer's daughter more likely to conduce
to his happiness and _profit_--for in that principally lay the aforesaid
happiness of Mr. Flanagan. Now, this intention of honouring one of the
three Miss Rileys with promotion he never hinted at in the remotest
degree, and even in his own mind the thought was mixed up with fat
cattle and prices current; and it was not until a leisure moment one
day, when he was paying Mat Riley for some of his farming produce, that
he broached the subject thus:
"Mat." "Sir."
"I'm thinking o' marrying."
"Well, she'll have a snug house, whoever she is, Misther Flanagan."
"Them's fine girls o' yours."
Poor Mat opened his eyes with delight at the prospect of such a match
for one of his daughters, and said they were "comely lumps o' girls,
sure enough; but, what was betther, they wor good."
"That's what I'm thinking," says Flanagan. "There's two ten-poun'
notes, and a five, and one is six, and one is seven; and three tenpinnies
is two-and-sixpence; that's twenty-seven poun' two-and-sixpence:
eight-pence-ha'penny is the lot; but I haven't copper in my company,
Mat."
"Oh, no matther, Misther Flanagan. And is it one o' my colleens you've
been throwing the eye at, sir?"
"Yes, Mat, it is. You're askin' too much for them firkins?"
"Oh, Misther Flanagan, consider it's prime butther. I'll back my girls
for making up a bit o' butther agen any girls in Ireland; and my cows
is good, and the pasture prime."
"'T is a farthing a poun' too high, Mat; and the market not lively."
"The butther is good, Mr. Flanagan; and not decenther girls in Ireland
than the same girls, though I'm their father."
"I'm thinking I'll marry one o' them, Mat."
"Sure, an' it's proud I'll be, sir; and which o' them is it, maybe?"
"Faith, I don't know myself, Mat. Which do you think yourself?"
"Throth, myself doesn't know--they're all good. Nance is nice, and
Biddy's biddable, and Kitty's cute."
"You're a snug man, Mat; you ought to be able to give a husband a
trifle with them."
"Nothing worth _your_ while, anyhow, Misther Flanagan. But sure one o'
my girls without a rag to her back, or a tack to her feet, would be
betther help to an honest industherin' man than one o' your showy
lantherumswash divils out of a town, that would spend more than she'd
bring with her."
"That's thrue, Mat. I'll marry one o' your girls, I think."
"You'll have my blessin', sir; and proud I'll be--and proud the girl
ought to be--_that_ I'll say. And suppose, now, you'd come over on
Sunday, and take share of a plain man's dinner, and take your pick o'
the girls--there's a fine bull goose that Nance towld me she'd have
ready afther last mass; for Father Ulick said he'd come and dine with
us."
"I can't, Mat; I must be in the canal boat on Sunday; but I'll go and
breakfast with you to-morrow, on my way to Bill Mooney's, who has a
fine lot of pigs to sell--remarkable fine pigs."
"Well, we'll expect you to breakfast, sir."
"Mat, there must be no nonsense about the wedding."
"As you plase, sir."
"Just marry her off, and take her home. Short reckonings make long
friends."
"Thrue for you, sir."
"Nothing to give with the girl, you say?"
"My blessin' only, sir."
"Well, you must throw in that butther, Mat, and take the farthin' off."
"It's yours, sir," said Mat, delighted, loading Flanagan with "Good
byes," and "God save yous," until they should meet next morning at
breakfast.
Mat rode home in great glee at the prospect of providing so well for one
of his girls, and told them a man would be there the next morning to
make choice of one of them for his wife. The girls, very naturally,
inquired who the man was; to which Mat, in the plenitude of patriarchal
power, replied, "that was nothing to them;" and his daughters had
sufficient experience of his temper to know there was no use in asking
more questions after such an answer. He only added, she would be "well
off that should get him." Now, their father being such a curmudgeon,
it is no wonder the girls were willing to take the chance of a
good-humoured husband instead of an iron-handed father; so they set to
work to make themselves as smart as possible for the approaching trial
of their charms, and a battle royal ensued between the sisters as to
the right and title to certain pieces of dress which were hitherto
considered a sort of common property amongst them, and of which the
occasion of a fair, or a pattern,[4] or market-day was enough to
establish the possession, by whichever of the girls went to the public
place; but now, when a husband was to be won, privilege of all sorts was
pleaded, in which discussion there was more noise than sound reason, and
so many violent measures to secure the envied _morceaux_, that some
destruction of finery took place where there was none to spare; and, at
last, seniority was agreed upon to decide the question; so that when
Nance had the first plunder of the chest which held all their clothes in
common, and Biddy made the second grab, poor Kitty had little left but
her ordinary rags to appear in. But as, in the famous judgment on Ida's
Mount, it is hinted that Venus carried the day by her scarcity of
drapery, so did Kitty conquer by want of clothes: not that Love sat in
judgment; it was Plutus turned the scale. But, to leave metaphor and
classic illustration, and go back to Mat Riley's cabin--the girls were
washing, and starching, and ironing all night, and the morning saw
them arrayed for conquest. Flanagan came, and breakfasted, and saw the
three girls. A flashy silk handkerchief which Nancy wore put her _hors
de combat_ very soon; she was set down at once, in his mind, as
extravagant. Biddy might have had a chance if she had made anything
like a fair division with her youngest sister; but Kitty had been so
plundered, that her shabbiness won an easy victory over the niggard's
heart: he saw in her "the making of a thrifty wife;" besides which, she
was possibly the best looking, and certainly the youngest of the three;
and there is no knowing how far old Flanagan might have been influenced
by those considerations.
[4] A half-holy, half-merry meeting, held at some certain place,
on the day dedicated to the saint who is supposed to be the
PATRON of the spot--hence the name "PATTERN."
He spoke very little to any of the girls; but, when he was leaving the
house, he said to the father, as he was shaking hands with him, "Mat,
I'll do it;" and, pointing to Kitty, he added, "That's the one I'll
have."
Great was the rage of the elder sisters, for Flanagan was notoriously a
wealthy man; and when he quitted the house, Kitty set up such a shout
of laughter, that her father and sisters told her several times "not to
make a fool of herself." Still she laughed, and throughout the day
sometimes broke out into sudden roars; and while her sides shook with
merriment, she would throw herself into a chair, or lean against the
wall, to rest herself after the fatigue of her uproarious mirth. Now
Kitty, while she laughed at the discomfiture of her greedy sisters,
also laughed at the mistake into which Flanagan had fallen; for, as her
father said of her, she was, "'cute," and she more than suspected the
cause of Flanagan's choice, and enjoyed the anticipation of his
disappointment, for she was fonder of dress than either Nancy or Biddy,
and revelled in the notion of astonishing "the old niggard," as she
called him; and this she did "many a time and oft." In vain did
Flanagan try to keep her extravagance within bounds. She would either
wheedle, reason, bully, or shame him into doing what she said "was
right and proper for a snug man like him." His house was soon well
furnished: she made him get her a jaunting car. She sometimes _would_
go to parties, and no one was better dressed than the woman he chose
for her rags. He got enraged now and then, but Kitty pacified him by
soft words and daring inventions of her fertile fancy. Once, when he
caught her in the fact of wearing a costly crimson silk gown, and
stormed, she soothed him by telling him it was her old black one she
had dyed; and this bouncer, to the great amusement of her female
friends, he loved to repeat, as a proof of what a careful contriving
creature he had in Kitty. She was naturally quick-witted. She managed
him admirably, deceived him into being more comfortable than ever he
had been before, and had the laudable ambition of endeavouring to
improve both his and her own condition in every way. She set about
educating herself, too, as far as her notions of education went; and,
in a few years after her marriage, by judiciously using the means which
her husband's wealth afforded her of advancing her position in society,
no one could have recognised in the lively and well-dressed Mrs.
Flanagan the gawky daughter of a middling farmer. She was very
good-natured, too, towards her sisters, whose condition she took care
to improve with her own; and a very fair match for the eldest was made
through her means. The younger one was often staying in her house,
dividing her time nearly between the town and her father's farm, and no
party which Mrs. Flanagan gave or appeared at went off without giving
Biddy a chance to "settle herself in the world." This was not done
without a battle now and then with old Flanagan, whose stinginess would
exhibit itself upon occasion; but at last all let and hindrance to the
merry lady ceased, by the sudden death of her old husband, who left her
the entire of his property, so that, for the first time, his _will_ was
her pleasure.
After the funeral of the old man, the "disconsolate widow" was
withdrawn from her own house by her brother and sister to the farm,
which grew to be a much more comfortable place than when Kitty left;
for to have remained in her own house after the loss of "her good man"
would have been too hard on "the lone woman." So said her sister and
her brother, though, to judge from the widow's eyes, she was not very
heart-broken: she cried as much, no doubt, as young widows generally do
after old husbands--and could Kitty be expected to do more?
She had not been many days in her widowhood, when Biddy asked her to
drive into the town, where Biddy had to do a little shopping--that
great business of ladies' lives.
"Oh, Biddy, dear, I must not go out so soon."
"'T will do you good, Kitty."
"I mustn't be seen, you know--'t wouldn't be right; and poor dear
Flanagan not buried a week!"
"Sure, who'll see you? We'll go in the covered car, and draw the
curtains close, and who'll be the wiser?"
"If I thought no one would see me!" said the widow.
"Ah, who'll see you?" exclaimed Biddy. "Come along--the drive will do
you good."
The widow agreed; but when Biddy asked for a horse to put to the car,
her brother refused, for the only horse not at work he was going to
yoke in a cart that moment, to send a lamb to the town. Biddy vowed she
would have a horse, and her brother swore the lamb should be served
first, till Biddy made a compromise, and agreed to take the lamb under
the seat of the car, and so please all parties.
Matters being thus accommodated, off the ladies set, the lamb tied neck
and heels and crammed under the seat, and the curtains of the car ready
to be drawn at a moment's notice, in case they should meet any one on
the road; for "why should not the poor widow enjoy the fresh air as
they drove along?" About half way to the town, however, the widow
suddenly exclaimed--
"Biddy, draw the curtains!"
"What's the matter?" says Biddy.
"I see him coming after us round a turn o' the road!" and the widow
looked so horrified, and plucked at the curtains so furiously, that
Biddy, who was superstitious, thought nothing but Flanagan's ghost
could have produced such an effect; and began to scream and utter holy
ejaculations, until the sight of Tom Durfy riding after them showed her
the cause of her sister's alarm.
"If that divil, Tom Durfy, sees me, he'll tell it all over the country,
he's such a quiz; shove yourself well before the door there, Biddy,
that he can't peep into the car. Oh, why did I come out this day!--I
wish your tongue was cut out, Biddy, that asked me!"
In the meantime Tom Durfy closed on them fast, and began telegraphing
Biddy, who, according to the widow's desire, had shoved herself well
before the door.
"Pull up, Tim, pull up!" said the widow, from the inside of the car, to
the driver, whom she thumped on the back at the same time to impress
upon him her meaning; "turn about, and pretend to drive back. We'll let
that fellow ride on," said she, quietly to Biddy.
Just as this manoeuvre was executed, up came Tom Durfy.
"How are you, Miss Riley?" said he, as he drew rein.
"Pretty well, thank you," said Biddy, putting her head and shoulders
through the window, while the widow shrunk back into the corner of the
car.
"How very sudden poor Mr. Flanagan's death was!--I was quite
surprised."
"Yes, indeed," says Biddy. "I was just taking a little drive; good
bye."
"I was very much shocked to hear of it," said Tom.
"'T was dreadful!" said Biddy.
"How is poor Mrs. Flanagan?" said Tom.
"As well as can be expected, poor thing! Good bye!" said Biddy,
manifestly anxious to cut short the conference.
This anxiety was so obvious to Tom, who, for the sake of fun, loved
cross-purposes dearly, that he determined to push his conversation
further, just because he saw it was unwelcome.
"To be sure," continued he, "at his time of life----"
"Very true," said Biddy. "Good morning."
"And the season has been very unhealthy."
"Doctor Growling told me so yesterday," said Biddy; "I wonder you're
not afraid of stopping in this east wind--colds are very prevalent.
Good bye!"
Just now the Genius of Farce, who presides so particularly over all
Irish affairs, put it into the lamb's head to bleat. The sound at first
did not strike Tom Durfy as singular, they being near a high hedge,
within which it was likely enough a lamb might bleat; but Biddy,
shocked at the thought of being discovered in the fact of making her
jaunting-cart a market-cart, reddened up to the eyes, while the widow
squeezed herself closer into the corner.
Tom, seeing the increasing embarrassment of Biddy, and her desire to be
off, still _would_ talk to her, for the love of mischief.
"I beg your pardon," he continued, "just one moment more--I wanted to
ask, was it not apoplexy, for I heard an odd report about the death?"
"Oh, yes," says Biddy; "apoplexy--good bye!"
"Did he speak at all?" asked Tom.
"_Baa!_" says the lamb.
Tom cocked his ears, Biddy grew redder, and the widow crammed her
handkerchief into her mouth to endeavour to smother her laughter.
"I hope poor Mrs. Flanagan bears it well?" says Tom.
"Poor thing!" says Biddy, "she's inconsolable."
"_Baa-a!_" says the lamb.
Biddy spoke louder and faster, the widow kicked with laughing, and Tom
then suspected whence the sound proceeded.
"She does nothing but cry all day!" says Biddy.
"_Baa-a-a!_" says the lamb.
The widow could stand it no longer, and a peal of laughter followed the
lamb's bleat.
"What is all this?" said Tom, laying hold of the curtains with
relentless hand, and, spite of Biddy's screams, rudely unveiling the
sanctuary of sorrowing widowhood. Oh! what a sight for the rising--I beg
their pardon, the sinking--generation of old gentlemen who take young
wives did Tom behold! There was the widow lying back in the corner--she
who was represented as inconsolable and crying all day--shaking with
laughter, the tears, not of sorrow, but irrepressible mirth rolling down
a cheek rosy enough for a bride.
Biddy, of course, joined the shout. Tom roared in an agony of delight.
The very driver's risibility rebelled against the habits of respect,
and strengthened the chorus; while the lamb, as if conscious of the
authorship of the joke, put in a longer and louder "_Baa--a-a-a!!!_"
Tom, with all his devilment, had good taste enough to feel it was not a
scene to linger on; so merely giving a merry nod to each of the ladies,
he turned about his horse as fast as he could, and rode away in roars
of laughter.
When, in due course of time, the widow again appeared in company, she
and Tom Durfy could never meet without smiling at each other. What a
pleasant influence lies in mutual smiles! We love the lips which
welcome us without words. Such sympathetic influence it was that led
the widow and Tom to get better and better acquainted, and like each
other more and more, until she thought him the pleasantest fellow in
the county, and he thought her the handsomest woman:--besides, she had
a good fortune.
The widow, conscious of her charms and her money, did not let Tom,
however, lead the quietest life in the world. She liked, with the usual
propensity of her sex, occasionally to vex the man she loved, and
assert her sway over so good-looking a fellow. He, in his turn, played
off the widow very well; and one unfailing source of mirthful
reconciliation on Tom's part, whenever the widow was angry, and that he
wanted to bring her back to good humour, was to steal behind her chair,
and coaxingly putting his head over her fair shoulder, to pat her
gently on her peachy cheek, and cry "_Baa!_"