[Illustration: H]Haberdashers, continued my friend the boot, are wonderful
people; they make the greatest show out of the smallest stock--whether of
brains or ribbons--of any men in the world. A stranger could not pass
through the village of Ballybreesthawn without being attracted by a shop
which occupied the corner of the Market-square and the main street, with a
window looking both ways for custom. In these windows were displayed sundry
articles of use and ornament--toys, stationery, perfumery, ribbons, laces,
hardware, spectacles, and Dutch dolls.
In a glass-case on the counter were exhibited patent medicines, Birmingham
jewellery, court-plaister, and side-combs. Behind the counter might be seen
Mr. Matthew Tibbins, quite a precedent for country shop-keepers, with
uncommonly fair hair and slender fingers, a profusion of visible linen, and
a most engaging lisp. In addition to his personal attractions, Tibbins
possessed a large stock of accomplishments, which, like his goods, "might
safely challenge competition." He was an acknowledged wit, and retailed
compliments and cotton balls to the young ladies who visited his emporium.
As a poet, too, his merits were universally known; for he had once
contributed a poetic charade to the _Ladies' Almanack_. He, moreover,
played delightfully on the Jews'-harp, knew several mysterious tricks in
cards, and was an adept in the science of bread and butter-cutting, which
made him a prodigious favourite with maiden aunts and side-table cousins.
This was the individual whom fate had ordained to cross and thwart Terence
in his designs upon the heart of Miss Biddy O'Brannigan, and upon whom that
young lady, in sport or caprice, bestowed a large dividend of those smiles
which Terence imagined should be devoted solely to himself.
The man of small wares was, in truth, a dangerous rival, from his very
insignificance. Had he been a man of spirit or corporal consideration,
Terence would have pistolled or thrashed him out of his audacious notions;
but the creature was so smiling and submissive that he could not, for the
life of him, dirty his fingers with such a contemptible wretch. Thus
Tibbins continued flattering and wriggling himself into Miss Biddy's good
graces, while Terence was fighting and kissing the way to her heart, till
the poor girl was fairly bothered between them.
Miss Biddy O'Brannigan, I should have told you, sir, was an heiress, valued
at one thousand pounds in hard cash, living with an old aunt at Rookawn
Lodge, about six miles from Ballybreesthawn; and to this retreat of the
loves and graces might the rival lovers be seen directing their course,
after mass, every Sunday;--the haberdasher in a green gig with red wheels,
and your uncle mounted on a bit of blood, taking the coal off Tibbins's
pipe with the impudence of his air, and the elegant polish of your humble
servants.
Matters went on in this way for some time--Miss O'Brannigan not having
declared in favour of either of her suitors--when one bitter cold evening,
I remember it was in the middle of January, we were whipped off our peg in
the hall, and in company with our fellow-labourers, the buckskin
continuations, were carried up to your uncle, whom we found busily
preparing for a ball, which was to be given that night by the heiress of
Rookawn Lodge. I confess that my brother and myself felt a strong
presentiment that something unfortunate would occur, and our forebodings
were shared by the buckskins, who, like ourselves, felt considerable
reluctance to join in the expedition. Remonstrance, however, would have
been idle; we therefore submitted with the best grace we could, and in a
few minutes were bestriding Terence's favourite hunter, and crossing the
country over ditch, dyke, and drain, as if we were tallying at the tail of
a fox. The night was dark, and a recent fall of rain had so swollen a
mountain stream which lay in our road, that when we reached the ford, which
was generally passable by foot passengers, Terence was obliged to swim his
horse across, and to dismount on the opposite side, in order to assist the
animal up a steep clayey bank which had been formed by the torrent
undermining and cutting away the old banks.
Although we had received no material damage, you may suppose that our
appearance was not much improved by the water and yellow clay into which we
had been plunged; and had it been possible, we would have blushed with
vexation, on finding ourselves introduced by Terence in a very unseemly
state, amidst the titters of a number of young people, into the ball-room
at Rookawn Lodge. However, we became somewhat reassured, when we heard the
droll manner in which he related his swim, with such ornamental flourishes
and romantic embellishments as made him an object of general interest
during the night.
Matthew Tibbins had already taken the field in a blue satin waistcoat and
nankeen trousers. At the instant we entered the dancing-room, he had
commenced lisping to Miss Biddy, in a tender love-subdued tone, a couplet
which he had committed to memory for the occasion, when a glance of
terrible meaning from Terence's eye met his--the unfinished stanza died in
his throat, and without waiting the nearer encounter of his dreaded rival,
he retreated to a distant corner of the apartment, leaving to Terence the
post of honour beside the heiress.
"Mr. Duffy," said she, accompanying her words with the blandest smile you
can conceive, as he approached, "what a wonderful escape you have had. Dear
me! I declare you are dripping wet. Will you not change your--clothes?"
and Miss Biddy glanced furtively at the buckskins, which, like ourselves,
had got thoroughly soaked. "Oh! by no means, my dear Miss Biddy," replied
Terence, gaily; "'tis only a thrifle of water--that won't hurt them"--and
then added, in a confidential tone, "don't you know I'd go through fire as
well as water for one kind look from those deludin' eyes."
"Shame, Mr. Duffy! how can you!" responded Miss Biddy, putting her
handkerchief to her face to make believe she blushed.
"Isn't it the blessed truth--and don't you know it is, you darling?--Oh!
Miss Biddy, I'm wasting away like a farthing candle in the dog-days--I'm
going down to my snug grave through your cruelty. The daisies will be
growing over me afore next Easther--Ugh--ugh--ugh. I've a murderin' cough
too, and nothing can give me ase but yourself, Miss Biddy," cried Terence
eagerly.
"Hush! they'll hear you," said the heiress.
"I don't care who hears me," replied Terence desperately; "I can't stand
dying by inches this way. I'll destroy myself."
"Oh, Terence!" murmured Miss O'Brannigan.
"Yes," he continued: "I loaded my pistols this morning, and I told Barney
M'Guire, the dog-feeder, to come over and shoot me the first thing he does
in the morning."
"Terence, _dear_, what do you want? What am I to say?" inquired the
trembling girl.
"Say," cried Terence, who was resolved to clinch the business at a word;
"say that you love me."
The handkerchief was again applied to Miss O'Brannigan's face, and a faint
affirmative issued from the depths of the cambric. Terence's heart hopped
like a racket-ball in his breast.
"Give me your hand upon it," he whispered.
Miss Biddy placed the envied _palm_, not on his brows, but in his hand, and
was led by him to the top of a set which was forming for a country dance,
from whence they started off at the rate of one of our modern
steam-engines, to the spirit-stirring tune of "Haste to the Wedding." There
was none of the pirouetting, and chassez-ing, and balancez-ing, of your
slip-shod quadrilles in vogue then--it was all life and action: swing
corners in a hand gallop, turn your partner in a whirlwind, and down the
middle like a flash of lightning.
Terence had never acquitted himself so well; he cut, capered, and set to
his partner with unusual agility; _we_ naturally participated in the
admiration he excited, and in the fullness of our triumph, while brushing
past the flimsy nankeens worn by Tibbins, I could not refrain from
bestowing a smart kick upon his shins, that brought the tears to his eyes
with pain and vexation.
After the dance had concluded, Terence led his glowing partner to a cool
quiet corner, where leaving her, he flew to the side table, and in less
time than he would take to bring down a snipe, he was again beside her with
a large mugful of hot negus, into which he had put, by way of stiffener, a
copious dash of mountain dew.
"How do you like it, my darling?" asked Terence, after Miss Biddy had read
the maker's name in the bottom of the mug.
"Too strong, I'm afraid," replied the heiress.
"Strong! Wake as _tay_, upon my honour! Miss Biddy," cried Mr. Duffy.
(The result of Terence Duffy's courtship will be given in the next
chapter).
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