It was toward the end of October, 1826. There had been an early
spring, and the crops had been got in favorably, and in good time.
There had been "a wet and a windy May;" a warm, bright summer had
succeeded it; and the harvest had been now all gathered in, except the
potatoes, which were in rapid progress of being dug and pitted. It was
a great day for Ireland, let the advocates for "breadstuffs" say what
they will, before the blight and yellow meal had either of them become
familiar with the poor. There were the Cork reds and the cups, the
benefits and the Brown's fancies, for half nothing in every direction,
beside many other sorts of potatoes, bulging up the surface of the
ridges--there were no drills in those days; _mehils_ in almost every
field, with their coats off at the digging-in.
"Bill, don't lane on that boy on the ridge wid you; he's not much more
nor a _gossoon_; give him a start of you."
"_Gossoon aniow_; be gorra, he's as smart a chap on the face of a
ridge as the best of us, Tom."
"Ay; but don't take it out of him too soon, Bill."
"Work away, boys," said the _gossoon_ in question; "I'll engage I'll
shoulder my loy at the end of the ridge as soon as some of ye that's
spaking."
"It was wan word for the _gossoon_, as he calls him, an' two for
himself, Bill," chimed in the man on the next ridge. "Don't hurry Tom
Nolan; his feet's sore afther all he danced with Nelly Gaffeny last
night."
Here there was a loud and general laugh at poor Tom Nolan's expense,
and the _pickers_--women and girls, with handkerchiefs tied over their
heads looked up with one accord, annoyed that they were too far off to
hear the joke. It was well for one of them that they had not heard it,
for Nelly Gaffeny was amongst them.
"It's many a day, Pat, since you seen the likes of them turned out of
a ridge."
"They bate the world."
"They bang Banagher; and Banagher, they say--"
"Whist, Larry; don't be dhrawing that chap down at all."
"I seen but wan betther the year," said Tim Meaney.
"I say you didn't, nor the sorra take the betther, nor so good."
"Arra, didn't I? I say I did though."
"Where, _avic ma cree?_"
"Beyant at Tony Kilroy's."
"Ay, ay; Tony always had a pet acre on the side of the hill toward the
sun. He has the best bit of land in the parish."
"You may say that, Micky, with your own purty mouth. I led his
_mehil_, come this hollintide will be three years; an' there wasn't a
man of forty of us but turned out eight stone of cup off every ten
yards a a' four-split ridge. Devil a the like of them I ever seen
afore or since."
"Lumpers you mane, Andy; wasn't I there?"
"Is it you, Darby? no, nor the sorra take the foot; we all know where
you were that same year."
"Down in the lower part of Cavan, Phil. In throth, it wasn't cup
potatoes was throublin' him that time; but cups and saucers. He dhrank
a power of tay that harvest, boys."
Here there was another loud laugh, and the women with the
handkerchiefs upon their heads looked up again.
"Well, I brought her home dacent, boys; an' what can ye say to her?"
"Be gor, nothing, Darby avic, but that she's an iligant purty crathur,
and a credit to them that owns her, an' them that reared her."
"The sorra word of lie in that," echoed every man in the _mehil_.
Thus the merry chat and laugh went on in every potato-field. The
women, finding that they had too much to do to enable them to keep
close to the men, and that they were losing the fun, of course got up
a chat for themselves, and took good care to have some loud and hearty
laughs, which made the men in their turn look up, and lean upon their
loys.
Everything about Rathcash and Rathcashmore was prosperous and happy,
and the farmers were cheerful and open-hearted.
"That's grand weather, glory be to God, Ned, for the time of year,"
said Mick Murdock to his neighbor Cavana, who was leaning, with his
arms folded, on a field-gate near the mearing of their two farms. The
farms lay alongside of each other--one in the town-land of Rathcash,
and the other in Rathcashmore.
"Couldn't be bet, Mick. I'm upward of forty years stannin' in this
spot, an' I never seen the batin' of it."
"Be gorra, you have a right to be tired, Ned; that's a long stannin'."
"The sorra tired, Mick a _wochal_. You know very well what I mane, an'
you needn't be so sharp. I'd never be tired of the same spot."
"Them's a good score of calves, Ned; God bless you an' them!" said
Mick, making up for his sharpness.
"An' you too, Mick. They are a fine lot of calves, an' all reared
since Candlemas."
"There's no denying, Ned, but you med the most of that bit of land of
yours."
"'Tis about the same as your own, Mick; an' I think you med as good a
fist of yours."
"Well, maybe so, indeed; but I doubt it is going into worse hands than
what yours will, Ned."
"Why that, Mick?"
"Ah, that Tom of mine is a wild extravagant hero. He doesn't know much
about the value of money, and never paid any attention to farming
business, only what he was obliged to pick up from being with me. He
thinks he'll be rich enough when I'm in my clay, without much work.
An' so he will, Ned, so far as that goes; but it's only of
book-larnin' an' horse-racin' an' coorsin' he's thinkin', by way of
being a sort of gentleman one of those days; but he'll find to his
cost, in the lather end, that there's more wantin' to grow good crops
than 'The Farmer's Calendar of Operations.'"
"He's young, Mick, an' no doubt he'll mend. I hope you don't
discourage him."
"Not at all, Ned. The book-larnin 's all well enough, as far as it
goes, if he'd put the practice along with it, an' be studdy."
"So he will, Mick. His wild-oats will soon be all sown, an' then
you'll see what a chap he'll be."
"Faix, I'd rather see him sowing a crop of yallow Aberdeens, Ned, next
June; an' maybe it's what it's at the Curragh of Kildare he'll be, as
I can hear. My advice to him is to get married to some dacent nice
girl, that id take the wildness out of him, and lay himself down to
business. You know, Ned, he'll have every penny and stick I have in
the world; and the lease of my houlding in Rathcashmore is as good as
an estate at the rent I pay. If he'd give up his meandherin', and take
a dacent liking to them that's fit for him, I'd set him up all at
wanst, an' not be keeping him out of it until I was dead an' berrid."
The above was not a bad feeler, nor was it badly put by old Mick
Murdock to his neighbor. "Them that's fit for him" could hardly be
mistaken; yet there was a certain degree of disparagement of his own
son calculated to conceal his object. It elicited nothing, however,
but a long thoughtful silence upon old Ned Cavana's part, which Mick
was not slow to interpret, and did not wish to interrupt. At last Ned
stood up from the gate, and smoothing down the sleeves of his coat, as
if he supposed they had contracted some dust, he observed, "I'm
afear'd, Mick, you're puttin' the cart before the horse; come until I
show you a few ridges of red apples I'm diggin' out to-day. You'd
think I actially got them carted in, an' threune them upon the ridges:
the like of them I never seen."
And the two old men walked down the lane together.
But Mick Murdock's feeler was not forgotten by either of them. Mick
was as well pleased--perhaps better--that no further discussion took
place upon the subject at the time. He knew Ned Cavana was not a man
to commit himself to a hasty opinion upon any matter, much less upon
one of such importance as was so plainly suggested by his
observations.
Ned Cavana, too, brooded over the conversation in silence, determined
to throw out a feeler of his own to his daughter.
Ned had himself more than once contemplated the possibility as well as
the prudence of a match between Tom Murdock and his daughter. The
union, not of themselves alone, but of the two farms, would almost
make a gentleman of the person holding them. Both farms were held upon
unusually long leases, and at less than one-third of their value. If
joined, there could be no doubt but, with the careful and industrious
management of an experienced man, they would turn in a clear income of
between five and six hundred a year; quite sufficient in that part of
the world to entitle a person of even tolerably good education
to look up to the grand-jury list and a "justice of the pace."
The only question with Ned Cavana was, Did Tom Murdock possess the
attributes required for success in all or any of the above respects?
Ned, although he had taken his part with his father, feared _not_. Ay,
there was another question, Was Winny inclined for him? He feared not
also.
The other old man had not forgotten the feeler he had thrown out
either, nor the thoughtful silence with which it had been received;
for Mick Murdock could not believe that a man of Ned Cavana's
penetration had misunderstood him. Indeed, he was inclined to think
that the same matter might have originated in Ned's own mind, from
some words he had once or twice dropped about poor Winny's prospects
when he was gone, and the suspense it would be to him if she were not
settled in life before that day; "snaffled perhaps by some
good-for-nothing, extravagant fortune-hunter, with a handsome face,
when she had no one to look after her."
There was but one word in the above which Mick thought could be justly
applied to Tom; "extravagant" he undoubtedly was, but he was neither
handsome--at least not handsome enough to be called so as a matter of
course--nor was he good-for-nothing. He was a well-educated sharp
fellow, if he would only lay himself down to business. He was not a
fortune-hunter, for he did not require it; but idleness and
extravagance might make him one in the end. Yet old Mick was by no
means certain that the propriety of a match between these only and
rich children had not suggested itself to his neighbor Ned as well as
to himself. He hoped that if Tom had a "dacent hankerrin' afther" any
one, it was for Winny Cavana; but, like her father, he doubted if the
girl herself was inclined for him. He knew that she was proud and
self-willed. He was determined, however, to follow the matter up, and
throw out another feeler upon the subject to his son.