“Peety,” said he, resuming his gravity, “you carried a letter from Hycy Burke to Kathleen Cavanagh to-day?”
“Who says that?” replied Peety, who could not but remember the solemnity of his promise to that accomplished gentleman.
“I do, Peety.”
“Well, I can't help you, Bryan, nor prevent you from thinking so, sure—stick to that.”
“Why, I know you did, Peety.”
“Well, acushla, an' if you do, your only so much the wiser.”
“Oh, I understand,” continued Bryan, “it's a private affair, or intended to be so—an' Mr. Hycy has made you promise not to spake of it.”
“Sure you know all about it, Bryan; an' isn't that enough for you? Only what answer am I to give him?”
“None at present, Peety; but say I'll see himself in a day or two.”
“That's your answer, then?”
“That's all the answer I can give till I see himself, as I said.”
“Well, good-bye, Bryan, an' God be wid you!”
“Good-bye, Peety!” and thus they parted.
CHAPTER III.—Jemmy Burke Refuses to be, Made a Fool Of
—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