What is it he has been saying?”
“Will, thin; I heerd him tellin’ wan av his croneys that besoides the mate an the dhrink, an the washin’, an lodgin’, he intinded to make you pay for the bottles, and glasses, an other things, that was broke on the night av the shindy.”
“Me pay?”
“Yis, yerself, Masther Maurice; an not a pinny charged to the Yankee.
Now I call that downright rascally mane; an nobody but a dhirty Dutchman wud iver hiv thought av it.
Av there be anythin’ to pay, the man that’s bate should be made to showldor the damage, an that wasn’t a discindant av the owld Geralds av Ballyballagh.
Hoo—hooch! wudn’t I loike to shake a shaylaylah about Duffer’s head for the matther of two minutes?
Wudn’t I?”
“What reason did he give for saying that I should pay? Did you hear him state any?”
“I did, masther—the dhirtiest av all raisuns. He sid that you were the bird in the hand; an he wud kape ye till yez sittled the score.” “He’ll find himself slightly mistaken about that; and would perhaps do better by presenting his bill to the bird in the bush.
I shall be willing to pay for half the damage done; but no more.
You may tell him so, if he speak to you about it.
And, in troth, Phelim, I don’t know how I am to do even that.
There must have been a good many breakages.
I remember a great deal of jingling while we were at it.
If I don’t mistake there was a smashed mirror, or clock dial, or something of the kind.”
“A big lookin’-glass, masther; an a crystal somethin’, that was set over the clock.
They say two hunderd dollars.
I don’t belave they were worth wan half av the money.”
“Even so, it is a serious matter to me—just at this crisis.
I fear, Phelim, you will have to make a journey to the Alamo, and fetch away some of the household gods we have hidden there.
To get clear of this scrape I shall have to sacrifice my spurs, my silver cup, and perhaps my gun!”
“Don’t say that, masther!
How are we to live, if the gun goes?”
“As we best can, ma bohil.
On horseflesh, I suppose: and the lazo will supply that.”
“Be Japers! it wudn’t be much worse than the mate Owld Duffer sits afore us.
It gives me the bellyache ivery time I ate it.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the opening of the chamber door; which was done without knocking. A slatternly servant—whose sex it would have been difficult to determine from outward indices—appeared in the doorway, with a basket of palm sinnet held extended at the termination of a long sinewy arm.
“Fwhat is it, Gertrude?” asked Phelim, who, from some previous information, appeared to be acquainted with the feminine character of the intruder. “A shentlemans prot this.”
“A gentleman! Who, Gertrude?”
“Not know, mein herr; he wash a stranger shentlemans.”
“Brought by a gentleman.
Who can he be?
See what it in, Phelim.”
Phelim undid the fastenings of the lid, and exposed the interior of the basket. It was one of considerable bulk: since inside were discovered several bottles, apparently containing wines and cordials, packed among a paraphernalia of sweetmeats, and other delicacies—both of the confectionery and the kitchen.
There was no note accompanying the present—not even a direction—but the trim and elegant style in which it was done up, proved that it had proceeded from the hands of a lady.
Maurice turned over the various articles, examining each, as Phelim supposed, to take note of its value. Little was he thinking of this, while searching for the “invoice.” There proved to be none—not a scrap of paper—not so much as a card! The generosity of the supply—well-timed as it was—bespoke the donor to be some person in affluent circumstances.
Who could it be?
As Maurice reflected, a fair image came uppermost in his mind; which he could not help connecting with that of his unknown benefactor.
Could it be Louise Poindexter?
In spite of certain improbabilities, he was fain to believe it might; and, so long as the belief lasted, his heart was quivering with a sweet beatitude.
As he continued to reflect, the improbabilities appeared too strong for this pleasant supposition; his faith became overturned; and there remained only a vague unsubstantial hope.
“A gintleman lift it,” spoke the Connemara man, in semi-soliloquy. “A gintleman, she sez; a kind gintleman, I say!
Who div yez think he was, masther?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea; unless it may have been some of the officers of the Port; though I could hardly expect one of them to think of me in this fashion.”
“Nayther yez need. It wasn’t wan av them.
No officer, or gintleman ayther, phut them things in the basket.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Pwhy div I think it!