"What the divil is all this about?" said Tom Durfy, laughing. "By the powers! I suppose there's something in the weather to produce all this fun--though it's early in the year to begin thrashing, for the harvest isn't in yet. But, however, let us manage our little affair, now that we're left in peace and quietness, for the blackguards are all over the bridge after the hunt. I'll go to d.i.c.k the Divil immediately, squire, and arrange time and place."

"There's nothing like saving time and trouble on these occasions," said the squire. "d.i.c.k is at my house, I can arrange time and place with you this minute, and he will be on the ground with me."

"Very well," said Tom; "where is it to be?"

"Suppose we say the cross-roads, halfway between this and Merryvale?

There's very pretty ground there, and we shall be able to get our pistols and all that ready in the meantime between this and four o'clock--and it will be pleasanter to have it all over before dinner."

"Certainly, squire," said Tom Durfy; "we'll be there at four. Till then, good morning, squire;" and he and his man walked off.

The widow, in the meantime, had been left to the care of theapothecary's boy, whose tender mercies were now, for the first time in his life, demanded towards a fainting lady; for the poor raw country lad, having to do with a st.u.r.dy peasantry in every-day matters, had never before seen the capers cut by a lady who thinks it proper, and delicate, and becoming, to display her sensibility in a swoon; and truly her sobs, and small screeches, and little stampings and kickings, amazed young gallipot. Smelling salts were applied;--they were rather weak, so the widow inhaled the pleasing odour with a sigh, but did not recover. Sal volatile was next put into requisition;--this was something stronger, and made her wriggle on her chair, and throw her head about with sundry "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" The boy, beginning to be alarmed at the extent of the widow's syncope, bethought himself of a.s.safoetida; and, taking down a goodly bottle of that sweet-smelling stimulant, gave the widow the benefit of the whole jar under her nose. Scarcely had the stopper been withdrawn, when she gave a louder screech than she had yet executed, and exclaiming "Faugh!" with an expression of the most concentrated disgust, opened her eyes fiercely upon the offender, and shut up her nose between her forefinger and thumb against the offence, and snuffled forth at the astonished boy, "Get out o' that, you dirty cur! Can't you let a lady faint in peace and quietness? Gracious Heavens! would you smother me, you nasty brute? Oh, Tom, where are you?" and she took to sobbing forth "Tom! Tom!" and put her handkerchief to her eyes, to hide the tears that were _not_ there, while from behind the corner of the cambric she kept a sharp eye on the street, and observed what was going on. She went on acting her part very becomingly, until the moment Tom Durfy walked off with Murphy; but then she could feign no longer, and jumping up from her seat, with an exclamation of "The brute!" she ran to the door, and looked down the street after them. "The savage!"

sobbed the widow; "the hardhearted monster! to abandon me here to die--oh! to use me so--to leave me like a--like a"--(the widow was fond of similes)--"like an old shoe--like a dirty glove--like a--like I don't know what!" (the usual fate of similes). "Mister Durfy, I'll punish you for this--I will!" said the widow, with an energetic emphasis on the last word; and she marched out of the shop, boiling over with indignation, through which nevertheless, a little bubble of love now and then rose to the surface; and by the time she reached her own door, love predominated, and she sighed as she laid her hand on the knocker: "After all, if the dear fellow should be killed, what would become of me!--oh!--and that wretch, d.i.c.k Dawson, too--_two_ of them.

The worst of these merry devils is they are always fighting."

The squire had ridden immediately homewards, and told d.i.c.k Dawson the piece of work that was before them.

"And so he will have a shot at you, instead of an action?" said d.i.c.k.

"Well there's pluck in that: I wish he was more of a gentleman, for your sake. It's dirty work, shooting attorneys."

"He's enough of a gentleman, d.i.c.k, to make it impossible for me to refuse him."

"Certainly, Ned," said d.i.c.k.

"Do you know, is he anything of a shot?"

"Faith, he makes very pretty snipe shooting; but I don't know if he has experience of the gra.s.s before breakfast."

"You must try and find out from some one on the ground; because, if the poor divil isn't a good shot, I wouldn't like to kill him, and I'll let him off easy--I'll give it to him in the pistol-arm, or so."

"Very well, Ned. Where are the flutes? I must look over them."

"Here," said the squire, producing a very handsome mahogany case of Rigby's best. d.i.c.k opened the case with the utmost care, and took up one of the pistols tenderly, handling it as delicately as if it were a young child or a lady's hand. He clicked the lock back and forward a few times; and, his ear not being satisfied at the music it produced, he said he should like to examine them: "At all events they want a touch of oil."

"Well, keep them out of the misthriss' sight, d.i.c.k, for she might be alarmed."

"Divil a taste," says d.i.c.k; "she's a Dawson, and there never was a Dawson yet that did not know men must be men."

"That's true, d.i.c.k. I would not mind so much if she wasn't in a delicate situation just now, when it couldn't be expected of the woman to be so stout; so go, like a good fellow, into your own room, and Andy will bring you anything you want."

Five minutes after, d.i.c.k was engaged in cleaning the duelling pistols, and Andy at his elbow, with his mouth wide open, wondering at the interior of the locks which d.i.c.k had just taken off.

"Oh, my heavens! but that's a quare thing, Misther d.i.c.k, sir," said Andy, going to take it up.

"Keep your fingers off it, you thief, do!" roared d.i.c.k, making a rap of the turnscrew at Andy's knuckles.

"Shure, I'll save you the trouble o' rubbin' that, Misther d.i.c.k, if you let me; here's the shabby leather."

"I wouldn't let your clumsy fist near it, Andy, nor your _shabby_ leather, you villain, for the world. Go get me some oil."

Andy went on his errand, and returned with a can of lamp-oil to d.i.c.k, who swore at him for his stupidity; "The divil fly away with you!--you never do anything right; you bring me lamp-oil for a pistol."

"Well, sure I thought lamp-oil was the right thing for burnin'."

"And who wants to burn it, you savage?"

"Aren't you going to fire it, sir?"

"Choke you, you vagabond," said d.i.c.k, who could not resist laughing, nevertheless; "be off, and get me some sweet oil; but don't tell any one what it's for."

Andy retired, and d.i.c.k pursued his polishing of the locks. Why he used such a blundering fellow as Andy for a messenger might be wondered at, only that d.i.c.k was fond of fun, and Andy's mistakes were a particular source of amus.e.m.e.nt to him, and on all occasions when he could have Andy in his company he made him his attendant. When the sweet oil was produced, d.i.c.k looked about for a feather; but, not finding one, desired Andy to fetch him a pen. Andy went on his errand, and returned, after some delay, with an ink bottle.

"I brought you the ink, sir; but I can't find a pin."

"Confound your numskull! I didn't say a word about ink--I asked for a pen."

"And what use would a pin be without ink, now I ax yourself, Misther d.i.c.k?"

"I'd knock your brains out if you had any, you _omadhaun_! Go along, and get me a feather, and make haste."

Andy went off, and having obtained a feather, returned to d.i.c.k, who began to tip certain portions of the lock very delicately with oil.

"What's that for, Misther d.i.c.k, sir, if you plaze?"

"To make it work smooth."

"And what's that thing you're grazin' now, sir?"

"That's the tumbler."

"O Lord! a tumbler--what a quare name for it. I thought there was no tumbler but a tumbler for punch."

"That's the tumbler you would like to be cleaning the inside of, Andy."

"Thrue for you, sir. And what's that little thing you have your hand on now, sir?"

"That's the c.o.c.k."

"Oh, dear, a c.o.c.k! Is there e'er a hin in it, sir?"

"No, nor a chicken either, though there _is_ a feather."

"The one in your hand, sir, that you're grazin' it with?"

"No: but this little thing--that is called the feather-spring."

"It's the feather, I suppose, makes it let fly."

"No doubt of it, Andy."