Harper's Weekly/How Sattin Chayted Mrs. Muldowney

by Herminie Templeton

 

HOW SATTIN CHAYTED MRS. MULDOWNEY

BY HERMINIE TEMPLETON

WHETHER 'twas the hard dhrinkin' of Pether Muldowney that first riled up the temper of Sarah Muldowney, or whether 'twas the crass tongue of Sarah Muldowney that started the hard dhrink of Pether Muldowney, the duckins the one of me knows. But this I do know—that the same matther was a daysputed pint that furnished raysons for many's the hot tongue battle betwixt the male and faymale sects of Ballinthubber.

Any time in the day, and sometimes late in the night, if one'd be passing the cottage of the Muldowneys, the hard words that they'd be hurlin' at aich other'd come flyin' out of the windies and doors like pavin'-stones. And, by the same token, if Pether was heart-sick and tired of the impidence and ballyraggin' of Sarah, sure wasn't Sarah herself kilt and perished with the worthlessness and 'owdaciousness of Pether?

Well, every day, long or short, must have an ind, as the saying is; so, one foine morning, what does Sarah do but pack up in a bundle all the duds she had in the wurruld,—and it wasn't such a killin' big bundle at that,—and, with her foot on the thrashold and a hand on the latch, it's what she said to her husband:

“To the devil I pitch you, and all the Muldowneys—and hadn't one of my daycint bringin' up the hard luck to marry into such a family of good-for-nothin' tinkers. And I'm off now far over the mountains to my sister Peggy, who had the luck and the grace to marry into the rayspectable family of the O'Callaghans.”

She shut the door quick then, the way she wouldn't be giving him the satisfaction of hearing the answer himself'd make. But she was sorry for that afther, bekase, as she wint thrudging up the road, she heard Pether back in the house roaring and screechin' with the laughter at some of his jokes, an' thin the heart was fair burning out of her to know what owdacious slandher the rapscallion had med up and said about her.

“Oh, wasn't I the bostheen of a fool to be wasting me chanst on him an' the loikes of him!—I that had ivery boy in the sivin parishes sthrealing afther me like a flock o' geese. But I'm done with him now. And I wisht I was Sayser's wife, so I do, so I could turn him into a pillow of salt. I'd sell him to Sattin for sixpence this minute, so I would.”

THE words were no sooner out of her mouth than, pop! a wondherful thing happened. Believe me or believe me not, but it's no lie I'm telling ye. The road in front of her sphlit in two halfs acrass, and the ground opened before her, and up through the crack sprung a tall, dark, slim, illigant-lookin' juntleman, an' the bow that he med there in the middle of the road was aquil to the curtchey of a Dublin dancin'-masther.

“The top of the day to ye, Mrs. Muldowney, ma'am,” says he, “an' I didn't hear quite plain the price you was settin' on your husband Pether. I'll pay you any raysonable sum for him, an' it'll be cash on the nail, ma'am. So spake up!”

While you'd be givin' two winks of your eye, Mrs. Muldowney was flusthrated. But it's she was the woman that was quick at a bargain and handy at turning a penny. And now was her chanst.

“I was just sayin' that I'd sell him to Sattin for one pound tin this minute. An', be the same token, who are you, sir, that comes poppin' up out of the lonesome road like a jack-in-the-box, frightenin' daycint women out of their sivin wits? I said two pounds tin—that's what I said.”

“It's little matther what me name is, Sarah Muldowney,” spoke up the dark juntleman. “You'll be inthrojuiced te me proper enough afther a while. For the present, it's satisfied yez'll have to be to know that I'll buy Pether from ye, an' I'll pay ye the two pounds tin in goold suverings the succond ye hand him into me power, Are ye satisfied?”

Now, the good woman, seeing how aisy Sattin was with his money, felt the heart inside of her scorching up with vexation to think she'd named so small a sum, so it's what she said:

“Troth, thin, I'm not satisfied. You have no idee how lonesome I'd be without Pether; an' what I'll do at all at all without him the sorra one of me knows. An' will ye hurry up now with your answer, for if any one ef the neighbors were to see the both of us collogueing out here together I wouldn't give a button for me repitation. So, if ye're willin' to give the three pounds tin——”

“What!” shrieked the dark man, an' he guv a lep up intil the air. “Three pound tin, ye schaymer of the worruld! Ye said one pound tin at first.”

“Tin fiddlesthicks! Three pound tin, and not a fardin' less. An' how dare the loikes of you be callin' a daycint woman loike me a schaymer,” she shouted, purtindin' to be furious, and clappin' one hand in the other undher the nose of the stranger, an' she follying him as he backed step by step from her in the road. “Kape a civil tongue in your head while you're talking to a lady, whoever ye are, or I'll malevogue ye, so I will.”

“Hould where ye are, Mrs. Muldowney,” said the poor man, an' he backed up ag'in' a rock. “I'll own I was a thrifle quick-tempered, but I meant no offense, ma'am. And if you'll bring Pether to this spot on the morning of the morrow, and hand him over to me here, I'll guv ye the three pounds tin, down on the nail.”

At that, Sarah waited for no more, but off she skelped, and, without stopping to ketch her breath, hurried by every short path till she came in sight of her own door. Then the clever woman slackened her pace the way she could be thinking and planning out some nate, cunning scheme to deludher her husband into going with her on the morrow.

JUST as Sarah left Pether in the mornin' that's the way she found him whin she opened the door—with his two feet upon the fender and his hands deep in his breeches pockets.

“Pether avourneen,” she says,—and you'd think butther wouldn't melt in her mouth, her worruds were that swate,—“Pether,” says she, “it's a foine job of worruk I have for ye up the mountainy way.”

Pether straightened his back at that, an' took his hands out of his pockets. “Tut, tut! What's that you're sayin'?”

“I wag sayin',” herself answered careless, readying the pot for the petaties, “that little Michael Callahan will be moving his private still from Chartre's wood to a fine snug cave up in the mountain, and he wanted the two of us to help him move the jugs of poteen. But, of course, you wouldn't want to be doing the loikes of that.”

Pether was on his two feet in an instant, ivery hair on his head brustlin'.

“Death alive, woman!” he cried. “You'll be the ind of me one of these days. Sthop that hugger-muggering in the corner, an' come on with me now, or he'll have some one else in our places.”

It took all the wit and injanuity of Sarah Muldowney to kape her husband Pether in the house till the mornin' of the morrow. And thin, at the first shriek of day, they were off together, he flying up the road with all the strength in his two legs, an' she pelting breathless afther him. The two of them nayther sthopped nor stayed till they came within sight of the Poul a Phouca. An' there, be the powers, standin' in the middle of the road straight as a ramrod, with his arrums fowlded acrost his chist, stood the polite dark juntleman.

When our two hayroes came up to him, Sarah took Pether be the arrum the way she would be houlding him back, an' it's what she said to him:

“Yes, Pether asthore, the kind juntleman offered me three pounds tin for ye, an' I tuk it. An' he wouldn't give a penny more for ye, and I wouldn't take a fardin' less.”

“An' now, Misther Muldowney,” says the juntleman, “since you're paid and settled for fair and honest, will ye plaze put on that shuit of clothes that's lyin' there on the ground beside ye, an' we'll be off together.”

Looking to where Sattin pointed, Pether an' Sarah spied a shuit of clothes made of iron, an' it sizzling red-hot in the grass, with the flamin' sparks coming out of the arrum-holes of the weskit.

Oh, thin wasn't Muldowney indignant! “So this is the foine, dhry, warrum job yez have fer me, is it?” he says, nodding sarcastic towards the shuit. “Well, before I put on thim clothes, will some wan plaze expatiate to me where in the bounds of mathrimony it says that the faymale partner has a mortial right to sell her husband's four bones to Beelzebub?”

“An', if it comes to that,” blustered Sattin, “if any one was goin' to sell ye, will ye tell us who had a betther right to do it than yer own wife? Didn't Joseph's brothers put sivin coats of paint on him an' sell him for a mess of porridge to the Agyptians? Answer me that!” Sattin cried, triumphant.

An' he swelled out his chist an' took a deep, proud breath.

“Oh, hasn't he the l'arnin'!” cried Sarah. “Why don't ye spake up, Pether Muldowney? Have ye the face to say that Lanty and Cornalius, thim two bagabones of brothers of yours, have more right to sell ye than I have?”

“How d'ye know they were goin' to sell me?” shouted poor Pether. “An' I don't know anything about Joseph an' his sivin coats of colors and his mess of porridge. Maybe porridge was scarcer than money in thim days. But I do know that the price of three pounds tin on me head is belittlin' an' insulting to a Muldowney. Ye shouldn't have taken a penny less nor six pounds for me, so ye shouldn't!” he says, vexed to the bone and turnin' hot on Sarah. “You an' your little three pounds tin! Sure, didn't Teddy Nolan only yisterday get foive pound eight for the fractious red cow that used to be jumpin' the hedges an' ateing the cabbages? To think that a Muldowney wouldn't bring as much as an ould cow!” he said, half cryin' with vexation.

WHILE Pether was saying thim things, a new idea came to Sarah, an' it's what she said:

“There's rayson in what he says, Sattin. Pether may not be worth six pounds tin, but you might well have guv it.”

“He that has all the riches of the say at his disposhial,” chimed in Pether, raysentful.

“Thrue for ye, Pether,” spoke up Sarah, bridlin'. “I'm beginning to think that the schaymer has chayted us.”

“I'll not stir a foot with him,” says Pether, dayfiant claspin' his two hands behind his back.

“Small blame to ye if ye don't,” says she, “afther the way he's thrated us.”

“Why,” says Sattin, “you owdacious ring-leader of a woman!” An' the eyes of him were boolging with as-tonishment. “Ye offered to sell him to me for sixpence. I heerd ye well, though I purtinded not to.”

“I didn't!” shouted Mrs. Muldowney, her two fists on her hips.

“Ye did, ye runnygade!” roared Sattin—an' the breath came puffing out of him in blue smoke.

“Oh, will ye listen to what he's afther callin' me! Oh, thin, Pether Muldowney,” she says, turning bitther on her husband, “aren't ye the foine figure of a man to be standin' there in the middle of the road like a block of wood, listening to this sheep-stalin', undherhanded, thin-shanked antherntarian thrajuicing yer own wedded wife, and you not lifting a finger till him. If ye were worth two knots of sthraw ye'd break ivery bone in his body!” says she, beginning to whumper.

Now, whatever else might be said about Pether Muldowney, no one ever yet ac-cused the lad of being the laste thrifle mane-spurrited or backward in a fight; so, at the taunting of his wife, every dhrop of blood in the lad's body flared up intil his face, and what does he do but rowl up the wrist-bands of his jacket an' go squaring off at Sattin in the middle of the road.

“BEFORE we begin,” says Beelzebub,—an' there was an anxious shadow came intil his eyes, for the Muldewneys as far back as any one can remember were raynowned gladiathors,—“before we attack aich other,” says he, quick side-steppin' an' backing away from Pether, “do ye bear in mind that she thried to sell ye to me for sixpince!”

“Oh, murdher asthore, will ye listen to that! I didn't, Pether! An' what's his repitation for voracity ag'in' my repitation?”

At the mention of his repitation Sattin winched. “Will ye guv me back me three pounds tin, ye robber of the worruld?” says he, thrimbling with the anger.

“Tut, tut,” cried Sarah. “We hear ducks talkin'! Didn't I kape my part of the bargain?” she says. “Isn't Pether there in the road ferninst ye? Why don't ye take him?”

Beelzebub had no time for rayply bekase Pether, with his two big fists flying round and round aich other, was dancing forward and back and circling round and round Sattin from the right to the left and from the left back to the right ag'in, an' all the time makin' false lunges at the middle of the black lad's chist.

“Hould still, Pether Muldowney,” cried the black thricksther, all out of breath. “Do you see who's coming down the road behind ye?”

At that, Pether and Sarah turned to look. Sure, sorra wan was there—but, as they did, crack! they heard the ground open, an' before they could twist their heads round again Sattin was gone.

The two hayroes stood a minute gaping at the spot where the innemy of mankind had disappeared. Sarah was the first to speak, an' it's what she said, taking hould of Pether by the arrum:

“Come on home avic! Did ye see how the conniving villain thried to chate us. Oh but yer the brave lad!”

With that, the two of thim, arrum in arrum as loving as a couple of turtle doves, wint down the road tegether, an' they never sthopped till they came to the big flat stone by O'Hanrahan's spring; then a sudden fear took the breath out of Sarah.

“I niver counted the shillings whin the ould targer handed thim to me,” she says, “and how do I know whether he counted thim right. It'd be just loike one of his shameless thricks not to.”

“We'll sit right down here on the rock an' we'll reckon thim together before we go a step furder,” says Pether, anxious.

And so they did. And Sarah made a wide lap to hould the money, but with her hand over her pocket she hesitated a moment, for her mind misgave her that something was wrong. An' sure enough the poor crathures got a bad turn, for when Sarah pulled out a handful of the money, it wasn't money at all at all that was in it, but only a fist full of bits of broken glass. An' whin the poor woman had her pocket emptied the sorra thing she had but a lap full of broken bottles.

WHILE the pair of thim, blazin' with anger, sat staring at aich other with red faces like a couple of thrumpeters, they heard down the road a wild screech of a laugh.

“D'ye hear him there?” whuspered Sarah. “Oh, the desayver of the worruld! D'ye think, if you were to slip back, ye might ketch him, Pether?”

Pether shook his head, and a troubled frown wrinkled his forehead.

“I misdoubt it.” says he; “an' besides, I was just thinkin' what'll become of us at all at all whin he ketches the both of us on the day of judgment. I hate to be thinking of it,” he says.

“Oh, no; have no fear, Pether avic,” says Sarah, sootherin'. “I've hit on a jewel of a schame that'll break the black heart of him, an' it's this: Do you, Pether asthore, l'ave off the dhrink; an' as for meself, you'll niver hear another crass worrud out of me two lips till the day I'm buried. An' now, Mr. Sattin, what d'ye think of that?” she says, shakin' her fist down the road.

Pether gave his knee a thraymendous slap. “Oh, aren't ye the Phaynix of a woman!” says he. Wid that, he l'aned over and guv her a kiss on the lips that might have been heard three fields away.

“That's the furst in fufteen years,” says he, “but it'll not be the last, by any manner of manes. Bekase I think the divil niver comes betwixt a man an' his wife till they l'ave off kissing aich other.”

“Arrah, go on, ve rogue!” says Sarah, smilin' an' givin' him a poke wid her elbow. “Come along home now, an' I'll put on the kettle, an' we'll begin all over ag'in from this day out.”

An' so they did. And, as I've often heerd tell, a daycinter, lovinger fambly wasn't to be found in the three counties.