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Updated: June 19, 2025
''Twas in the Cath'lic Chapel I saw her first, me oi rolling round as usual to see fwhat was to be seen. "You're too good for Bragin, my love," thinks I to mesilf, "but that's a mistake I can put straight, or my name is not Terence Mulvaney." 'Now take my wurrd for ut, you Orth'ris there an' Learoyd, an' kape out av the Married Quarters as I did not.
"Nor she ain't what I bet she would be," said Bainton, heedless as to whether his companion heard him or not; "I've lost 'arf a crown to my old 'ooman, for I sez, sez I, 'She's bound to be a 'igh an' mighty stuck-up sort o' miss wot won't never 'ave a wurrd for the likes of we, an' my old 'ooman she sez to me: 'Go 'long with ye for a great silly gawk as ye are; I'll bet ye 'arf a crown she won't be! So I sez 'Done, an' done it is.
"Go home," sez I, to the sais; "you'll find a man close here. Very sick he is. Take him away, an' av you iver say wan wurrd about fwhat you've dekkoed, I'll marrow you till your own wife won't sumjao who you are!" Thin I heard the stampin' av feet at the ind av the play, an' I ran in to let down the curtain.
"That's as you look at ut," said Mulvaney, calmly; "Annie Bragin niver cared for me. For all that, I did not want to leave anything behin' me that Bragin could take hould av to be angry wid her about whin an honust wurrd cud ha' cleared all up.
Scrub Greene wint away widout a word, but Peg Barney, stiff wid the cowld, stud like a sheep, thryin' to make his orf'cer understhand he was sorry for playin' the goat. 'There was no tucker in the draf' whin ut fell in for the march, an' divil a wurrd about "illegality" cud I hear. 'I wint to the ould Colour Sargint and I sez: "Let me die in glory," sez I. "I've seen a man this day!"
"An' whativer they may say o' me ways down-stairs, it's the timper of a babby I have, an' would niver throw a harrd wurrd at a dog, let alone a human. Whin they think me cross, it's only that I'm a bit quoiet, an' who can wonder? thinkin' o' me pore brother as was drownded las' summer, an' him niver out o' me moind!"
Our church would be jes' spoilt with a lot o' trails o' weed round it but you mark my wurrd! Miss Vancourt will be dekratin' the Saint in the coffin at 'Arvest 'Ome wi' corn and pertaters an' vegetable marrers, all a-growin' and a-blowin' afore we knows it. There ain't no sense o' fitness in the feminine natur!" Mrs. Bainton laughed good-naturedly.
"I want knowledge now. I know what you mean by bein' at a disadvantage. I used to despise learnin'. I've laughed at it. I never will again. Why I can't even talk yer language. Every wurrd I use is wrong. I never knew of such people. I didn't dhream what a wondherful power in the wurrld was the power of love. I used to think it somethin' to kape to yerself and never spake of out in the open.
Which consists in barin' the land as if it was a judge's chin, to be clean-shaved every marnin'. My wurrd! Won't Passon Walden be just wild! M'appen he's heard of it already, for he seems main worrited about somethin' or other.
"Niver a wurrd of thim vulgar tongues do I know," said he. "Then how do you and the bishop get along?" "Shure," said Father Mullane, in the rich brogue which is, I imagine, something of an affectation, "an' what is the use of bein' educated for the church if we were not able to converse with ease an' fluency in iligant an' refined Latin?"
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