Short Fiction

through the ould chimleys iv the castle. Well, afther one great roarin’ blast iv the wind, you’d think the walls iv the castle was just goin’ to fall, quite an’ clane, with the shakin’ iv it. All av a suddint the storm stopped, as silent an’ as quite as if it was a July evenin’. Well, your honour, it wasn’t stopped blowin’ for three minnites, before he thought he hard a sort iv a noise over the chimley-piece; an’ with that my father just opened his eyes the smallest taste in life, an’ sure enough he seen the ould squire gettin’ out iv the picthur, for all the world as if he was throwin’ aff his ridin’ coat, until he stepped out clane an’ complate, out av the chimley-piece, an’ thrun himself down an the floor. Well, the slieveen ould chap⁠—an’ my father thought it was the dirtiest turn iv all⁠—before he beginned to do anything out iv the way, he stopped for a while to listen wor they both asleep; an’ as soon as he thought all was quite, he put out his hand and tuk hould iv the whisky bottle, an dhrank at laste a pint iv it. Well, your honour, when he tuk his turn out iv it, he settled it back mighty cute entirely, in the very same spot it was in before. An’ he beginned to walk up an’ down the room, lookin’ as sober an’ as solid as if he never done the likes at all. An’ whinever he went apast my father, he thought he felt a great scent of brimstone, an’ it was that that freckened him entirely; for he knew it was brimstone that was burned in hell, savin’ your presence. At any rate, he often heerd it from Father Murphy, an’ he had a right to know what belonged to it⁠—he’s dead since, God rest him. Well, your honour, my father was asy enough until the sperit kem past him; so close, God be marciful to us all, that the smell iv the sulphur tuk the breath clane out iv him; an’ with that he tuk such a fit iv coughin’, that it al-a-most shuk him out iv the chair he was sittin’ in.

“ ‘Ho, ho!’ says the squire, stoppin’ short about two steps aff, and turnin’ round facin’ my father, ‘is it you that’s in it?⁠—an’ how’s all with you, Terry Neil?’

“ ‘At your honour’s sarvice,’ says my father (as well as the fright id let him, for he was more dead than alive), ‘an’ it’s proud I am to see your honour tonight,’ says he.

“ ‘Terence,’ says the squire, ‘you’re a respectable man’ (an’ it was thrue for him), ‘an industhrious, sober man, an’ an example of inebriety to the whole parish,’ says he.

“ ‘Thank your honour,’ says my father, gettin’ courage, ‘you were always a civil spoken gintleman, God rest your honour.’

“ ‘Rest my honour?’ says the sperit (fairly gettin’ red in the face with the madness), ‘Rest my honour?’ says he. ‘Why, you ignorant spalpeen,’ says he, ‘you mane, niggarly ignoramush,’ says he, ‘where did you lave your manners?’ says he. ‘If I am dead, it’s no fault iv mine,’ says he; ‘an’ it’s not to be thrun in my teeth at every hand’s turn, by the likes iv you,’ says he, stampin’ his foot an the flure, that you’d think the boords id smash undther him.

“ ‘Oh,’ says my father, ‘I’m only a foolish, ignorant poor man,’ says he.

“ ‘You’re nothing else,’ says the squire: ‘but anyway,’ says he, ‘it’s not to be listenin’ to your gosther, nor convarsin’ with the likes iv you, that I came up⁠—down I mane,’ says he⁠—(an’ as little as the mistake was, my father tuk notice iv it). ‘Listen to me now, Terence Neil,’ says he: ‘I was always a good masther to Pathrick Neil, your grandfather,’ says he.

“ ‘ ’Tis thrue for your honour,’ says my father.

“ ‘And, moreover, I think I was always a sober, riglar gintleman,’ says the squire.

“ ‘That’s your name, sure enough,’ says my father (though it was a big lie for him, but he could not help it).

“ ‘Well,’ says the sperit, ‘although I was as sober as most men⁠—at laste as most gintlemin,’ says he; ‘an’ though I was at different pariods a most extempory Christian, and most charitable and inhuman to the poor,’ says he; ‘for all that I’m not as asy where I am now,’ says he, ‘as I had a right to expect,’ says he.

“ ‘An’ more’s the pity,’ says my father. ‘Maybe your honour id wish to have a word with Father Murphy?’

“ ‘Hould your tongue, you misherable bliggard,’ says the squire; ‘it’s not iv my sowl I’m thinkin’⁠—an’ I wondther you’d have the impitence to talk to a gintleman consarnin’ his sowl; and when I want that fixed,’ says he, slappin’ his thigh, ‘I’ll go to them that knows what belongs to the likes,’ says he. ‘It’s not my sowl,’ says he, sittin’ down opossite my father; ‘it’s not my sowl that’s annoyin’ me most⁠—I’m unasy on my right leg,’ says he, ‘that I bruk at Glenvarloch cover the day I killed black Barney.’

“My father found out afther, it was a favourite horse that fell undher him, afther leapin’ the big fence that runs along by the glin.

“ ‘I hope,’ says my father, ‘your honour’s not unasy about the killin’ iv him?’

“ ‘Hould your tongue, ye fool,’ said the squire, ‘an’ I’ll tell you why I’m unasy on my leg,’ says he. ‘In the place, where I spend most iv my time,’ says he, ‘except the little leisure I have for lookin’ about me here,’ says he, ‘I have to walk a great dale more than I was ever used to,’ says he, ‘and by far more than is good for me either,’ says he; ‘for I must tell you,’ says he, ‘the people where I am is ancommonly fond iv cowld wather, for there is nothin’ betther to be had; an’, moreover, the weather is hotter than is altogether plisant,’ says he;