Whether Mrs. Doran's
tears were a proof that she was disposed to take the matter seriously,
or whether they were tears of shame and vexation for having been caught
in the character of a romping old hoyden, he could not then exactly
decide. He had, however, awful misgivings upon the subject.
"Then," said the priest, "it is to be understood that I'm to call you
both on Sunday."
"There's no use in keepin' it back from you," replied Mrs. Doran. "I
know it's foolish of me; but we have all our failins, and to be fond
of Phelim there, is mine. Your Reverence is to call us next Sunday, as
Phelim tould you. I am sure I can't tell you how he deluded me at all,
the desaver o' the world!"
Phelim's face during this acknowledgment was, like Goldsmith's Haunch
of Venison, "a subject for painters to study." His eyes projected like a
hare's until nothing could be seen but the balls. Even the drooping lid
raised itself up, as if it were never to droop again.
"Well," said the priest, "I shall certainly not use a single argument to
prevent you. Your choice, I must say, does you credit, particularly when
it is remembered that you have come at least to years of discretion.
Indeed, many persons might affirm that you have gone beyond them; but I
say nothing. In the meantime your wishes must be complied with. I will
certainly call Phelim O'Toole and Bridget Doran on Sunday next; and one
thing I know, that we shall have a very merry congregation.
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