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“There was a pretty dido goin’ on atween the dree, an’ all talkin’ together–the two men mobbin’ each other, an’ the girl i’ the middle callin’ em every name but what they was chris’ened, wi’out distinction o’ persons, as the word goes.

“‘What’s the uproar?’ asks Ould Wounds, stoppin’ the tap-tap o’ his crop, as they comes up.

“‘The woman b’longs to me,’ says the first. ‘I’ve engaged to make her my lawful wife; an’ I won’t go from my word under two gallon o’ fourpenny.’

“‘You agreed to hand her over for one gallon, first along,’ says t’other,’ an’ a bargain’s a bargain.’

“Says the woman, ‘You’re a pair o’ hair-splitting shammicks, the pair of ‘ee. An’ how much beer be I to have for my weddin’ portion?’ (says she)–‘for that’s all I care about, one way or t’other.’

“Now Ould Wounds looked at the woman; an’ ’tis to be thought he found her eyeable, for he axed up sharp–

“‘Would ‘ee kick over these two, an’ marry me, for a bottle o’ gin?’

“‘That would I.’

“‘An’ to be called My Lady–Countess o’ Bellarmine?’

“‘Better an’ better.’

“‘I shall whack ‘ee.’

“‘I don’t care.’

“‘I shall kick an’ cuff an’ flog ‘ee like a span’el dog,’ says he: ‘by my body! I shall make ‘ee repent.’

“‘Give ‘ee leave to try,’ says she.

“An’ that’s how th’ Earl o’ Bellarmine courted his wife. He took her into the bar an’ treated her to a bottle o’ gin on the spot. At nine o’clock that evenin’ she tuk hold of his stirrup-leather an’ walked beside ‘en, afoot, up to Castle Cannick. Next day, their banns were axed in church, an’ in dree weeks she was My Ladyship.

“‘Twas a battle-royal that began then. Ould Wounds dressed the woman up to the nines, an’ forced all the bettermost folk i’ the county to pay their calls an’ treat her like one o’ the blood; and then, when the proud guests stepped into their chariots an’ druv away, he’d fall to, an’ lick her across the shoulders wi’ his ridin’-whip, to break her sperrit. ‘Twas the happiest while o’ th’ ould curmudgeon’s life, I do b’lieve; for he’d found summat he cudn’ tame in a hurry. There was a noble pond afore the house, i’ those days, wi’ urns an’ heathen gods around the brim, an’ twice he dragged her through it in her night-gown, I’ve heerd, an’ always dined wi’ a pistol laid by his plate, alongside the knives an’ prongs, to scare her. But not she!

“An’ next he tried to burn her in her bed: an’ that wasn’ no good.

“An’ last of all he fell i’ love wi’ her: an’ that broke her.”

“One day–the tale goes–she made up her mind an’ ordered a shay an’ pair from the Pack-Horse. The postillion was to be waitin’ by the gate o’ the deer-park–the only gate that hadn’t a lodge to it–at ten o’clock that night. ‘Twas past nine afore dinner was done, an’ she got up from her end o’ the table an’ walked across to kiss th’ ould fellow. He, ‘pon his side, smiled on her, pleased as Punch; for ’twas little inore’n a fortni’t since he’d discovered she was the yapple of his eye. She said ‘Good night’ an’ went up-stairs to pack a few things in a bag, he openin’ the door and shuttin’ it upon her. Then he outs wi’ his watch, waits a couple o’ minutes, an’ slips out o’ the house.

“At five minutes to ten comes my ladyship, glidin’ over the short turf o’ the deer-park, an’ glancin’ over her shoulder at the light in his lordship’s libery window. ‘Twas burnin’ in true watch-an’-fear-nothin’ style, an’ there, by the gate, was the shay and horses, and postillion, wrapped up and flapping his arms for warmth, who touched his cap and put down the steps for her.