Mass at eight o'clock; and
at half-past nine, the hour for the nuptial Mass, there was no standing
or sitting-room in the little chapel. Of course, the front seats were
reserved for the gentry, who, in spite of an academical dislike to
Ormsby's conversion, gathered to witness this Catholic marriage, as a
rare thing in Ireland, at least amongst their own class. But behind
them, and I should say in unpleasant proximity (for the peasantry do not
carry handkerchiefs scented with White Rose or Jockey Club,--only the
odor of the peat and the bogwood), surged a vast crowd of men and women,
on whose lips and in whose hearts was a prayer for her who was entering
on the momentous change in her sweet and tranquil life. And young
Patsies and Willies and Jameses were locked by their legs around their
brothers' necks, and trying to keep down and economize for further use
that Irish cheer or yell, that from Dargai to Mandalay is well known as
the war-whoop of the race invincible. I presume that I was an object of
curiosity myself, as I awaited in alb and stole the coming of the bridal
party. Then the curiosity passed on to Ormsby, who, accompanied by Dr.
Armstrong, stood erect and stately before the altar-rails; then, of
course, to the bride, who, accompanied by her father, and followed by a
bevy of fair children, drew down a rose-shower of benedictions from the
enthusiastic congregation. Did it rest there? Alas, no! Bridegroom and
bride, parish priest and curate, were blotted out of the interested
vision of the spectators; and, concentrated with absorbing fascination,
the hundreds of eyes rested on the snowy cap and the spotless streamers
of Mrs. Darcy. It was the great event of the day--the culmination of
civilization in Kilronan! Wagers had been won and lost over it; one or
two pitched battles had been fought with pewter weapons at Mrs. Haley's;
ballads had been written on it in the style, but not quite in the
polished lines, of "Henry of Navarre"; and now, there it was, the "white
plume" of victory, the cynosure of hundreds of wondering eyes. I dare
say the "upper ten" did not mind it; they were used to such things; but
everything else paled into insignificance to the critical and censorious
audience behind them.

"Didn't I tell you she'd do it?"

"Begor, you did. I suppose I must stand the thrate."

"Father Letheby cud do anything whin he cud do that."

"Begor, I suppose she'll be thinkin' of marryin' herself now, and Jem
ha