John Dwyer's house was a scene of activity that day, for not only was
the priest to breakfast there--always an affair of honour--but a grand
dinner was also preparing on a large scale; for a wedding-feast was to
be held in the house, in honour of Matty Dwyer's nuptials, which were to
be celebrated that day with a neighbouring young farmer, rather well to
do in the world. The match had been on and off for some time, for John
Dwyer was what is commonly called a “close-fisted fellow,” and his
would-be son-in-law could not bring him to what he considered proper
terms, and though Matty liked young Casey, and he was fond of her, they
both agreed not to let old Jack Dwyer have the best of the bargain in
portioning off his daughter, who, having a spice of her father in her,
was just as fond of _number one_ as old Jack himself. And here it is
worthy of remark, that, though the Irish are so prone in general to
early and improvident marriages, no people are closer in their nuptial
barter, when they are in a condition to make marriage a profitable
contract. Repeated meetings between the elders of families take place,
and acute arguments ensue, properly to equalise the worldly goods to
be given on both sides. Pots and pans are balanced against pails and
churns, cows against horses, a slip of bog against a gravel-pit, or a
patch of meadow against a bit of a quarry; a little lime-kiln sometimes
burns stronger than the flame of Cupid--the doves of Venus herself are
but crows in comparison with a good flock of geese--and a love-sick
sigh less touching than the healthy grunt of a good pig; indeed, the
last-named gentleman is a most useful agent in this traffic, for when
matters are nearly poised, the balance is often adjusted by a grunter
or two thrown into either scale. While matters are thus in a state of
debate, quarrels sometimes occur between the lovers the gentleman's
caution sometimes takes alarm, and more frequently the lady's pride
is aroused at the too obvious preference given to worldly gain over
heavenly beauty; Cupid shies at Mammon, and Hymen is upset and left in
the mire.
I remember hearing of an instance of this nature, when the lady gave her
_ci-devant_ lover an ingenious reproof, after they had been separated
some time, when a marriage-bargain was broken off, because the lover
could not obtain from the girl's father a certain brown filly as part of
her dowry. The damsel, after the lapse of some weeks, met her swain at a
neighbouring fair, and the flame of love still smouldering in his heart
was re-illumined by the sight of his charmer, who, on the contrary,
had become quite disgusted with _him_ for his too obvious preference of
profit to true affection. He addressed her softly in a tent, and asked
her to dance, but was most astonished at her returning him a look of
vacant wonder, which tacitly implied, _“Who are you?”_ as plain as looks
could speak.
“Arrah, Mary,” exclaimed the youth.
“Sir!!!”--answered Mary, with what heroines call “ineffable disdain.”
“Why one would think you didn't know me!”
“If I ever had the honour of your acquaintance, sir,” answered Mary, “I
forget you entirely.”
“Forget me, Mary?--arrah be aisy--is it forget the man that was courtin'
and in love with you?”
“You're under a mistake, young man,” said Mary, with a curl of her rosy
lip, which displayed the pearly teeth to whose beauty her woman's nature
rejoiced that the recreant lover was not yet insensible--“You're under
a mistake, young man,” and her heightened colour made her eye flash more
brightly as she spoke--“you're quite under a mistake--no one was ever in
love with _me_;” and she laid signal emphasis on the word. “There was
a dirty mane blackguard, indeed, once _in love with my father's brown
filly,_ but I forget him intirely.”
Mary tossed her head proudly as she spoke, and her filly-fancying
admirer, reeling under the reproof she inflicted, sneaked from the tent,
while Mary stood up and danced with a more open-hearted lover, whose
earnest eye could see more charms in one lovely woman than all the
horses of Arabia.
But no such result as this was likely to take place in Matty Dwyer's
case; she and her lover agreed with one another on the settlement to
be made, and old Jack was not to be allowed an inch over what was
considered an even bargain. At length all matters were agreed upon, the
wedding-day fixed, and the guests invited; yet still both parties were
not satisfied, but young Casey thought he should be put into absolute
possession of a certain little farm and cottage, and have the lease
looked over to see all was right (for Jack Dwyer was considered rather
slippery), while old Jack thought it time enough to give him possession
and the lease and his daughter altogether.
However, matters had gone so far that, as the reader has seen, the
wedding-feast was prepared, the guests invited, and Father Phil on the
spot to help James and Matty (in the facetious parlance of Paddy) to
“tie with their tongues what they could not undo with their teeth.”
When the priest had done breakfast, the arrival of Andy was announced to
him, and Andy was admitted to a private audience with Father Phil, the
particulars of which must not be disclosed; for in short, Andy made a
regular confession before the Father, and, we know, confessions must
be held sacred; but we may say that Andy confided the whole post-office
affair to the pastor--told him how Larry Hogan had contrived to worm
that affair out of him, and by his devilish artifice had, as Andy
feared, contrived to implicate Squire Egan in the transaction, and,
by threatening a disclosure, got the worthy Squire into his villanous
power. Andy, under the solemn queries of the priest, positively denied
having said one word to Hogan to criminate the Squire, and that Hogan
could only infer the Squire's guilt; upon which Father Phil, having
perfectly satisfied himself, told Andy to make his mind easy, for that
he would secure the Squire from any harm, and he moreover praised Andy
for the fidelity he displayed to the interests of his old master, and
declared he was so pleased with him, that he would desire Jack Dwyer
to ask him to dinner. “And that will be no blind nut, let me tell you,”
said Father Phil--“a wedding dinner, you lucky dog--'lashings [Footnote:
Overflowing abundance, and plenty left after.] and lavings,' and no end
of dancing afther!”
Andy was accordingly bidden to the bridal feast, to which the guests
began already to gather thick and fast. They strolled about the field
before the house, basked in groups in the sunshine, or lay in the shade
under the hedges, where hints of future marriages were given to many
a pretty girl, and to nudges and pinches were returned small screams
suggestive of additional assault--and inviting denials of “Indeed
I won't,” and that crowning provocative to riotous conduct, “Behave
yourself.”
In the meantime, the barn was laid out with long planks, supported on
barrels or big stones, which planks, when covered with clean cloths,
made a goodly board, that soon began to be covered with ample wooden
dishes of corned beef, roasted geese, boiled chickens and bacon, and
intermediate stacks of cabbage and huge bowls of potatoes, all sending
up their wreaths of smoke to the rafters of the barn, soon to become
hotter from the crowd of guests, who, when the word was given, rushed to
the onslaught with right good will.
The dinner was later than the hour named, and the delay arose from the
absence of one who, of all others, ought to have been present, namely,
the bridegroom. But James Casey was missing, and Jack Dwyer had
been closeted from time to time with several long-headed greybeards,
canvassing the occurrence, and wondering at the default on the
bridegroom's part. The person who might have been supposed to bear this
default the worst supported it better than any one. Matty was all life
and spirits, and helped in making the feast ready, as if nothing wrong
had happened; and she backed Father Phil's argument to sit down to
dinner at once;--“that if James Casey was not there, that was no reason
dinner should be spoiled, he'd be there soon enough; besides, if he
didn't arrive in time, it was better he should have good meat cold, than
everybody have hot meat spoiled: the ducks would be done to cindhers,
the beef boiled to rags, and the chickens be all in jommethry.”
So down they sat to dinner: its heat, its mirth, its clatter, and its
good cheer we will not attempt to describe; suffice it to say, the
viands were good, the guests hungry, and the drink unexceptionable; and
Father Phil, no bad judge of such matters, declared he never pronounced
grace over a better spread. But still, in the midst of the good cheer,
neighbours (the women particularly) would suggest to each other the
“wondher” where the bridegroom could be; and even within ear-shot of the
bride elect, the low-voiced whisper ran, of “Where in the world is James
Casey?”
Still the bride kept up her smiles, and cheerfully returned the healths
that were drunk to her; but old Jack was not unmoved; a cloud hung on
his brow, which grew darker and darker as the hour advanced, and the
bridegroom yet tarried. The board was cleared of the eatables, and the
copious jugs of punch going their round; but the usual toast of the
united healths of the happy pair could not be given, for one of them
was absent. Father Phil hardly knew what to do; for even his overflowing
cheerfulness began to forsake him, and a certain air of embarrassment
began to pervade the whole assembly, till Jack Dwyer could bear it no
longer, and, standing up, he thus addressed the company:--
“Friends and neighbours, you see the disgrace that's put on me and my
child.”
A murmur of “No, no!” ran round the board.
“I say, yis.”
“He'll come yet, sir,” said a voice.
“No, he won't,” said Jack, “I see he won't--I know he won't. He wanted
to have everything all his own way, and he thinks to disgrace me in
doing what he likes, but he shan't”; and he struck the table fiercely as
he spoke; for Jack, when once his blood was up, was a man of desperate
determination. “He's a greedy chap, the same James Casey, and he loves
his bargain betther than he loves you, Matty, so don't look glum about
what I'm saying: I say he's greedy: he's just the fellow that, if you
gave him the roof off your house, would ax you for the rails before your
door; and he goes back of his bargain now, bekase I would not let him
have it all his own way, and puts the disgrace on me, thinkin' I'll give
in to him, through that same; but I won't. And I tell you what it is,
friends and neighbours; here's the lease of the three-cornered field
below there,” and he held up a parchment as he spoke, “and a snug
cottage on it, and it's all ready for the girl to walk into with the man
that will have her; and if there's a man among you here that's willing,
let him say the word now, and I'll give her to him!”
The girl could not resist an exclamation of surprise, which her father
hushed by a word and look so peremptory, that she saw remonstrance
was in vain, and a silence of some moments ensued; for it was rather
startling, this immediate offer of a girl who had been so strangely
slighted, and the men were not quite prepared to make advances, until
they knew something more of the why and wherefore of her sweetheart's
desertion.
“Are yiz all dumb?” exclaimed Jack, in surprise. “Faix, it's not every
day a snug little field and cottage and a good-looking girl falls in a
man's way. I say again, I'll give her and the lase to the man that will
say the word.”
Still no one spoke, and Andy began to think they were using Jack Dwyer
and his daughter very ill, but what business had _he_ to think of
offering himself, “a poor devil like him”? But, the silence still
continuing, Andy took heart of grace; and as the profit and pleasure of
a snug match and a handsome wife flushed upon him, he got up and said,
“Would I do, sir?”
Every one was taken by surprise, even old Jack himself; and Matty could
not suppress a faint exclamation, which every one but Andy understood to
mean “she didn't like it at all,” but which Andy interpreted quite the
other way, and he grinned his loutish admiration of Matty, who turned
away her head from him in sheer distaste, which action Andy took for
mere coyness.
Jack was in a dilemma, for Andy was just the last man he would have
chosen as a husband for his daughter; but what could he do? he was
taken at his word, and even at the worst he was determined that some one
should marry the girl out of hand, and show Casey the “disgrace should
not be put on him”; but, anxious to have another chance, he stammered
something about the fairness of “letting the girl choose,” and that
“some one else might wish to spake”; but the end of all was, that no one
rose to rival Andy, and Father Phil bore witness to the satisfaction he
had that day in finding so much uprightness and fidelity in “the boy”;
that he had raised his character much in his estimation by his conduct
that day; and if he was a little giddy betimes, there was nothing like
a wife to steady him; and if he was rather poor, sure Jack Dwyer could
mend that.
“Then come up here,” says Jack; and Andy left his place at the very end
of the board and marched up to the head, amidst clapping of hands and
thumping of the table, and laughing and shouting.
“Silence!” cried Father Phil, “this is no laughing matther, but a
serious engagement--and, John Dwyer, I tell you--and you Andy Rooney,
that girl must not be married against her own free-will; but if she has
no objection, well and good.”
“My will is her pleasure, I know,” said Jack, resolutely.
To the surprise of every one, Matty said, “Oh, I'll take the boy with
all my heart!”
Handy Andy threw his arms round her neck and gave her a most vigorous
salute which came smacking off, and thereupon arose a hilarious shout
which made the old rafters of the barn ring again.
“There's the lase for you,” said Jack, handing the parchment to Andy,
who was now installed in the place of honour beside the bride elect at
the head of the table, and the punch circulated rapidly in filling to
the double toast of health, happiness, and prosperity to the “happy
pair”; and after some few more circuits of the enlivening liquor had
been performed, the women retired to the dwelling-house, whose sanded
parlour was put in immediate readiness for the celebration of the
nuptial knot between Matty and the adventurous Andy.
In half an hour the ceremony was performed, and the rites and blessings
of the Church dispensed between two people, who, an hour before, had
never looked on each other with thoughts of matrimony.
Under such circumstances it was wonderful with what lightness of
spirit Matty went through the honours consequent on a peasant bridal in
Ireland: these, it is needless to detail; our limits would not permit;
but suffice it to say, that a rattling country-dance was led off by Andy
and Matty in the barn, intermediate jigs were indulged in by the “picked
dancers” of the parish, while the country dancers were resting and
making love (if making love can be called rest) in the corners, and that
the pipers and punch-makers had quite enough to do until the night was
far spent, and it was considered time for the bride and bridegroom to be
escorted by a chosen party of friends to the little cottage which was to
be their future home. The pipers stood at the threshold of Jack Dwyer,
and his daughter departed from under the “roof-tree” to the tune of “Joy
be with you”; and then the lilters, heading the body-guard of the bride,
plied drone and chanter right merrily until she had entered her new
home, thanked her old friends (who did all the established civilities,
and cracked all the usual jokes attendant on the occasion); and Andy
bolted the door of the snug cottage of which he had so suddenly become
master, and placed a seat for the bride beside the fire, requesting
_“Miss Dwyer”_ to sit down--for Andy could not bring himself to call her
“Matty” yet--and found himself in an awkward position in being “lord
and master” of a girl he considered so far above him a few hours before;
Matty sat quiet, and looked at the fire.
“It's very quare, isn't it?” says Andy with a grin, looking at her
tenderly, and twiddling his thumbs.
“What's quare?” inquired Matty, very drily.
“The estate,” responded Andy.
“What estate?” asked Matty.
“Your estate and my estate,” said Andy.
“Sure you don't call the three-cornered field my father gave us an
estate, you fool?” answered Matty.
“Oh no,” said Andy. “I mane the blessed and holy estate of matrimony the
priest put us in possession of;” and Andy drew a stool near the heiress,
on the strength of the hit he thought he had made.
“Sit at the other side of the fire,” said Matty, very coldly.
“Yes, miss,” responded Andy, very respectfully; and in shoving his seat
backwards the legs of the stool caught in the earthen floor, and Andy
tumbled heels over head.
Matty laughed while Andy was picking himself up with increased
confusion at this mishap; for even amidst rustics there is nothing more
humiliating than a lover placing himself in a ridiculous position at the
moment he is doing his best to make himself agreeable.
“It is well your coat's not new,” said Matty, with a contemptuous look
at Handy's weather-beaten vestment.
“I hope I'll soon have a betther,” said Andy, a little piqued, with all
his reverence for the heiress, at this allusion to his poverty. “But
sure it wasn't the coat you married, but the man that's in it; and sure
I'll take off my clothes as soon as you please, Matty, my dear--Miss
Dwyer, I mane--I beg your pardon.”
“You had better wait till you get better,” answered Matty, very drily.
“You know the old saying, 'Don't throw out your dirty wather until you
get in fresh.'”
“Ah, darlin', don't be cruel to me!” said Andy, in a supplicating tone.
“I know I'm not desarvin' of you, but sure I did not make so bowld as to
make up to you until I seen that nobody else would have you.”
“Nobody else have me!” exclaimed Matty, as her eyes flashed with anger.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” said poor Andy, who in the extremity of his
own humility had committed such an offence against Matty's pride. “I
only meant that--”
“Say no more about it,” said Matty, who recovered her equanimity.
“Didn't my father give you the lase of the field and house?”
“Yis, miss.”
“You had better let me keep it then; 'twill be safer with me than you.”
“Sartainly,” said Andy, who drew the lease from his pocket and handed it
to her, and--as he was near to her--he attempted a little familiarity,
which Matty repelled very unequivocally.
“Arrah! is it jokes you are crackin'?” said Andy, with a grin, advancing
to renew his fondling.
“I tell you what it is,” said Matty, jumping up, “I'll crack your head
if you don't behave yourself!” and she seized the stool on which she had
been sitting, and brandished it in a very amazonian fashion.
“Oh, wirra! wirra!” said Andy, in amaze--“aren't you my wife?”
“_Your_ wife!” retorted Matty, with a very devil in her eye--“_Your_
wife, indeed, you great _omadhaun_; why, then, had you the brass to
think I'd put up with _you_?”
“Arrah, then, why did you marry me?” said Andy, in a pitiful
argumentative whine.
“Why did I marry you?” retorted Matty--“Didn't I know betther than
refuse you, when my father said the word _when the divil was busy
with him_? Why did I marry you?--it's a pity I didn't refuse, and be
murthered that night, maybe, as soon as the people's backs was turned.
Oh, it's little you know of owld Jack Dwyer, or you wouldn't ask me
that; but, though I'm afraid of him, I'm not afraid of you--so stand off
I tell you.”
“Oh, Blessed Virgin!” cried Andy; “and what will be the end of it?”
There was a tapping at the door as he spoke.
“You'll soon see what will be the end of it,” said Matty, as she walked
across the cabin and opened to the knock.
James Casey entered and clasped Matty in his arms; and half a dozen
athletic fellows and one old and debauched-looking man followed, and the
door was immediately closed after their entry.
Andy stood in amazement while Casey and Matty caressed each other; and
the old man said in a voice tremulous with intoxication, “A very pretty
filly, by jingo!”
“I lost no time the minute I got your message, Matty,” said Casey, “and
here's the Father ready to join us.”
“Ay, ay,” cackled the old reprobate--“hammer and tongs!--strike while
the iron's hot!--I'm the boy for a short job”; and he pulled a greasy
book from his pocket as he spoke.
This was a degraded clergyman, known in Ireland under the title of
“Couple-Beggar,” who is ready to perform irregular marriages on such
urgent occasions as the present; and Matty had contrived to inform James
Casey of the desperate turn affairs had taken at home, and recommended
him to adopt the present plan, and so defeat the violent measure of her
father by one still more so.
A scene of uproar now ensued, for Andy did not take matters quietly, but
made a pretty considerable row, which was speedily quelled, however, by
Casey's bodyguard, who tied Andy neck and heels, and in that
helpless state he witnessed the marriage ceremony performed by the
“couple-beggar,” between Casey and the girl he had looked upon as his
own five minutes before.
In vain did he raise his voice against the proceeding; the
“couple-beggar” smothered his objections in ribald jests.
“You can't take her from me, I tell you,” cried Andy.
“No; but we can take you from her,” said the “couple-beggar”; and, at
the words, Casey's friends dragged Andy from the cottage, bidding a
rollicking adieu to their triumphant companion, who bolted the door
after them and became possessor of the wife and property poor Andy
thought he had secured.
To guard against an immediate alarm being given, Andy was warned on pain
of death to be silent as his captors bore him along, and he took them
to be too much men of their word to doubt they would keep their promise.
They bore him through a lonely by-lane for some time, and on arriving at
the stump of an old tree, bound him securely to it, and left him to pass
his wedding-night in the tight embraces of hemp.