The news of Andy's wedding, so strange in itself, and being celebrated
before so many, spread over the country like wildfire, and made the talk
of half the barony for the next day, and the question, “_Arrah, did
you hear of the wondherful wedding?_” was asked in high-road and
by-road,--and scarcely a _boreen_ whose hedges had not borne witness
to this startling matrimonial intelligence. The story, like all other
stories, of course got twisted into various strange shapes, and
fanciful exaggerations became grafted on the original stem, sufficiently
grotesque in itself; and one of the versions set forth how old Jack
Dwyer, the more to vex Casey, had given his daughter the greatest
fortune that ever had been heard of in the country.
Now one of the open-eared people who had caught hold of the story by
this end happened to meet Andy's mother, and, with a congratulatory
grin, began with “The top o' the mornin' to you, Mrs. Rooney, and sure I
wish you joy.”
“Och hone, and for why, dear?” answered Mrs. Rooney, “sure, it's nothin'
but trouble and care I have, poor and in want, like me.”
“But sure you'll never be in want any more.”
“Arrah, who towld you so, agra?”
“Sure the boy will take care of you now, won't he?”
“What boy?”
“Andy, sure!”
“Andy!” replied his mother, in amazement. “Andy, indeed!--out o' place,
and without a bawbee to bless himself with!--stayin' out all night, the
blackguard!”
“By this and that, I don't think you know a word about it,” cried the
friend, whose turn it was for wonder now.
“Don't I, indeed?” said Mrs. Rooney, huffed at having her word doubted,
as she thought. “I tell you he never _was_ at home last night, and
maybe it's yourself was helping him, Micky Lavery, to keep his bad
coorses--the slingein' dirty blackguard that he is.”
Micky Lavery set up a shout of laughter, which increased the ire of Mrs.
Rooney, who would have passed on in dignified silence but that Micky
held her fast, and when he recovered breath enough to speak, he
proceeded to tell her about Andy's marriage, but in such a disjointed
way, that it was some time before Mrs. Rooney could comprehend him--for
his interjectional laughter at the capital joke it was, that she should
be the last to know it, and that he should have the luck to tell
it, sometimes broke the thread of his story--and then his collateral
observations so disfigured the tale, that its incomprehensibility became
very much increased, until at last Mrs. Rooney was driven to push him by
direct questions.
“For the tendher mercy, Micky Lavery, make me sinsible, and don't
disthract me--is the boy married?”
“Yis, I tell you.”
“To Jack Dwyer's daughter?”
“Yis.”
“And gev him a fort'n'?”
“Gev him half his property, I tell you, and he'll have all when the owld
man's dead.”
“Oh, more power to you, Andy!” cried his mother in delight: “it's you
that _is_ the boy, and the best child that ever was! Half his property,
you tell me, _Misther_ Lavery?” added she, getting distant and polite
the moment she found herself mother to a rich man, and curtailing her
familiarity with a poor one like Lavery.
“Yes, _ma'am_,” said Lavery, touching his hat, “and the whole of it when
the owld man dies.”
“Then indeed I wish him a happy relase!” [Footnote: A “happy release”
is the Irish phrase for departing this life] said Mrs. Rooney,
piously--“not that I owe the man any spite--but sure he'd be no
loss--and it's a good wish to any one, sure, to wish them in heaven.
Good mornin', Misther Lavery,” said Mrs. Rooney, with a patronising
smile, and “going the road with a dignified air.”
Mick Lavery looked after her with mingled wonder and indignation. “Bad
luck to you, you owld sthrap!” he muttered between his teeth. “How
consaited you are, all of a sudden--by Jakers, I'm sorry I
towld you--cock you up, indeed--put a beggar on horseback to be
sure--humph!--the devil cut the tongue out o' me if ever I give any one
good news again. I've a mind to turn back and tell Tim Dooling his horse
is in the pound.”
Mrs. Rooney continued her dignified pace as long as she was in sight
of Lavery, but the moment an angle of the road screened her from his
observation, off she set, running as hard as she could, to embrace her
darling Andy, and realise with her own eyes and ears all the good news
she had heard. She puffed out by the way many set phrases about the
goodness of Providence, and arranged at the same time sundry fine
speeches to make to the bride; so that the old lady's piety and flattery
ran a strange couple together along with herself; while mixed up with
her prayers and her blarney, were certain speculations about Jack
Dwyer--as to how long he could _live_--and how much he might _leave_.
It was in this frame of mind she reached the hill which commanded a view
of the three-cornered field and the snug cottage, and down she rushed to
embrace her darling Andy and his gentle bride. Puffing and blowing like
a porpoise, bang she went into the cottage, and Matty being the first
person she met, she flung herself upon her, and covered her with
embraces and blessings.
Matty, being taken by surprise, was some time before she could shake off
the old beldame's hateful caresses; but at last getting free and tucking
up her hair, which her imaginary mother-in-law had clawed about her
ears, she exclaimed in no very gentle tones--
“Arrah, good woman, who axed for _your_ company--who are you at all?”
“Your mother-in-law, jewel!” cried the Widow Rooney, making another
open-armed rush at her beloved daughter-in-law; but Matty received the
widow's protruding mouth on her clenched fist instead of her lips, and
the old woman's nose coming in for a share of Matty's knuckles, a ruby
stream spurted forth, while all the colours of the rainbow danced before
Mrs. Rooney's eyes as she reeled backward on the floor.
“Take that, you owld faggot!” cried Matty, as she shook Mrs. Rooney's
tributary claret from the knuckles which had so scientifically tapped
it, and wiped her hand in her apron.
The old woman roared “millia' murthur” on the floor, and snuffled out a
deprecatory question “if that was the proper way to be received in her
son's house.”
“_Your_ son's house, indeed!” cried Matty. “Get out o' the place, you
stack o' rags.”
“Oh, Andy! Andy!” cried the mother, gathering herself up.
“Oh--that's it, is it!” cried Matty; “so it's Andy you want?”
“To be sure: why wouldn't I want him, you hussy? My boy! my darlin'! my
beauty!”
“Well, go look for him!” cried Matty, giving her a shove towards the
door. “Well, now, do you think I'll be turned out of my son's house
so quietly as that, you unnatural baggage?” cried Mrs. Rooney, facing
round, fiercely. Upon which a bitter altercation ensued between the
women; in the course of which the widow soon learnt that Andy was not
the possessor of Matty's charms: whereupon the old woman, no longer
having the fear of damaging her daughter-in-law's beauty before her
eyes, tackled to for a fight in right earnest, in the course of which
some reprisals were made by the widow in revenge for her broken nose;
but Matty's youth and activity, joined to her Amazonian spirit, turned
the tide in her favour, though, had not the old lady been blown by her
long run, the victory would not have been so easy, for she was a tough
customer, and _left_ Matty certain marks of her favour that did not
rub out in a hurry--while she took _away_ (as a keepsake) a handful of
Matty's hair, by which she had long held on till a successful kick from
the gentle bride finally ejected Mrs. Rooney from the house.
Off she reeled, bleeding and roaring, and while on her approach she
had been blessing Heaven and inventing sweet speeches for Matty, on her
retreat she was cursing fate and heaping all sorts of hard names on the
Amazon she came to flatter. Alas, for the brevity of human exultation!
How fared it in the meantime with Andy? He, poor devil! had passed a
cold night, tied up to the old tree, and as the morning dawned, every
object appeared to him through the dim light in a distorted form; the
gaping hollow of the old trunk to which he was bound seemed like a huge
mouth, opening to swallow him, while the old knots looked like eyes,
and the gnarled branches like claws, staring at and ready to tear him in
pieces.
A raven, perched above him on a lonely branch, croaked dismally, till
Andy fancied he could hear words of reproach in the sounds, while a
little tomtit chattered and twittered on a neighbouring bough, as if
he enjoyed and approved of all the severe things the raven uttered. The
little tomtit was the worst of the two, just as the solemn reproof
of the wise can be better borne than the impertinent remark of some
chattering fool. To these imaginary evils was added the reality of some
enormous water-rats that issued from an adjacent pool and began to eat
Andy's hat and shoes, which had fallen off in his struggle with his
captors; and all Andy's warning ejaculations could not make the vermin
abstain from his shoes and his hat, which, to judge from their eager
eating, could not stay their stomachs long, so that Andy, as he looked
on at the rapid demolition, began to dread that they might transfer
their favours from his attire to himself, until the tramp of approaching
horses relieved his anxiety, and in a few minutes two horsemen stood
before him--they were Father Phil and Squire Egan.
Great was the surprise of the Father to see the fellow he had married
the night before, and whom he supposed to be in the enjoyment of his
honeymoon, tied up to a tree and looking more dead than alive; and his
indignation knew no bounds when he heard that a “couple-beggar” had
dared to celebrate the marriage ceremony, which fact came out in the
course of the explanation Andy made of the desperate misadventure which
had befallen him; but all other grievances gave way in the eyes of
Father Phil to the “couple-beggar.”
“A 'couple-beggar'!--the audacious vagabones!” he cried, while he and
the Squire were engaged in loosing Andy's bonds. “A 'couple-beggar'
in my parish! How fast they have tied him up, Squire!” he added, as he
endeavoured to undo a knot. “A 'couple-beggar,' indeed! I'll undo the
marriage!--have you a knife about you, Squire?--the blessed and holy tie
of matrimony!--it's a black knot, bad luck to it, and must be cut--take
your leg out o' that now--and wait till I lay my hands on them--a
'couple-beggar' indeed!”
“A desperate outrage this whole affair has been!” said the Squire.
“But a 'couple-beggar,' Squire.”
“His house broken into--”
“But a 'couple-beggar'--”
“His wife taken from him--”
“But a 'couple-beggar'--”
“The laws violated--”
“But _my dues_, Squire--think o' that!--what would become o' _them_, if
'couple-beggars' is allowed to show their audacious faces in the parish.
Oh, wait till next Sunday, that's all--I'll have them up before the
althar, and I'll make them beg God's pardon, and my pardon, and the
congregation's pardon, the audacious pair!” [Footnote: A man and woman
who had been united by a “couple-beggar” were called up one Sunday by
the priest in the face of the congregation, and summoned, as Father Phil
threatens above, to beg God's pardon, and the priest's pardon, and the
congregation's pardon; but the woman stoutly refused the last condition.
“I'll beg God's pardon and your Reverence's pardon,” she said, “but I
won't beg the congregation's pardon.” “You won't?” says the priest.
“I won't,” says she. “Oh you conthrairy baggage,” cried his Reverence:
“take her home out o' that,” said he to her husband who HAD humbled
himself--“take her home, and leather her well--for she wants it; and if
you don't leather her, you'll be sorry--for if you don't make her afraid
of you, she'll master YOU, too--take her home and leather her.”--FACT.]
“It's an assault on Andy,” said the Squire.
“It's a robbery on me,” said Father Phil.
“Could you identify the men?” said the Squire.
“Do you know the 'couple-beggar'?” said the priest.
“Did James Casey lay his hands on you?” said the Squire; “for he's a
good man to have a warrant against.”
“Oh, Squire, Squire!” ejaculated Father Phil; “talking of laying hands
on _him_ is it you are?--didn't that blackguard 'couple-beggar' lay
his dirty hands on a woman that my bran new benediction was upon! Sure,
they'd do anything after that!” By this time Andy was free, and having
received the Squire's directions to follow him to Merryvale, Father
Phil and the worthy Squire were once more in their saddles and proceeded
quietly to the same place, the Squire silently considering the audacity
of the _coup-de-main_ which robbed Andy of his wife, and his reverence
puffing out his rosy cheeks and muttering sundry angry sentences, the
only intelligible words of which were “couple-beggar.”