Doubtless the reader has anticipated that the presence of Father Phil in
the company of the Squire at this immediate time was on account of the
communication made by Andy about the post-office affair. Father Phil had
determined to give the Squire freedom from the strategetic coil in which
Larry Hogan had ensnared him, and lost no time in setting about it; and
it was on his intended visit to Merryvale that he met its hospitable
owner, and telling him there was a matter of some private importance he
wished to communicate, suggested a quiet ride together; and this it
was which led to their traversing the lonely little lane where they
discovered Andy, whose name was so principal in the revelations of that
day.
To the Squire those revelations were of the dearest importance; for they
relieved his mind from a weight which had been oppressing it for some
time, and set his heart at rest. Egan, it must be remarked, was an odd
mixture of courage and cowardice: undaunted by personal danger, but
strangely timorous where moral courage was required. A remarkable
shyness, too, made him hesitate constantly in the utterance of a word
which might explain away any difficulty in which he chanced to find
himself; and this helped to keep his tongue tied in the matter where
Larry Hogan had continued to make himself a bugbear. He had a horror,
too, of being thought capable of doing a dishonourable thing, and the
shame he felt at having peeped into a letter was so stinging, that the
idea of asking any one's advice in the dilemma in which he was placed
made him recoil from the thought of such aid. Now, Father Phil had
relieved him from the difficulties his own weakness imposed; the subject
had been forced upon him; and once forced to speak he made a full
acknowledgment of all that had taken place; and when he found Andy had
not borne witness against him, and that Larry Hogan only _inferred_ his
participation in the transaction, he saw on Father Phil's showing that
he was not really in Larry Hogan's power; for though he admitted he had
given Larry a trifle of money from time to time when Larry asked for it,
under the influence of certain innuendoes, yet that was no proof against
him; and Father Phil's advice was to get Andy out of the way as soon as
possible, and then to set Larry quietly at defiance--that is to say, in
Father Phil's own words, “to keep never minding him.”
Now Andy not being encumbered with a wife (as fate had so ordained it)
made the matter easier, and the Squire and the Father, as they rode
towards Merryvale together to dinner, agreed to pack off Andy without
delay, and thus place him beyond Hogan's power; and as Dick Dawson was
going to London with Murphy, to push the petition against Scatterbrain's
return, it was looked upon as a lucky chance, and Andy was at once named
to bear them company.
“But you must not let Hogan know that Andy is sent away under your
patronage, Squire,” said the Father, “for that would be presumptive
evidence you had an interest in his absence; and Hogan is the very
blackguard would see it fast enough, for he is a knowing rascal.”
“He's the deepest scoundrel I ever met,” said the Squire.
“As knowing as a jailer,” said Father Phil. “A jailer, did I say--by
dad, he bates any jailer I ever heard of--for that fellow is so 'cute,
he _could keep Newgate with a book and eye.”_
“By-the-bye, there's one thing I forgot to tell you, respecting those
letters I threw into the fire; for remember, Father, I only peeped into
_one_ and destroyed the others; but one of the letters, I must tell you,
was directed to yourself.”
“'Faith, then, I forgive you that, Squire,” said Father Phil, “for I
hate letters; but if you have any scruple of conscience on the subject,
write me one yourself, and that will do as well.”
The Squire could not help thinking the Father's mode of settling the
difficulty worthy of Handy Andy himself; but he did not tell the Father
so.
They had now reached Merryvale, where the good-humoured priest was
heartily welcomed, and where Doctor Growling, Dick Dawson, and Murphy
were also guests at dinner. Great was the delight of the party at the
history they heard, when the cloth was drawn, of Andy's wedding, so
much in keeping with his former life and adventures, and Father Phil had
another opportunity of venting his rage against the “couple-beggar.”
“That was but a slip-knot you tied, Father,” said the doctor.
“Aye, aye! joke away, doctor.”
“Do you think, Father Phil,” said Murphy, “that _that_ marriage was made
in heaven, where we are told marriages _are_ made?”
“I don't suppose it was, Mr. Murphy; for if it had it would have held
upon earth.”
“Very well answered, Father,” said the Squire.
“I don't know what other people think about matches being made in
heaven,” said Growling, “but I have my suspicions they are sometimes
made in another place.”
“Oh, fie, doctor!” said Mrs. Egan.
“The doctor, ma'am, is an old bachelor,” said Father Phil, “or he
wouldn't say so.”
“Thank you, Father Phil, for so polite a speech.”
The doctor took his pencil from his pocket and began to write on a small
bit of paper, which the priest observing, asked him what he was about,
“or is it writing a prescription you are,” said he, “for compounding
better marriages than I can?”
“Something very naughty, I dare say, the doctor is doing,” said Fanny
Dawson.
“Judge for yourself, lady fair,” said the doctor, handing Fanny the slip
of paper.
Fanny looked at it for a moment and smiled, but declared it was very
wicked indeed.
“Then read it for the company, and condemn me out of your own pretty
mouth, Miss Dawson,” said the doctor.
“It is too wicked.”
“If it is ever so wicked,” said Father Phil, “the wickedness will be
neutralised by being read by an angel.”
“Well done, St. Omer's,” cried Murphy.
“Really, Father,” said Fanny, blushing, “you are desperately gallant
to-day, and just to shame you, and show how little of an angel I am, I
_will_ read the doctor's epigram:--
'Though matches are all made in heaven, they say,
Yet Hymen, who mischief oft hatches,
Sometimes deals with the house _t'other side of the way_,
And _there_ they make _Lucifer_ matches.'”
“Oh, doctor! I'm afraid you are a woman-hater,” said Mrs. Egan. “Come
away, Fanny, I am sure they want to get rid of us.”
“Yes,” said Fanny, rising and joining her sister, who was leaving the
room, “and now, after abusing poor Hymen, gentlemen, we leave you to
your favourite worship of Bacchus.”
The departure of the ladies changed the conversation, and after the
gentlemen had resumed their seats, the doctor asked Dick Dawson how soon
he intended going to London.
“I start immediately,” said Dick. “Don't forget to give me that letter
of introduction to your friend in Dublin, whom I long to know.”
“Who is he?” asked the Squire.
“One Tom Loftus--or, as his friends call him, 'Piping Tom,' from his
vocal powers; or, as some nickname him, '_Organ_ Loftus,' from his
imitation of that instrument, which is an excessively comical piece of
caricature.”
“Oh! I know him well,” said Father Phil.
“How did you manage to become acquainted with him?” inquired the doctor,
“for I did not think he lay much in your way.”
“It was _he_ became acquainted with me,” said Father Phil, “and this
was the way of it--he was down on a visit betimes in the parish I was in
before this, and his behaviour was so wild that I was obliged to make
an allusion in the chapel to his indiscretions, and threaten to make
his conduct a subject of severe public censure if he did not mind his
manners a little better. Well, my dear, who should call on me on
the Monday morning after but Misther Tom, all smiles and graces, and
protesting he was sorry he fell under my displeasure, and hoping I would
never have cause to find fault with him again. Sure, I thought he was
repenting of his misdeeds, and I said I was glad to hear such good
words from him. 'A' then, Father,' says he, 'I hear you have got a great
curiosity from Dublin--a shower-bath, I hear?' So I said I had: and
indeed, to be candid, I was as proud as a peacock of the same bath,
which tickled my fancy when I was once in town, and so I bought it.
'Would you show it to me?' says he. 'To be sure,' says I, and off I
went, like a fool, and put the wather on the top, and showed him how,
when a string was pulled, down it came--and he pretended not clearly
to understand the thing, and at last he said, 'Sure it's not into that
sentry-box you get?' says he. 'Oh yes,' said I, getting into it quite
innocent; when, my dear, he slaps the door and fastens it on me, and
pulls the string and souses me with the water, and I with my best suit
of black on me. I roared and shouted inside while Misther Tom Loftus was
screechin' laughing outside, and dancing round the room with delight. At
last, when he could speak, he said, 'Now, Father, we're even,' says he,
'for the abuse you gave me yesterday,' and off he ran.”
“That's just like him,” said old Growling, chuckling; “he's a queer
devil. I remember on one occasion a poor dandy puppy, who was in the
same office with him--for Tom is in the Ordnance department, you must
know--this puppy, sir, wanted to go to the Ashbourne races and cut a
figure in the eyes of a rich grocer's daughter he was sweet upon.”
“Being sweet upon a grocer's daughter,” said Murphy, “is like bringing
coals to Newcastle.”
“'Faith! it was coals to Newcastle with a vengeance, in the present
case, for the girl would have nothing to say to him, and Tom had great
delight whenever he could annoy this poor fool in his love-making plots.
So, when he came to Tom to ask for the loan of his horse, Tom said he
should have him _if he could make the smallest use of him_--'but I don't
think you can,' said Tom. 'Leave that to me,' said the youth. 'I don't
think you could make him go,' said Tom. 'I'll buy a new pair of spurs,'
said the puppy. 'Let them be handsome ones,' said Tom. 'I was looking at
a very handsome pair at Lamprey's, yesterday,' said the young gentleman.
'Then you can buy them on your way to my stables,' said Tom; and sure
enough, sir, the youth laid out his money on a very costly pair of
persuaders, and then proceeded homewards with Tom. 'Now, with all your
spurs,' said Tom, 'I don't think you'll be able to make him go.' 'Is he
so very vicious, then?' inquired the youth, who began to think of his
neck. 'On the contrary,' said Tom, 'he's perfectly quiet, but won't go
for _you_, I'll bet a pound.' 'Done!' said the youth. 'Well, try him,'
said Tom, as he threw open the stable door. 'He's lazy, I see,' said the
youth; 'for he's lying down.' 'Faith, he is,' said Tom, 'and hasn't got
up these two days!' 'Get up, you brute!' said the innocent youth, giving
a smart cut of his whip on the horse's flank; but the horse did not
budge. '_Why, he's dead!_' says he. 'Yes,' says Tom, 'since Monday last.
So I don't think you can make him go, and you've lost your bet!'”
“That was hardly a fair joke,” said the Squire.
“Tom never stops to think of that,” returned the doctor; “he's the
oddest fellow I ever knew. The last time I was in Dublin, I called on
Tom and found him one bitter cold and stormy morning standing at an open
window, nearly quite undressed. On asking him what he was about, he
said he was _getting up a bass voice_; that Mrs. Somebody, who gave good
dinners and bad concerts, was disappointed of her bass singer, 'and I
think,' said Tom, 'I'll be hoarse enough in the evening to take double
B flat. Systems are the fashion now,' said he; 'there is the Logierian
system and other systems, and mine is the Cold-air-ian system, and the
best in the world for getting up a bass voice.'”
“That was very original certainly,” said the Squire.
“But did you ever hear of his adventure with the Duke of Wellington?”
said the doctor.
“The Duke!” they all exclaimed.
“Yes--that is, when he was only Sir Arthur Wellesley. Well, I'll tell
you.”
“Stop,” said the Squire, “a fresh story requires a fresh bottle. Let me
ring for some claret.”