The servant who brought in the claret announced at the same time the
arrival of a fresh guest in the person of “Captain Moriarty,” who
was welcomed by most of the party by the name of Randal. The Squire
regretted he was too late for dinner, inquiring at the same time if
he would like to have something to eat at the side-table; but Randal
declined the offer, assuring the Squire he had got some refreshment
during the day while he had been out shooting; but as the sport led, him
near Merryvale, and “he had a great thirst upon him,” he did not know a
better house in the country wherein to have “that same” satisfied.
“Then you're just in time for some cool claret,” said the Squire; “so
sit down beside the doctor, for he must have the first glass and broach
the bottle, before he broaches the story he's going to tell us--that's
only fair.”
The doctor filled his glass, and tasted. “What a nice _'chateau,'
'Margaux'_ must be,” said he, as he laid down his glass. “I should like
to be a tenant-at-will there, at a small rent.”
“And no taxes,” said Dick.
“Except my duty to the claret,” replied the doctor.
'My favourite chateau,
Is that of Margaux.'
“By-the-bye, talking of _chateau_, there's the big brewer over at the
town, who is anxious to affect gentility, and he heard some one use the
word _chapeau_, and having found out it was the French for _hat_, he
determined to show off on the earliest possible occasion, and selected
a public meeting of some sort to display his accomplishment. Taking
some cause of objection to the proceedings, as an excuse for leaving the
meeting, he said, 'Gentlemen, the fact is I can't agree with you, so I
may as well take my _chateau_ under my arm at once, and walk.'”
[Illustration: Tom Organ Loftus and the Duke]
“Is not that an invention of your own, doctor?” said the Squire.
“I heard it for fact,” said Growling.
“And 't is true,” added Murphy, “for I was present when he said it. And
at an earlier part of the proceedings he suggested that the parish clerk
should read the resolutions, because he had a good '_laudable_ voice.'”
“A parish clerk ought to have,” said the doctor--“eh, Father
Phil?--'_Laudamus!_'”
“Leave your Latin,” said Dick, “and tell us that story you promised
about the Duke and Tom Loftus.”
“Right, Misther Dick,” said Father Phil.
“The story, doctor,” said the Squire.
“Oh, don't make such bones about it,” said Growling; “'tis but a trifle
after all; only it shows you what a queer and reckless rascal Tom is. I
told you he was called '_Organ_' Loftus by his friends, in consequence
of the imitation he makes of that instrument; and it certainly is worth
hearing and seeing, for your eyes have as much to do with the affair
as your ears. Tom plants himself on a high office-stool, before one of
those lofty desks with long rows of drawers down each side and a
hole between to put your legs under. Well, sir, Tom pulls out the
top drawers, like the stops of an organ, and the lower ones by way of
pedals: and then he begins thrashing the desk like the finger-board of
an organ with his hands, while his feet kick away at the lower drawers
as if he were the greatest pedal performer out of Germany, and he
emits a rapid succession of grunts and squeaks, producing a ludicrous
reminiscence of the instrument, which I defy any one to hear without
laughing. Several sows and an indefinite number of sucking pigs could
not make a greater noise, and Tom himself declares he studied the
instrument in a pigsty, which he maintains gave the first notion of
an organ. Well, sir, the youths in the office assist in 'doing the
service,' as they call it, that is, making an imitation of the chanting
and so forth in St. Patrick's Cathedral.”
“Oh, the haythens!” said Father Phil.
“One does Spray, and another Weyman, and another Sir John Stevenson, and
so on; and they go on responsing and singing 'Amen' till the Ordnance
Office rings again.”
“Have they nothing better to do?” asked the Squire.
“Very little but reading the papers,” said the doctor.
“Well--Tom--you must know, sir--was transferred some time ago, by the
interest of many influential friends, to the London department; and the
fame of his musical powers had gone before him from some of the English
clerks in Ireland who had been advanced to the higher posts in Dublin,
and kept up correspondence with their old friends in London; and it was
not long until Tom was requested to go through an anthem on the great
office-desk. Tom was only too glad to be asked, and he kept the
whole office in a roar for an hour with all the varieties of the
instrument--from the diapason to the flute-stop--and the devil a more
business was done in the office _that_ day, and Tom before long made the
sober English fellows as great idlers as the chaps in Dublin. Well--it
was not long until a sudden flush of business came upon the department,
in consequence of the urgent preparations making for supplies to Spain,
at the time the Duke was going there to take the command of the army,
and organ-playing was set aside for some days; but the fellows, after
a week's abstinence, began to yearn for it and Tom was requested to 'do
the service.' Tom, nothing loath, threw aside his official papers, set
up a big ledger before him, and commenced his legerdemain, as he called
it, pulled out his stops, and began to work away like a weaver, while
every now and then he swore at the bellows-blower for not giving him
wind enough, whereupon the choristers would kick the bellows-blower to
accelerate his flatulency. Well, sir, they were in the middle of the
service, and all the blackguards making the responses in due season,
when, just as Tom was quivering under a portentous grunt, which might
have shamed the principal diapason of Harlaem, and the subs were
drawing out a resplendent 'A-a-a-men,' the door opened, and in walked a
smart-looking gentleman, with rather a large nose and quick eye, which
latter glanced round the office, where a sudden endeavour was made by
everybody to get back to his place. The smart gentleman seemed rather
surprised to see a little fat man blowing at a desk instead of the
fire, and long Tom kicking, grunting, and squealing like mad. The
bellows-blower was so taken by surprise he couldn't stir, and Tom,
having his back to them, did not see what had taken place, and went on
as if nothing had happened, till the smart gentleman went up to him, and
tapping on Tom's desk with a little riding-whip, he said, 'I'm sorry to
disturb you, sir, but I wish to know what you're about.' 'We're doing
the service, sir,' said Tom, no ways abashed at the sight of the
stranger, for he did not know it was Sir Arthur Wellesley was talking to
him. 'Not the _public_ service, sir,' said Sir Arthur. 'Yes, sir,' said
Tom, 'the service as by law established in the second year of the reign
of King Edward the Sixth,' and he favoured the future hero of Waterloo
with a touch of the organ. 'Who is the head of this office?' inquired
Sir Arthur. Tom, with a very gracious bow, replied, 'I am principal
organist, sir, and allow me to introduce you to the principal
bellows-blower'--and he pointed to the poor little man who let the
bellows fall from his hand as Sir Arthur fixed his eyes on him. Tom did
not perceive till now that all the clerks were taken with a sudden fit
of industry, and were writing away for the bare life; and he cast a
look of surprise round the office while Sir Arthur was looking at the
bellows-blower. One of the clerks made a wry face at Tom, which showed
him all was not right. 'Is this the way His Majesty's service generally
goes on here?' said Sir Arthur, sharply. No one answered; but Tom saw,
by the long faces of the clerks and the short question of the visitor,
that he was _somebody_.
“'Some transports are waiting for ordnance stores, and I am referred
to this office,' said Sir Arthur; 'can any one give me a satisfactory
answer?'
“The senior clerk present (for the head of the office was absent) came
forward and said, 'I believe, sir----'
“'You _believe_, but you don't _know_,' said Sir Arthur; 'so I must wait
for stores while you are playing tomfoolery here. I'll report this.'
Then producing a little tablet and a pencil, he turned to Tom and said,
'Favour me with your name, sir?'
“'I give you my honour, sir,' said Tom.
“'I'd rather you'd give me the stores, sir,--I'll trouble you for your
name?'
“'Upon my honour, sir,' said Tom, again.
“'You seem to have a great deal of that article on your hands, sir,'
said Sir Arthur: 'you're an Irishman, I suppose?'
“'Yes, sir,' said Tom.
“'I thought so. Your name?'
“'Loftus, sir.'
“'Ely family?'
“'No, sir.'
“'Glad of it.'
“He put up his tablet after writing the name.
“'May I beg the favour to know, sir,' said Tom, 'to whom I have the
honour of addressing myself?' “'Sir Arthur Wellesley, sir.'
“'Oh! J---s!' cried Tom, 'I'm done!'
“Sir Arthur could not help laughing at the extraordinary change in Tom's
countenance; and Tom, taking advantage of this relaxation in his iron
manner, said in a most penitent tone, 'Oh, Sir Arthur Wellesley, only
forgive me this time, and 'pon my _sowl_ says he--with the richest
brogue--'I'll play a _Te Deum_ for the first licking you give the
French.' Sir Arthur smiled and left the office.”
“Did he report as he threatened?” asked the Squire.
“'Faith, he did.”
“And Tom?” inquired Dick.
“Was sent back to Ireland, sir.”
“That was hard, after the Duke smiled at him,” said Murphy.
“Well, he did not let him suffer in pocket; he was transferred at as a
good a salary to a less important department, but you know the Duke has
been celebrated all his life for never overlooking a breach of duty.”
“And who can blame him?” said Moriarty.
“One great advantage of the practice has been,” said the Squire, “that
no man has been better served. I remember hearing a striking instance of
what, perhaps, might be called severe justice, which he exercised on a
young and distinguished officer of artillery in Spain; and though one
cannot help pitying the case of the gallant young fellow who was the
sacrifice, yet the question of strict duty, _to the very word_, was
set at rest for ever under the Duke's command, and it saved much
_after_-trouble by making every officer satisfied, however fiery his
courage or tender his sense of being suspected of the white feather,
that implicit obedience was the course he _must_ pursue. The case
was this:--the army was going into action----” “What action was it?”
inquired Father Phil, with that remarkable alacrity which men of peace
evince in hearing the fullest particulars about war, perhaps because
it is forbidden to their cloth; one of the many instances of things
acquiring a fictitious value by being interdicted--just as Father Phil
himself might have been a Protestant only for the penal laws.
“I don't know what action it was,” said the Squire, “nor the officer's
name--for I don't set up for a military chronicler; but it was, as
I have been telling you, going into action that the Duke posted an
officer, with his six guns, at a certain point, telling him to remain
there until he had orders from _him_. Away went the rest of the army,
and the officer was left doing nothing at all, which he didn't like;
for he was one of those high-blooded gentlemen who are never so happy as
when they are making other people miserable, and he was longing for the
head of a French column to be hammering away at. In half an hour or
so he heard the distant sound of action, and it approached nearer and
nearer, until he heard it close behind him; and he wondered rather that
he was not invited to take a share in it, when, pat to his thought, up
came an _aide-de-camp_ at full speed, telling him that General Somebody
ordered him to bring up his guns. The officer asked did not the order
come from Lord Wellington? The _aide-de-camp_ said no, but from the
General, whoever he was. The officer explained that he was placed there
by Lord Wellington, under command not to move, unless by _an order from
himself_. The _aide-de-camp_ stated that the General's entire brigade
was being driven in and must be annihilated without the aid of the guns,
and asked, 'would he let a whole brigade be slaughtered?' in a tone
which wounded the young soldier's pride, savouring, as he thought it
did, of an imputation on his courage. He immediately ordered his guns
to move and joined battle with the General; but while he was away, an
_aide-de-camp_ from Lord Wellington rode up to where the guns _had been
posted,_ and, of course, no gun was to be had for the service which Lord
Wellington required. Well, the French were repulsed, as it happened; but
the want of those six guns seriously marred a preconcerted movement of
the Duke's, and the officer in command of them was immediately brought
to a court-martial, and would have lost his commission but for the
universal interest made in his favour by the general officers in
consideration of his former meritorious conduct and distinguished
gallantry, and under the peculiar circumstances of the case. They did
not break him, but he was suspended, and Lord Wellington sent him home
to England. Almost every general officer in the army endeavoured to get
his sentence revoked, lamenting the fate of a gallant fellow being sent
away for a slight error in judgment while the army was in hot action but
Lord Wellington was inexorable saying he must make an example to secure
himself in the perfect obedience of officers to their orders; and it had
the effect.”
“Well, that's what I call hard!” said Dick.
“My dear Dick,” said the Squire, “war is altogether a hard thing, and a
man has no business to be a General who isn't as hard as his own round
shot.”
“And what became of the _dear_ young man?” said Father Phil, who seemed
much touched by the readiness with which the _dear_ young man set off to
mow down the French.
“I can tell you,” said Moriarty, “for I served with him afterwards
in the Peninsula. He was let back after a year or so, and became so
thorough a disciplinarian, that he swore, when once he was at his post
'They might kill _his father_ before his face and he wouldn't budge
until he had orders.'”
“A most Christian resolution,” said the doctor.
“Well, I can tell you,” said Moriarty, “of a Frenchman, who made a
greater breach of discipline, and it was treated more leniently. I heard
the story from the man's own lips, and if I could only give you his
voice and gesture and manner it would amuse you. What fellows those
Frenchmen are, to be sure, for telling a story! they make a shrug or
a wink have twenty different meanings, and their claws are most
eloquent--one might say they talk on their fingers--and their broken
English, I think, helps them.”
“Then give the story, Randal, in his manner,” said Dick. “I have heard
you imitate a Frenchman capitally.”
“Well, here goes,” said Moriarty “but let me wet my whistle with a
glass of claret before I begin--a French story should have French wine.”
Randal tossed off one glass, and filled a second by way of reserve, and
then began the French officer's story.
“You see, sare, it vos ven in _Espagne_ de bivouac vos vairy ard indeet
'pon us, vor we coot naut get into de town at all, nevair, becos you
dam Ingelish keep all de town to yoursefs--vor we fall back at dat time
becos we get not support--no _corps de reserve_, you perceive--so ve mek
_retrograde_ movement--not _retreat_--no, no--but _retrograde_ movement.
Vell--von night I was wit my picket guart, and it was raining like de
devil, and de vind vos vinding up de valley, so cold as noting at all,
and de dark vos vot you could not see--no--not your nose bevore your
face. Vell, I hear de tramp of horse, and I look into de dark--for ve
vere vairy moche on the _qui vive_, because ve expec de Ingelish to
attaque de next day--but I see noting; but de tramp of horse come closer
and closer, and at last I ask, 'Who is dere?' and de tramp of de horse
stop. I run forward, and den I see Ingelish offisair of cavallerie. I
address him, and tell him he is in our lines, but I do not vant to mek
him prisonair--for you must know dat he _vos_ prisonair, if I like, ven
he vos vithin our line. He is very polite--he says, '_Bien obligé--bon
enfant_;' and we tek off our hat to each ozer. 'I aff lost my roat,' he
say; and I say, 'Yais'--bote I vill put him into his roat, and so I ask
for a moment pardon, and go back to my _caporal_, and tell him to be on
de _qui vive_ till I come back. De Ingelish offisair and me talk very
plaisant vile we go togezer down de leetel roat, and ven we come to de
turn, I say, '_Bon soir_, Monsieur le Capitaine--dat is your vay.' He
den tank me, vera moche like gentilman, and vish he coot mek me some
return for my générosité, as he please to say--and I say, '_Bah!_
Ingelish gentilman vood do de same to French offisair who lose his vay.'
'Den come here,' he say, '_bon enfant_, can you leave your post for 'aff
an hour?' 'Leave my post?' I say. 'Yais,' said he, 'I know your army has
not moche provision lately, and maybe you are ongrie?' '_Ma foi_, yais,'
said I; 'I aff naut slips to my eyes, nor meat to my stomach, for more
dan fife days.' 'Veil, _bon enfant_,' he say, 'come vis me, and I vill
gif you good supper, goot vine, and goot velcome.' 'Coot I leave my
post?' I say. He say, '_Bah! Caporal_ take care till you come back.' By
gar, I coot naut resist--_he_ vos so _vairy_ moche gentilman and _I_
vos so ongrie--I go vis him--not fife hunder yarts--_ah! bon Dieu_--how
nice! In de corner of a leetel ruin chapel dere is nice bit of fire, and
hang on a string before it de half of a kid--_oh ciel!_ de smell of
de _ros-bif_ was so nice--I rub my hands to de fire--I sniff de
_cuisine_--I see in anozer corner a couple bottles of wine--_sacré_! it
vos all watair in my mouts! Ve sit down to suppair--I nevair did ate so
moche in my life. Ve did finish de bones, and vosh down all mid ver good
wine--_excellent!_ Ve drink de toast--_à la gloire_--and we talk of de
campaign. Ve drink _à la Patrie_, and den _I_ tink of _la belle France_
and _ma douce amie_--and _he_ fissel, 'Got safe de king.' Ve den drink
_à l'amitié_, and shek hands over dat fire in good frainship--dem two
hands that might cross de swords in de morning. Yais, sair, dat was
fine--'t was _galliard_--'t was _la vrai chivalrie_--two sojair ennemi
to share de same kid, drink de same wine, and talk like two friends.
Vell, I got den so sleepy, dat my eyes go blink, blink, and my goot
friend says to me, 'Sleep, old fellow; I know you aff got hard fare of
late, and you are tired; sleep, all is quiet for to-night, and I will
call you before dawn.' Sair, I vos _so_ tired, I forgot my duty, and
fall down fast asleep. Veil, sair, in de night de pickets of de two
armie get so close, and mix up, dat some shot gets fired, and in one
moment all in confusion. I am shake by de shoulder--I wake like from
dream--I heard sharp _fusillade_--my friend cry, 'Fly to your post, it
is attack!' We exchange one shek of de hand, and I run off to my post.
_Oh, ciel!_--it is driven in--I see dem fly. _Oh, mon désespoir à ce
moment-là!_ I am ruin--_déshonoré_--I rush to de front--I rally _mes
braves_--ve stand!--ve advance!!--ve regain de post!!!--I am safe!!!! De
_fusillade_ cease--it is only an affair of outposts. I tink I am safe--I
tink I am very fine fellow--but Monsieur _l'Aide-Major_ send for me and
speak, 'Vere vos you last night, sair?' 'I mount guard by de mill.' 'Are
you sure?' '_Oui, monsieur._' 'Vere vos you when your post vos attack?'
I saw it vos no use to deny any longair, so I confess to him everyting.
'Sair,' said he, 'you rally your men very good, _or you should be shot!_
Young man, remember,' said he--I will never forget his vorts--'young
man, _vine is goot--slip is goot--goat is goot--but honners is
betters!'”_
“A capital story, Randal,” cried Dick; “but how much of it did you
invent?”
“'Pon my life, it is as near the original as possible.”
“Besides, that is not a fair way of using a story,” said the doctor.
“You should take a story as you get it, and not play the dissector upon
it, mangling its poor body to discover the bit of embellishment; and as
long as a _raconteur_ maintains _vraisemblance_, I contend you are bound
to receive the whole as true.”
“A most author-like creed, doctor,” said Dick; “you are a story-teller
yourself, and enter upon the defence of your craft with great spirit.”
“And justice, too,” said the Squire; “the doctor is quite right.”
“Don't suppose I can't see the little touches of the artist,” said the
doctor; “but so long as they are in keeping with the picture, I
enjoy them; for instance, my friend Randal's touch of the Englishman
'_fissling Got safe de King'_ is very happy--quite in character.”
“Well, good or bad, the story in substance is true,” said Randal, “and
puts the Englishman in a fine point of view--a generous fellow, sharing
his supper with his enemy whose sword may be through his body in the
next morning's 'affair.'”
“But the Frenchman was generous to him first,” remarked the Squire.
“Certainly--I admit it,” said Randal. “In short, they were both fine
fellows.”
“Oh, sir,” said Father Phil, “the French are not deficient in a
chivalrous spirit. I heard once a very pretty little bit of anecdote
about the way they behaved to one of our regiments on a retreat in
Spain.”
“_Your_ regiments!” said Moriarty, who was rather fond of hitting hard
at a priest when he could; “a regiment of friars is it?”
“No, captain, but of soldiers; and it's going through a river they
were, and the French, taking advantage of their helpless condition, were
peppering away at them hard and fast.”
“Very generous indeed!” said Moriarty, laughing.
“Let me finish my story, captain, before you quiz it. I say they were
peppering them sorely while they were crossing the river, until some
women--the followers of the camp--ran down (poor creatures) to the
shore, and the stream was so deep in the middle they could scarcely ford
it; so some dragoons who were galloping as hard as they could out of
the fire pulled up on seeing the condition of the women-kind, and each
horseman took up a woman behind him, though it diminished his own power
of speeding from the danger. The moment the French saw this act of manly
courtesy, they ceased firing, gave the dragoons a cheer, and as long as
the women were within gunshot, not a trigger was pulled in the French
line, but volleys of cheers instead of ball-cartridge was sent after the
brigade till all the women were over. Now wasn't that generous?”
“'T was a handsome thing!” was the universal remark.
“And 'faith I can tell you, Captain Moriarty, the army took advantage of
it; for there was a great struggle to have the pleasure of the ladies'
company over the river.”
“I dare say, Father Phil,” said the Squire, laughing.
“Throth, Squire,” said the _padre_, “fond of the girls as the soldiers
have the reputation of being, they never liked them better than that
same day.”
“Yes, yes,” said Moriarty, a little piqued, for he rather affected the
“dare-devil.”
“I see you mean to insinuate that we soldiers fear fire.”
“I did not say 'fear,' captain--but they'd like to get out of it, for
all that, and small blame to them--aren't they flesh and blood like
ourselves?”
“Not a bit like you,” said Moriarty. “You sleek and smooth gentlemen who
live in luxurious peace know little of a soldier's danger or feelings.”
“Captain, we all have our dangers to go through; and may be a priest has
as many as a soldier; and we only show a difference of taste, after all,
in the selection.”
“Well, Father Blake, all I know is, that a true soldier fears nothing!”
said Moriarty with energy.
“Maybe so,” answered Father Phil, quietly. “It is quite clear, however,”
said Murphy, “that war, with all its horrors, can call out occasionally
the finer feelings of our natures; but it is only such redeeming traits
as those we have heard which can reconcile us to it. I remember having
heard an incident of war, myself, which affected me much,” said Murphy,
who caught the infection of military anecdote which circled the table;
and indeed there is no more catching theme can be started among men, for
it may be remarked that whenever it is broached it flows on until it is
rather more than time to go to the ladies.
“It was in the earlier portion of the memorable day of Waterloo,” said
Murphy, “that a young officer of the Guards received a wound which
brought him to the ground. His companions rushed on to seize some point
which their desperate valour was called on to carry, and he was left,
utterly unable to rise, for the wound was in his foot. He lay for some
hours with the thunder of that terrible day ringing around him, and many
a rush of horse and foot had passed close beside him. Towards the close
of the day he saw one of the Black Brunswick dragoons approaching,
who drew rein as his eye caught the young Guardsman, pale and almost
fainting, on the ground. He alighted, and finding he was not mortally
wounded, assisted him to rise, lifted him into his saddle, and helped
to support him there while he walked beside him to the English rear. The
Brunswicker was an old man; his brow and moustache were grey; despair
was in his sunken eye, and from time to time he looked up with an
expression of the deepest yearning into the face of the young soldier,
who saw big tears rolling down the veteran's cheek while he gazed upon
him. 'You seem in bitter sorrow, my kind friend,' said the stripling.
'No wonder,' answered the old man, with a hollow groan. 'I and my three
boys were in the same regiment--they were alive the morning of Ligny--I
am childless to-day. But I have revenged them!' he said fiercely, and
as he spoke he held out his sword, which was literally red with blood.
'But, oh! that will not bring me back my boys!' he exclaimed, relapsing
into his sorrow. 'My three gallant boys!'--and again he wept bitterly,
till clearing his eyes from the tears, and looking up in the young
soldier's handsome face, he said tenderly, 'You are like my youngest
one, and I could not let you lie on the field.'”
Even the rollicking Murphy's eyes were moist as he recited this
anecdote; and as for Father Phil, he was quite melted, ejaculating in an
under tone, “Oh, my poor fellow! my poor fellow!”
“So there,” said Murphy, “is an example of a man, with revenge in his
heart, and his right arm tired with slaughter, suddenly melted into
gentleness by a resemblance to his child.”
“'T is very touching, but very sad,” said the Squire.
“My dear sir,” said the doctor, with his peculiar dryness, “sadness is
the principal fruit which warfare must ever produce. You may talk of
glory as long as you like, but you cannot have your laurel without your
cypress, and though you may select certain bits of sentiment out of a
mass of horrors, if you allow me, I will give you one little story which
shan't keep you long, and will serve as a commentary upon war and glory
in general.
“At the peace of 1803, I happened to be travelling through a town in
France where a certain count I knew resided. I waited upon him, and he
received me most cordially, and invited me to dinner. I made the excuse
that I was only _en route_, and supplied with but traveling costume, and
therefore not fit to present myself amongst the guests of such a house
as his. He assured me I should only meet his own family, and pledged
himself for Madame la Comtesse being willing to waive the ceremony of a
_grande toilette_. I went to the house at the appointed hour, and as
I passed through the hall I cast a glance at the dining-room and saw
a very long table laid. On arriving at the reception-room, I taxed the
count with having broken faith with me, and was about making my excuses
to the countess when she assured me the count had dealt honestly by me,
for that I was the only guest to join the family party. Well, we
sat down to dinner, three-and-twenty persons; myself, the count and
countess, and their _twenty children!_ and a more lovely family I never
saw; he a man in the vigour of life, she a still attractive woman, and
these their offspring lining the table, where the happy eyes of father
and mother glanced with pride and affection from one side to the other
on these future staffs of their old age. Well, the peace of Amiens
was of short duration, and I saw no more of the count till Napoleon's
abdication. Then I visited France again, and saw my old friend. But it
was a sad sight, sir, in that same house, where, little more than ten
years before, I had seen the bloom and beauty of twenty children, to
sit down with _three_--all he had left him. His sons had fallen in
battle--his daughters had died widowed, leaving but orphans. And thus it
was all over France. While the public voice shouted 'Glory!' wailing was
in her homes. Her temple of victory was filled with trophies, but her
hearths were made desolate.”
“Still, sir, a true soldier fears nothing,” repeated Moriarty.
“_Baithershin,_” said Father Phil. “'Faith I have been in places of
danger you'd be glad to get out of, I can tell you, as bould as you are,
captain.”
“You'll pardon me for doubting you, Father Blake,” said Moriarty, rather
huffed.
“'Faith then you wouldn't like to be where I was before I came here;
that is, in a mud cabin, where I was giving the last rites to six people
dying in the typhus fever.”
“Typhus!” exclaimed Moriarty, growing pale, and instinctively
withdrawing his chair as far as he could from the _padre_ beside whom he
sat.
“Ay, typhus, sir; most inveterate typhus.”
“Gracious Heaven!” said Moriarty, rising, “how can you do such a
dreadful thing as run the risk of bearing infection into society?”
“I thought soldiers were not afraid of anything,” said Father Phil,
laughing at him; and the rest of the party joined in the merriment.
“Fairly hit, Moriarty,” said Dick.
“Nonsense,” said Moriarty; “when I spoke of danger, I meant such
open danger as--in short, not such insidious lurking abomination as
infection; for I contend that--”
“Say no more, Randal,” said Growling, “you're done!--Father Phil has
floored you.”
“I deny it,” said Moriarty, warmly; but the more he denied it, the more
every one laughed at him.
“You're more frightened than hurt, Moriarty,” said the Squire; “for the
best of the joke is, Father Phil wasn't in contact with typhus at all,
but was riding with me--and 'tis but a joke.”
Here they all roared at Moriarty, who was excessively angry, but felt
himself in such a ridiculous position that he could not quarrel with
anybody.
“Pardon me, my dear captain,” said the Father; “I only wanted to show
you that a poor priest has to run the risk of his life just as much as
the boldest soldier of them all. But don't you think, Squire, 't is time
to join the ladies? I'm sure the tay will be tired waiting for us.”