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 pa.s.sed 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 tomt.i.t chattered and twittered on a neighbouring bough, as if he enjoyed and approved of all the severe things the raven uttered. The little tomt.i.t 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d's pardon, and the priest's pardon, and the congregation's pardon; but the woman stoutly refused the last condition.

"I'll beg G.o.d'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 a.s.sault 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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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."

CHAPTER x.x.xI

Doubtless the reader has antic.i.p.ated 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 princ.i.p.al 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 partic.i.p.ation 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 enc.u.mbered 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 d.i.c.k Dawson was going to London with Murphy, to push the pet.i.tion 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, d.i.c.k 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?"