Book: Handy Andy, Vol. 2

S >> Samuel Lover >> Handy Andy, Vol. 2




In the first place, the opening declaration was--Lord Scatterbrain never
would live with the aforesaid Bridget.

Answered--that nevertheless, as she was his lawful wife, a provision
suitable to her rank must be made.

They (the claimants) were asked to name a sum.

The sum was considered exorbitant; it being argued that when her husband
had determined never to live with her, he was in a far different
condition, therefore it was unfair to seek so large a separate maintenance
now.

The pettifogger threatened that Lady Scatterbrain would run in debt, which
Lord Scatterbrain must discharge. My Lord's agent suggested that my Lady
would be advertised in the public papers, and the public cautioned against
giving her credit.

A sum could not be agreed upon, though a fair one was offered on Andy's
part; for the greediness of the pettifogger, who was to have a share of
the plunder, made him hold out for more, and negotiations were broken off
for some days.

Poor Andy was in a wretched state of vexation. It was bad enough that he
was married to this abominable woman, without an additional plague of
being persecuted by her. To such an amount this rose at last, that she and
her big brother dodged him every time he left the house, so that in self-
defence he was obliged to become a close prisoner in his own lodgings. All
this at last became so intolerable to the captive, that he urged a speedy
settlement of the vexatious question, and a larger separate maintenance
was granted to the detestable woman than would otherwise have been ceded,
the only stipulation of a stringent nature made being, that Lord
Scatterbrain should be free from the persecutions of his hateful wife for
the future.




CHAPTER XLIX


Squire Egan, with his lady and Fanny Dawson, had now arrived in London;
Murtough Murphy, too, had joined them, his services being requisite in
working the petition against the return of the sitting member for the
county. This had so much promise of success about it, that the opposite
party, who had the sheriff for the county in their interest, bethought of
a novel expedient to frustrate the petition when a reference to the poll
was required.

They declared the principal poll-book was lost.

This seemed not very satisfactory to one side of the committee, and the
question was asked, "how could it be lost?" The answer was one which Irish
contrivance alone could have invented: _"It fell into a pot of broth,
and the dog ate it."_ [Footnote: If not this identical answer, something
like it was given on a disputed Irish election, before a Committee of the
House of Commons.]

This protracted the contest for some time; but eventually, in spite of the
dog's devouring knowledge so greedily, the Squire was declared duly
elected and took the oaths and his seat for the county.

It was hard on Sackville Scatterbrain to lose his seat in the house and a
peerage, nearly at once; but the latter loss threw the former so far into
the shade, that he scarcely felt it. Besides, he could console himself
with having buttered his crumbs pretty well in the marriage-market; and,
with a rich wife, retired from senatorial drudgery to private repose,
which was much more congenial to his easy temper.

But while the Squire's happy family circle was rejoicing in his triumph--
while he was invited to the Speaker's dinners, and the ladies were looking
forward to tickets for "the lantern," their pleasure was suddenly dashed
by fatal news from Ireland.

A serious accident had befallen Major Dawson--so serious, that his life
was despaired of; and an immediate return to Ireland by all who were
interested in his life was the consequence.

Though the suddenness of this painful event shocked his family, the act
which caused it did not surprise them; for it was one against which Major
Dawson had been repeatedly cautioned, involving a danger he had been
affectionately requested not to tempt; but the habitual obstinacy of his
nature prevailed, and he persisted in doing that which his son--and his
daughters--and friends--prophesied _would_ kill him some time or
other, and _did_, at last. The Major had three little iron guns,
mounted on carriages, on a terrace in front of his house; and it was his
wont to fire a salute on certain festival days from these guns, which,
from age and exposure to the weather, became dangerous to use. It was in
vain that this danger was represented to him. He would reply, with his
accustomed "Pooh, pooh! I have been firing these guns for forty years, and
they won't do me any harm now."

This was the prime fault of the Major's character. Time and circumstances
were never taken into account by him; what was done once, might be done
_always_--_ought_ to be done always. The bare thought of change
of any sort, to him, was unbearable; and whether it was a rotten old law
or a rotten old gun, he would charge both up to the muzzle and fire away,
regardless of consequences. The result was, that on a certain festival his
_favourite_ gun burst in discharging; and the last mortal act
of which the Major was conscious, was that of putting the port-fire
to the touchhole, for a heavy splinter of iron struck him on the head, and
though he lived for some days afterwards, he was insensible. Before his
children arrived he was no more; and the only duty left them to perform
was the melancholy one of ordering his funeral.

The obsequies of the old Major were honoured by a large and distinguished
attendance from all parts of the country; and amongst those who bore the
pall was Edward O'Connor, who had the melancholy gratification of
testifying his respect beside the grave of Fanny's father, though the
severe old man had banished him from his presence during his lifetime.

But now all obstacle to the union of Edward and Fanny was removed; and
after the lapse of a few days had softened the bitter grief which this
sudden bereavement of her father had produced, Edward received a note from
Dick, inviting him to the manor-house, where _all_ would be glad to
see him.

In a few minutes after the receipt of that note Edward was in his saddle,
and swiftly leaving the miles behind him till, from the top of a rising
ground, the roof of the manor-house appeared above the trees in which it
was embosomed. He had not till then slackened his speed; but now drawing
rein, he proceeded at a slower pace towards the house he had not entered
for some years, and the sight of which awakened such varied emotions.

To return after long years of painful absence to some place which has been
the scene of our former joys, and whence the force of circumstance, and
not choice, has driven us, is oppressive to the heart. There is a mixed
sense of regret and rejoicing, which struggle for predominance; we rejoice
that our term of exile has expired, but we regret the years which that
exile has deducted from the brief amount of human life, never to
be recalled, and therefore as so much _lost_ to us. We think of the
wrong or the caprice of which we have been the victims, and thoughts will
stray across the most confiding heart, if friends shall meet as fondly as
they parted; or if time, while impressing deeper marks upon the
_outward_ form, may have obliterated some impressions _within_.
Who has returned after years of absence, however assured of the
unflinching fidelity of the love he left behind, without saying to
himself, in the pardonable yearning of affection, "Shall I meet smiles as
bright as those that used to welcome me? Shall I be pressed as fondly
within the arms whose encompassment were to me the pale of all earthly
enjoyment?"

Such thoughts crowded on Edward as he approached the house. There was not
a lane, or tree, or hedge, by the way, that had not for him its
association. He reached the avenue gate; as he flung it open he remembered
the last time he passed it; Fanny had then leaned on his arm. He felt
himself so much excited, that, instead of riding up to the house, he took
the private path to the stables, and throwing down the reins to a boy, he
turned into a shrubbery and endeavoured to recover his self-command before
he should present himself. As he emerged from the sheltered path and
turned into a walk which led to the garden, a small conservatory was
opened to his view, awaking fresh sensations. It was in that very place he
had first ventured to declare his love to Fanny. There she heard and
frowned not; there, where nature's choicest sweets were exhaling, he had
first pressed her to his heart, and thought the balmy sweetness of her
lips beyond them all. He hurried forward in the enthusiasm the
recollection recalled, to enter that spot consecrated in his memory; but
on arriving at the door, he suddenly stopped, for he saw Fanny within. She
was plucking a geranium--the flower she had been plucking some years
before, when Edward said he loved her. She, all that morning, had
been under the influence of feelings similar to Edward's; had felt
the same yearnings--the same tender doubts--the same fond solicitude
that he should be the same Edward from whom she parted. But she thought
of _more_ than this; with the exquisitely delicate contrivance
belonging to woman's nature, she wished to give him a signal of her
fond recollection, and was plucking the flower she gathered when he
declared his love, to place on her bosom when they should meet. Edward
felt the meaning of her action, as the graceful hand broke the flower from
its stem. He would have rushed towards her at once, but that the deep
mourning in which she was arrayed seemed to command a gentler approach;
for grief commands respect. He advanced softly--she heard a gentle step
behind her--turned--uttered a faint exclamation of joy, and sank into his
arms! In a few moments she recovered her consciousness, and opening her
sweet eyes upon him, breathed softly, "dear Edward!"--and the lips which,
in two words, had expressed so much, were impressed with a fervent kiss in
the blessed consciousness of possession, on that very spot where the first
timid and doubting word of love had been spoken.

In that moment he was rewarded for all his years of absence and anxiety.
His heart was satisfied; he felt he was dear as ever to the woman he
idolised, and the short and hurried beating of _both_ their hearts
told more than words could express. Words!--what were words to them?--
thought was too swift for their use, and feeling too strong for their
utterance; but they drank from each other's eyes large draughts of
delight, and, in the silent pressure of each other's welcoming embrace,
felt how truly they loved each other.

He led her gently from the conservatory, and they exchanged words of
affection "soft and low," as they sauntered through the wooded path which
surrounded the house. That live-long day they wandered up and down
together, repeating again and again the anxious yearnings which occupied
their years of separation, yet asking each other was not all more
than repaid by the gladness of the present--

"Yet _how_ painful has been the past!" exclaimed Edward.

"But _now!_" said Fanny, with a gentle pressure of her tiny hand on
Edward's arm, and looking up to him with her bright eyes--"but
_now!_"

"True, darling!" he cried; "'tis ungrateful to think of the past while
enjoying such a present and with such a future before me. Bless that
cheerful heart, and those hope-inspiring glances! Oh, Fanny! in the
wilderness of life there are springs and palm-trees--you are both to me!
and heaven has set its own mark upon you in those laughing blue eyes which
might set despair at defiance."

"Poetical as ever, Edward!" said Fanny, laughing.

"Sit down, dearest, for a moment, on this old tree, beside me; 'tis not
the first time I have strung rhymes in your presence and your praise." He
took a small note-book from his pocket, and Fanny looked on smilingly as
Edward's pencil rapidly ran over the leaf and traced the lover's tribute
to his mistress.

THE SUNSHINE IN YOU

I

"It is sweet when we look round the wide world's waste
To know that the desert bestows
The palms where the weary heart may rest,
The spring that in purity flows.
And where have I found
In this wilderness round
That spring and that shelter so true;
Unfailing in need,
And my own, indeed?--
Oh! dearest, I've found it in you!

II

"And, oh when the cloud of some darkening hour
O'ershadows the soul with its gloom,
Then where is the light of the vestal pow'r,
The lamp of pale Hope to illume?
Oh! the light ever lies
In those bright fond eyes,
Where Heaven has impressed its own blue
As a seal from the skies
As my heart relies
On that gift of its sunshine in you!"

Fanny liked the lines, of course. "Dearest," she said, "may I always prove
sunshine to you! Is it not a strange coincidence that these lines exactly
fit a little air which occurred to me some time ago?"

"'Tis odd," said Edward; "sing it to me, darling."

Fanny took the verses from his hand, and sung them to her own measure. Oh,
happy triumph of the poet!--to hear his verses wedded to sweet sounds, and
warbled by the woman he loves! Edward caught up the strain, adding his
voice to hers in harmony, and thus they sauntered homewards, trolling
their ready-made duet together. There were not two happier hearts in the
world that day than those of Fanny Dawson and Edward O'Connor.




CHAPTER L


Respect for the memory of Major Dawson of course prevented the immediate
marriage of Edward and Fanny; but the winter months passed cheerfully away
in looking forward to the following autumn which should witness the
completion of their happiness. Though Edward was thus tempted by the
society of the one he loved best in the world, it did not make him neglect
the duties he had undertaken in behalf of Gustavus. Not only did he
prosecute his reading with him regularly, but he took no small pains in
looking after the involved affairs of the family, and strove to make
satisfactory arrangements with those whose claims were gnawing away the
estate to nothing. Though the years of Gusty's minority were but few,
still they would give the estate some breathing-time; and creditors,
seeing the minor backed by a man of character, and convinced a sincere
desire existed to relieve the estate of its encumbrances and pay all just
claims, presented a less threatening front than hitherto, and listened
readily to such terms of accommodation as were proposed to them. Uncle
Robert (for the breaking of whose neck Ratty's pious aspirations had been
raised) behaved very well on the occasion. A loan from him, and a partial
sale of some of the acres, stopped the mouths of the greedy wolves who
fatten on men's ruin, and time and economy were looked forward to for the
discharge of all other debts. Uncle Robert, having so far acted the
friend, was considered entitled to have a partial voice in the ordering of
things at the Hall; and having a notion that an English accent was
genteel, he desired that Gusty and Ratty should pass a year under
the roof of a clergyman in England, who received a limited number
of young gentlemen for the completion of their education. Gustavus
would much rather have remained near Edward O'Connor, who had already
done so much for him; but Edward, though he regretted parting with
Gustavus, recommended him to accede to his uncle's wishes, though
he did not see the necessity of an Irish gentleman being ashamed of
his accent.

The visit to England, however, was postponed till the spring, and the
winter months were used by Gustavus in availing himself as much as he
could of Edward's assistance in putting him through his classics, his
pride prompting him to present himself creditably to the English
clergyman.

It was in vain to plead _such_ pride to Ratty, who paid more attention
to shooting than his lessons. His mother strove to persuade--Ratty was
deaf. His "gran" strove to bribe--Ratty was incorruptible. Gusty
argued--Ratty answered after his own fashion.

"Why won't you learn even a little?"

"I'm to go to that 'English fellow' in spring, and I shall have no fun
then, so I'm making good use of my time now."

"Do you call it 'good use' to be so dreadfully idle and shamefully
ignorant?"

"Bother!--the less I know, the more the English fellow will have to teach
me, and Uncle Bob will have more worth for his money;" and then Ratty
would whistle a jig, fling a fowling-piece over his shoulder, and shout
"Ponto! Ponto! Ponto!" as he traversed the stable-yard; the delighted
pointer would come bounding at the call, and, after circling round his
young master with agile grace and yelps of glee at the sight of the gun,
dash forward to the well-known "bottoms" in eager expectancy of ducks and
snipe. How fared it all this time with the lord of Scatterbrain? He became
established, for the present, in a house that had been a long time to let
in the neighbourhood, and his mother was placed at the head of it, and
Oonah still remained under his protection, though the daily sight of the
girl added to Andy's grief at the desperate plight in which his ill-
starred marriage placed him, to say nothing of the constant annoyance of
his mother's growling at him for his making "such a Judy of himself;" for
the dowager Lady Scatterbrain could not get rid of her vocabulary at once.
Andy's only resource under these circumstances was to mount his horse and
fly.

As for the dowager Lady Scatterbrain, she had a carriage with "a picture"
on it, as she called the coat of arms, and was fond of driving past the
houses of people who had been uncivil to her. Against Mrs. Casey (the
renowned Matty Dwyer) she entertained an especial spite, in consideration
of her treatment of her beautiful boy and her own pair of black eyes; so
she determined to "pay her off" in her own way, and stopping one day at
the hole in the hedge which served for entrance to the estate of the
"three-cornered field," she sent the footman in to say the _dowjer_
Lady Scatter_breen_ wanted to speak with "Casey's wife."

When the servant, according to instructions, delivered this message, he
was sent back with the answer, "that if any lady wanted to see Casey's
wife, 'Casey's wife,' was at home."

"Oh, go back, and tell the poor woman I don't want to bring her to the
door of my carriage, if it's inconvaynient. I only wished to give her a
little help; and tell her if she sends up eggs to the big house, Lady
Scatterbreen will pay her for them."

When the servant delivered this message, Matty grew outrageous at the
means "my lady" took of crowing over her, and rushing to the door, with
her face flushed with rage, roared out, "Tell the old baggage I want none
of her custom; let her lay eggs for herself."

The servant staggered back in amaze; and Matty, feeling he would not
deliver her message, ran to the hole in the hedge and repeated her answer
to my lady herself, with a great deal more which need not be recorded.
Suffice it to say, my lady thought it necessary to pull up the glass,
against which Matty threw a handful of mud; the servant jumped up on his
perch behind the carriage, which was rapidly driven away by the coachman,
but not so fast that Matty could not, by dint of running, keep it "within
range" for some seconds, during which time she contrived to pelt both
coachman and footman with mud, and leave her mark on their new livery.
This was a salutary warning to the old woman, who was more cautious in her
demonstrations of grandeur for the future. If she was stinted in the
enjoyment of her new-born dignity abroad, she could indulge it at home
without let or hindrance, and to this end asked Andy to let her have a
hundred pounds, in one-pound notes, for a particular purpose. What this
purpose was no one was told or could guess, but for a good while after she
used to be closeted by herself for several hours during the day.

Andy had his hours of retirement also, for with praiseworthy industry he
strove hard, poor fellow, to lift himself above the state of ignorance,
and had daily attendance from the parish schoolmaster. The mysteries of
"pothooks and hangers" and ABC weighed heavily on the nobleman's mind,
which must have sunk under the burden of scholarship and penmanship, but
for the other "ship"--the horsemanship--which was Andy's daily self-
established reward for his perseverance in his lessons. Besides he really
_could_ ride; and as it was the only accomplishment of which he was
master, it was no wonder he enjoyed the display of it; and, to say the
truth, he did, and that on a first-rate horse too. Having appointed
Murtough Murphy his law-agent, he often rode over to the town to talk with
him, and as Murtough could have some fun and thirteen and fourpence also
per visit, he was always glad to see his "noble friend." The high road did
not suit Andy's notion of things; he preferred the variety, shortness, and
diversion of going across the country on these occasions; and in one of
these excursions, in the most secluded portion of his ride, which
unavoidably lay through some quarries and deep broken ground, he met
"Ragged Nance," who held up her finger as he approached the gorge of this
lonely dell, in token that she would speak with him. Andy pulled up.

"Long life to you, my lord," said Nance, dropping a deep curtsey, "and
sure I always liked you since the night you was so bowld for the sake of
the poor girl--the young lady, I mane, now, God bless her--and I just
wish to tell you, my lord, that I think you might as well not be going
these lonely ways, for I see _them_ hanging about here betimes, that
maybe it would not be good for your health to meet; and sure, my lord, it
would be a hard case if you were killed now, havin' the luck of the sick
calf that lived all the winther and died in the summer."

"Is it that big blackguard, _Shan More_, you mane?" said Andy.

"No less," said Nance--growing deadly pale as she cast a piercing glance
into the dell, and cried, in a low, hurried tone--"Talk of the divil--and
there he is--I see him peep out from behind a rock."

"He's running this way," said Andy.

"Then you run the other way," said Nance; "look there--I see him strive to
hide a blunderbuss under his coat--gallop off, for the love o' God! or
there'll be murther."

"Maybe there will be that same," said Andy, "if I leave you here, and he
suspects you gave me the hard word." [Footnote: "Hard word" implies a
caution.]

"Never mind me," said Nance, "save yourself--see, he's moving fast, he'll
be near enough to you soon to fire."

"Get up behind me," said Andy; "I won't leave you here."

"Run, I tell you."

"I won't."

"God bless you, then," said the woman, as Andy held out his hand and
gripped hers firmly.

"Put your foot on mine," said Andy.

The woman obeyed, and was soon seated behind our hero, gripping him fast
by the waist, while he pushed his horse to a fast canter.

"Hold hard now," said Andy, "for there's a stiff jump here." As he
approached the ditch of which he spoke, two men sprang up from it, and one
fired, as Andy cleared the leap in good style, Nance holding on gallantly.
The horse was not many strokes on the opposite side, when another shot was
fired in their rear, followed by a scream from the woman. To Andy's
inquiry, if she was "kilt," she replied in the negative, but said "they
hurt her sore," and she was "bleeding a power;" but that she could still
hold on, however, and urged him to speed. The clearance of one or two more
leaps gave her grievous pain; but a large common soon opened before them,
which was skirted by a road leading directly to a farm-house, where Andy
left the wounded woman, and then galloped off for medical aid; this soon
arrived, and the wound was found not to be dangerous, though painful. The
bullet had struck and pierced a tin vessel of a bottle form, in which
Nance carried the liquid gratuities of the charitable, and this not only
deadened the force of the ball, but glanced it also; and the escapement of
the butter-milk, which the vessel contained, Nance had mistaken for
the effusion of her own blood. It was a clear case, however, that
if Nance had not been sitting behind Andy, Lord Scatterbrain would
have been a dead man, so that his gratitude and gallantry towards the
poor beggar woman proved the means of preserving his own life.




CHAPTER LI


The news of the attack on Lord Scatterbrain ran over the country like
wildfire, and his conduct throughout the affair raised his character
wonderfully in the opinion of all classes. Many who had hitherto held
aloof from the mushroom lord, came forward to recognise the manly fellow,
and cards were left at "the big house," which were never seen there
before. The magistrates were active in the affair, and a reward was
immediately offered for the apprehension of the offenders; but before any
active steps could be taken by the authorities, Andy, immediately after
the attack, collected a few stout fellows himself, and knowing where the
den of Shan and his miscreants lay, he set off at the head of his party to
try if he could not secure them himself; but before he did this, he
despatched a vehicle to the farmhouse, where poor Nance lay wounded, with
orders that she should be removed to his own house, the doctor having said
that the transit would not be injurious.

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