Book: Handy Andy, Vol. 2

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




"No; but we can take you from her," said the "couple-beggar"; and, at the
words, Casey's friends dragged Andy from the cottage, bidding a rollicking
adieu to their triumphant companion, who bolted the door after them and
became possessor of the wife and property poor Andy thought he had
secured.

To guard against an immediate alarm being given, Andy was warned on pain
of death to be silent as his captors bore him along, and he took them to
be too much men of their word to doubt they would keep their promise. They
bore him through a lonely by-lane for some time, and on arriving at the
stump of an old tree, bound him securely to it, and left him to pass his
wedding-night in the tight embraces of hemp.




CHAPTER XXX


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."




CHAPTER XXXI


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.'"

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