THE OMEN OUTWITTED:
OR, HOW HIS REVERENCE’S HEELS TOOK STEPS TO SAVE HIS HEAD.
“So, Dick, I mean your ‘reverence,’ you like the blessed old country as well as ever, eh, lad?”
“As well, ay, almost better. My return to it is like the meeting of long-parted friends—the joy of the moment is pure and unalloyed—all minor faults are forgotten—all former goodness rushes with double force from the recollection to the heart, and the renewal of old fellowship grafts new virtues (the sweet fruits of regretted absence) upon him who has been the chosen tenant of our ‘heart of hearts.’”
“His reverence’s health—three times three (empty them heeltaps, Jack, and fill out of the fresh jug)—now, boys, give tongue. That’s the raal thing; them cheers would wake the seven sleepers after a dose of laudanum. Bless you, and long life to you! That’s the worst wish you’ll find here.”
“I know that right well, uncle. I know it, feel it, and most heartily thank you all.”
“Enough said, parson. By dad, Dick, its mighty droll to be calling you, that was but yesterday a small curly-pated gossoon, by that clerical mouthful of a handle to your name. But do you find us altered much?”
“There is no change but Time’s—that has fallen lightly. To be sure, yesterday I was looking for the heads of my strapping cousins at the bottom button of their well-filled waistcoats, and, before Jack’s arrival, meant to do a paternal and patriarchal ‘pat’ on his, at somewhere about that altitude; a ceremony he must excuse, as the little lad of my mind has thought proper to expand into a young Enniskillen of six feet three.”
“He’s a mighty fine boy—the lady-killing vagabone!” said the father, with a kind look of gratified pride; and then added, as if to stop the infection of the vanity, “and there’s no denying he’s big enough to be better.” Here a slight scrimmage at the door of the dining-room attracted the attention of the “masther.”
“What’s the meaning of that noise, ye vagabones?”
“Spake up, Mickey.”
“Is it me?” “It is.” “Not at all, by no means. Let Paddy do it, or Tim Carroll; they’re used to going out wid the car, and don’t mind spaking to the quality.” “Take yourselves out o’that, or let me know what you want, and be pretty quick about it, too.”
The result of this order was the appearance of Tim Carroll in the centre of the room—a dig between the shoulders, and vigorously-applied kick behind, hastening him into that somewhat uneasy situation, with a degree of expedition perfectly marvellous.
“Spake out, what is it?” “Ahem!” commenced Tim; “you see, sir (aside), I’ll be even wid you for that kick, you thief of the world—you see, Paddy (bad manners to him) and the rest o’ the boys, was thinking that, owing to the change o’ climate, Master Richard—that is, his new riverence—has gone through by rason of laving England and comin’ here—and mighty could, no doubt, he was on the journey—be praised he’s safe—the boy, sir, was thinkin’, masther dear, it was nothing but their duty, and what was due to the family, to ax your honour’s opinion about their takin’ the smallest taste of whiskey in life, jist to be drinking his riverence’s Masther Richard’s health, and”—“Success to him!” shouted the chorus at the door. “That’s it!” said the masther. “And nothing but it!” responded the chorus. “Nelly, my jewel! take the kays and give them anything in dacency!” “Hurrah! smiling good luck to you, for ever and afther!” “That’ll do, boys! but stay: it’s Terence Conway’s wedding night—it’s a good tenant he’s been to me—take the sup down there, and you’ll get a dance; now be off, you devils!”
“Many thanks to your honour!” chorused the delighted group; and “I done that iligant, anyhow,” muttered the gratified, successful, and, therefore, forgiving orator. “I’ll try again. Ahem! wouldn’t the young gentlemen just step down for a taste?” “By all manes!” was chimed at once; their hats were mounted in a moment, and off they set.
Terence Conway’s farm was soon reached; the barn affording the most accommodation for the numerous visitors, was fitted up for the occasion. It was nearly full, as Terence was a popular man—one that didn’t grudge the “bit and sup,” and never turned his back upon friend or foe. Loud and hearty were the cheers of the delighted tenantry, as the three sons of their beloved landlord passed the threshold. The appearance of the “stranger” was received with no such demonstrations of welcome; on the contrary, there was a sullen silence, soon after broken by suppressed and angry murmurs. These were somewhat appeased by one of the sons introducing his “cousin,” and endeavouring to joke the peasants into good-humour, by laughingly assuring them his “reverence” was but a bad drinker, and would not deprive them of much of the poteen; then passing his arm through the parson’s, he led the way, as it afterwards turned out, rather unfortunately, to the top of the barn, and there, followed by his brothers, they took their seats.
The entrance of the Catholic priest (a most amiable man) at this moment attracted the entire attention of the party, during which time Tim Carroll elbowed his way to the place where his master was seated, and calling him partially aside, whispered, “Master John, dear, tell his riverence, Master Richard, to go.”
“What for?”
“Sure, is not he entirely in black?”
“Well, what of it?”
“What of it? Houly Paul! the likes o’ that! If my skin was as hard as a miser’s heart, I wouldn’t put it into a black coat, and come to a wedding in it; it’s the devil’s own bad omen, and nothing else!”
“You are right! What a fool I was not to tell Dick! Cousin, a word!”
Here the clamour became somewhat louder, the priest taking an active part, and speaking rapidly and earnestly in their native tongue to the evidently excited peasantry. He suddenly broke from them, and hastening to the Protestant clergyman, grasped his hand, and, shaking it heartily, wished him “health, long life, and happiness:” and lifting a tumbler of punch to his lips, drank off nearly half its contents, exclaiming the customary, “God save all here!” He then presented the liquor to the stranger, saying in a low earnest voice, “Drink that toast, sir!”
This order was instantly complied with. The clear tones of the young man’s unfaltering voice and the hearty cordiality of his utterance had a singular effect upon the more turbulent; the priest passed rapidly from the one to the other, and endeavoured to say something pleasant to all, but, despite his attempts at calmness, he was evidently ill at ease.
Tim Carroll again sidled up to his young master.
“The boys mane harrum, sir,” said Tim; “but never mind, there’s five of us here. We’ve not been idle, we’ve all been taking pick o’ the sticks, and divil a stroke falls upon one of the ould ancient family widout showing a bruck head or a flat back for it.”
“What am I to understand by this?” inquired the young stranger.
“That you’re like Tom Fergusson when he rode the losing horse—you’ve mounted the wrong colour; and, be dad, you are pretty well marked down for it, sir; but never mind, there’s Tim Carroll looking as black as the inside of a sut-bag. Let him come on! he peeled the skin off them shins o’ mine at futball; maybe, I won’t trim his head with black thorn for that same, if he’s any ways obstropolis this blessed night.”
“Silence, sir! neither my inclination nor sacred calling will allow me to countenance a broil! I have been the first offender—to attempt to leave the room now would but provoke an attack; leave this affair to me, and don’t interfere.”
“By the powers! if man or mortal lifts his hand to injure you, I’ll smash the soul out of him! Do you think, omen or no omen, I’ll stand by and see you harmed?—not a bit of it! If you are a parson and a child of peace, I have the honour to be a soldier, and claim my right to battle in your cause.”
Maugre the pacific tone of the unfortunately-accoutered ecclesiastic, there was something of defiance in his flashing eye and crimson cheek, as he turned his brightening glance upon what might almost be called the host of his foes; and the nervous pressure which returned the grasp of his cousin’s sinewy hand, spoke something more of readiness for battle than could have been gathered from his expressed wishes.
“If, Jack, it comes to that, why, as human nature is weak—excuse what I may feel compelled to do; but for the present pray oblige me by keeping your seat and the peace; or, if you must move and fidget about, go and make that pugnacious Tim Carroll as decent as you can.”
“I’ll be advised by you, Dick; but look out!” So saying, the stalwart young officer bustled his way to the uproarious Tim.
It was well he did so, or bloodshed must have ensued, as at that moment a tall and powerful man, brother-in-law to the bride, lifted his stick, and after giving it the customary twirl aimed a point-blank blow at the head of the ill-omened parson. The bound of an antelope brought the girl to the spot; her small hand averted the direction of the deadly weapon, and before the action had been perceived by any present, or the attempt could be resumed, she dropped a curtesy to the assailant, and in a loud voice, with an affected laugh, exclaimed—
“You, if you plaise, sir;” and, turning quickly to the fiddler, continued: “Any tune you like, Mr. Murphy, sir; but, good luck to you, be quick, or we won’t have a dance to-night!”
“Clear the floor!—a dance! a dance!” shouted every one.
In a few seconds the angry scowl had passed from the flushed cheeks of Dan Sheeny, and there he was, toe and heeling, double shuffling, and cutting it over the buckle, to the admiration of all beholders. The bride was seated near the stranger—he perceived this, and suddenly quitting his place, danced up to her, and nodding, as he stopped for a moment, invited her to join him. She was ever light of foot, and, as she said afterwards, “would have danced her life out but she’d give the poor young gentleman a chance.” Long and vigorously did Dan Sheeny advance, retire, curvette, and caper. The whiskey and exertion at length overcame him, and he left the lady sole mistress of the floor. By this time murmurs had again arisen, and all eyes were turned upon the intruder, who had been intently engaged observing the dancers. It was an accomplishment for which he had been celebrated previous to his taking orders, and the old feeling so strongly interested him, that he was absorbed in the pleasure of witnessing the activity and joyousness of the performers. He turned his head for an instant—a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. On his starting up, he saw nothing but the smiling Norah pressing the arm of a tall peasant, and curtseying him a challenge to join her “on the floor.” He paused for a moment, then gaily taking her hand, advanced with her to the centre. All eyes were bent upon them, but there was no restraint in the young parson’s manner. The most popular jig-tune was called for—to it they went; his early-taught and well-practised feet beat living echoes to the most rapid bars. A foot of ground seemed ample space for all the intricate compilation of the raal Conamera “capers.” The tune was changed again and again; again and again was his infinity of steps adapted to its varying sounds: to use a popular phrase, you might have heard a pin drop. Every mouth was closed, every eye fixed upon his rapid feet; and, when at length wearied with exertion, the almost fainting girl was falling to the earth, her gallant partner caught her in his arms, and, like an infant, bore her to the open air, one loud and general cheer burst from their unclosed lips; a few moments restored the pretty lass to perfect health. Her first words were, “Leave me, sir, and save yourself.” It was too late; borne on the shoulders of the admiring mob, who, despite his suit of sables (now rendered innoxious by the varying colour of the crimson kerchief the young bride bound round his neck), he was soon seated in the chair of honour, and there, surrounded by his friends, finished the night the “lion of the dance.” And thus it was that his “Reverence’s heels took steps to preserve his head.”—FUSBOS