"Yes," he said, slapping his forehead, "she must be married at once." Then, turning to Furlong, he said, "You're not married, I hope?"
Furlong acknowledged he was not, though he regretted the moment he had made the admission.
"'T is well for you," said O'Grady, "for it has saved your life. You shall marry her, then!" He never thought of asking Furlong's acquiescence in the measure. "Come here, you baggage!" he cried to Augusta, as he laid hold of her hand, and pulled her up from her chair; "come here! I intended you for a better man; but since you have such a hang-dog taste, why, go to him!" And he shoved her over to Furlong. "There!" he said, addressing him, "take her, since you will have her. We'll speak of her fortune after."
The poor girl stood abashed, sobbing aloud, and tears pouring from her downcast eyes. Furlong was so utterly taken by surprise, that he was riveted to the spot where he stood, and could not advance a step towards his drooping intended. At this awkward moment, the glorious old dowager came to the rescue; she advanced, tin chimney-pot and all, and taking a hand of each of the principals in hers, she joined them together in a theatrical manner, and ejaculated, with a benignant air, "Bless you, my children!"
In the midst of the mingled rage, confusion, fright, and astonishment of the various parties present, there was something so exquisitely absurd in the old woman's proceeding, that nearly every one felt inclined to laugh; but the terror of O'Grady kept their risible faculties in check. Fate, however, decreed the finale should be comic; for the cook, suddenly recollecting herself, exclaimed, "Oh, murther! the goose will be burned!" and ran out of the room; a smothered burst of laughter succeeded, which roused the ire of O'Grady, who, making a charge right and left amongst the delinquents, the room was soon cleared, and the party dispersed in various directions, O'Grady's voice rising loud above the general confusion, as he swore his way down-stairs, kicking his mother's tin turban before him.
CHAPTER XVII
Canvassing before an election resembles skirmishing before a battle;—the skirmishing was over, and the arrival of the Honourable Sackville Scatterbrain was like the first gun that commences an engagement;—and now both parties were to enter on the final struggle.
A jolly group sat in Murphy's dining-parlour on the eve of the day fixed for the nomination. Hitting points of speeches were discussed—plans for bringing up voters—tricks to interrupt the business of the opposite party—certain allusions on the hustings that would make the enemy lose temper; and, above all, everything that could cheer and amuse the people, and make them rejoice in their cause.
"Oh, let me alone for that much," said Murtough. "I have engaged every piper and fiddler within twenty miles round, and divil a screech of a chanter[19] ] or a scrape of catcut Scatterbrain can have for love or money—that's one grand point."
"But," said Tom Durfy, "he has engaged the yeomanry band."