“Why one would think you didn't know me!”
“If I ever had the honour of your acquaintance, sir,” answered Mary, “I forget you entirely.”
“Forget me, Mary?—arrah be aisy—is it forget the man that was courtin' and in love with you?”
“You're under a mistake, young man,” said Mary, with a curl of her rosy lip, which displayed the pearly teeth to whose beauty her woman's nature rejoiced that the recreant lover was not yet insensible—“You're under a mistake, young man,” and her heightened colour made her eye flash more brightly as she spoke—“you're quite under a mistake—no one was ever in love with me;” and she laid signal emphasis on the word. “There was a dirty mane blackguard, indeed, once in love with my father's brown filly, but I forget him intirely.”
Mary tossed her head proudly as she spoke, and her filly-fancying admirer, reeling under the reproof she inflicted, sneaked from the tent, while Mary stood up and danced with a more open-hearted lover, whose earnest eye could see more charms in one lovely woman than all the horses of Arabia.
But no such result as this was likely to take place in Matty Dwyer's case; she and her lover agreed with one another on the settlement to be made, and old Jack was not to be allowed an inch over what was considered an even bargain. At length all matters were agreed upon, the wedding-day fixed, and the guests invited; yet still both parties were not satisfied, but young Casey thought he should be put into absolute possession of a certain little farm and cottage, and have the lease looked over to see all was right (for Jack Dwyer was considered rather slippery), while old Jack thought it time enough to give him possession and the lease and his daughter altogether.
However, matters had gone so far that, as the reader has seen, the wedding-feast was prepared, the guests invited, and Father Phil on the spot to help James and Matty (in the facetious parlance of Paddy) to “tie with their tongues what they could not undo with their teeth.”
When the priest had done breakfast, the arrival of Andy was announced to him, and Andy was admitted to a private audience with Father Phil, the particulars of which must not be disclosed; for in short, Andy made a regular confession before the Father, and, we know, confessions must be held sacred; but we may say that Andy confided the whole post-office affair to the pastor—told him how Larry Hogan had contrived to worm that affair out of him, and by his devilish artifice had, as Andy feared, contrived to implicate Squire Egan in the transaction, and, by threatening a disclosure, got the worthy Squire into his villanous power. Andy, under the solemn queries of the priest, positively denied having said one word to Hogan to criminate the Squire, and that Hogan could only infer the Squire's guilt; upon which Father Phil, having perfectly satisfied himself, told Andy to make his mind easy, for that he would secure the Squire from any harm, and he moreover praised Andy for the fidelity he displayed to the interests of his old master, and declared he was so pleased with him, that he would desire Jack Dwyer to ask him to dinner. “And that will be no blind nut, let me tell you,” said Father Phil—“a wedding dinner, you lucky dog—'lashings [Footnote: Overflowing abundance, and plenty left after.] and lavings,' and no end of dancing afther!”
Andy was accordingly bidden to the bridal feast, to which the guests began already to gather thick and fast. They strolled about the field before the house, basked in groups in the sunshine, or lay in the shade under the hedges, where hints of future marriages were given to many a pretty girl, and to nudges and pinches were returned small screams suggestive of additional assault—and inviting denials of “Indeed I won't,” and that crowning provocative to riotous conduct, “Behave yourself.”
In the meantime, the barn was laid out with long planks, supported on barrels or big stones, which planks, when covered with clean cloths, made a goodly board, that soon began to be covered with ample wooden dishes of corned beef, roasted geese, boiled chickens and bacon, and intermediate stacks of cabbage and huge bowls of potatoes, all sending up their wreaths of smoke to the rafters of the barn, soon to become hotter from the crowd of guests, who, when the word was given, rushed to the onslaught with right good will.