"Oh, Jasus! gentlemen! Pace, for the sake of the blessed Mother!" cried the butler from below.
"Father, jewel! Terence, my only love!" screamed Miss Biddy, over the staircase. "What is the matter?"—"He wants to be off!" roared the quartermaster.
"Stop, Terence, or you'll have my life to answer for."—"Lord, Biddy, how fat you are grown!"
"You shall fulfil your promise," cried Roger, "or I'll write to the Horse Guards, and memorial the commander-in-chief."—"You may memorial your best friend, the devil, you old crimp!" and I forced my way to the hall.
"Come back, you deceiver!" exclaimed Miss MacGawly.—"Arrah, Biddy, go tighten yourself," said I.
"Oh, I'm fainting!" screamed Roger's heiress.
"Don't let him out!" roared her sire.
The gentleman with the beefsteak collar made a demonstration to interrupt my retreat, and in return received a box on the ear that sent him halfway down the kitchen stairs.
"There," I said, "give that to the old rogue, your master, with my best compliments,"—and bounding from the hall-door, Biddy MacGawly, like Lord Ullin's daughter, "was left lamenting!"
Well, there is no describing the rookawn[7] a blow-up like this, occasioned in a country town. I was unmercifully quizzed; but the quartermaster and his heiress found it advisable to abdicate. Roger removed his household goods to the metropolis—Miss Biddy favoured him in due time with a grandson; and when I returned from South America, I learned that "this lost love of mine" had accompanied a Welsh lieutenant to the hymeneal altar, who, not being "over-particular" about trifles, had obtained on the same morning a wife, an heir, and an estate—with Roger's blessing into the bargain.