“ ‘I know the secrets of more hearts than one, and instead of going down to the court, just step away to Philip Roche, and tell him what happened and how Mary kept true to her old love, and let him dress himself at once—we’re not tied to canonical hours like our neighbors—and tell him from me, to come here, and before the evening’s out, Nelly, we’ll have a wedding, and a dinner, and a dance!’
“Oh, how I flew! There was Philip in the thick of cold iron, reading a paper about emigration. I never saw a man so altered: he was but the ghost of himself, bent and bowed and broken-hearted, he seemed, and his voice as changed as himself, he knew me at once, and knew that it was her wedding day.
“ ‘It’s all over by this time, I know,’ he said, with a ghastly smile; ‘and I suppose you have brought me the bride-cake tied with green riband.’
“ ‘Here was the place,’ he continued, going across a little yard, ‘where I thought she might live quiet and content; a pretty, bright room for London, and two others inside it—she could sit in that window at her sewing, and sing; and, if she raised her head, see me at work at the forge—she never even answered my letters—for I was too hasty that evening; but it’s over now. She never can be any thing more to me; yet this day’s post brought me a letter, telling of an uncle’s death in New York, who has left a good thousand English pounds, to be divided between my brother and myself; so I’ll just sell off, and go after it. Old Considine might have kept his money; it was not that I wanted; but it’s all over!’ Such a wail as there was in the voice of the strong, broken down man, like the sough of the winter’s wind, I could keep silent no longer. I believe he thought me wild—mad; I could hardly begin my tale for joy—joy throbbing in my heart—joy beating in my throat, and keeping back my words. I got it out at last, all that passed in one little hour, on which depended so much happiness or misery; oh, aunt, he is such a great darlint! Not a bit of exultation over Mr. and Mrs. Considine; only bitter reproaches to himself for not having understood Mary better; wondering if she could ever forgive him!—and so glad her father was not badly hurt. Oh, how my heart warmed to him! And when, at last, I bid him trust all to his reverence, to see how quickly he dressed! and maybe he didn’t look like an O’Brian, or an O’Sullivan, or some of the great, grand O’s—so plenty about Killarney in the ancient times. I didn’t know my own shadow on the wall, side-beside his; and yet he was so overcome, that at times he stopped from downright weakness.
“The priest opened the door with his own blessed hands: they had returned from the police-court, and his reverence had both the old people crying. I don’t think Mr. Considine heard all he said; but, indeed, his heart was softened; he was ashamed of having been imposed on by a well-known London thief; and who can say that he was not grateful for his deliverance? for, next to his money, he loved his child.
“ ‘Come in, Philip Roche,’ said the priest; ‘there has been a bit of a misunderstanding here, which we are sorry for; but it’s well to forget and forgive. Mrs. Considine says she never believed Mary thought so much about you, or she would not have put between you: if you can make friends with the little girl up-stairs, we’ll have the wedding!—and the dinner!—and now, Nelly Nowlan, I trust to you to bring Mary Considine down, without telling her why. Leave that to me.’
“Oh, then, isn’t that priest a rale minister? The delight he took in his little innocent plot, and all to make those young people happy! He hid away Philip in the back-room, and Mary came with me, easy enough, when I told her her father and mother were crying.
“ ‘Now, Mary, my child,’ says the priest, ‘you’ll obey me, wont you?—that’s right. I must give you a penance, Mary: I saved you from one husband, my darling—I have found you another!’
“The life that had come slowly back to the poor girl seemed leaving her altogether, but Philip could not bear it—he rushed forward, and caught her in his arms.
“I can’t tell you what he said, aunt, or what any one said; but in less than five minutes the priest had opened his book.