Doubtless the reader has anticipated that the presence of Father Phil in the company of the Squire at this immediate time was on account of the communication made by Andy about the post-office affair. Father Phil had determined to give the Squire freedom from the strategetic coil in which Larry Hogan had ensnared him, and lost no time in setting about it; and it was on his intended visit to Merryvale that he met its hospitable owner, and telling him there was a matter of some private importance he wished to communicate, suggested a quiet ride together; and this it was which led to their traversing the lonely little lane where they discovered Andy, whose name was so principal in the revelations of that day.

To the Squire those revelations were of the dearest importance; for they relieved his mind from a weight which had been oppressing it for some time, and set his heart at rest. Egan, it must be remarked, was an odd mixture of courage and cowardice: undaunted by personal danger, but strangely timorous where moral courage was required. A remarkable shyness, too, made him hesitate constantly in the utterance of a word which might explain away any difficulty in which he chanced to find himself; and this helped to keep his tongue tied in the matter where Larry Hogan had continued to make himself a bugbear. He had a horror, too, of being thought capable of doing a dishonourable thing, and the shame he felt at having peeped into a letter was so stinging, that the idea of asking any one's advice in the dilemma in which he was placed made him recoil from the thought of such aid. Now, Father Phil had relieved him from the difficulties his own weakness imposed; the subject had been forced upon him; and once forced to speak he made a full acknowledgment of all that had taken place; and when he found Andy had not borne witness against him, and that Larry Hogan only inferred his participation in the transaction, he saw on Father Phil's showing that he was not really in Larry Hogan's power; for though he admitted he had given Larry a trifle of money from time to time when Larry asked for it, under the influence of certain innuendoes, yet that was no proof against him; and Father Phil's advice was to get Andy out of the way as soon as possible, and then to set Larry quietly at defiance—that is to say, in Father Phil's own words, “to keep never minding him.”

Now Andy not being encumbered with a wife (as fate had so ordained it) made the matter easier, and the Squire and the Father, as they rode towards Merryvale together to dinner, agreed to pack off Andy without delay, and thus place him beyond Hogan's power; and as Dick Dawson was going to London with Murphy, to push the petition against Scatterbrain's return, it was looked upon as a lucky chance, and Andy was at once named to bear them company.

“But you must not let Hogan know that Andy is sent away under your patronage, Squire,” said the Father, “for that would be presumptive evidence you had an interest in his absence; and Hogan is the very blackguard would see it fast enough, for he is a knowing rascal.”

“He's the deepest scoundrel I ever met,” said the Squire.

“As knowing as a jailer,” said Father Phil. “A jailer, did I say—by dad, he bates any jailer I ever heard of—for that fellow is so 'cute, he could keep Newgate with a book and eye.”

“By-the-bye, there's one thing I forgot to tell you, respecting those letters I threw into the fire; for remember, Father, I only peeped into one and destroyed the others; but one of the letters, I must tell you, was directed to yourself.”

“'Faith, then, I forgive you that, Squire,” said Father Phil, “for I hate letters; but if you have any scruple of conscience on the subject, write me one yourself, and that will do as well.”

The Squire could not help thinking the Father's mode of settling the difficulty worthy of Handy Andy himself; but he did not tell the Father so.

They had now reached Merryvale, where the good-humoured priest was heartily welcomed, and where Doctor Growling, Dick Dawson, and Murphy were also guests at dinner. Great was the delight of the party at the history they heard, when the cloth was drawn, of Andy's wedding, so much in keeping with his former life and adventures, and Father Phil had another opportunity of venting his rage against the “couple-beggar.”

“That was but a slip-knot you tied, Father,” said the doctor.

“Aye, aye! joke away, doctor.”

“Do you think, Father Phil,” said Murphy, “that that marriage was made in heaven, where we are told marriages are made?”

“I don't suppose it was, Mr. Murphy; for if it had it would have held upon earth.”

“Very well answered, Father,” said the Squire.

“I don't know what other people think about matches being made in heaven,” said Growling, “but I have my suspicions they are sometimes made in another place.”

“Oh, fie, doctor!” said Mrs. Egan.

“The doctor, ma'am, is an old bachelor,” said Father Phil, “or he wouldn't say so.”

“Thank you, Father Phil, for so polite a speech.”

The doctor took his pencil from his pocket and began to write on a small bit of paper, which the priest observing, asked him what he was about, “or is it writing a prescription you are,” said he, “for compounding better marriages than I can?”

“Something very naughty, I dare say, the doctor is doing,” said Fanny Dawson.

“Judge for yourself, lady fair,” said the doctor, handing Fanny the slip of paper.

Fanny looked at it for a moment and smiled, but declared it was very wicked indeed.

“Then read it for the company, and condemn me out of your own pretty mouth, Miss Dawson,” said the doctor.

“It is too wicked.”

“If it is ever so wicked,” said Father Phil, “the wickedness will be neutralised by being read by an angel.”

“Well done, St. Omer's,” cried Murphy.

“Really, Father,” said Fanny, blushing, “you are desperately gallant to-day, and just to shame you, and show how little of an angel I am, I will read the doctor's epigram:—

“Oh, doctor! I'm afraid you are a woman-hater,” said Mrs. Egan. “Come away, Fanny, I am sure they want to get rid of us.”

“Yes,” said Fanny, rising and joining her sister, who was leaving the room, “and now, after abusing poor Hymen, gentlemen, we leave you to your favourite worship of Bacchus.”

The departure of the ladies changed the conversation, and after the gentlemen had resumed their seats, the doctor asked Dick Dawson how soon he intended going to London.

“I start immediately,” said Dick. “Don't forget to give me that letter of introduction to your friend in Dublin, whom I long to know.”

“Who is he?” asked the Squire.

“One Tom Loftus—or, as his friends call him, 'Piping Tom,' from his vocal powers; or, as some nickname him, 'Organ Loftus,' from his imitation of that instrument, which is an excessively comical piece of caricature.”

“Oh! I know him well,” said Father Phil.

“How did you manage to become acquainted with him?” inquired the doctor, “for I did not think he lay much in your way.”

“It was he became acquainted with me,” said Father Phil, “and this was the way of it—he was down on a visit betimes in the parish I was in before this, and his behaviour was so wild that I was obliged to make an allusion in the chapel to his indiscretions, and threaten to make his conduct a subject of severe public censure if he did not mind his manners a little better. Well, my dear, who should call on me on the Monday morning after but Misther Tom, all smiles and graces, and protesting he was sorry he fell under my displeasure, and hoping I would never have cause to find fault with him again. Sure, I thought he was repenting of his misdeeds, and I said I was glad to hear such good words from him. 'A' then, Father,' says he, 'I hear you have got a great curiosity from Dublin—a shower-bath, I hear?' So I said I had: and indeed, to be candid, I was as proud as a peacock of the same bath, which tickled my fancy when I was once in town, and so I bought it. 'Would you show it to me?' says he. 'To be sure,' says I, and off I went, like a fool, and put the wather on the top, and showed him how, when a string was pulled, down it came—and he pretended not clearly to understand the thing, and at last he said, 'Sure it's not into that sentry-box you get?' says he. 'Oh yes,' said I, getting into it quite innocent; when, my dear, he slaps the door and fastens it on me, and pulls the string and souses me with the water, and I with my best suit of black on me. I roared and shouted inside while Misther Tom Loftus was screechin' laughing outside, and dancing round the room with delight. At last, when he could speak, he said, 'Now, Father, we're even,' says he, 'for the abuse you gave me yesterday,' and off he ran.”

“That's just like him,” said old Growling, chuckling; “he's a queer devil. I remember on one occasion a poor dandy puppy, who was in the same office with him—for Tom is in the Ordnance department, you must know—this puppy, sir, wanted to go to the Ashbourne races and cut a figure in the eyes of a rich grocer's daughter he was sweet upon.”

“Being sweet upon a grocer's daughter,” said Murphy, “is like bringing coals to Newcastle.”

“'Faith! it was coals to Newcastle with a vengeance, in the present case, for the girl would have nothing to say to him, and Tom had great delight whenever he could annoy this poor fool in his love-making plots. So, when he came to Tom to ask for the loan of his horse, Tom said he should have him if he could make the smallest use of him—'but I don't think you can,' said Tom. 'Leave that to me,' said the youth. 'I don't think you could make him go,' said Tom. 'I'll buy a new pair of spurs,' said the puppy. 'Let them be handsome ones,' said Tom. 'I was looking at a very handsome pair at Lamprey's, yesterday,' said the young gentleman. 'Then you can buy them on your way to my stables,' said Tom; and sure enough, sir, the youth laid out his money on a very costly pair of persuaders, and then proceeded homewards with Tom. 'Now, with all your spurs,' said Tom, 'I don't think you'll be able to make him go.' 'Is he so very vicious, then?' inquired the youth, who began to think of his neck. 'On the contrary,' said Tom, 'he's perfectly quiet, but won't go for you, I'll bet a pound.' 'Done!' said the youth. 'Well, try him,' said Tom, as he threw open the stable door. 'He's lazy, I see,' said the youth; 'for he's lying down.' 'Faith, he is,' said Tom, 'and hasn't got up these two days!' 'Get up, you brute!' said the innocent youth, giving a smart cut of his whip on the horse's flank; but the horse did not budge. 'Why, he's dead!' says he. 'Yes,' says Tom, 'since Monday last. So I don't think you can make him go, and you've lost your bet!'”

“That was hardly a fair joke,” said the Squire.

“Tom never stops to think of that,” returned the doctor; “he's the oddest fellow I ever knew. The last time I was in Dublin, I called on Tom and found him one bitter cold and stormy morning standing at an open window, nearly quite undressed. On asking him what he was about, he said he was getting up a bass voice; that Mrs. Somebody, who gave good dinners and bad concerts, was disappointed of her bass singer, 'and I think,' said Tom, 'I'll be hoarse enough in the evening to take double B flat. Systems are the fashion now,' said he; 'there is the Logierian system and other systems, and mine is the Cold-air-ian system, and the best in the world for getting up a bass voice.'”

“That was very original certainly,” said the Squire.

“But did you ever hear of his adventure with the Duke of Wellington?” said the doctor.

“The Duke!” they all exclaimed.

“Yes—that is, when he was only Sir Arthur Wellesley. Well, I'll tell you.”

“Stop,” said the Squire, “a fresh story requires a fresh bottle. Let me ring for some claret.”