Peter Simple

“‘Devil a bit,’ says I; ‘how should I?’

“‘Then it’s just that she may send her own child away, and give her milk to the English babby that’s coming; because the lady is too much of a lady to have a child hanging to her breast.’

“‘But suppose Mary Sullivan’s child ar’n’t born till afterwards, how then?’ says I. ‘Speak, Mrs O’Rourke, for you’re a sensible woman.’

“‘How then?’ says she. ‘Och! that’s all arranged; for Mary says that she’ll be in bed a week before the lady, so that’s all right, you’ll perceive, Father McGrath.’

“‘But don’t you perceive, sensible woman as you are, that a young woman, who is so much out of her reckoning as to have a child three months after her marriage, may make a little mistake in her lying-in arithmetic, Mrs O’Rourke?’

“‘Never fear, Father McGrath, Mary Sullivan will keep her word; and sooner than disappoint the lady, and lose her place, she’ll just tumble downstairs, and won’t that put her to bed fast enough?’

“‘Well, that’s what I call a faithful good servant that earns her wages,’ says I; ‘so now I’ll just take another glass, Mrs O’Rourke, and thank you too. Sure you’re the woman that knows everything, and a mighty pretty woman into the bargain.’

“‘Let me alone now, Father McGrath, and don’t be pinching me that way anyhow.’

“‘It was only a big flea that I perceived hopping on your gown, my darling, devil anything else.’

“‘Many thanks to you, father, for that same; but the next time you’d kill my fleas, just wait until they’re in a more dacent situation.’

“‘Fleas are fleas, Mrs O’Rourke, and we must catch ’em when we can, and how we can, and as we can, so no offence. A good night’s rest to you, Mrs O’Rourke—when do you mean to confess?’

“‘I’ve an idea that I’ve too many fleas about me to confess to you just now, Father McGrath, and that’s the truth on it. So a pleasant walk back to you.’

“So you’ll perceive, my son, that having got all the information from Mrs O’Rourke, it’s back I went to Ballyhinch, till I heard it whispered that there were doings down at the old house at Ballycleuch. Off I set, and went to the house itself, as priests always ought to be welcomed at births and marriages, and deaths, being, as you know, of great use on such occasions—when who should open the door but Father O’Toole, the biggest rapparee of a priest in the whole of Ireland. Didn’t he steal a horse, and only save his neck by benefit of clergy? and did he ever give absolution to any young woman without making her sin over again? ‘What may be your pleasure here, Father McGrath?’ says he, holding the door with his hand.

“‘Only just to call and hear what’s going on.’

“‘For the matter of that,’ says he, ‘I’ll just tell you that we’re all going on very well; but ar’n’t you ashamed of yourself, Father McGrath, to come here and interfere with my flock, knowing that I confess the house altogether?’

“‘That’s as may be,’ says I, ‘but I only wanted to know what the lady had brought into the world.’

“‘It’s a child,’ says he.

“‘Indeed!’ says I; ‘many thanks for the information, and pray what is it that Mary Sullivan has brought into the world?’

“‘That’s a child, too,’ says he; ‘and now that you know all about it, good evening to you, Father McGrath.’ And the ugly brute slarnmed the door right in my face.

“‘Who stole a horse?’ cries I; but he didn’t hear me—more’s the pity.

“So you’ll perceive, my dear boy, that I have found out something, at all events, but not so much as I intended; for I’ll prove to Father O’Toole, that he’s no match for Father McGrath. But what I find out must be reserved for another letter, seeing that it’s not possible to tell it to you in this same. Praties look well, but somehow or another clothes don’t grow upon trees in ould Ireland; and one of your half quarterly bills, or a little prize-money, if it found its way here, would add not a little to the respectability of the family appearance. Even my cassock is becoming too holy for a parish priest; not that I care about it so much, only Father O’Toole, the baste! had on a bran new one—not that I believe that he ever came honestly by it, as I have by mine—but, get it how you may, a new gown always looks better than an ould one, that’s certain. So no more at present from your loving friend and confessor,

“Urtagh McGrath.”

“Now, you’ll observe, Peter,” said O’Brien, after I had read the letter, “that, as I supposed, your uncle meant mischief when he went over to Ireland. Whether the children are both girls or both boys, or your uncle’s is a boy, and the other is a girl, there’s no knowledge at present. If an exchange was required, it’s made, that’s certain; but I will write again to Father McGrath, and insist upon his finding out the truth, if possible. Have you any letter from your father?”

“None, I am sorry to say. I wish I had, for he would not have failed to speak on the subject.”

“Well, never mind, it’s no use dreaming over the matter; we must do our best when we get to England ourselves, and in the meantime trust to Father McGrath. I’ll go and write to him while my mind’s full of it.” O’Brien wrote his letter, and the subject was not started again.

Chapter Thirty Seven

Captain Kearney’s illness—He makes his will and devises sundry “chateaux en espagne,” for the benefit of those concerned—The legacy duty in this instance not ruinous—He signs, seals, and dies

The captain, as was his custom, went on shore, and took up his quarters at a friend’s house; that is to say, the house of an acquaintance, or any polite gentleman who would ask him to take a dinner and a bed. This was quite sufficient for Captain Kearney, who would fill his portmanteau, and take up his quarters without thinking of leaving them until the ship sailed, or some more advantageous invitation was given. This conduct in England would have very much trespassed upon our ideas of hospitality; but in our foreign settlements and colonies, where the society is confined and novelty is desirable, a person who could amuse like Captain Kearney was generally welcome, let him stay as long as he pleased. All sailors agree in asserting that Halifax is one of the most delightful ports in which a ship can anchor. Everybody is hospitable, cheerful, and willing to amuse and be amused. It is, therefore, a very bad place to send a ship to if you wish her to refit in a hurry, unless indeed the admiral is there to watch over your daily progress, and a sharp commissioner to expedite your motions in the dock-yard. The admiral was there when we arrived, and we should not have lain there long, had not the health of Captain Kearney, by the time that we were ready for sea, been so seriously affected, that the doctor was of opinion that he could not sail. Another frigate was sent to our intended cruising ground, and we lay idle in port. But we consoled ourselves: if we did not make prize-money, at all events, we were very happy, and the major part of the officers very much in love.

We had remained in Halifax harbour about three weeks, when a very great change for the worse took place in Captain Kearney’s disease. Disease, indeed, it could hardly be called. He had been long suffering from the insidious attacks of a hot climate, and though repeatedly advised to invalid, he never would consent. His constitution appeared now to be breaking up. In a few days he was so ill, that, at the request of the naval surgeons, he consented to be removed to the hospital, where he could command more comforts than in any private house. He had not been in the hospital more than two days, when he sent for me, and stated his wish that I should remain with him. “You know, Peter, that you are a cousin of mine, and one likes to have one’s relations near one when we are sick, so bring your traps on shore. The doctor has promised me a nice little room for yourself, and you shall come and sit with me all day.” I certainly had no objection to remain with him, because I considered it my duty so to do, and I must say that there was no occasion for me to make any efforts to entertain him, as he always entertained me; but I could not help seriously reflecting, and feeling much shocked, at a man, lying in so dangerous a state—for the doctors had pronounced his recovery to be impossible—still continuing a system of falsehood during the whole day, without intermission. But it really appeared to him to be innate; and, as Swinburne said, “if he told truth, it was entirely by mistake.”

“Peter,” said he, one day, “there’s a great draught. Shut the door and put on some more coals.”

“The fire does not draw well, sir,” replied I, “without the door is open.”

“It’s astonishing how little people understand the nature of these things. When I built my house called Welcot Abbey, there was not a chimney would draw; I sent for the architect and abused him, but he could not manage it; I was obliged to do it myself.”

“Did you manage it, sir?”

“Manage it—I think I did. The first time I lighted the fire, I opened the door, and the draught was so great, that my little boy William, who was standing in the current of air, would have gone right up the chimney, if I had not caught him by the petticoats; as it was, his frock was on fire.”

“Why, sir, it must have been as bad as a hurricane!”

“No, no, not quite so bad—but it showed what a little knowledge of philosophical arrangement could effect. We have no hurricanes in England, Peter; but I have seen a very pretty whirlwind when I was at Welcot Abbey.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Yes, it cut four square haystacks quite round, and I lost twenty tons of hay; it twisted the iron lamppost at the entrance just as a porpoise twists a harpoon, and took up a sow and her litter of pigs that were about a hundred yards from the back of the house, and landed them safe over the house, to the front, with the exception of the old sow putting her shoulder out.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Yes, but what was strange, there were a great many rats in the hayrick, and up they went with the hay. Now, Peter, by the laws of gravitation, they naturally came down before the hay, and I was walking with my greyhound, or rather terrier, and after one coming down close to her, which she killed, it was quite ridiculous to notice her looking up in the air, and watching for the others.”

“A greyhound did you say, sir, or a terrier?”

“Both, Peter: the fact is, she had been a greyhound, but breaking her fore-leg against a stump, when coursing, I had the other three amputated as well, and then she made a capital terrier. She was a great favourite of mine.”

“Well,” observed I, “I have read something like that in Baron Munchausen.”

“Mr Simple,” said the captain, turning on his elbow and looking me severely in the face, “what do you mean to imply?”

“O nothing, sir, but I have read a story of that kind.”

“Most probably; the great art of invention is to found it upon facts. There are some people who out of a mole-hill will make a mountain; and facts and fiction become so blended now-a-days, that even truth becomes a matter of doubt.”

“Very true, sir,” replied I; and as he did not speak for some minutes, I ventured to bring my Bible to his bedside, as if I were reading it to myself.

“What are you reading, Peter?” said he.

“Only a chapter in the Bible, sir,” said I. “Would you like that I should read aloud?”

“Yes, I’m very fond of the Bible—it’s the book of truth. Peter, read me about Jacob, and his weathering Esau with a mess of pottage, and obtaining his father’s blessing.” I could not help thinking it singular that he should select a portion in which, for divine reasons, a lie was crowned with such success and reward.