Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent Part 62

"You needn't, Mr. Harman; I hate a dirty and ungenerous thing. Phil's a brother Orangeman, and my tongue is tied--no doubt I'll be expelled for knocking these two scoundrels down, but I don't care; it was too bad and too cruel, and, let the upshot be what it may, Gordon Harvey is not the man to back a scoundrelly act, no matter who does it, or who orders it."

They shook hands cordially, and we now must leave the family for a time, to follow the course of other events that bear upon our narrative.

CHAPTER XXVII.--Bob Beatty's Last Illness

--A Holy Steeple Chase--A Dead Heat--Blood against Varmint--Rival Claims--A Mutual Disappointment--The Last Plea for Salvation--_Non Compos Mentis_

Our readers may remember that we have alluded to an Orangeman, named Bob Beatty, who had become a convert to the Church of Rome. This Beatty, on the part of the priest, was a very fair set-off against Darby O'Drive, on the part of Mr. Lucre. As they were now on the eve of the great discussion, each felt considerable gratification in having his convert ready to produce at the discussion, as a living proof of his zeal for religious truth. The princ.i.p.al vexation which the priest had felt, lay in the almost insuperable difficulty of keeping Bob from liquor, inasmuch as whenever he happened to take a gla.s.s too much, he always forgot his conversion, and generally drank the Glorious Memory, and all other charter toasts, from habit. It so happened, however, that a few days previous to the great Tournay, Bob became so ill in health, that there was little hope of his surviving any length of time. During this illness, he had several interviews with. Father Roche, who informed him of the near approach of death, and prepared him, as well as could readily be done, to meet it; for truth to tell, he was at all times an impracticable subject on which to produce religious impressions. Be this as it may, a day or two previous to the discussion, his wife, feeling that he was near his dissolution, and determined, if possible, that he should not die a Roman Catholic, went in hurry for Mr. Clement, who happened to be in attendance on a funeral and was consequently from home. In the meantime, his Roman Catholic neighbor, hearing that she meant to fetch the minister, naturally anxious that the man should not die a Protestant, lost no time in acquainting Father M'Cabe with his situation. Mrs. Beatty, however, finding that Mr. Clement was not to be procured, left her message with his family, and proceeded in all haste to Mr. Lucre's in order to secure his attendance.

"My good woman," said he, "your husband, I trust, is not in such danger.

Mr. Clement cannot certainly be long absent, and he will attend; I am not quite well, or I should willingly go myself."

"Very well," said the woman, "between you, I suppose, you will let the priest, M'Cabe have him; and then it will be said he died a Papish."

"What's that?" inquired Mr. Lucre, with an interest which he could not conceal; "what has M'Cabe to do with him?"

"Why,", returned the woman, "he has made him a Papish, but I want him to die a True Blue, and not shame the family."

"I shall attend," said Lucre; "I shall lose no time in attending. What's your husband's name?"

"Bob Beatty, sir."

"Oh, yes, he is subject to epilepsy."

"The same, sir."

She then gave him directions to find the house, and left him making very earnest and rapid preparations to do what he had not done for many a long year--attend a death-bed; and truly his absence was no loss.

In the meantime, Father M'Cabe having heard an account of Bob's state, and that the minister had been sent for, was at once upon the alert, and lost not a moment in repairing to his house. So very eager, indeed, were these gentlemen, and so equal their speed, that they met at the cross-roads, one of which turned to Bob's house. In the meantime, we may as well inform our readers here, that Bob himself had, in his wife's presence, privately sent for Father Roche.

Each instantly suspected the object of the other, and determined in his own mind, if possible, to frustrate it.

"So, sir," said the priest, "you are on your way to Bob Beatty's, who is, as you know, one of my flock. But how do you expect to get through the business, Mr. Lucre, seeing that you are so long out of practice?"

"Bob Beatty was never, properly speaking, one of your flock, Mr. M'Cabe.

I must beg leave to ride forward, sir, and leave you to your Christian meditations. One interview with you is enough for any man."

"Faith, but I love you too well to part with you so easily," said the priest, spurring on his horse, "cheek by jowl--and a beautiful one you have--will I ride with you, my worthy epicure; and, what is more, I'll anoint Bob Beatty before your eyes."

"And, perhaps, perform another miracle," replied Mr. Lucre, bitterly.

"Ay will, if it be necessary," said the priest; "but I do most solemnly a.s.sure you that by far the most brilliant miracle of modern days is to find the Rev. Phineas Lucre at a sick-bed. Depend upon it, however, if Beatty had not turned Catholic, he might die like a dog for the same Mr.

Lucre."

"I will not abstract the last s.h.i.+lling from his pocket for the unction of superst.i.tion, at all events."

"Not you, faith; you'll charge him nothing I grant, and right glad am I to find that you know the value of your services. You forget, however, that my flock pay you well for doing this nothing--that is, for discharging your duty--notwithstanding."

Both now pushed on at a rapid rate, growling at each other as they went along. On getting into the fields they increased their speed; and as the peasantry of both religions were apprised of the circ.u.mstances connected with Bob's complaint and conversion, each party cheered on their own champion.

"More power to you Father M'Cabe; give him the Latin and the Bravery!"

(*Breviary)

"Success, Mr. Lucre! Push on, sir, and don't let the Popish rebel send him out of the world with a bandage on his eyes. Lay in the Bible, Mr.

Lucre! Protestant and True Blue forever--hurra!"

"The true Church forever, Father M'Cabe, the jewel that you war! Give the horse the spurs, avourneen. Sowl, Paddy, but the _bodagh_ parson has the advantage of him in the _cappul_. Push on, your reverence; you have the divil and the parson against you, for the one's drivin' on the other."

"Cross the corner of the Barny Mother's meadow, Mr. Lucre, and wheel in at the garden ditch; your horse can do it, although you ride the heaviest weight. Lay on him, sir, and think of Protestant Ascendancy.

King William against Popery and wooden shoes; hurra!"

"Father, achora, keep your shoulder to the wind, and touch up _Parra Gastha_ (* Literally, Paddy Speedy) wid the spurs. A groan for the Protestant parson, father darlin'!"

"Three groans for the Popish Ma.s.s Book. Bravo, Mr. Lucre! That ditch was well cleared!"

"Devil a purtier, father jewel! Parra Gastha's a darlin', and brought you over like a bird--hurra!"

"Have you no whip, Mr. Lucre? Whip and spur, sir, or the Popish garran will be in before you. By the great Boyne, I'm afraid the charger's blown."

"G.o.d enable you, father avilis.h.!.+ Blown! Why what would you expect, an'

it the first visit ever the same horse made to a sick-bed' in his life; he now finds it isn't on the king's highway he is--and I'll go bail it's himself that's cursin' the same duty in his heart. Bravo, Father Pat!

Parra Gastha's the boy that knows his duty--more power, Parra Gastha!

Divil pursue the hair's turned on him; but, be me sowl, it wouldn't be so, if he led the life the Protestant blood did.--feedin' high, and doin' nothin'."

"Mr. Lucre, pull out; I see you're hard up, sir, and so is your charger.

Push him, sir, even if he should drop. Death and Protestantism before Popery and dishonor! Hurra, well done!"

"Ah, be me sowl, it's near the last gasp wid him and his masther, and no wondher; they're both divilish far out of their element. Faith, if they had Father M'Cabe and Parra Gastha's practice, they wouldn't be the show they are this minute. Well done both! fresh and fair, snug and dry, you do it. Hurra!"

When the two worthy gentlemen had reached Bob's house, they dismounted, each in a perspiration, and rushed to the bed of the dying man. Mr.

Lucre sat, of course, at one side, and the priest at the other; Mr.

Lucre seized the right hand, and the priest the left: whilst Bob looked at them both alternately, and gave a cordial squeeze to each.

"You thought, sir," said Mr. Lucre to the priest haughtily, "that he would have died an idolater."

Bob squeezed Mr. Lucre's hand again.

"And you thought," replied Father M'Cabe, "that he would die a Protestant or a heretic, which is the same thing."

Bob squeezed Father M'Cabe's hand once more.

"Gentlemen," said Bob, "be pleased to sit down--you are both Christian ministers, I hope."

"No," said Father M'Cabe, "there is but one of us a Christian; Mr. Lucre here is not worthy of the name, Bob."