Father Rafferty's Christmas Matchmaking.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17223, 14 December 1923, Page 15

Father Rafferty's Christmas Matchmaking.

(By L. G. REDMOXDHOYVARD).

[COPYRIGHT.] Christ mas was coming ; a grand, oldfashioned Christmas with frost and snow - a Christmas such as the old folks used to speak of and tho young folks consequently long for; a fairytale Christmas, in fact, and the whole village of Ballyhone was making its preparations. Father Rafferty, the parish priest, stepped briskly down the main street, his breviary under his arm and a big blackthorn in his hand, looking from left to right with his ever-ready, friendly nod. “ Morning. Pat—morning, Mary—■morning, Sirs Hannigan,” and each in turn would return the good wish. “ Morning, your reverence,” the lads lifted their caps, the girls with an oldworld courtesy. Outside O’Brien’s, the grocery and general store, stood a large cart filled with all manner of provisions for the season. “ Business looking up. O’Brien? ’Tis a great storo you’re getting in.’* said the pTiest. “ Faith and it is,” replied the grocer- “And why wouldn’t it be now

•we’ve got Home Rule and things are •ettling down?’* The priest eyed his parishioner and ran throngh the files of his memory, for every single man, woman and child he had sized up with the accuracy of a scientist; but it was always for their good. Some would need a little scolding: others a little encouraging; some could afford to give a little towards charity ; others, again, would need a little help. For though it is true the farmers now owned their land, the guerilla warfare had left its traces upon the countryside. ■» What Father Rafferty chiefly centralised upon at this season, however, was match-making. “ Sure, he’s a holy terror at matchmaking,” was th 9 verdict of the vil”lage. " What he does not know about loTe isn’t worth knowing-’* Nor was it to be wondered at, since for the past forty years there was hardly a birth, marriage or funeral service at which he had not officiated, to say nothing of superintending the education of every living soul between theso points. Moreover, as the doctor put it, if | it hadn’t heen for Father Rafferty help- i ing the lovers, half the young eligibles ■ w ould have gone to America or the i colonies after their very first tiff, or, what was worse, ruthed headlong into unsuitable alliances, hut the man of God was also man of the world. Hence, every mother, about Christmas time, would be asking for advice about their daughters; and the rich farmers about, their boys, most of whom had received good educations and were full of ambition. Patrick O’Brien, however, was the one man who seemed to be an exception to this rule, and it struck Padre all the more forcibly because “ Bridget Mary.” his only daughter, the pride of Ballyhone, as she was called, was the most beautiful and admired girl not only in the village, but in the whole country. Some, indeed, went so far in their epistles as to call her the most wonderful girl in all Ireland, which would be capped by others who declared her the most wonderful woman that ever lived—after which all rose to the top note of describing her as an angel. Some of her admirers, in fact, would have been quite willing to call her a “ saint ” but for one thipg : _ that would have meant that she ought to become a nun aud go into a convent an(d—-between ourselves—“ di)ril such an old flirt had there ever been since Cleopatra ** —which was by way of a compliment in Ballyhone, where the doings of the great Queen of Egypt were only superficially known. Just as these thoughts were passing through Father Rafferty’s head, who should appear at the door of the shop hut Bridget Mary herself, a vision of delight beneath a pyramid of round cheeses. A lovely colleen with ravenblack hair, eyes of turquoise blue, cheeks dike a peach and lips like n cherry. No wonder the young men of the village were mad over her. “Sure, is that >oursclf, “Bridget Mary?” said Father Rafferty as he noticed O’Brien trying to draw his attention away from the girl ‘ ’Tis a fine armful of Mills’ bombs you’ve got. in vour arms now. Is it to annihilate the British Empire you are after?” "No, indeed, your reverence.” replied the pride of Ballyhone. “ Snre, they’re cheeses that’s come all the way from Holland Faith, there’ll be a great run on them Christmas-time.” With that she attempted a curtsey, and before she could recover her balance the pyramid had broken up like a pack of schoolboys at the sound of the play-bell, and each one was choosing a career for itself in a different part of the roadway. At once a crowd assembled; boys roared with laughter: a neighbouring horse shied that would ordinarily let an express train run between its legs, and a minute later all the gossips and loafers of the village hod formed an admiring crowd, the while O’Brien

cursed his fate that ever Heaven had sent him such a clumsy daughter. ‘Maybe she’s in love,” said one of the old women, knowing full well that this was O’Brien’s sore point. “Sure, why don’t you be after letting her get married.’* The grocer glared. “ Isn’t it the old miser that, he is,’* added another gossip. “ making a domestic servant of—of a girl that’s an heiress by rights, if the truth were only known.’* Father Rafferty, matchmaker that he was, seized the cue that was offered and broke in. “ Is that true what people say about you, O’BrienP” But O’Brien pretended not hear and went in pursuit of an imaginary thirteenth Dutch cheese to complete the dozen that had already been recovered. • ■ Sure, everybody in Ballyhone knows that it’s a fact.” added another gossip, sympathetically appealing thereby to Father Rafferty to interfere. The grocer saw through the remark, and regardless of the paradox replied : “I don’t care whether it’s a fact or not, I deny it.” and he came down upon one of the cheeses so hard with his fist that it split in two. The next moment O'Brien wished he had not spoken, for the vehemence of his denial had had a false ring in it, and Father Rafferty, realising his opportunity, launched what in Court would be known as a leading question. “ What on earth is it yoti deny so forcibly that it can split a cheese,” he said, at which the crowd laugh ted. and Father Rafferty, with a sly twinkle in his eye as he iooksd at Bridget Mary, added: “Ah, well, truth will out—even from the heart of a cheese.”

For answer O’Brien angrily ordered Bridget Mary into the house, muttering something about “ priests in politics,” which was not very much to the point, and ending up with a still more terrible threat, luckily hypothetical, to the effect that if an English soldier “ had said that same ” to him he’d have screwed his head off. This meant, in the vernacular, that O'Brien was angry —very angry indeed—and that the object of his wrath was Bridget Mary, and, incidentally, the Government. Now, matchmaking is essentially diplomatic, and Father Rafferty thought it advisable to leave the matter over for the time being and went on his round- But the publicity given to the incident by the behaviour of the cheese and that of O'Brien—the only event of the -week for gossip—promised to make the question of Bridget Mary’s marriage the topic of the season. At least, that was the conclusion he came to when his housekeeper—a very encyclopaedia of gossip—had unbosomed herself of the case of Bridget Mary as she knew it. and she had it direct from Bridget Mary herself. : Bridget Mary was in love —desperate I ly in love—in fact upon the very verge ! of matrimony; but O’Brien was a pa- | triot first and a father afterwards, and i would not hear of a son-in-law who could not trace his ancestry to the Ireland before the days of the Saxon invaders—preferably to a contemporary of St Patrick. Unfortunately, Paddy Fitzgerald, the man in the case, honest farmer’s son though he was, and belonging to a family which, though originally Norman, historians had described as eventually becoming more Irish than the Irish themselves, did not correspond to O'Brien’s ideal of what a son-in-law for his Bridget Mary should be—in these times. » It was not a question of finance, as is often the case in Irish engagements; it was a question of principle. “ The man who wants to marry my Bridget Mary,’’ O’Brien was reported as having declared in the little bar adjoining liis grocery. “ that man must have the blood of the O’Neils in his reins the real kings of old Ireland; nobody else is good enough ’’—which as an estimate of a daughter’s worth was admirable, but as a “ conditio sine qua non ” of matrimony was decidedly awkward. So awkward, in fact, that both the parties concerned found it_ necessary to come and consult Father Rafferty in person about the matter—the good padre being, as we have already said, the best matchmaker in the county; and it needed all his tact in love affairs to deal with the problem raised by the case, for both were desperate. So desperate, indeed, that he was given a time limit: either he was to get O'Brien’s consent between Christmas and New Year to put up the banns, or else Bridget Mary was going to enter the Poor Clairs, and Paddy Fitzgerald was going to enlist again for foreign service and never come near Ballyhone again. So he promised to do his best, though he said the time was short and it placed him rather at a disadvantage, and he left the means to Providence. Meanwhile O'Brien himself was getting anxious, likewise, for the incident of the cheese by the time rumour had carried it up to Dublin and back had grown into an amazing story. He was described as having gone clean off his head, announcing that Bridget Mary would either be Queen of Ireland or go into a convent, and that, like a maniac, he was pounding every possible suitor not prepared to make her so with thousands of Dutch cheeses, till the streets of Ballyhone looked like Ypres itself For in Ireland no one will spoil a good story simply for a miserable fact or two, especially when there is a purpose fn the humour: and Father Rafferty was an excellent letter-writer* Nothing is so deadly as ridirule-

that. he knew—-and at first he had hopes of cutting the Gordian knot in this manner: but unfortunately be had reckoned without the unfathomable obduracy of O’Brien. The ridicule, on the contrary, had worked him into a very passion of determination, and, stranger still, of accuracy. and once again the ban rang with bis vow : “ No one without some of the blood of Ireland’s ancient kings shall have the hand of Bridget Mary, and if she marry without my consent, devil a ha’porth will she get for a dowry. And I’ll never speak to her again and T’ll leave all my money to the Lepers.” Now. however deserving the Leper settlement- is, in principle, there seemed no sense in wasting so much money upon it. At least, such was the verdict of the village, which would of course be the poorer by it. On the other hand, Bridget Mary was a dutiful daughter, and loved her father, and Paddy Fitzgerald, a nobleminded lover, who would not have had the girl or her fortune at the cost of her life-long exile from the paternal roof; so in despair he appealed to Father Rafferty, the matchmaker. Sure, couldn’t the priest find a way out of the terrible predicament. He had had a wonderful reputation for theology in Maynooth. and wasn’t he the best ‘ * argufyer ’ ’ in the province when he wrote to the papers on Home Rule or the Spanish Inquisition pr Hell Fire 9 —on all of which points he was looked upon as one t>f the best living authorities. Father Rafferty accepted the undertaking while discounting the exuberance of the tribute to his powers. He promised to look up the ancestry of the Fitzgeralds to see if by any chance

their name might not have been changed from O’Neil to comply with sohie of the penal laws which required the abolition of the older patronymic. But it was a difficult matter, and a week before Christmas the priest had to report that his efforts had failed. Unfortunately, such had been the confidence of the parties that they had ready vowed to run away together—love being too powerful—upon Christmas Eve unless proof were forthcoming. Meanwhile, O’Brien had passed from ridicule to hatred in the village—a hatred which not even the tragedy ol the lepers who would benefit by his decision could assuage. “ It must be a man with the blood of the O’Neils in his veins or nothing,” continued O’Brien, and a walk down the street with Hannigan, the solicit or, showed everyone that he meant what he said. Tho lovers were in despair; the vil lago was like a suppressed volcano, for Paddy Fitzgerald had served with distinction in the Great War as a ser geant, and it was said had on one occasion saved his captain's life at the risk of his own. This sacrifice, the cap tain was able later, it appears, to re turn at his own personal risk—anothei fact that had got into the Liverpool papers—but no details had ever come to hand. Nor would Paddy Fitzgerald even consent to speak of the incident when questioned by the local reporte, of tho “ Ballyhone Gazette.” Possibly it was the mystery which Paddy made about tlie incident, being by nature shy and reserved, that made Father Rafferty prosecute inquiries in this direction. Possibly it was sheer luck; but some of the most pious of the inhabitants of Ballyhone did not hesi tate to use the word “ miracle ” of the incident, which eventually led to the marriage of Bridget Mart- and Paddy Fitzgerald. For behold, upon Christmas Day is was suddenly announced that Bridget Mary O’Brien and Paddy Fitzgerald were to be joined in the bonds of holy matrimony, and the local solicitor al - lowed the news to leak out that he was actually engaged upon drafting of the marriage settlement —and no one pitied the lepers. There was one great question, however. which sprang from lio to lip. Had O’Brien retracted his oath about the blood of the kings of Ireland being the only condition upon which he would give his consent? No, indeed ; far from it. arid, what was more. Father Rafferty had under taken to prove that Paddy Fitzgerald had the blood of the kings in his veins. O’Brien even showed the letter from the presbytery round the bar. in which the undertaking was in black and white, to be proved satisfactorily in due course when the documents arrived from London. At once an air of mystery fell upon the shoulders of Paddy Fitzgerald; no fairy tale book could have woven such, a romance about a prince. But O’Brien was not taking any chances of equivo cation, and saw that the marriage set tlement and his consent was condi tio'nal upon the proof being conclusive It was in vain every lad and gossip of Ballyhone plied Paddy with ques tions about his ancestry. H** was as mute as an oyster, and. if the truth must be told, such were his inatruc tions from Father Rafferty, the matchmaker. Nor could he have done any thing else, for. try as he would, he could get no further back in his family tree than the famine—and that, was in O’Connell’s time. Meanwhile, however, presents came in ; a house was found ; the great wed ding party was arranged , the an nouncement was made in the newspa pers. and no happier or more mystified pair ever existed than the two lovers. Still the proof did not come Iron London, and. as we have seen, every thing was conditional upon tho evidence. But upon New Year’s Eve a telegram was delivered at the presbytery to sav that an Irishman. Captain O’Neil, would arrive the next day and

give all the proof necessary in the matter of" Sergeant Fitzgerald. "Was that enough? The news spread like wildfire through the village—in fact, it had gone up and down tho main street of Ballyhone twice before the wire had actually reached the reverend matchmaker. AVa« he a. relative P everyone asked Father Rafferty, to which the match maker answered he was a true sort of blood relation. That did it: it was proof positive. But the details, he explained, would be given personally by Captain O’Neil himself, who, as might be imagined, was to be tho principal guest at the Christmas dinner given by O’Brien, who had, in addition to asking Father Rafferty, informed the “Ballyhone Gazette ” that they might send a reporter to take down in shorthand the epoch-making speech showing that “ Bridget Mary, only daughter of Paul M. O’Brien, was to marry a man with the blood-royal of the ancient kings of Ireland in his veins.” All through the dinner O’Brien was bursting with curiosity, the guests likewise, to say nothing of the prospectiva bride and bridegroom. But Father Rafferty eat with a face as enigmatic as a sphinx. He would not even let the leading question be asked ; and Captain O’Neil, Irish of the Irish, kept the conversation centred about the ad • ventures he and Paddy Fitzgerald had during the war. It was only after grace, .when the coffee and cigars were being handed round, and part of the copy for the local paper had gone out by special messenger, that Father Rafferty allowed O’Brien to put the question, when Captain O’Neil got up to make the speech for which the local reporter had already sharpened three pencils. It was not a long speech, however, but short and to the point. He had been asked the relations between Paddy Fitzgerald and himself: they were the closest relations that could exist between two men. They were the relations of blood and love, and he told how on a certain night, when the enemy had penetrated their positions, Paddy had crept out and at the risk of his life brought him back to safety, unfortunately getting an ugly wound in so doing that nearly cost him his life through loss of blood. In fact, though he —the Captain—had kept it.a secret up to then, save to Father Rafferty. Paddy Fitzgerald owed his life to the timely transfusion in which, as the Captain explained, he was only too proud to do for his friend the same sacrifice friend had done for him.

The room rocked with applause and cheering,, though the word seemed rather vague; but the speech, to O’Brien, was utterly inconclusive. He had expected an orgy of genealogy, and a deluge of old parchments. “ ”Ere,” said O’Brien hotly, “ I thought you were going to tell us how much of the royal blood of the O’Neils is in the veins of Paddy Fitzgerald.” “Well,” replied the genial Captain, “if that’s what you want to know, thi doctors do tell me I gave him about a pint of it. But I’d hrfve willingly given every Xlrop in my Ijody if I’d known it was for the future husband of Bridget Mary O’Brien —long life to them both 1” Then, before Patrick O’Brien couli fully realise what had happened, he had quaffed the toast. Meanwhile, the reporter of the “ Ballyhone Gazette ” had knocked down two chairs and was clattering down the main street in order to he in time with the news for the next- morning’s paper, which, being owned by a political rival, not all the fortune of Patrick O’Brien could have prevented from announcing the engagement to the world. Father Rafferty, of course, performed the ceremony, and thev called it a masterpiece of matchmaking and I don’t think they were far wrong.