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Updated: May 17, 2025
He won't want to hear what I've got to say, but he has got to hear it. And after all you're his daughter, and if he has any bowels of compassion . . ." Again I must have made some effort to speak, for he said: "Yes, he's ill, but he has only to set Curphy to work and the lawyer will do the rest." I could not allow him to go any further, so I blurted out somehow that I had seen my father already.
Curphy, my father's advocate, and decided to send a telegram to him asking for the name of some solicitor in London to whom I could apply for advice. To carry out this intention I went down to the hall about nine o'clock, when people were passing into the breakfast-room, and visitors were calling at the bureau, and livened page-boys were shouting names in the corridors.
Curphy, and perhaps my father himself, that I might know one way or the other where I was, and what was to become of me. But how to do this I could not see, having a houseful of people who were nominally my guests. Fortune ill-fortune favoured me.
"Answer the man, Curphy," said Daniel O'Neill, and thereupon the lawyer, with almost equal insolence, turned to me and said: "What is it you wish to know, sir?" "Why shouldn't he? If the mother dies, for instance, her father will be the child's legal guardian." "But if by that time the father is dead too what then?"
"How are you doing, Mr. Curphy, sir?" "Doing well, sir. Are you doing well yourself, Mr. O'Neill, sir?" "Lord-a-massy yes, sir. I'm always doing well, sir." Never had anybody in Ellan seen so strange a mixture of grandeur and country style. My husband seemed to be divided between amused contempt for it, and a sense of being compromised by its pretence.
Lord! how my hands itched! But controlling myself again, with a mighty effort I said: "Monsignor, I don't think I should advise you to say that again." "Why not, sir?" "Because I have a deep respect for your cloth and should be sorry to see it soiled." "Violence!" cried the Bishop, rising to his feet. "You threaten me with violence? . . . Is there no policeman in this parish, Mr. Curphy?"
Just then a third motor-car came throbbing up to the house, and Betsy who was standing by the window cried: "It's Uncle Daniel with Mr. Curphy and Nessy."
Curphy, whom I knew to be my father's advocate, and my dear old Father Dan. I was surprised to find Father Dan a smaller man than I had thought him, very plain and provincial, a little country parish priest, but he had the tender smile I always remembered, and the sweet Irish roll of the vowels that I could never forget. "God bless you," he said. "How well you're looking!
"I did, Monsignor." "Did you know also that I was here to-night to attend with Mr. Curphy to important affairs and perhaps discharge some sacred duties?" "I knew that too, Monsignor."
Curphy at his house in Holmtown, and then my father sat with us at the back, and talked with tremendous energy of what he had done, of what he was going to do, and of all the splendours that were before me. "You'll be the big woman of the island, gel, and there won't be a mother's son that dare say boo to you."
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