The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Kellys and the O'Kellys
by Anthony Trollope
(#31 in our series by Anthony Trollope)

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: The Kellys and the O'Kellys

Author: Anthony Trollope

Release Date: January, 2004  [EBook #4917]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on March 27, 2002]
[Most recently updated February 29, 2004]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE KELLYS AND THE O'KELLYS ***




This eBook was produced by Andrew Turek.




Note: Project Gutenberg is aware that this EBook contains numerous
      errors. Most notably, much of Trollope's original punctuation
      is missing. We are in the process of correcting and updating
      the text.




THE KELLYS AND THE O'KELLYS

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE





I THE TRIAL


During the first two months of the year 1844, the greatest possible
excitement existed in Dublin respecting the State Trials, in which Mr
O'Connell, his son, the Editors of three different repeal newspapers, Tom
Steele, the Rev. Mr Tierney a priest who had taken a somewhat prominent
part in the Repeal Movement and Mr Ray, the Secretary to the Repeal
Association, were indicted for conspiracy. Those who only read of the
proceedings in papers, which gave them as a mere portion of the news of the
day, or learned what was going on in Dublin by chance conversation, can
have no idea of the absorbing interest which the whole affair created in
Ireland, but more especially in the metropolis. Every one felt strongly, on
one side or on the other. Every one had brought the matter home to his own
bosom, and looked to the result of the trial with individual interest and
suspense.

Even at this short interval Irishmen can now see how completely they put
judgment aside, and allowed feeling and passion to predominate in the
matter. Many of the hottest protestants, of the staunchest foes to
O'Connell, now believe that his absolute imprisonment was not to be
desired, and that whether he were acquitted or convicted, the Government
would have sufficiently shown, by instituting his trial, its determination
to put down proceedings of which they did not approve. On the other hand,
that class of men who then styled themselves Repealers are now aware that
the continued imprisonment of their leader the persecution, as they
believed it to be, of "the Liberator"  would have been the one thing most
certain to have sustained his influence, and to have given fresh force to
their agitation. Nothing ever so strengthened the love of the Irish for,
and the obedience of the Irish to O'Connell, as his imprisonment; nothing
ever so weakened his power over them as his unexpected enfranchisement. The
country shouted for joy when he was set free, and expended all its
enthusiasm in the effort.

At the time, however, to which I am now referring, each party felt the most
intense interest in the struggle, and the most eager desire for success.
Every Repealer, and every Anti-Repealer in Dublin felt that it was a
contest, in which he himself was, to a certain extent, individually
engaged. All the tactics of the opposed armies, down to the minutest legal
details, were eagerly and passionately canvassed in every circle. Ladies,
who had before probably never heard of "panels" in forensic phraseology,
now spoke enthusiastically on the subject; and those on one side expressed
themselves indignant at the fraudulent omission of certain names from the
lists of jurors; while those on the other were capable of proving the
legality of choosing the jury from the names which were given, and stated
most positively that the omissions were accidental.

"The traversers" were in everybody's mouth a term heretofore confined to
law courts, and lawyers' rooms. The Attorney-General, the Commander-in-
Chief of the Government forces, was most virulently assailed; every legal
step which he took was scrutinised and abused; every measure which he used
was base enough of itself to hand down his name to everlasting infamy. Such
were the tenets of the Repealers. And O'Connell and his counsel, their base
artifices, falsehoods, delays, and unprofessional proceedings, were
declared by the Saxon party to be equally abominable.

The whole Irish bar seemed, for the time, to have laid aside the habitual
sang froid and indifference of lawyers, and to have employed their hearts
as well as their heads on behalf of the different parties by whom they were
engaged. The very jurors themselves for a time became famous or infamous,
according to the opinions of those by whom their position was discussed.
Their names and additions were published and republished; they were
declared to be men who would stand by their country and do their duty
without fear or favour so said the Protestants. By the Roman Catholics,
they were looked on as perjurors determined to stick to the Government with
blind indifference to their oaths. Their names are now, for the most part,
forgotten, though so little time has elapsed since they appeared so
frequently before the public.

Every day's proceedings gave rise to new hopes and fears. The evidence
rested chiefly on the reports of certain short-hand writers, who had been
employed to attend Repeal meetings, and their examinations and cross-
examinations were read, re-read, and scanned with the minutest care. Then,
the various and long speeches of the different counsel, who, day after day,
continued to address the jury; the heat of one, the weary legal
technicalities of another, the perspicuity of a third, and the splendid
forensic eloquence of a fourth, were criticised, depreciated and admired.
It seemed as though the chief lawyers of the day were standing an
examination, and were candidates for some high honour, which each was
striving to secure.

The Dublin papers were full of the trial; no other subject, could, at the
time, either interest or amuse. I doubt whether any affair of the kind was
ever, to use the phrase of the trade, so well and perfectly reported. The
speeches appeared word for word the same in the columns of newspapers of
different politics. For four-fifths of the contents of the paper it would
have been the same to you whether you were reading the Evening Mail, or the
Freeman. Every word that was uttered in the Court was of importance to
every one in Dublin; and half-an-hour's delay in ascertaining, to the
minutest shade, what had taken place in Court during any period, was
accounted a sad misfortune.

The press round the Four Courts, every morning before the doors were open,
was very great: and except by the favoured few who were able to obtain
seats, it was only with extreme difficulty and perseverance, that an
entrance into the body of the Court could be obtained.

It was on the eleventh morning of the proceedings, on the day on which the
defence of the traversers was to be commenced, that two young men, who had
been standing for a couple of hours in front of the doors of the Court,
were still waiting there, with what patience was left to them, after having
been pressed and jostled for so long a time. Richard Lalor Sheil, however,
was to address the jury on behalf of Mr John O'Connell and every one in
Dublin knew that that was a treat not to be lost. The two young men, too,
were violent Repealers. The elder of them was a three-year-old denizen of
Dublin, who knew the names of the contributors to the "Nation", who had
constantly listened to the indignation and enthusiasm of O'Connell, Smith
O'Brien, and O'Neill Daunt, in their addresses from the rostrum of the
Conciliation Hall; who had drank much porter at Jude's, who had eaten many
oysters at Burton Bindon's, who had seen and contributed to many rows in
the Abbey Street Theatre; who, during his life in Dublin, had done many
things which he ought not to have done, and had probably made as many
omissions of things which it had behoved him to do. He had that knowledge
of the persons of his fellow-citizens, which appears to be so much more
general in Dublin than in any other large town; he could tell you the name
and trade of every one he met in the streets, and was a judge of the
character and talents of all whose employments partook, in any degree, of a
public nature. His name was Kelly; and, as his calling was that of an
attorney's clerk, his knowledge of character would be peculiarly valuable
in the scene at which he and his companion were so anxious to be present.

The younger of the two brothers, for such they were, was a somewhat
different character. Though perhaps a more enthusiastic Repealer than his
brother, he was not so well versed in the details of Repeal tactics, or in
the strength and weakness of the Repeal ranks. He was a young farmer, of
the better class, from the County Mayo, where he held three or four hundred
wretchedly bad acres under Lord Ballindine, and one or two other small
farms, under different landlords. He was a good-looking young fellow, about
twenty-five years of age, with that mixture of cunning and frankness in his
bright eye, which is so common among those of his class in Ireland, but
more especially so in Connaught.

The mother of these two young men kept an inn in the small town of Dunmore,
and though from the appearance of the place, one would be led to suppose
that there could not be in Dunmore much of that kind of traffic which
innkeepers love, Mrs Kelly was accounted a warm, comfortable woman. Her
husband had left her for a better world some ten years since, with six
children; and the widow, instead of making continual use, as her chief
support, of that common wail of being a poor, lone woman, had put her
shoulders to the wheel, and had earned comfortably, by sheer industry, that
which so many of her class, when similarly situated, are willing to owe to
compassion.

She held on the farm, which her husband rented from Lord Ballindine, till
her eldest son was able to take it. He, however, was now a gauger in the
north of Ireland. Her second son was the attorney's clerk; and the farm had
descended to Martin, the younger, whom we have left jostling and jostled at
one of the great doors of the Four Courts, and whom we must still leave
there for a short time, while a few more of the circumstances of his family
are narrated.

Mrs Kelly had, after her husband's death, added a small grocer's
establishment to her inn. People wondered where she had found the means of
supplying her shop: some said that old Mick Kelly must have had money when
he died, though it was odd how a man who drank so much could ever have kept
a shilling by him. Others remarked how easy it was to get credit in these
days, and expressed a hope that the wholesale dealer in Pill Lane might be
none the worse. However this might be, the widow Kelly kept her station
firmly and constantly behind her counter, wore her weeds and her warm,
black, stuff dress decently and becomingly, and never asked anything of
anybody.

At the time of which we are writing, her two elder sons had left her, and
gone forth to make their own way, and take the burden of the world on their
own shoulders. Martin still lived with his mother, though his farm lay four
miles distant, on the road to Ballindine, and in another county for Dunmore
is in County Galway, and the lands of Toneroe, as Martin's farm was called,
were in the County Mayo. One of her three daughters had lately been married
to a shop-keeper in Tuam, and rumour said that he had got £500 with her;
and Pat Daly was not the man to have taken a wife for nothing. The other
two girls, Meg and Jane, still remained under their mother's wing, and
though it was to be presumed that they would soon fly abroad, with the same
comfortable plumage which had enabled their sister to find so warm a nest,
they were obliged, while sharing their mother's home, to share also her
labours, and were not allowed to be too proud to cut off pennyworths of
tobacco, and mix dandies of punch for such of their customers as still
preferred the indulgence of their throats to the blessing of Father Mathew.

Mrs. Kelly kept two ordinary in-door servants to assist in the work of the
house; one, an antiquated female named Sally, who was more devoted to her
tea-pot than ever was any bacchanalian to his glass. Were there four
different teas in the inn in one evening, she would have drained the pot
after each, though she burst in the effort. Sally was, in all, an honest
woman, and certainly a religious one;--she never neglected her devotional
duties, confessed with most scrupulous accuracy the various peccadillos of
which she might consider herself guilty; and it was thought, with reason,
by those who knew her best, that all the extra prayers she said,--and they
were very many,--were in atonement for commissions of continual petty
larceny with regard to sugar. On this subject did her old mistress quarrel
with her, her young mistress ridicule her; of this sin did her
fellow-servant accuse her; and, doubtless, for this sin did her Priest
continually reprove her; but in vain. Though she would not own it, there
was always sugar in her pocket, and though she declared that she usually
drank her tea unsweetened, those who had come upon her unawares had seen
her extracting the pinches of moist brown saccharine from the huge slit in
her petticoat, and could not believe her.

Kate, the other servant, was a red-legged lass, who washed the potatoes,
fed the pigs, and ate her food nobody knew when or where. Kates,
particularly Irish Kates, are pretty by prescription; but Mrs. Kelly's Kate
had been excepted, and was certainly a most positive exception. Poor Kate
was very ugly. Her hair had that appearance of having been dressed by the
turkey-cock, which is sometimes presented by the heads of young women in
her situation; her mouth extended nearly from ear to ear; her neck and
throat, which were always nearly bare, presented no feminine charms to
view; and her short coarse petticoat showed her red legs nearly to the
knee; for, except on Sundays, she knew not the use of shoes and stockings.
But though Kate was ungainly and ugly, she was useful, and grateful very
fond of the whole family, and particularly attached to the two young
ladies, in whose behalf she doubtless performed many a service, acceptable
enough to them, but of which, had she known of them, the widow would have
been but little likely to approve.

Such was Mrs. Kelly's household at the time that her son Martin left
Connaught to pay a short visit to the metropolis, during the period of
O'Connell's trial. But, although Martin was a staunch Repealer, and had
gone as far as Galway, and Athlone, to be present at the Monster Repeal
Meetings which had been held there, it was not political anxiety alone
which led him to Dublin. His landlord; the young Lord Ballindine, was
there; and, though Martin could not exactly be said to act as his
lordship's agent for Lord Ballindine had, unfortunately, a legal agent,
with whose services his pecuniary embarrassments did not allow him to
dispense he was a kind of confidential tenant, and his attendance had been
requested. Martin, moreover, had a somewhat important piece of business of
his own in hand, which he expected would tend greatly to his own advantage;
and, although he had fully made up his mind to carry it out if possible, he
wanted, in conducting it, a little of his brother's legal advice, and,
above all, his landlord's sanction.

This business was nothing less than an intended elopement with an heiress
belonging to a rank somewhat higher than that in which Martin Kelly might
be supposed to look, with propriety, for his bride; but Martin was a
handsome fellow, not much burdened with natural modesty, and he had, as he
supposed, managed to engage the affections of Anastasia Lynch, a lady
resident near Dunmore.

All particulars respecting Martin's intended the amount of her fortune her
birth and parentage her age and attractions shall, in due time, be made
known; or rather, perhaps, be suffered to make themselves known. In the
mean time we will return to the two brothers, who are still anxiously
waiting to effect an entrance into the august presence of the Law.

Martin had already told his brother of his matrimonial speculations, and
had received certain hints from that learned youth as to the proper means
of getting correct information as to the amount of the lady's wealth her
power to dispose of it by her own deed and certain other particulars always
interesting to gentlemen who seek money and love at the same time. John did
not quite approve of the plan; there might have been a shade of envy at his
brother's good fortune; there might be some doubt as to his brother's power
of carrying the affair through successfully; but, though he had not
encouraged him, he gave him the information he wanted, and was as willing
to talk over the matter as Martin could desire.

As they were standing in the crowd, their conversation ran partly on Repeal
and O'Connell, and partly on matrimony and Anty Lynch, as the lady was
usually called by those who knew her best.

'Tear and 'ouns Misther Lord Chief Justice!' exclaimed Martin, 'and are ye
niver going to opin them big doors?'

'And what'd be the good of his opening them yet,' answered John, 'when a
bigger man than himself an't there? Dan and the other boys isn't in it yet,
and sure all the twelve judges couldn't get on a peg without them.'

'Well, Dan, my darling!' said the other, 'you're thought more of here this
day than the lot of 'em, though the place in a manner belongs to them, and
you're only a prisoner.'

'Faix and that's what he's not, Martin; no more than yourself, nor so
likely, may-be. He's the traverser, as I told you before, and that's not
being a prisoner. If he were a prisoner, how did he manage to tell us all
what he did at the Hall yesterday?'

'Av' he's not a prisoner, he's the next-door to it; it's not of his own
free will and pleasure he'd come here to listen to all the lies them
thundhering Saxon ruffians choose to say about him.'

'And why not? Why wouldn't he come here and vindicate himself? When you
hear Sheil by and by, you'll see then whether they think themselves likely
to be prisoners! No no; they never will be, av' there's a ghost of a
conscience left in one of them Protesthant raps, that they've picked so
carefully out of all Dublin to make jurors of. They can't convict 'em! I
heard Ford, the night before last, offer four to one that they didn't find
the lot guilty; and he knows what he's about, and isn't the man to thrust a
Protestant half as far as he'd see him.'

'Isn't Tom Steele a Protesthant himself, John?'

'Well, I believe he is. So's Gray, and more of 'em too; but there's a
difference between them and the downright murdhering Tory set. Poor Tom
doesn't throuble the Church much; but you'll be all for Protesthants now,
Martin, when you've your new brother-in-law. Barry used to be one of your
raal out-and-outers!'

'It's little, I'm thinking, I and Barry'll be having to do together, unless
it be about the brads; and the law about them now, thank God, makes no
differ for Roman and Protesthant. Anty's as good a Catholic as ever
breathed, and so was her mother before her; and when she's Mrs Kelly, as I
mane to make her, Master Barry may shell out the cash and go to heaven his
own way for me.'

'It ain't the family then, you're fond of, Martin! And I wondher at that,
considering how old Sim loved us all.'

'Niver mind Sim, John! he's dead and gone; and av' he niver did a good deed
before, he did one when he didn't lave all his cash to that precious son of
his, Barry Lynch.'

'You're prepared for squalls with Barry, I suppose?'

'He'll have all the squalling on his own side, I'm thinking, John. I don't
mane to squall, for one. I don't see why I need, with £400 a-year in my
pocket, and a good wife to the fore.'

'The £400 a-year's good enough, av' you touch it, certainly,' said the man
of law, thinking of his own insufficient guinea a-week, 'and you must look
to have some throuble yet afore you do that. But as to the wife why, the
less said the better eh, Martin?

'Av' it's not asking too much, might I throuble you, sir, to set anywhere
else but on my shouldher?' This was addressed to a very fat citizen, who
was wheezing behind Martin, and who, to escape suffocation in the crowd,
was endeavouring to raise himself on his neighbour's shoulders. 'And why
the less said the better? I wish yourself may never have a worse.'

'I wish I mayn't, Martin, as far as the cash goes; and a man like me might
look a long time in Dublin before he got a quarter of the money. But you
must own Anty's no great beauty, and she's not over young, either.'


'Av' she's no beauty, she's not downright ugly, like many a girl that gets
a good husband; and av' she's not over young, she's not over old. She's not
so much older than myself, after all. It's only because her own people have
always made nothing of her; that's what has made everybody else do the
same.'

'Why, Martin, I know she's ten years older than Barry, and Barry's older
than you!'

'One year; and Anty's not full ten years older than him. Besides, what's
ten years between man and wife?'

'Not much, when it's on time right side. But it's the wrong side with you,
Martin!'

'Well, John, now, by virtue of your oath, as you chaps say, wouldn't you
many a woman twice her age, av' she'd half the money? Begad you would, and
leap at it!'

'Perhaps I would. I'd a deal sooner have a woman eighty than forty. There'd
be some chance then of having the money after the throuble was over! Anty's
neither ould enough nor young enough'

'She's not forty, any way; and won't be yet for five years and more; and,
as I hope for glory, John though I know you won't believe me I wouldn't
marry her av' she'd all Sim Lynch's ill-gotten property, instead of only
half, av' I wasn't really fond of her, and av' I didn't think I'd make her
a good husband.'

'You didn't tell mother what you're afther, did you?'

'Sorrow a word! But she's so 'cute she partly guesses; and I think Meg let
slip something. The girls and Anty are thick as thiefs since old Sim died;
though they couldn't be at the house much since Barry came home, and Anty
daren't for her life come down to the shop.'

'Did mother say anything about the schame?'

'Faix, not much; but what she did say, didn't show she'd much mind for it.
Since Sim Lynch tried to get Toneroe from her, when father died, she'd
never a good word for any of them. Not but what she's always a civil look
for Anty, when she sees her.'

'There's not much fear she'll look black on the wife, when you bring the
money home with her. But where'll you live, Martin? The little shop at
Dunmore'll be no place for Mrs Kelly, when there's a lady of the name with
£400 a-year of her own.'

''Deed then, John, and that's what I don't know. Maybe I'll build up the
ould house at Toneroe; some of the O'Kellys themselves lived there, years
ago.'

'I believe they did; but it was years ago, and very many years ago, too,
since they lived there. Why you'd have to pull it all down, before you
began to build it up!'

'Maybe I'd build a new house, out and out. Av' I got three new lifes in the
laise, I'd do that; and the lord wouldn't be refusing me, av' I asked him.'

'Bother the lord, Martin; why you'd be asking anything of any lord, and you
with £400 a-year of your own? Give up Toneroe, and go and live at Dunmore
House at once.'

'What! along with Barry when I and Anty's married? The biggest house in
county Galway wouldn't hould the three of us.'

'You don't think Barry Lynch'll stay at Dunmore afther you've married his
sisther?'

'And why not?'

'Why not! Don't you know Barry thinks himself one of the raal gentry now?
Any ways, he wishes others to think so. Why, he'd even himself to Lord
Ballindine av' he could! Didn't old Sim send him to the same English school
with the lord on purpose? tho' little he got by it, by all accounts! And
d'you think he'll remain in Dunmore, to be brother-in-law to the son of the
woman that keeps the little grocer's shop in the village? Not he! He'll
soon be out of Dunmore when he hears what his sister's afther doing, and
you'll have Dunmore House to yourselves then, av' you like it.'

'I'd sooner live at Toneroe, and that's the truth; and I'd not give up the
farm av' she'd double the money! But, John, faith, here's the judges at
last. Hark, to the boys screeching!'

'They'd not screech that way for the judges, my boy. It's the
traversers that's Dan and the rest of 'em. They're coming into court. Thank
God, they'll soon be at work now!'

'And will they come through this way? Faith, av' they do, they'll have as
hard work to get in, as they'll have to get out by and by.'

'They'll not come this way there's another way in for them: tho' they are
traversers now, they didn't dare but let them go in at the same door as the
judges themselves.'

'Hurrah, Dan! More power to you! Three cheers for the traversers, and
Repale for ever! Success to every mother's son of you, my darlings! You'll
be free yet, in spite of John Jason Rigby and the rest of 'em! The prison
isn't yet built that'd hould ye, nor won't be! Long life to you, Sheil sure
you're a Right Honourable Repaler now, in spite of Greenwich Hospital and
the Board of Trade! More power, Gavan Duffy; you're the boy that'll settle
'em at last! Three cheers more for the Lord Mayor, God bless him! Well, yer
reverence, Mr Tierney never mind, they could come to no good when they'd be
parsecuting the likes of you! Bravo, Tom Hurrah for Tom Steele!'

Such, and such like, were the exclamations which greeted the traversers,
and their cortège, as they drew up to the front or the Four Courts. Dan
O'Connell was in the Lord Mayor's state carriage, accompanied by that high
official; and came up to stand his trial for conspiracy and sedition, in
just such a manner as he might be presumed to proceed to take the chair at
some popular municipal assembly; and this was just the thing qualified to
please those who were on his own side, and mortify the feelings of the
party so bitterly opposed to him. There was a bravado in it, and an
apparent contempt, not of the law so much as of the existing authorities of
the law, which was well qualified to have this double effect.

And now the outer doors of the Court were opened, and the crowd at least as
many as were able to effect an entrance rushed in. Martin and John Kelly
were among those nearest to the door, and, in reward of their long
patience, got sufficiently into the body of the Court to be in a position
to see, when standing on tiptoe, the noses of three of the four judges, and
the wigs of four of the numerous counsel employed. The Court was so filled
by those who had a place there by right, or influence enough to assume that
they had so, that it was impossible to obtain a more favourable situation.
But this of itself was a great deal quite sufficient to justify Martin in
detailing to his Connaught friends every particular of the whole trial.
They would probably be able to hear everything; they could positively see
three of the judges, and if those two big policemen, with high hats, could
by any possibility be got to remove themselves, it was very probable that
they would be able to see Sheil's back, when he stood up.

John soon began to show off his forensic knowledge. He gave a near guess at
the names of the four counsel whose heads were visible, merely from the
different shades and shapes of their wigs. Then he particularised the
inferior angels of that busy Elysium.

'That's Ford that's Gartlan that's Peirce Mahony,' he exclaimed, as the
different attorneys for the traversers, furiously busy with their huge
bags, fidgetted about rapidly, or stood up in their seats, telegraphing
others in different parts of the Court.

'There's old Kemmis,' as they caught a glimpse of the Crown agent; 'he's
the boy that doctored the jury list. Fancy, a jury chosen out of all
Dublin, and not one Catholic! As if that could be fair!' And then he named
the different judges. 'Look at that big-headed, pig-faced fellow on the
right that's Pennefather! He's the blackest sheep of the lot and the head
of them! He's a thoroughbred Tory, and as fit to be a judge as I am to be a
general. That queer little fellow, with the long chin, he's Burton he's a
hundred if he's a day he was fifty when he was called, seventy when they
benched him, and I'm sure he's a judge thirty years! But he's the sharpest
chap of the whole twelve, and no end of a boy afther the girls. If you only
saw him walking in his robes I'm sure he's not three feet high! That next,
with the skinny neck, he's Crampton he's one of Father Mathews lads, an out
and out teetotaller, and he looks it; he's a desperate cross fellow,
sometimes! The other one, you can't see, he's Perrin. There, he's leaning
over you can just catch the side of his face he's Perrin. It's he'll acquit
the traversers av' anything does he's a fair fellow, is Perrin, and not a
red-hot thorough-going Tory like the rest of 'em.'

Here John was obliged to give over the instruction of his brother, being
enjoined so to do by one of the heavy-hatted policemen in his front, who
enforced his commands for silence, with a backward shove of his wooden
truncheon, which came with rather unnecessary violence against the pit of
John's stomach.

The fear of being turned out made him for the nonce refrain from that
vengeance of abuse which his education as a Dublin Jackeen well qualified
him to inflict. But he put down the man's face in his retentive memory, and
made up his mind to pay him of.

And now the business of the day commenced. After some official delays and
arrangements Sheil arose, and began his speech in defence of John
O'Connell. It would be out of place here to give either his words or his
arguments; besides, they have probably before this been read by all who
would care to read them. When he commenced, his voice appeared, to those
who were not accustomed to hear him, weak, piping, and most unfit for a
popular orator; but this effect was soon lost in the elegance of his
language and the energy of his manner; and, before he had been ten minutes
on his legs, the disagreeable tone was forgotten, though it was sounding in
the eager ears of every one in the Court.

His speech was certainly brilliant, effective, and eloquent; but it
satisfied none that heard him, though it pleased all. It was neither a
defence of the general conduct and politics of the party, such as O'Connell
himself attempted in his own case, nor did it contain a chain of legal
arguments to prove that John O'Connell, individually, had not been guilty
of conspiracy, such as others of the counsel employed subsequently in
favour of their own clients.

Sheil's speech was one of those numerous anomalies with which this singular
trial was crowded; and which, together, showed the great difficulty of
coming to a legal decision on a political question, in a criminal court. Of
this, the present day gave two specimens, which will not be forgotten; when
a Privy Councillor, a member of a former government, whilst defending his
client as a barrister, proposed in Court a new form of legislation for
Ireland, equally distant from that adopted by Government, and that sought
to be established by him whom he was defending; and when the traverser on
his trial rejected the defence of his counsel, and declared aloud in Court,
that he would not, by his silence, appear to agree in the suggestions then
made.

This spirit of turning the Court into a political debating arena extended
to all present. In spite of the vast efforts made by them all, only one of
the barristers employed has added much to his legal reputation by the
occasion. Imputations were made, such as I presume were never before
uttered by one lawyer against another in a court of law. An Attorney-
General sent a challenge from his very seat of office; and though that
challenge was read in Court, it was passed over by four judges with hardly
a reprimand. If any seditious speech was ever made by O'Connell, that which
he made in his defence was especially so, and he was, without check,
allowed to use his position as a traverser at the bar, as a rostrum from
which to fulminate more thoroughly and publicly than ever, those doctrines
for uttering which he was then being tried; and, to crown it all, even the
silent dignity of the bench was forgotten, and the lawyers pleading against
the Crown were unhappily alluded to by the Chief Justice as the 'gentlemen
on the other side.'

Martin and John patiently and enduringly remained standing the whole day,
till four o'clock; and then the latter had to effect his escape, in order
to keep an appointment which he had made to meet Lord Ballindine.

As they walked along the quays they both discussed the proceedings of the
day, and both expressed themselves positively certain of the result of the
trial, and of the complete triumph of O'Connell and his party. To these
pleasant certainties Martin added his conviction, that Repeal must soon
follow so decided a victory, and that the hopes of Ireland would be
realised before the close of 1844. John was neither so sanguine nor so
enthusiastic; it was the battle, rather than the thing battled for, that
was dear to him; the strife, rather than the result. He felt that it would
be dull times in Dublin, when they should have no usurping Government to
abuse, no Saxon Parliament to upbraid, no English laws to ridicule, and no
Established Church to curse.

The only thing which could reconcile him to immediate Repeal, would be the
probability of having then to contend for the election of an Irish
Sovereign, and the possible dear delight which might follow, of Ireland
going to war with England, in a national and becoming manner.

Discussing these important measures, they reached the Dublin brother's
lodgings, and Martin turned in to wash his face and hands, and put on clean
boots, before he presented himself to his landlord and patron, the young
Lord Ballindine.




II  THE TWO HEIRESSES


Francis John Mountmorris O'Kelly, Lord Viscount Ballindine, was twenty-four
years of age when he came into possession of the Ballindine property, and
succeeded to an Irish peerage as the third viscount; and he is now twenty-
six, at this time of O'Connell's trial. The head of the family had for many
years back been styled 'The O'Kelly', and had enjoyed much more local
influence under that denomination than their descendants had possessed,
since they had obtained a more substantial though not a more respected
title. The O'Kellys had possessed large tracts of not very good land,
chiefly in County Roscommon, but partly in Mayo and Galway. Their property
had extended from Dunmore nearly to Roscommon, and again on the other side
to Castlerea and Ballyhaunis. But this had been in their palmy days, long,
long ago. When the government, in consideration of past services, in the
year 1800, converted 'the O'Kelly' into Viscount Ballindine, the family
property consisted of the greater portion of the land lying between the
villages of Dunmore and Ballindine. Their old residence, which the peer
still kept up, was called Kelly's Court, and is situated in that corner of
County Roscommnon which runs up between Mayo and Galway.

The first lord lived long enough to regret his change of title, and to
lament the increased expenditure with which he had thought it necessary to
accompany his more elevated rank. His son succeeded, and showed in his
character much more of the new-fangled viscount than of the ancient
O'Kelly. His whole long life was passed in hovering about the English
Court. From the time of his father's death, he never once put his foot in
Ireland. He had been appointed, at different times from his youth upwards,
Page, Gentleman in Waiting, Usher of the Black Rod, Deputy Groom of the
Stole, Chief Equerry to the Princess Royal, (which appointment only lasted
till the princess was five years old), Lord Gold Stick, Keeper of the Royal
Robes; till, at last, he had culminated for ten halcyon years in a Lord of
the Bedchamber. In the latter portion of his life he had grown too old for
this, and it was reported at Ballindine, Dunmore, and Kelly's Court with
how much truth I don't know that, since her Majesty's accession, he had
been joined with the spinster sister of a Scotch Marquis, and an antiquated
English Countess, in the custody of the laces belonging to the Queen
Dowager.

This nobleman, publicly useful as his life had no doubt been, had done
little for his own tenants, or his own property. On his father's death, he
had succeeded to about three thousand a-year, and he left about one; and he
would have spent or mortgaged this, had he not, on his marriage, put it
beyond his own power to do so. It was not only by thriftless extravagance
that he thus destroyed a property which, with care, and without extortion,
would have doubled its value in the thirty-five years during which it was
in his hands; but he had been afraid to come to Ireland, and had been duped
by his agent. When he came to the title, Simeon Lynch had been recommended
to him as a fit person to manage his property, and look after his
interests; and Simeon had managed it well in that manner most conducive to
the prosperity of the person he loved best in the world; and that was
himself. When large tracts of land fell out of lease, Sim had represented
that tenants could not be found that the land was not worth
cultivating that the country was in a state which prevented the possibility
of letting; and, ultimately put himself into possession, with a lease for
ever, at a rent varying from half a crown to five shillings an acre.

The courtier lord had one son, of whom he made a soldier, but who never
rose to a higher rank than that of Captain. About a dozen years before the
date of my story, the Honourable Captain O'Kelly, after numerous quarrels
with the Right Honourable Lord of the Bedchamber, had, at last, come to
some family settlement with him; and, having obtained the power of managing
the property himself, came over to live at his paternal residence of
Kelly's Court.

A very sorry kind of Court he found it neglected, dirty, and out of repair.
One of the first retainers whom he met was Jack Kelly, the family fool.
Jack was not such a fool as those who, of yore, were valued appendages to
noble English establishments. He resembled them in nothing but his
occasional wit. He was a dirty, barefooted, unshorn, ragged ruffian, who
ate potatoes in the kitchen of the Court, and had never done a day's work
in his life. Such as he was, however, he was presented to Captain O'Kelly,
as 'his honour the masther's fool.'

'So, you're my fool, Jack, are ye?' said the Captain.

'Faix, I war the lord's fool ance; but I'll no be anybody's fool but Sim
Lynch's, now. I and the lord are both Sim's fools now. Not but I'm the
first of the two, for I'd never be fool enough to give away all my land,
av' my father'd been wise enough to lave me any.'

Captain O'Kelly soon found out the manner in which the agent had managed
his father's affairs. Simeon Lynch was dismissed, and proceedings at common
law were taken against him, to break such of the leases as were thought, by
clever attorneys, to have the ghost of a flaw in them. Money was borrowed
from a Dublin house, for the purpose of carrying on the suit, paying off
debts, and making Kelly's Court habitable; and the estate was put into
their hands. Simeon Lynch built himself a large staring house at Dunmore,
defended his leases, set up for a country gentleman on his own account, and
sent his only son, Barry, to Eton merely because young O'Kelly was also
there, and he was determined to show, that he was as rich and ambitious as
the lord's family, whom he had done so much to ruin.

Kelly's Court was restored to such respectability as could ever belong to
so ugly a place. It was a large red stone mansion, standing in a demesne of
very poor ground, ungifted by nature with any beauty, and but little
assisted by cultivation or improvement. A belt of bald-looking firs ran
round the demesne inside the dilapidated wall; but this was hardly
sufficient to relieve the barren aspect of the locality. Fine trees there
were none, and the race of O'Kellys had never been great gardeners.

Captain O'Kelly was a man of more practical sense, or of better education,
than most of his family, and he did do a good deal to humanise the place.
He planted, tilled, manured, and improved; he imported rose-trees and
strawberry-plants, and civilised Kelly's Court a little. But his reign was
not long. He died about five years after he had begun his career as a
country gentleman, leaving a widow and two daughters in Ireland; a son at
school at Eton; and an expensive lawsuit, with numerous ramifications, all
unsettled.

Francis, the son, went to Eton and Oxford, was presented at Court by his
grandfather, and came hack to Ireland at twenty-two, to idle away his time
till the old lord should die. Till this occurred, he could neither call
himself the master of the place, nor touch the rents. In the meantime, the
lawsuits were dropped, both parties having seriously injured their
resources, without either of them obtaining any benefit. Barry Lynch was
recalled from his English education, where he had not shown off to any
great credit; and both he and his father were obliged to sit down prepared
to make the best show they could on eight hundred pounds a-year, and to
wage an underhand internecine war with the O'Kellys.

Simeon and his son, however, did not live altogether alone. Anastasia Lynch
was Barry's sister, and older than him by about ten years. Their mother had
been a Roman Catholic, whereas Sim was a Protestant; and, in consequence,
the daughter had been brought up in the mother's, and the son in the
father's religion. When this mother died, Simeon, no doubt out of respect
to the memory of the departed, tried hard to induce his daughter to prove
hem religious zeal, and enter a nunnery; but this, Anty, though in most
things a docile creature, absolutely refused to do. Her father advised,
implored, and threatened; but in vain; and the poor girl became a great
thorn in the side of both father and son. She had neither beauty, talent,
nor attraction, to get her a husband; and her father was determined not to
encumber his already diminished property with such a fortune as would make
her on that ground acceptable to any respectable suitor.

Poor Anty led a miserable life, associating neither with superiors nor
inferiors, and her own position was not sufficiently declared to enable her
to have any equals. She was slighted by her father and the servants, and
bullied by her brother; and was only just enabled, by humble, unpresuming
disposition, to carry on her tedious life from year to year without
grumbling.

In the meantime, the ci-devant Black Rod, Gold Stick, Royal Equerry, and
Lord of the Bedchamber, was called away from his robes and his finery, to
give an account of the manner in which he had renounced the pomps and
vanities of this wicked world; and Frank became Lord Ballindine, with, as I
have before said, an honourable mother, two sisters, a large red house, and
a thousand a-year. He was not at all a man after the pattern of his
grandfather, but he appeared as little likely to redeem the old family
acres. He seemed to be a reviving chip of the old block of the O'Kellys.
During the two years he had been living at Kelly's Court as Frank O'Kelly,
he had won the hearts of all the tenants of all those who would have been
tenants if the property had not been sold, and who still looked up to him
as their 'raal young masther' and of the whole country round. The 'thrue
dhrop of the ould blood', was in his veins; and, whatever faults he might
have, he wasn't likely to waste his time and his cash with furs, laces, and
hangings.

This was a great comfort to the neighbourhood, which had learned heartily
to despise the name of Lord Ballindine; and Frank was encouraged in
shooting, hunting, racing in preparing to be a thorough Irish gentleman,
and in determining to make good the prophecies of his friends, that he
would be, at last, one more 'raal O'Kelly to brighten the country.'

And if he could have continued to be Frank O'Kelly, or even 'the O'Kelly',
he would probably have done well enough, for he was fond of his mother and
sisters, and he might have continued to hunt, shoot, and farm on his
remaining property without further encroaching on it. But the title was
sure to be his ruin. When he felt himself to be a lord, he could not be
content with the simple life of a country gentleman; or, at any rate,
without taking the lead in the country. So, as soon as the old man was
buried, he bought a pack of harriers, and despatched a couple of race-
horses to the skilful hands of old Jack Igoe, the Curragh trainer.

Frank was a very handsome fellow, full six feet high, with black hair, and
jet-black silky whiskers, meeting under his chin the men said he dyed them,
and the women declared he did not. I am inclined, myself, to think he must
have done so, they were so very black. He had an eye like a hawk, round,
bright, and bold; a mouth and chin almost too well formed for a man; and
that kind of broad forehead which conveys rather the idea of a generous,
kind, openhearted disposition, than of a deep mind or a commanding
intellect.

Frank was a very handsome fellow, and he knew it; and when he commenced so
many ill-authorised expenses immediately on his grandfather's death, he
consoled himself with the idea, that with his person and rank, he would
soon be able, by some happy matrimonial speculation, to make up for what he
wanted in wealth. And he had not been long his own master, before he met
with the lady to whom he destined the honour of doing so.

He had, however, not properly considered his own disposition, when he
determined upon looking out for great wealth; and on disregarding other
qualifications in his bride, so that he obtained that in sufficient
quantity. He absolutely fell in love with Fanny Wyndham, though her twenty
thousand pounds was felt by him to be hardly enough to excuse him in doing
so certainly not enough to make his doing so an accomplishment of his
prudential resolutions. What would twenty thousand pounds do towards
clearing the O'Kelly property, and establishing himself In a manner and
style fitting for a Lord Ballindine! However, he did propose to her, was
accepted, and the match, after many difficulties, was acceded to by the
lady's guardian, the Earl of Cashel. It was stipulated, however, that the
marriage should not take place till the lady was of age; and at the time of
the bargain, she wanted twelve months of that period of universal
discretion. Lord Cashel had added, in his prosy, sensible, aristocratic
lecture on the subject to Lord Ballindine, that he trusted that, during the
interval, considering their united limited income, his lordship would see
the wisdom of giving up his hounds, or at any rate of withdrawing from the
turf.

Frank pooh-poohed at the hounds, said that horses cost nothing in
Connaught, and dogs less, and that he could not well do there without them;
but promised to turn in his mind what Lord Cashel had said about the turf;
and, at last, went so far as to say that when a good opportunity offered of
backing out, he would part with Finn M'Coul and Granuell as the two nags at
Igoe's were patriotically denominated.

They continued, however, appearing in the Curragh lists in Lord
Ballindine's name, as a part of Igoe's string; and running for Queen's
whips, Wellingtons and Madrids, sometimes with good and sometimes with
indifferent success. While their noble owner, when staying at Grey Abbey,
Lord Cashel's magnificent seat near Kilcullen, spent too much of his time
(at least so thought the earl and Fanny Wyndham) in seeing them get their
gallops, and in lecturing the grooms, and being lectured by Mr Igoe.
Nothing more, however, could be done; and it was trusted that when the day
of the wedding should come, he would be found minus the animals. What,
however, was Lord Cashel's surprise, when, after an absence of two months
from Grey Abbey, Lord Ballindine declared, in the earl's presence, with an
air of ill-assumed carelessness, that he had been elected one of the
stewards of the Curragh, in the room of Walter Blake, Esq., who had retired
in rotation from that honourable office! The next morning the earl's
chagrin was woefully increased by his hearing that that very valuable and
promising Derby colt, Brien Boru, now two years old, by Sir Hercules out of
Eloisa, had been added to his lordship's lot.

Lord Cashel felt that he could not interfere, further than by remarking
that it appeared his young friend was determined to leave the turf with
éclat; and Fanny Wyndham could only be silent and reserved for one evening.
This occurred about four months before the commencement of my tale, and
about five before the period fixed for the marriage; but, at the time at
which Lord Ballindine will be introduced in person to the reader, he had
certainly made no improvement in his manner of going on. He had, during
this period, received from Lord Cashel a letter intimating to him that his
lordship thought some further postponement advisable; that it was as well
not to fix any day; and that, though his lordship would always be welcome
at Grey Abbey, when his personal attendance was not required at the
Curragh, it was better that no correspondence by letter should at present
be carried on between him and Miss Wyndham; and that Miss Wyndham herself
perfectly agreed in the propriety of these suggestions.

Now Grey Abbey was only about eight miles distant from the Curragh, and
Lord Ballindine had at one time been in the habit of staying at his
friend's mansion, during the period of his attendance at the race-course;
but since Lord Cashel had shown an entire absence of interest in the doings
of Finn M'Coul, and Fanny had ceased to ask after Granuell's cough, he had
discontinued doing so, and had spent much of his time at his friend Walter
Blake's residence at the Curragh. Now, Handicap Lodge offered much more
dangerous quarters for him than did Grey Abbey.

In the meantime, his friends in Connaught were delighted at the prospect of
his bringing home a bride. Fanny's twenty thousand were magnified to fifty,
and the capabilities even of fifty were greatly exaggerated; besides, the
connection was so good a one, so exactly the thing for the O'Kellys! Lord
Cashel was one of the first resident noblemen in Ireland, a representative
peer, a wealthy man, and possessed of great influence; not unlikely to be a
cabinet minister if the Whigs came in, and able to shower down into
Connaught a degree of patronage, such as had never yet warmed that poor
unfriended region. And Fanny Wyndham was not only his lordship's ward, but
his favourite niece also! The match was, in every way, a good one, and
greatly pleasing to all the Kellys, whether with an O or without, for
'shure they were all the one family.'

Old Simeon Lynch and his son Barry did not participate in the general joy.
They had calculated that their neighbour was on the high road to ruin, and
that he would soon have nothing but his coronet left. They could not,
therefore, bear the idea of his making so eligible a match. They had,
moreover, had domestic dissensions to disturb the peace of Dunmore House.
Simeon had insisted on Barry's taking a farm into his own hands, and
looking after it. Barry had declared his inability to do so, and had nearly
petrified the old man by expressing a wish to go to Paris. Then, Barry's
debts had showered in, and Simeon had pledged himself not to pay them.
Simeon had threatened to disinherit Barry; and Barry had called his father
a d  d obstinate old fool.

These quarrels had got to the ears of the neighbours, and it was being
calculated that, in the end, Barry would get the best of the battle when,
one morning, the war was brought to an end by a fit of apoplexy, and the
old man was found dead in his chair. And then a terrible blow fell upon the
son; for a recent will was found in the old man's desk, dividing his
property equally, and without any other specification between Barry and
Anty.

This was a dreadful blow to Barry. He consulted with his friend Molloy, the
attorney of Tuam, as to the validity of the document and the power of
breaking it; but in vain. It was properly attested, though drawn up in the
old man's own hand-writing; and his sister, whom he looked upon but as
little better than a head main-servant, had not only an equal right to all
the property, but was equally mistress of the house, the money at the bank,
the wine in the cellar, and the very horses in the stable.

This was a hard blow; but Barry was obliged to bear it. At first, he showed
his ill-humour plainly, enough in his treatment of his sister; but he soon
saw that this was folly, and that, though her quiet disposition prevented
her from resenting it, such conduct would drive her to marry some needy
man. Then he began, with an ill grace, to try what coaxing would do. He
kept, however, a sharp watch on all her actions; and on once hearing that,
in his absence, the two Kelly girls from the hotel had been seen walking
with her, he gave her a long lecture on what was due to her own dignity,
and the memory of her departed parents.

He made many overtures to her as to the divisions of the property; but,
easy and humble as Anty was, she was careful enough to put her name to
nothing that could injure her rights. They had divided the money at the
banker's, and she had once rather startled Barry by asking him for his
moiety towards paying the butcher's bill; and his dismay was completed
shortly afterwards by being informed, by a steady old gentleman in Dunmore,
whom he did not like a bit too well, that he had been appointed by Miss
Lynch to manage her business and receive her rents.

As soon as it could be decently done, after his father's burial, Barry took
himself off to Dublin, to consult his friends there as to what he should
do; but he soon returned, determined to put a bold face on it, and come to
some understanding with his sister.

He first proposed to her to go and live in Dublin, but she said she
preferred Dunmore. He then talked of selling the house, and to this she
agreed. He next tried to borrow money for the payment of his debts; on
which she referred him to the steady old man. Though apparently docile and
obedient, she would not put herself in his hands, nor would her agent allow
him to take any unfair advantage of her.

Whilst this was going on, our friend Martin Kelly had set his eye upon the
prize, and, by means of his sister's intimacy with Anty, and his own good
hooks, had succeeded in obtaining from her half a promise to become his
wife. Anty had but little innate respect for gentry; and, though she feared
her brother's displeasure, she felt no degradation at the idea of uniting
herself to a man in Martin Kelly's rank. She could not, however, be brought
to tell her brother openly, and declare her determination; and Martin had,
at length, come to the conclusion that he must carry her off, before delay
and unforeseen changes might either alter her mind, or enable her brother
to entice her out of the country.

Thus matters stood at Dunmore when Martin Kelly started for Dublin, and at
the time when he was about to wait on his patron at Morrison's hotel.

Both Martin and Lord Ballindine (and they were related in some distant
degree, at least so always said the Kellys, and I never knew that the
O'Kellys denied it) both the young men were, at the time, anxious to get
married, and both with the same somewhat mercenary views; and I have
fatigued the reader with the long history of past affairs, in order to
imbue him, if possible, with some interest in the ways and means which they
both adopted to accomplish their objects.




III  MORRISON'S HOTEL


At about five o'clock on the evening of the day of Sheil's speech, Lord
Ballindine and his friend, Walter Blake, were lounging on different sofas
in a room at Morrison's Hotel, before they went up to dress for dinner.
Walter Blake was an effeminate-looking, slight-made man, about thirty or
thirty-three years of age; good looking, and gentlemanlike, but presenting
quite a contrast in his appearance to his friend Lord Ballindine. He had a
cold quiet grey eye, and a thin lip; and, though he was in reality a much
cleverer, he was a much less engaging man. Yet Blake could be very amusing;
but he rather laughed at people than with them, and when there were more
than two in company, he would usually be found making a butt of one.
Nevertheless, his society was greatly sought after. On matters connected
with racing, his word was infallible. He rode boldly, and always rode good
horses; and, though he was anything but rich, he managed to keep up a
comfortable snuggery at the Curragh, and to drink the very best claret that
Dublin could procure.

Walter Blake was a finished gambler, and thus it was, that with about six
hundred a year, he managed to live on equal terms with the richest around
him. His father, Laurence Blake of Castleblakeney, in County Galway, was a
very embarrassed man, of good property, strictly entailed, and, when Walter
came of age, he and his father, who could never be happy in the same house,
though possessing in most things similar tastes, had made such a
disposition of the estate, as gave the father a clear though narrowed
income, and enabled the son at once to start into the world, without
waiting for his father's death; though, by so doing, he greatly lessened
the property which he must otherwise have inherited.

Blake was a thorough gambler, and knew well how to make the most of the
numerous chances which the turf afforded him. He had a large stud of
horses, to the training and working of which he attended almost as closely
as the person whom he paid for doing so. But it was in the betting-ring
that he was most formidable. It was said, in Kildare Street, that no one at
Tattersall's could beat him at a book. He had latterly been trying a wider
field than the Curragh supplied him and had, on one or two occasions, run
a horse in England with such success, as had placed him, at any rate, quite
at the top of the Irish sporting tree.

He was commonly called 'Dot Blake', in consequence of his having told one
of his friends that the cause of his, the friend's, losing so much money on
the turf, was, that he did not mind 'the dot and carry on' part of the
business; meaning thereby, that he did not attend to the necessary
calculations. For a short time after giving this piece of friendly caution,
he had been nick-named, 'Dot and carry on'; but that was too long to last,
and he had now for some years been known to every sporting man in Ireland
as 'Dot' Blake.

This man was at present Lord Ballindine's most intimate friend, and he
could hardly have selected a more dangerous one. They were now going down
together to Handicap Lodge, though there was nothing to be done in the way
of racing for months to come. Yet Blake knew his business too well to
suppose that his presence was necessary only when the horses were running;
and he easily persuaded his friend that it was equally important that he
should go and see that it was all right with the Derby colt.

They were talking almost in the dark, on these all-absorbing topics, when
the waiter knocked at the door and informed them that a young man named
Kelly wished to see Lord Ballindine.

'Show him up,' said Frank. 'A tenant of mine, Dot; one of the respectable
few of that cattle, indeed, almost the only one that I've got; a sort of
subagent, and a fifteenth cousin, to boot, I believe. I am going to put him
to the best use I know for such respectable fellows, and that is, to get
him to borrow money for me.'

'And he'll charge you twice as much for it, and make three times as much
bother about it, as the fellows in the next street who have your title-
deeds. When I want lawyer's business done, I go to a lawyer; and when I
want to borrow money, I go to my own man of business; he makes it his
business to find money, and he daren't rob me more than is decent, fitting,
and customary, because he has a character to lose.'

'Those fellows at Guinness's make such a fuss about everything; and I don't
put my nose into that little back room, but what every word I say, by some
means or other, finds its way down to Grey Abbey.'

'Well, Frank, you know your own affairs best; but I don't think you'll make
money by being afraid of your agent; or your wife's guardian, if she is to
be your wife.'

'Afraid, man? I'm as much afraid of Lord Cashel as you are. I don't think
I've shown myself much afraid; but I don't choose to make him my guardian,
just when he 's ceasing to be hers; nor do I wish, just now, to break with
Grey Abbey altogether.'

'Do you mean to go over there from the Curragh next week?'

'I don't think I shall. They don't like me a bit too well, when I've the
smell of the stables on me.'

'There it is, again, Frank! What is it to you what Lord Cashel likes? If
you wish to see Miss Wyndham, and if the heavy-pated old Don doesn't mean
to close his doors against you, what business has he to inquire where you
came from? I suppose he doesn't like me a bit too well; but you're not weak
enough to be afraid to say that you've been at Handicap Lodge?'

'The truth is, Dot, I don't think I'll go to Grey Abbey at all, till Fanny
's of age. She only wants a month of it now; and then I can meet Lord
Cashel in a business way, as one man should meet another.'

'I can't for the life of me,' said Blake, 'make out what it is that has set
that old fellow so strong against horses. He won the Oaks twice himself,
and that not so very long ago; and his own son, Kilcullen, is deeper a good
deal on the turf than I am, and, by a long chalk less likely to pull
through, as I take it. But here's the Connaught man on the stairs I could
swear to Galway by the tread of his foot!' and Martin knocked at the door,
and walked in.

'Well, Kelly,' said Lord Ballindine, 'how does Dublin agree with you?' And,
'I hope I see your lordship well, my lord?' said Martin.

'How are they all at Dunmore and Kelly's Court?'

'Why thin, they're all well, my lord, except Sim Lynch and he 's dead. But
your lordship'll have heard that.'

'What, old Simeon Lynch dead!' said Blake, 'well then, there 's promotion.
Peter Mahon, that was the agent at Castleblakeney, is now the biggest rogue
alive in Connaught.'

'Don't swear to that,' said Lord Ballindine. 'There 's some of Sim's breed
still left at Dunmore. It wouldn't be easy to beat Barry, would it, Kelly?'

'Why then, I don't know; I wouldn't like to be saying against the
gentleman's friend that he spoke of; and doubtless his honour knows him
well, or he wouldn't say so much of him.'

'Indeed I do,' said Blake. 'I never give a man a good character till I know
he deserves it. Well, Frank, I'll go and dress, and leave you and Mr. Kelly
to your business,' and he left the room.

'I'm sorry to hear you speak so hard agin Mr. Barry, my lord,' began
Martin. 'May-be he mayn't be so bad. Not but that he 's a cross-grained
piece of timber to dale with.'

'And why should you be sorry I'd speak against him? There's not more
friendship, I suppose, between you and Barry Lynch now, than there used to
be?'

'Why, not exactly frindship, my lord; but I've my rasons why I'd wish you
not to belittle the Lynches. Your lordship might forgive them all, now the
old man 's dead.'

'Forgive them! indeed I can, and easily. I don't know I ever did any of
them an injury, except when I thrashed Barry at Eton, for calling himself
the son of a gentleman. But what makes you stick up for them? You're not
going to marry the daughter, are you?'

Martin blushed up to his forehead as his landlord thus hit the nail on the
head; but, as it was dark, his blushes couldn't be seen. So, after dangling
his hat about for a minute, and standing first on one foot, and then on the
other, he took courage, and answered.

'Well, Mr. Frank, that is, your lordship, I mane--I b'lieve I might do
worse.'

'Body and soul, man!' exclaimed the other, jumping from his recumbent
position on the sofa, 'You don't mean to tell me you're going to marry Anty
Lynch?'

'In course not,' answered Martin; 'av' your lordship objects.'

'Object, man! How the devil can I object? Why, she 's six hundred a year,
hasn't she?'

'About four, my lord, I think 's nearest the mark.'

'Four hundred a year! And I don't suppose you owe a penny in the world!'

'Not much unless the last gale to your lordship and we never pay that till
next May.'

'And so you're going to marry Anty Lynch!' again repeated Frank, as though
he couldn't bring himself to realise the idea; 'and now, Martin, tell me
all about it how the devil you managed it when it's to come off and how you
and Barry mean to hit it off together when you're brothers. I suppose I'll
lose a good tenant any way?'

'Not av' I'm a good one, you won't, with my consent, my lord.'

'Ah! but it'll be Anty's consent, now, you know. She mayn't like Toneroe.
But tell me all about it. What put it into your head?'

'Why, my lord, you run away so fast; one can't tell you anything. I didn't
say I was going to marry her at laist, not for certain I only said I might
do worse.'

'Well then; are you going to marry her, or rather, is she going to marry
you, or is she not?'

'Why, I don't know. I'll tell your lordship just how it is. You know when
old Sim died, my lord?'

'Of course I do. Why, I was at Kelly's Court at the time.'

'So you were, my lord; I was forgetting. But you went away again
immediately, and didn't hear how Barry tried to come round his sisther,
when he heard how the will went; and how he tried to break the will and to
chouse her out of the money.'

'Why, this is the very man you wouldn't let me call a rogue, a minute or
two ago!'

'Ah, my lord! that was just before sthrangers; besides, it 's no use
calling one's own people bad names. Not that he belongs to me yet, and
maybe never will. But, between you and I, he is a rogue, and his father's
son every inch of him.'

'Well, Martin, I'll remember. I'll not abuse him when he 's your brother-
in-law. But how did you get round the sister? That 's the question.'

'Well, my lord, I'll tell you. You know there was always a kind of
frindship between Anty and the girls at home, and they set her up to going
to old Moylan he that receives the rents on young Barron's property, away
at Strype. Moylan's uncle to Flaherty, that married mother's sister. Well,
she went to him he 's a kind of office at Dunmore, my lord.'

'Oh, I know him and his office! He knows the value of a name at the back of
a bit of paper, as well as any one.'

'Maybe he does, my lord; but he 's an honest old fellow, is Moylan, and
manages a little for mother.'

'Oh, of course he 's honest, Martin, because he belongs to you. You know
Barry's to be an honest chap, then.'

'And that's what he niver will be the longest day he lives! But, however,
Moylan got her to sign all the papers; and, when Barry was out, he went and
took an inventhory to the house, and made out everything square and right,
and you may be sure Barry'd have to get up very 'arly before he'd come
round him. Well, after a little, the ould chap came to me one morning, and
asked me all manner of questions whether I knew Anty Lynch? whether we
didn't used to be great friends? and a lot more. I never minded him much;
for though I and Anty used to speak, and she'd dhrank tay on the sly with
us two or three times before her father's death, I'd never thought much
about her.'

'Nor wouldn't now, Martin, eh? if it wasn't for the old man's will.'

'In course I wouldn't, my lord. I won't be denying it. But, on the other
hand, I wouldn't marry her now for all her money, av' I didn't mane to
trate her well. Well, my lord, after beating about the bush for a long
time, the ould thief popped it out, and told me that he thought Anty'd be
all the betther for a husband; and that, av' I was wanting a wife, he
b'lieved I might suit myself now. Well, I thought of it a little, and tould
him I'd take the hint. The next day he comes to me again, all the way down
to Toneroe, where I was walking the big grass-field by myself, and began
saying that, as he was Anty's agent, of course he wouldn't see her wronged.
"Quite right, Mr. Moylan," says I; "and, as I maneto be her husband, I
won't see her wronged neither." "Ah! but," says he, "I mane that I must see
her property properly settled." "Why not?" says I, "and isn't the best way
for her to marry? and then, you know, no one can schame her out of it.
There 's lots of them schamers about now," says I. "That 's thrue for you,"
says he, "and they're not far to look for," and that was thrue, too, my
lord, for he and I were both schaming about poor Anty's money at that
moment. "Well," says he, afther walking on a little, quite quiet, "av' you
war to marry her."--"Oh, I've made up my mind about that, Mr. Moylan,"
says I. "Well, av' it should come to pass that you do marry her--of course
you'd expect to have the money settled on herself?" "In course I would,
when I die," says I. "No, but," says he, "at once: wouldn't it be enough
for you to have a warm roof over your head, and a leg of mutton on the
table every day, and no work to do for it?" and so, my lord, it came out
that the money was to be settled on herself, and that he was to be her
agent.'

'Well, Martin, after that, I think you needn't go to Sim Lynch, or Barry,
for the biggest rogues in Connaught to be settling the poor girl's money
between you that way!'

'Well, but listen, my lord. I gave in to the ould man; that is, I made no
objection to his schame. But I was determined, av' I ever did marry Anty
Lynch, that I would be agent and owner too, myself, as long as I lived;
though in course it was but right that they should settle it so that av' I
died first, the poor crature shouldn't be out of her money. But I didn't
let on to him about all that; for, av' he was angered, the ould fool might
perhaps spoil the game; and I knew av' Anty married me at all, it'd be for
liking; and av' iver I got on the soft side of her, I'd soon be able to
manage matthers as I plazed, and ould Moylan'd soon find his best game'd be
to go asy.'

'Upon my soul, Martin, I think you seem to have been the sharpest rogue of
the two! Is there an honest man in Connaught at all, I wonder?'

'I can't say rightly, just at present, my lord; but there'll be two, plaze
God, when I and your lordship are there.'

'Thank ye, Kelly, for the compliment, and especially for the good company.
But let me hear how on earth you ever got face enough to go up and ask Anty
Lynch to marry you.'

'Oh! a little soft sawther did it! I wasn't long in putting my com'ether on
her when I once began. Well, my lord, from that day out from afther
Moylan's visit, you know I began really to think of it. I'm sure the ould
robber meant to have asked for a wapping sum of money down, for his good
will in the bargain; but when he saw me he got afeard.'

'He was another honest man, just now!'

'Only among sthrangers, my lord. I b'lieve he 's a far-off cousin of your
own, and I wouldn't like to spake ill of the blood.'

'God forbid! But go on, Kelly.'

'Well, so, from that out, I began to think of it in arnest the Lord forgive
me! but my first thoughts was how I'd like to pull down Barry Lynch; and my
second that I'd not demane myself by marrying the sisther of such an out-
and-out ruffian, and that it wouldn't become me to live on the money that'd
been got by chating your lordship's grandfather.'

'My lordship's grandfather ought to have looked after that himself. If
those are all your scruples they needn't stick in your throat much.'

'I said as much as that to myself, too. So I soon went to work. I was
rather shy about it at first; but the girls helped me. They put it into her
head, I think, before I mentioned it at all. However, by degrees, I asked
her plump, whether she'd any mind to be Mrs. Kelly? and, though she didn't
say "yes," she didn't say "no."'

'But how the devil, man, did you manage to get at her? I'm told Barry
watches her like a dragon, ever since he read his father's will.'

'He couldn't watch her so close, but what she could make her way down to
mother's shop now and again. Or, for the matter of that, but what I could
make my way up to the house.'

'That 's true, for what need she mind Barry, now? She may marry whom she
pleases, and needn't tell him, unless she likes, until the priest has his
book ready.'

'Ah, my lord! but there 's the rub. She is afraid of Barry; and though she
didn't say so, she won't agree to tell him, or to let me tell him, or just
to let the priest walk into the house without telling him. She 's fond of
Barry, though, for the life of me, I can't see what there is in him for
anybody to be fond of. He and his father led her the divil's own life mewed
up there, because she wouldn't be a nun. But still is both fond and afraid
of him; and, though I don't think she'll marry anybody else at laist not
yet awhile, I don't think she'll ever get courage to marry me at any rate,
not in the ordinary way.'

'Why then, Martin, you must do something extraordinary, I suppose.'

'That's just it, my lord; and what I wanted was, to ask your lordship's
advice and sanction, like.'

'Sanction! Why I shouldn't think you'd want anybody's sanction for marrying
a wife with four hundred a-year. But, if that's anything to you, I can
assure you I approve of it.'

'Thank you, my lord. That's kind.'

'To tell the truth,' continued Lord Ballindine, 'I've a little of your own
first feeling. I'd be glad of it, if it were only for the rise it would
take out of my schoolfellow, Barry. Not but that I think you're a deal too
good to be his brother-in-law. And you know, Kelly, or ought to know, that
I'd be heartily glad of anything for your own welfare. So, I'd advise you
to hammer away while the iron's hot, as the saying is.'

'That's just what I'm coming to. What'd your lordship advise me to do?'

'Advise you? Why, you must know best yourself how the matter stands. Talk
her over, and make her tell Barry.'

'Divil a tell, my lord, in her. She wouldn't do it in a month of Sundays.'

'Then do you tell him, at once. I suppose you're not afraid of him?'

'She'd niver come to the scratch, av' I did. He'd bully the life out of
her, or get her out of the counthry some way.'

'Then wait till his back's turned for a month or so. When he's out, let the
priest walk in, and do the matter quietly that way.'

'Well, I thought of that myself, my lord; but he's as wary as a weazel, and
I'm afeard he smells something in the wind. There's that blackguard Moylan,
too, he'd be telling Barry and would, when he came to find things weren't
to be settled as he intended.'

'Then you must carry her off, and marry her up here, or in Galway or down
in Connemara, or over at Liverpool, or any where you please.'

'Now you've hit it, my lord. That's just what I'm thinking myself. Unless I
take her off Gretna Green fashion, I'll never get her.'

'Then why do you want my advice, if you've made up your mind to that? I
think you're quite right; and what's more, I think you ought to lose no
time in doing it. Will she go, do you think?'

'Why, with a little talking, I think she will.'

'Then what are you losing your time for, man? Hurry down, and off with her!
I think Dublin 's probably your best ground.'

'Then you think, my lord, I'd betther do it at once?'

'Of course, I do! What is there to delay you?'

'Why, you see, my lord, the poor girl's as good as got no friends, and I
wouldn't like it to be thought in the counthry, I'd taken her at a
disadvantage. It's thrue enough in one way, I'm marrying her for the money;
that is, in course, I wouldn't marry her without it. And I tould her, out
open, before her face, and before the girls, that, av' she'd ten times as
much, I wouldn't marry her unless I was to be masther, as long as I lived,
of everything in my own house, like another man; and I think she liked me
the betther for it. But, for all that, I wouldn't like to catch her up
without having something fair done by the property.'

'The lawyers, Martin, can manage that, afterwards. When she's once Mrs
Kelly, you can do what you like about the fortune.'

'That's thrue, my lord. But I wouldn't like the bad name I'd get through
the counthry av' I whisked her off without letting her settle anything.
They'd he saying I robbed her, whether I did or no: and when a thing's once
said, it's difficult to unsay it. The like of me, my lord, can't do things
like you noblemen and gentry. Besides, mother'd never forgive me. They
think, down there, that poor Anty's simple like; tho' she's cute enough,
av' they knew her. I wouldn't, for all the money, wish it should be said
that Martin Kelly ran off with a fool, and robbed her. Barry'd be making
her out a dale more simple than she is; and, altogether, my lord, I
wouldn't like it.'

'Well, Martin, perhaps you're right. At any rate you're on the right side.
What is it then you think of doing?'

'Why, I was thinking, my lord, av' I could get some lawyer here to draw up
a deed, just settling all Anty's property on herself when I die, and on her
children, av' she has any so that I couldn't spend it you know; she could
sign it, and so could I, before we started; and then I'd feel she'd been
traited as well as tho' she'd all the friends in Connaught to her back.'

'And a great deal better, probably. Well, Martin, I'm no lawyer, but I
should think there'd not be much difficulty about that. Any attorney could
do it.'

'But I'd look so quare, my lord, walking into a sthranger's room and
explaining what I wanted all about the running away and everything. To be
sure there's my brother John's people; they're attorneys; but it's about
robberies, and hanging, and such things they're most engaged; and I was
thinking, av' your lordship wouldn't think it too much throuble to give me
a line to your own people; or, maybe, you'd say a word to them explaining
what I want. It'd be the greatest favour in life.'

'I'll tell you what I'll do, Kelly. I'll go with you, tomorrow, to Mr
Blake's lawyers that's my friend that was sitting here and I've no doubt
we'll get the matter settled. The Guinnesses, you know, do all my business,
and they're not lawyers.'

'Long life to your lordship, and that's just like yourself! I knew you'd
stick by me. And shall I call on you tomorrow, my lord? and at what time?'

'Wait! here's Mr Blake. I'll ask him, and you might as well meet me there.
Grey and Forrest is the name; it's in Clare Street, I think.' Here Mr Blake
again entered the room.

'What!' said he; 'isn't your business over yet, Ballindine? I suppose I'm
de trop then. Only mind, dinner's ordered for half past six, and it's that
now, and you're not dressed yet!'

'You're not de trop, and I was just wanting you. We're all friends here,
Kelly, you know; and you needn't mind my telling Mr Blake. Here's this
fellow going to elope with an heiress from Connaught, and he wants a
decently honest lawyer first.'

'I should have thought,' said Blake, 'that an indecently dishonest
clergyman would have suited him better under those circumstances.'

'Maybe he'll want that, too, and I've no doubt you can recommend one. But
at present he wants a lawyer; and, as I have none of my own, I think
Forrest would serve his turn.'

'I've always found Mr Forrest ready to do anything in the way of his
profession for money.'

'No, but he'd draw up a deed, wouldn't he, Blake? It's a sort of a marriage
settlement.'

'Oh, he's quite at home at that work! He drew up five, for my five sisters,
and thereby ruined my father's property, and my prospects.'

'Well, he'd see me tomorrow, wouldn't he?' said Lord Ballindine.

'Of course he would. But mind, we're to be off early. We ought to be at the
Curragh, by three.'

'I suppose I could see him at ten?' said his lordship. It was then settled
that Blake should write a line to the lawyer, informing him that Lord
Ballindine wished to see him, at his office, at ten o'clock the next
morning; it was also agreed that Martin should meet him there at that hour;
and Kelly took his leave, much relieved on the subject nearest his heart.

'Well, Frank,' said Blake, as soon as the door was closed, 'and have you
got the money you wanted?'

'Indeed I've not, then.'

'And why not? If your protégé is going to elope with an heiress, he ought
to have money at command.'

'And so he will, and it'll be a great temptation to me to know where I can
get it so easily. But he was telling me all about this woman before I
thought of my own concerns and I didn't like to be talking to him of what I
wanted myself, when he'd been asking a favour of me. It would be too much
like looking for payment.'

'There, you're wrong; fair barter is the truest and honestest system, all
the world over. Ca me, ca thee,' as the Scotch call it, is the best system
to go by. I never do, or ask, a favour; that is, for whatever I do, I
expect a return; and for whatever I get, I intend to make one.'

'I'll get the money from Guinness. After all, that'll be the best, and as
you say, the cheapest.'

'There you're right. His business is to lend money, and he'll lend it you
as long as you've means to repay it; and I'm sure no Connaught man will do
more that is, if I know them.'

'I suppose he will, but heaven only knows how long that'll be!' and the
young lord threw himself back on the sofa, as if he thought a little
meditation would do him good. However, very little seemed to do for him,
for he soon roused himself, and said, 'I wonder how the devil, Dot, you do
without borrowing? My income's larger than yours, bad as it is; I've only
three horses in training, and you've, I suppose, above a dozen; and, take
the year through, I don't entertain half the fellows at Kelly's Court that
you do at Handicap Lodge; and yet, I never hear of your borrowing money.'

'There's many reasons for that. In the first place, I haven't an estate; in
the second, I haven't a mother; in the third, I haven't a pack of hounds;
in the fourth, I haven't a title; and, in the fifth, no one would lend me
money, if I asked it.'

'As for the estate, it's devilish little I spend on it; as for my mother,
she has her own jointure; as for the hounds, they eat my own potatoes; and
as for the title, I don't support it. But I haven't your luck, Dot. You'd
never want for money, though the mint broke.'

'Very likely I mayn't when it does; but I'm likely to be poor enough till
that happy accident occurs. But, as far as luck goes, you've had more than
me; you won nearly as much, in stakes, as I did, last autumn, and your
stable expenses weren't much above a quarter what mine were. But, the truth
is, I manage better; I know where my money goes to, and you don't; I work
hard, and you don't; I spend my money on what's necessary to my style of
living, you spend yours on what's not necessary. What the deuce have the
fellows in Mayo and Roscommon done for you, that you should mount two or
three rascals, twice a-week, to show them sport, when you're not there
yourself two months in the season? I suppose you don't keep the horses and
men for nothing, if you do the dogs; and I much doubt whether they're not
the dearest part of the bargain.'

'Of course they cost something; but it's the only thing I can do for the
country; and there were always hounds at Kelly's Court till my grandfather
got the property, and they looked upon him as no better than an old woman,
because he gave them up. Besides, I suppose I shall be living at Kelly's
Court soon, altogether, and I could never get on then without hounds. It's
bad enough, as it is.'

'I haven't a doubt in the world it 's bad enough. I know what
Castleblakeney is. But I doubt your living there. I've no doubt you'll try;
that is, if you do marry Miss Wyndham; but she'll be sick of it in three
months, and you in six, and you'll go and live at Paris, Florence, or
Naples, and there'll be another end of the O'Kellys, for thirty or forty
years, as far as Ireland's concerned. You'll never do for a poor country
lord; you're not sufficiently proud, or stingy. You'd do very well as a
country gentleman, and you'd make a decent nobleman with such a fortune as
Lord Cashel's. But your game, if you lived on your own property, would be a
very difficult one, and one for which you've neither tact nor temper.'

'Well, I hope I'll never live out of Ireland. Though I mayn't have tact to
make one thousand go as far as five, I've sense enough to see that a poor
absentee landlord is a great curse to his country; and that's what I hope I
never shall be.'

'My dear Lord Ballindine; all poor men are curses, to themselves or some
one else.'

'A poor absentee's the worst of all. He leaves nothing behind, and can
leave nothing. He wants all he has for himself; and, if he doesn't give his
neighbours the profit which must arise somewhere, from his own consumption,
he can give nothing. A rich man can afford to leave three or four thousand
a year behind him; in the way of wages for labour.'

'My gracious, Frank! You should put all that in a pamphlet, and not inflict
it on a poor devil waiting for his dinner. At present, give your profit to
Morrison, and come and consume some mock-turtle; and I'll tell you what
Sheil's going to do for us all.'

Lord Ballindine did as he was bid, and left the room to prepare for dinner.
By the time that he had eaten his soup, and drank a glass of wine, he had
got rid of the fit of blue devils which the thoughts of his poverty had
brought on, and he spent the rest of the evening comfortably enough,
listening to his friend's comical version of Shell's speech; receiving
instruction from that great master of the art as to the manner in which he
should treat his Derby colt, and being flattered into the belief that he
would be a prominent favourite for that great race.

When they had finished their wine, they sauntered into the Kildare Street
Club.

Blake was soon busy with his little betting-book, and Lord Ballindine
followed his example. Brien Boru was, before long, in great demand. Blake
took fifty to one, and then talked the horse up till he ended by giving
twenty-five. He was soon ranked the first of the Irish lot; and the success
of the Hibernians had made them very sanguine of late. Lord Ballindine
found himself the centre of a little sporting circle, as being the man with
the crack nag of the day. He was talked of, courted, and appealed to; and,
I regret to say, that before he left the club he was again nearly
forgetting Kelly's Court and Miss Wyndham, had altogether got rid of his
patriotic notions as to the propriety of living on his own estate, had
determined forthwith to send Brien Boru over to Scott's English stables;
and then, went to bed, and dreamed that he was a winner of the Derby, and
was preparing for the glories of Newmarket with five or six thousand pounds
in his pocket.

Martin Kelly dined with his brother at Jude's, and spent his evening
equally unreasonably; at least, it may be supposed so from the fact that at
one o'clock in the morning he was to be seen standing on one of the tables
at Burton Bindon's oyster-house, with a pewter pot, full of porter, in his
hand, and insisting that every one in the room should drink the health of
Anty Lynch, whom, on that occasion, he swore to be the prettiest and the
youngest girl in Connaught.

It was lucky he was so intoxicated, that no one could understand him; and
that his hearers were so drunk that they could understand nothing; as,
otherwise, the publicity of his admiration might have had the effect of
preventing the accomplishment of his design.

He managed, however, to meet his patron the next morning at the lawyer's,
though his eyes were very red, and his cheeks pale; and, after being there
for some half hour, left the office, with the assurance that, whenever he
and the lady might please to call there, they should find a deed prepared
for their signature, which would adjust the property in the manner
required.

That afternoon Lord Ballindine left Dublin, with his friend, to make
instant arrangements for the exportation of Brien Boru; and, at two o'clock
the next day, Martin left, by the boat, for Ballinaslie, having evinced his
patriotism by paying a year's subscription in advance to the 'Nation'
newspaper, and with his mind fully made up to bring Anty away to Dublin
with as little delay as possible.




IV  THE DUNMORE INN


Anty Lynch was not the prettiest, or the youngest girl in Connaught; nor
would Martin have affirmed her to be so, unless he had been very much
inebriated indeed. However young she might have been once, she was never
pretty; but, in all Ireland, there was not a more single-hearted,
simpleminded young woman. I do not use the word simple as foolish; for,
though uneducated, she was not foolish. But she was unaffected, honest,
humble, and true, entertaining a very lowly idea of her own value, and
undated by her newly acquired wealth.

She had been so little thought of all her life by others, that she had
never learned to think much of herself; she had had but few acquaintances,
and no friends, and had spent her life, hitherto, so quietly and silently,
that her apparent apathy was attributable rather to want of subjects of
excitement, than to any sluggishness of disposition. Her mother had died
early; and, since then, the only case in which Anty had been called on to
exercise her own judgment, was in refusing to comply with her father's wish
that she should become a nun. On this subject, though often pressed, she
had remained positive, always pleading that she felt no call to the sacred
duties which would be required, and innocently assuring her father, that,
if allowed to remain at home, she would cause him no trouble, and but
little expense.

So she had remained at home, and had inured herself to bear without
grumbling, or thinking that she had cause for grumbling, the petulance of
her father, and the more cruel harshness and ill-humour of her brother. In
all the family schemes of aggrandisement she had been set aside, and Barry
had been intended by the father as the scion on whom all the family honours
were to fall. His education had been expensive, his allowance liberal, and
his whims permitted; while Anty was never better dressed than a decent
English servant, and had been taught nothing save the lessons she had
learnt from her mother, who died when she was but thirteen.

Mrs Lynch had died before the commencement of Sim's palmy days. They had
seen no company in her time for they were then only rising people; and,
since that, the great friends to whom Sim, in his wealth, had attached
himself, and with whom alone he intended that Barry should associate, were
all of the masculine gender. He gave bachelor dinner-parties to hard-
drinking young men, for whom Anty was well contented to cook; and when
they as they often, from the effect of their potations, were perforce
obliged to do stayed the night at Dunmore House, Anty never showed herself
in the breakfast parlour, but boiled the eggs, made the tea, and took her
own breakfast in the kitchen.

It was not wonderful, therefore, that no one proposed for Anty; and, though
all who knew the Lynches, knew that Sim had a daughter, it was very
generally given out that she was not so wise as her neighbours; and the
father and brother took no pains to deny the rumour. The inhabitants of the
village knew better; the Lynches were very generally disliked, and the
shameful way 'Miss Anty was trated,' was often discussed in the little
shops; and many of the townspeople were ready to aver that, 'simple or no,
Anty Lynch was the best of the breed, out-and-out.'

Matters stood thus at Dunmore, when the quarrel before alluded to,
occurred, and when Sim made his will, dividing his property and died before
destroying it, as he doubtless would have done, when his passion was over.

Great was the surprise of every one concerned, and of many who were not at
all concerned, when it was ascertained that Anty Lynch was an heiress, and
that she was now possessed of four hundred pounds a-year in her own right;
but the passion of her brother, it would be impossible to describe. He
soon, however, found that it was too literally true, and that no direct
means were at hand, by which he could deprive his sister of her patrimony.
The lawyer, when he informed Anty of her fortune and present station, made
her understand that she had an equal right with her brother in everything
in the house; and though, at first, she tacitly acquiesced in his
management, she was not at all simple enough to be ignorant of the rights o
possession, or weak enough to relinquish them.

Barry soon made up his mind that, as she had and must have the property,
all he could now do was to take care that it should revert to him as her
heir; and the measure of most importance in effecting this, would be to
take care that she did not marry. In his first passion, after his father's
death, he had been rough and cruel to her; but he soon changed his conduct,
and endeavoured to flatter her into docility at one moment, and to frighten
her into obedience in the next.

He soon received another blow which was also a severe one. Moylan, the old
man who proposed the match to Martin, called on him, and showed him that
Anty had appointed him her agent, and had executed the necessary legal
documents for the purpose. Upon this subject he argued for a long time with
his sister pointing out to her that the old man would surely rob
her offering to act as her agent himself recommending others as more honest
and fitting and, lastly, telling her that she was an obstinate fool, who
would soon be robbed of every penny she had, and that she would die in a
workhouse at last.

But Anty, though she dreaded her brother, was firm. Wonderful as it may
appear, she even loved him. She begged him not to quarrel with her promised
to do everything to oblige him, and answered his wrath with gentleness; but
it was of no avail. Barry knew that her agent was a plotter that he would
plot against his influence though he little guessed then what would be the
first step Moylan would take, or how likely it would be, if really acted
on, to lead to his sister's comfort and happiness. After this, Barry passed
two months of great misery and vexation. He could not make up his mind what
to do, or what final steps to take, either about the property, his sister,
or himself. At first, he thought of frightening Moylan and his sister, by
pretending that he would prove Anty to be of weak mind, and not fit to
manage her own affairs, and that he would indict the old man for
conspiracy; but he felt that Moylan was not a man to be frightened by such
bugbears. Then, he made up his mind to turn all he had into money, to leave
his sister to the dogs, or any one who might choose to rob her, and go and
live abroad. Then he thought, if his sister should die, what a pity it
would be, he should lose it all, and how he should blame himself, if she
were to die soon after having married some low adventurer; and he
reflected; how probable such a thing would be how likely that such a man
would soon get rid of her; and then his mind began to dwell on her death,
and to wish for it. He found himself constantly thinking of it, and
ruminating on it, and determining that it was the only event which could
set him right. His own debts would swallow up half his present property;
and how could he bring himself to live on the pitiful remainder, when that
stupid idiot, as he called her to himself, had three times more than she
could possibly want? Morning after morning, he walked about the small
grounds round the house, with his hat over his eyes, and his hands tossing
about the money in his pockets, thinking of this cursing his father, and
longing almost praying for his sister's death. Then he would have his
horse, and flog the poor beast along the roads without going anywhere, or
having any object in view, but always turning the same thing over and over
in his mind. And, after dinner, he would sit, by the hour, over the fire,
drinking, longing for his sister's money, and calculating the probabilities
of his ever possessing it. He began to imagine all the circumstances which
might lead to her death; he thought of all the ways in which persons
situated as she was, might, and often did, die. He reflected, without
knowing that he was doing so, on the probability of robbers breaking into
the house, if she were left alone in it, and of their murdering her; he
thought of silly women setting their own clothes on fire of their falling
out of window drowning themselves of their perishing in a hundred possible
but improbable ways. It was after he had been drinking a while, that these
ideas became most vivid before his eyes, and seemed like golden dreams, the
accomplishment of which he could hardly wish for. And, at last, as the,
fumes of the spirit gave him courage, other and more horrible images would
rise to his imagination, and the drops of sweat would stand on his brow as
he would invent schemes by which, were he so inclined, he could accelerate,
without detection, the event for which he so ardently longed. With such
thoughts would he turn into bed; and though in the morning he would try to
dispel the ideas in which he had indulged overnight, they still left their
impression on his mind  they added bitterness to his hatred and made him
look on himself as a man injured by his father and sister, and think that
he owed it to himself to redress his injuries by some extraordinary means.

It was whilst Barry Lynch was giving way to such thoughts as these, and
vainly endeavouring to make up his mind as to what he would do, that Martin
made his offer to Anty. To tell the truth, it was Martin's sister Meg who
had made the first overture; and, as Anty had not rejected it with any
great disdain, but had rather shown a disposition to talk about it as a
thing just possible, Martin had repeated it in person, and had reiterated
it, till Anty had at last taught herself to look upon it as a likely and
desirable circumstance. Martin had behaved openly and honourably with
regard to the money part of the business; telling his contemplated bride
that it was, of course, her fortune which had first induced him to think of
her; but adding, that he would also value her and love her for herself, if
she would allow him. He described to her the sort of settlement he should
propose, and ended by recommending an early day for the wedding.

Anty had sense enough to be pleased at his straightforward and honest
manner; and, though she did not say much to himself, she said a great deal
in his praise to Meg, which all found its way to Martin's ears. But still,
he could not get over the difficulty which he had described to Lord
Ballindine. Anty wanted to wait till her brother should go out of the
country, and Martin was afraid that he would not go; and things were in
this state when he started for Dublin.

The village of Dunmore has nothing about it which can especially recommend
it to the reader. It has none of those beauties of nature which have taught
Irishmen to consider their country as the 'first flower of the earth, and
first gem of the sea'. It is a dirty, ragged little town, standing in a
very poor part of the country, with nothing about it to induce the
traveller to go out of his beaten track. It is on no high road, and is
blessed with no adventitious circumstances to add to its prosperity.

It was once the property of the O'Kellys; but, in those times the landed
proprietors thought but little of the towns; and now it is parcelled out
among different owners, some of whom would think it folly to throw away a
penny on the place, and others of whom have not a penny to throw away. It
consists of a big street, two little streets, and a few very little lanes.
There is a Court-house, where the barrister sits twice a year; a Barrack,
once inhabited by soldiers, but now given up to the police; a large slated
chapel, not quite finished; a few shops for soft goods; half a dozen
shebeen-houses, ruined by Father Mathew; a score of dirty cabins offering
'lodging and enthertainment', as announced on the window-shutters; Mrs.
Kelly's inn and grocery-shop; and, last though not least, Simeon Lynch's
new, staring house, built just at the edge of the town, on the road to
Roscommon, which is dignified with the name of Dunmore House. The people of
most influence in the village were Mrs. Kelly of the inn, and her two sworn
friends, the parish priest and his curate. The former, Father Geoghegan,
lived about three miles out of Dunmore, near Toneroe; and his curate,
Father Pat Connel, inhabited one of the small houses in the place, very
little better in appearance than those which offered accommodation to
travellers and trampers.

Such was, and is, the town of Dunmore in the county of Galway; and I must
beg the reader to presume himself to be present there with me on the
morning on which the two young Kellys went to hear Sheil's speech. At about
ten o'clock, the widow Kelly and her daughters were busy in the shop, which
occupied the most important part of the ground-floor of the inn. It was a
long, scrambling, ugly-looking house. Next to the shop, and opening out of
it, was a large drinking-room, furnished with narrow benches and rickety
tables; and here the more humble of Mrs. Kelly's guests regaled themselves.
On the other side of this, was the hall, or passage of the house; and, next
to that again, a large, clingy, dark kitchen, over which Sally reigned with
her teapot dynasty, and in which were always congregated a parcel of ragged
old men, boys, and noisy women, pretending to be busy, but usually doing
but little good, and attracted by the warmth of the big fire, and the hopes
of some scraps of food and drink.

'For the widow Kelly God bless her! was a thrue Christhian, and didn't
begrudge the poor more power to her like some upstarts who might live to be
in want yet, glory be to the Almighty!'

The difference of the English and Irish character is nowhere more plainly
discerned than in their respective kitchens. With the former, this
apartment is probably the cleanest, and certainly the most orderly, in the
house. It is rarely intruded into by those unconnected, in some way, with
its business. Everything it contains is under the vigilant eye of its chief
occupant, who would imagine it quite impossible to carry on her business,
whether of an humble or important nature, if her apparatus was subjected to
the hands of the unauthorised. An Irish kitchen is devoted to hospitality
in every sense of the word. Its doors are open to almost all loungers and
idlers; and the chances are that Billy Bawn, the cripple, or Judy Molloy,
the deaf old hag, are more likely to know where to find the required
utensil than the cook herself. It is usually a temple dedicated to the
goddess of disorder; and, too often joined with her, is the potent deity of
dirt. It is not that things are out of their place, for they have no place.
It isn't that the floor is not scoured, for you cannot scour dry mud into
anything but wet mud. It isn't that the chairs and tables look filthy, for
there are none. It isn't that the pots, and plates, and pans don't shine,
for you see none to shine. All you see is a grimy, black ceiling, an uneven
clay floor, a small darkened window, one or two unearthly-looking recesses,
a heap of potatoes in the corner, a pile of turf against the wall, two pigs
and a dog under the single dresser, three or four chickens on the window-
sill, an old cock moaning on the top of a rickety press, and a crowd of
ragged garments, squatting, standing, kneeling, and crouching, round the
fire, from which issues a babel of strange tongues, not one word of which
is at first intelligible to ears unaccustomed to such eloquence.

And yet, out of these unfathomable, unintelligible dens, proceed in due
time dinners, of which the appearance of them gives no promise. Such a
kitchen was Mrs. Kelly's; and yet, it was well known and attested by those
who had often tried tile experiment, that a man need think it no misfortune
to have to get his dinner, his punch, and his bed, at the widow's.

Above stairs were two sitting-rooms and a colony of bed-rooms, occupied
indiscriminately by the family, or by such customers as might require them.
If you came back to dine at the inn, after a day's shooting on the bogs,
you would probably find Miss Jane's work-box on the table, or Miss Meg's
album on the sofa; and, when a little accustomed to sojourn at such places,
you would feel no surprise at discovering their dresses turned inside out,
and hanging on the pegs in your bed-room; or at seeing their side-combs and
black pins in the drawer of your dressing-table.

On the morning in question, the widow and her daughters were engaged in
the shop, putting up pen'norths of sugar, cutting bits of tobacco, tying
bundles of dip candles, attending to chance customers, and preparing for
the more busy hours of the day. It was evident that something had occurred
at the inn, which had ruffled the even tenor of its way. The widow was
peculiarly gloomy. Though fond of her children, she was an autocrat in her
house, and accustomed, as autocrats usually are, to scold a good deal; and
now she was using her tongue pretty freely. It wasn't the girls, however,
she was rating, for they could answer for themselves; and did, when they
thought it necessary. But now, they were demure, conscious, and quiet. Mrs.
Kelly was denouncing one of the reputed sins of the province to which she
belonged, and describing the horrors of 'schaming.'

'Them underhand ways,' she declared, 'niver come to no good. Av' it's thrue
what Father Connel's afther telling me, there'll harum come of it before it
's done and over. Schaming, schaming, and schaming for iver! The back of my
hand to such doings! I wish the tongue had been out of Moylan's mouth, the
ould rogue, before he put the thing in his head. Av' he wanted the young
woman, and she was willing, why not take her in a dacent way, and have done
with it. I'm sure she's ould enough. But what does he want with a wife like
her? making innimies for himself. I suppose he'll be sitting up for a
gentleman now bad cess to them for gentry; not but that he's as good a
right as some, and a dale more than others, who are ashamed to put their
hand to a turn of work. I hate such huggery muggery work up in a corner.
It's half your own doing; and a nice piece of work it'll be, when he's got
an ould wife and a dozen lawsuits! when he finds his farm gone, and his
pockets empty; for it'll be a dale asier for him to be getting the wife
than the money when he's got every body's abuse, and nothing else, by his
bargain!'

It was very apparent that Martin's secret had not been well kept, and that
the fact of his intended marriage with Anty Lynch was soon likely to be
known to all Dunmore. The truth was, that Moylan had begun to think himself
overreached in the matter to be afraid that, by the very measure he had
himself proposed, he would lose all share in the great prize he had put in
Martin's way, and that he should himself be the means of excluding his own
finger from the pie. It appeared to him that if he allowed this, his own
folly would only be equalled by the young man's ingratitude; and he
determined therefore, if possible, to prevent the match. Whereupon he told
the matter as a secret, to those who he knew would set it moving. In a very
short space of time it reached the ears of Father Connel; and he lost none
in stepping down to learn the truth of so important a piece of luck to one
of his parishioners, and to congratulate the widow. Here, however, he was
out in his reckoning, for she declared she did not believe it that it
wasn't, and couldn't be true; and it was only after his departure that she
succeeded in extracting the truth from her daughters.


The news, however, quickly reached the kitchen and its lazy crowd; and the
inn door and its constant loungers; and was readily and gladly credited in
both places.

Crone after crone, and cripple after cripple, hurried into the shop, to
congratulate the angry widow on 'masther Martin's luck; and warn't he
worthy of it, the handsome jewel and wouldn't he look the gintleman, every
inch of him?' and Sally expatiated greatly on it in the kitchen, and drank
both their healths in an extra pot of tea, and Kate grinned her delight,
and Jack the ostler, who took care of Martin's horse, boasted loudly of it
in the street, declaring that 'it was a good thing enough for Anty Lynch,
with all her money, to get a husband at all out of the Kellys, for the
divil a know any one knowed in the counthry where the Lynchs come from; but
every one knowed who the Kellys wor and Martin wasn't that far from the
lord himself.'

There was great commotion, during the whole day, at the inn. Some said
Martin had gone to town to buy furniture; others, that he had done so to
prove the will. One suggested that he'd surely have to fight Barry, and
another prayed that 'if he did, he might kill the blackguard, and have all
the fortin to himself, out and out, God bless him!




V  A LOVING BROTHER


The great news was not long before it reached the ears of one not disposed
to receive the information with much satisfaction, and this was Barry
Lynch, the proposed bride's amiable brother. The medium through which he
first heard it was not one likely to add to his good humour. Jacky, the
fool, had for many years been attached to the Kelly's Court family; that is
to say, he had attached himself to it, by getting his food in the kitchen,
and calling himself the lord's fool. But, latterly, he had quarrelled with
Kelly's Court, and had insisted on being Sim Lynch's fool, much to the
chagrin of that old man; and, since his death, he had nearly maddened Barry
by following him through the street, and being continually found at the
house-door when he went out. Jack's attendance was certainly dictated by
affection rather than any mercenary views, for he never got a scrap out of
the Dunmore House kitchen, or a halfpenny from his new patron. But still,
he was Barry's fool; and, like other fools, a desperate annoyance to his
master.

On the day in question, as young Mr. Lynch was riding out of the gate,
about three in the afternoon, there, as usual, was Jack.

'Now yer honour, Mr. Barry, darling, shure you won't forget Jacky today.
You'll not forget your own fool, Mr. Barry?'

Barry did not condescend to answer this customary appeal, but only looked
at the poor ragged fellow as though he'd like to flog the life out of him.

'Shure your honour, Mr. Barry, isn't this the time then to open yer
honour's hand, when Miss Anty, God bless her, is afther making sich a great
match for the family? Glory be to God!'

'What d'ye mean, you ruffian?'

'Isn't the Kellys great people intirely, Mr. Barry? and won't it be a great
thing for Miss Anty, to be sib to a lord? Shure yer honour'd not be
refusing me this blessed day.'

'What the d   are you saying about Miss Lynch?' said Barry, his attention
somewhat arrested by the mention of his sister's name.

'Isn't she going to be married then, to the dacentest fellow in Dunmore?
Martin Kelly, God bless him! Ah! there'll be fine times at Dunmore, then.
He's not the boy to rattle a poor divil out of the kitchen into the cold
winther night! The Kellys was always the right sort for the poor.'

Barry was frightened in earnest, now. It struck him at once that Jack
couldn't have made the story out of his own head; and the idea that there
was any truth in it, nearly knocked him off his horse. He rode on, however,
trying to appear to be regardless of what had been said to him; and, as he
trotted off, he heard the fool's parting salutation.

'And will yer honour be forgething me afther the news I've brought yer?
Well, hard as ye are, Misther Barry, I've hot yer now, any way.'

And, in truth, Jack had hit him hard. Of all things that could happen to
him, this would be about the worst. He had often thought, with dread, of
his sister's marrying, and of his thus being forced to divide
everything all his spoil, with some confounded stranger. But for her to
marry a shopkeeper's son, in the very village in which he lived, was more
than he could bear. He could never hold up his head in the county again.
And then, he thought of his debts, and tried to calculate whether he might
get over to France without paying them, and be able to carry his share of
the property with him; and so he went on, pursuing his wretched, uneasy,
solitary ride, sometimes sauntering along at a snail's pace, and then again
spurring the poor brute, and endeavouring to bring his mind to some settled
plan. But, whenever he did so, the idea of his sister's death was the only
one which seemed to present either comfort or happiness.

He made up his mind, at last, to put a bold face on the matter; to find out
from Anty herself whether there was any truth in the story; and, if there
should be for he felt confident she would not be able to deceive him to
frighten her and the whole party of the Kellys out of what he considered a
damnable conspiracy to rob him of his father's property,

He got off his horse, and stalked into the house. On inquiry, he found that
Anty was in her own room. He was sorry she was not out; for, to tell the
truth, he was rather anxious to put off the meeting, as he did not feel
himself quite up to the mark, and was ashamed of seeming afraid of her. He
went into the stable, and abused the groom; into the kitchen, and swore at
the maid; and then into the garden. It was a nasty, cold, February day, and
he walked up and down the damp muddy walks till he was too tired and cold
to walk longer, and then turned into the parlour, and remained with his
back to the fire, till the man came in to lay the cloth, thinking on the
one subject that occupied all his mind occasionally grinding his teeth, and
heaping curses on his father and sister, who, together, had inflicted such
grievous, such unexpected injuries upon him.

If, at this moment, there was a soul in all Ireland over whom Satan had
full dominion if there was a breast unoccupied by one good thought if there
was a heart wishing, a brain conceiving, and organs ready to execute all
that was evil, from the worst motives, they were to be found in that
miserable creature, as he stood there urging himself on to hate those whom
he should have loved cursing those who were nearest to him fearing her,
whom he had ill-treated all his life and striving to pluck up courage to
take such measures as might entirely quell her. Money was to him the only
source of gratification. He had looked forward, when a boy, to his manhood,
as a period when he might indulge, unrestrained, in pleasures which money
would buy; and, when a man, to his father's death, as a time when those
means would be at his full command. He had neither ambition, nor affection,
in his nature; his father had taught him nothing but the excellence of
money, and, having fully imbued him with this, had cut him off from the use
of it.

He was glad when he found that dinner was at hand, and that he could not
now see his sister until after he had fortified himself with drink. Anty
rarely, if ever, dined with him; so he sat down, and swallowed his solitary
meal. He did not eat much, but he gulped down three or four glasses of
wine; and, immediately on having done so, he desired the servant, with a
curse, to bring him hot water and sugar, and not to keep him waiting all
night for a tumbler of punch, as he did usually. Before the man had got
into the kitchen, he rang the bell again; and when the servant returned
breathless, with the steaming jug, he threatened to turn him out of the
house at once, if he was not quicker in obeying the orders given him. He
then made a tumbler of punch, filling the glass half full of spirits, and
drinking it so hot as to scald his throat; and when that was done he again
rang the bell, and desired the servant to tell Miss Anty that he wanted to
speak to her. When the door was shut, he mixed more drink, to support his
courage during the interview, and made up his mind that nothing should
daunt him from preventing the marriage, in one way or another. When Anty
opened the door, he was again standing with his back to the fire, his hands
in his pockets, the flaps of his coat hanging over his arms, his shoulders
against the mantel-piece, and his foot on the chair on which he had been
sitting. His face was red, and his eyes were somewhat blood-shot; he had
always a surly look, though, from his black hair, and large bushy whiskers,
many people would have called him good looking; but now there was a scowl
in his restless eyes, which frightened Anty when she saw it; and the thick
drops of perspiration on his forehead did not add benignity to his face.

'Were you wanting me, Barry?' said Anty, who was the first to speak.

'What do you stand there for, with the door open?' replied her brother,
'd' you think I want the servants to hear what I've got to say?'

''Deed I don't know,' said Anty, shutting the door; 'but they'll hear just
as well now av' they wish, for they'll come to the kay-hole.'

'Will they, by G !' said Barry, and he rushed to the door, which he banged
open; finding no victim outside on whom to exercise his wrath 'let me catch
'em!' and he returned to his position by the fire.

Anty had sat down on a sofa that stood by the wall opposite the fireplace,
and Barry remained for a minute, thinking how he'd open the campaign. At
last he began:

'Anty, look you here, now. What scheme have you got in your head? You'd
better let me know, at once.'

'What schame, Barry?'

'Well what schame, if you like that better.'

'I've no schame in my head, that I know of at laist,' and then Anty
blushed. It would evidently be easy enough to make the poor girl tell her
own secret.

'Well, go on at laist.'

'I don't know what you mane, Barry. Av' you're going to be badgering me
again, I'll go away.'

'It's evident you're going to do something you're ashamed of, when you're
afraid to sit still, and answer a common question. But you must answer me.
I'm your brother, and have a right to know. What's this you're going to
do?' He didn't like to ask her at once whether she was going to get
married. It might not be true, and then he would only be putting the idea
into her head. 'Well why don't you answer me? What is it you're going to
do?'

'Is it about the property you mane, Barry?'

'What a d  d hypocrite you are! As if you didn't know what I mean! As for
the property, I tell you there'll be little left the way you're going on.
And as to that, I'll tell you what I'm going to do; so, mind, I warn you
beforehand. You're not able that is, you're too foolish and weak-headed to
manage it yourself; and I mean, as your guardian, to put it into the hands
of those that shall manage it for you. I'm not going to see you robbed and
duped, and myself destroyed by such fellows as Moylan, and a crew of
huxtering blackguards down in Dunmore. And now, tell me at once, what 's
this I hear about you and the Kellys?'

'What Kellys?' said Anty, blushing deeply, and half beside herself with
fear for Barry's face was very red, and full of fierce anger, and his rough
words frightened her.

'What Kellys! Did you ever hear of Martin Kelly? d  d young robber that he
is!' Anty blushed still deeper rose a little way from the sofa, and then
sat down again. 'Look you here, Anty I'll have the truth out of you. I'm
not going to be bamboozled by such an idiot as you. You got an old man,
when he was dying, to make a will that has robbed me of what was my own,
and now you think you'll play your own low game; but you're mistaken!
You've lived long enough without a husband to do without one now; and I can
tell you I'm not going to see my property carried off by such a low, paltry
blackguard as Martin Kelly.'

'How can he take your property, Barry?' sobbed forth the poor creature, who
was, by this time, far gone in tears.

'Then the long and the short of it is, he shan't have what you call yours.
Tell me, at once, will you is it true, that you've promised to marry him?'

Anty replied nothing, but continued sobbing violently.

'Cease your nonsense, you blubbering fool! A precious creature you are to
take on yourself to marry any man! Are you going to answer me, Anty?' And
he walked away from the fire, and came and stood opposite to her as she sat
upon the sofa. 'Are you going to answer me or not?' he continued, stamping
on the floor.

'I'll not stop here and be trated this way Barry I'm sure I do all I I can
for you and you're always bullying me because father divided the property.'
And Anty continued sobbing more violently than ever. 'I won't stop in the
room any more,' and she got up to go to the door.

Barry, however, rushed before her, and prevented her. He turned the lock,
and put the key in his pocket; and then he caught her arm, as she attempted
to get to the bell, and dragged her back to the sofa.

'You're not off so easy as that, I can tell you. Why, d' you think you're
to marry whom you please, without even telling me of it? What d'you think
the world would say of me, if I were to let such an idiot as you be caught
up by the first sharper that tried to rob you of your money? Now, look
here,' and he sat down beside her, and laid his hand violently on her arm,
as he spoke, 'you don't go out of this room, alive, until you've given me
your solemn promise, and sworn on the cross, that you'll never marry
without my consent; and you'll give me that in writing, too.'

Anty at first turned very pale when she felt his heavy hand on her arm, and
saw his red, glaring eyes so near her own. But when he said she shouldn't
leave the room alive, she jumped from the sofa, and shrieked, at the top of
her shrill voice, 'Oh, Barry! you'll not murdher me! shure you wouldn't
murdher your own sisther!'

Barry was rather frightened at the noise, and, moreover, the word 'murder'
quelled him. But when he found, after a moment's pause, that the servants
had not heard, or had not heeded his sister, he determined to carry on his
game, now that he tad proceeded so far. He took, however, a long drink out
of his tumbler, to give him fresh courage, and then returned to the charge.

'Who talked of murdering you? But, if you bellow in that way, I'll gag you.
It's a great deal I'm asking, indeed that, when I'm your only guardian, my
advice should be asked for before you throw away your money on a low
ruffian. You're more fit for a mad-house than to be any man's wife; and, by
Heaven, that's where I'll put you, if you don't give me the promise I ask!
Will you swear you'll marry no one without my leave?'

Poor Anty shook with fear as she sate, with her eyes fixed on her brother's
face. He was nearly drunk now, and she felt that he was so and he looked so
hot and so fierce so red and cruel, that she was all but paralysed.
Nevertheless, she mustered strength to say,

'Let me go, now, Barry, and, tomorrow, I'll tell you everything indeed I
will and I'll thry to do all you'd have me; indeed,' and indeed, I will!
Only do let me go now, for you've frighted me.'

'You're likely to be more frighted yet, as you call it! And be tramping
along the roads, I suppose, with Martin Kelly, before the morning. No! I'll
have an answer from you, any way. I've a right to that!'

'Oh, Barry! What is it you want? Pray let me go pray, pray, for the love of
the blessed Jesus, let me go.'

'I'll tell you where you'll go, and that's into Ballinasloe mad-house! Now,
mark me so help me I'll set off with you this night, and have you there in
the morning as an idiot as you are, if you won't make the promise I'm
telling you!'

By this time Anty's presence of mind had clean left her. Indeed, all the
faculties of her reason had vanished; and, as she saw her brother's
scowling face so near her own, and heard him threatening to drag her to a
mad-house, she put her hands before her eyes, and made one rush to escape
from him to the door to the window anywhere to get out of his reach.

Barry was quite drunk now. Had he not been so, even he would hardly have
done what he then did. As she endeavoured to rush by him, he raised his
fist, and struck her on the face, with all his force. The blow fell upon
her hands, as they were crossed over her face; but the force of the blow
knocked her down, and she fell upon the floor, senseless, striking the back
of her head against the table.

'Confound her,' muttered the brute, between his teeth, as she fell, 'for an
obstinate, pig-headed fool! What the d----l shall I do now? Anty, get up!
get up, will you! What ails you?' and then again to himself, 'the d----l
seize her! What am I to do now?' and he succeeded in dragging her on to
the sofa.

The man-servant and the cook although up to this point, they had considered
it would be ill manners to interrupt the brother and sister in their family
interview, were nevertheless at the door; and though they could see
nothing, and did not succeed in hearing much, were not the less fully aware
that the conversation was of a somewhat stormy nature on the part of the
brother. When they heard the noise which followed the blow, though not
exactly knowing what had happened, they became frightened, and began to
think something terrible was being done.

'Go in, Terry, avich,' whispered the woman 'Knock, man, and go in shure
he's murdhering her!'

'What 'ud he do to me thin, av' he'd strick a woman, and she his own flesh
and blood! He'll not murdher her but, faix, he's afther doing something
now! Knock, Biddy, knock, I say, and screech out that you're afther wanting
Miss Anty.'

The woman had more courage than the man or else more compassion, for,
without further parleying, she rapped her knuckles loudly against the door,
and, as she did so, Terry sneaked away to the kitchen.

Barry had just succeeded in raising his sister to the sofa as he heard the
knock.

'Who's that?' he called out loudly; 'what do you want?'

'Plaze yer honer, Miss Anty's wanting in the kitchen.'

'She's busy, and can't come at present; she'll be there directly.'

'Is she ill at all, Mr. Barry? God bless you, spake, Miss Anty; in God's
name, spake thin. Ah! Mr. Barry, thin, shure she'd spake av' she were
able.'

'Go away, you fool! Your mistress'll be out in a minute.' Then, after a
moment's consideration, he went and unlocked the door, 'or go in, and see
what she wants. She's fainted, I think.'

Barry Lynch walked out of the room, and into the garden before the house,
to think over what he had done, and what he'd better do for the future,
leaving Anty to the care of the frightened woman.

She soon came to herself, and, excepting that her head was bruised in the
fall, was not much hurt. The blow, falling on her hands, had neither cut
nor marked her; but she was for a long time so flurried that she did not
know where she was, and, in answer to all Biddy's tender inquiries as to
the cause of her fall, and anathemas as to the master's bad temper, merely
said that 'she'd get to bed, for her head ached so, she didn't know where
she was.'

To bed accordingly she went; and glad she was to have escaped alive from
that drunken face, which had glared on her for the last half hour.

After wandering about round the house and through the grounds, for above an
hour, Barry returned, half sobered, to the room; but, in his present state
of mind, he could not go to bed sober. He ordered more hot water, and again
sat down alone to drink, and drown the remorse he was beginning to feel for
what he had done or rather, not remorse, but the feeling of fear that every
one would know how he had treated Anty, and that they would side with her
against him. Whichever way he looked, all was misery and disappointment to
him, and his only hope, for the present, was in drink. There he sat, for a
long time, with his eyes fixed on the turf, till it was all burnt out,
trying to get fresh courage from the spirits he swallowed, and swearing to
himself that he would not be beat by a woman.

About one o'clock he seized one of the candles, and staggered up to bed. As
he passed his sister's door, he opened it and went in. She was fast asleep;
her shoes were off, and the bed-clothes were thrown over her, but she was
not undressed. He slowly shut the door, and stood, for some moments,
looking at her; then, walking to the bed, he took her shoulder, and shook
it as gently as his drunkenness would let him. This did not wake her, so he
put the candle down on the table, close beside the bed, and, steadying
himself against the bedstead, he shook her again and again. 'Anty', he
whispered, 'Anty'; and, at last, she opened her eyes. Directly she saw his
face, she closed them again, and buried her own in the clothes; however, he
saw that she was awake, and, bending his head, he muttered, loud enough for
her to hear, but in a thick, harsh, hurried, drunken voice, 'Anty d'ye
hear? If you marry that man, I'll have your life!' and then, leaving the
candle behind him, he staggered off into his own room in the dark.




VI  THE ESCAPE


In vain, after that, did Anty try to sleep; turn which way she would, she
saw the bloodshot eyes and horrid drunken face of her cruel brother. For a
long time she lay, trembling and anxious; fearing she knew not what, and
trying to compose herself trying to make herself think that she had no
present cause for fear; but in vain. If she heard a noise, she thought it
was her brother's footstep, and when the house was perfectly silent and
still, she feared the very silence itself. At last, she crept out of bed,
and, taking the candle left by her brother, which had now burned down to
the socket, stepped softly down the stairs, to the place where the two
maid-servants slept, and, having awakened them, she made Biddy return with
her and keep her company for the remainder of the night. She did not quite
tell the good-natured girl all that had passed; she did not own that her
brother had threatened to send her to a madhouse, or that he had sworn to
have her life; but she said enough to show that he had shamefully ill-
treated her, and to convince Biddy that wherever her mistress might find a
home, it would be very unadvisable that she and Barry should continue to
live under the same roof.

Early in the morning, 'Long afore the break o' day,' as the song says,
Biddy got up from her hard bed on the floor of her mistress' room, and,
seeing that Anty was at last asleep, started to carry into immediate
execution the counsels she had given during the night. As she passed the
head of the stairs, she heard the loud snore of Barry, in his drunken
slumber; and, wishing that he might sleep as sound for ever and ever, she
crept down to her own domicile, and awakened her comrade.

'Whist, Judy whist, darlint! Up wid ye, and let me out.'

'And what'd you be doing out now?' yawned Judy.

'An arrand of the misthress shure, he used her disperate. Faix, it's a
wondher he didn't murther her outright!'

'And where are ye going now?'

'Jist down to Dunmore to the Kellys then, avich. Asy now; I'll be telling
you all bye and bye. She must be out of this intirely.'

'Is't Miss Anty? Where'd she be going thin out of this?'

'Divil a matther where! He'd murther her, the ruffian 'av he cotched her
another night in his dhrunkenness. We must git her out before he sleeps
hisself right. But hurry now, I'll be telling you all when I'm back again.'

The two crept off to the back door together, and, Judy having opened it,
Biddy sallied out, on her important and good-natured mission. It was still
dark, though the morning was beginning to break, as she stood, panting, at
the front door of the inn. She tried to get in at the back, but the yard
gates were fastened; and Jack, the ostler, did not seem to be about yet. So
she gave a timid, modest knock, with the iron knocker, on the front door. A
pause, and then a second knock, a little louder; another pause, and then a
third; and then, as no one came, she remembered the importance of her
message, and gave such a rap as a man might do, who badly wanted a glass of
hot drink after travelling the whole night.

The servants had good or hardy consciences, for they slept soundly; but the
widow Kelly, in her little bed-room behind the shop, well knew the sound of
that knocker, and, hurrying on her slippers and her gown, she got to the
door, and asked who was there.

'Is that Sally, ma'am?' said Biddy, well knowing the widow's voice.

'No, it's not. What is it you're wanting?'

'Is it Kate thin, ma'am?'

'No, it's not Kate. Who are you, I say; and what d'you want?'

'I'm Biddy, plaze ma'am from Lynch's, and I'm wanting to spake to yerself,
ma'am about Miss Anty. She's very bad intirely, ma'am.'

'What ails her and why d'you come here? Why don't you go to Doctor
Colligan, av' she's ill; and not come knocking here?'

'It ain't bad that way, Miss Anty is, ma'am. Av' you'd just be good enough
to open the door, I'd tell you in no time.'

It would, I am sure, be doing injustice to Mrs Kelly to say that her
curiosity was stronger than her charity; they both, however, no doubt had
their effect, and the door was speedily opened.

'Oh, ma'am!' commenced Biddy, 'sich terrible doings up at the house! Miss
Anty 's almost kilt!'

'Come out of the cowld, girl, in to the kitchen fire,' said the widow, who
didn't like the February blast, to which Biddy, in her anxiety, had been
quite indifferent; and the careful widow again bolted the door, and
followed the woman into certainly the warmest place in Dunmore, for the
turf fire in the inn kitchen was burning day and night. 'And now, tell me
what is it ails Miss Anty? She war well enough yesterday, I think, and I
heard more of her then than I wished.'

Biddy now pulled her cloak from off her head, settled it over her
shoulders, and prepared for telling a good substantial story.

'Oh, Misthress Kelly, ma'am, there's been disperate doings last night up at
the house. We were all hearing, in the morn yesterday, as how Miss Anty and
Mr Martin, God bless him! were to make a match of it, as why wouldn't they,
ma'am? for wouldn't Mr Martin make her a tidy, dacent, good husband?'

'Well, well, Biddy don't mind Mr Martin; he'll be betther without a wife
for one while, and he needn't be quarrelling for one when he wants her.
What ails Miss Anty?'

'Shure I'm telling you, ma'am; howsomever, whether its thrue or no about Mr
Martin, we were all hearing it yestherday; and the masther, he war afther
hearing it too, for he come into his dinner as black as tunder; and Terry
says he dhrunk the whole of a bottle of wine, and then he called for the
sperrits, and swilled away at them till he was nigh dhrunk. Well, wid that,
ma'am, he sent for Miss Anty, and the moment she comes in, he locks to the
door, and pulls her to the sofa, and swears outright that he'll murdher her
av' she don't swear, by the blessed Mary and the cross, that she'll niver
dhrame of marrying no one.'

'Who tould you all this, Biddy? was it herself?'

'Why, thin, partly herself it war who tould me, ma'am, and partly you see,
when Mr Barry war in his tantrums and dhrunken like, I didn't like to be
laying Miss Anty alone wid him, and nobody nigh, so I and Terry betook
ourselves nigh the door, and, partly heard what was going on; that's the
thruth on it, Mrs Kelly; and, afther a dale of rampaging and scolding, may
I niver see glory av' he didn't up wid his clenched fist, strik her in the
face, and knock her down all for one as 'av she wor a dhrunken blackguard
at a fair!'

'You didn't see that, Biddy?'

'No, ma'am I didn't see it; how could I, through the door? but I heerd it,
plain enough I heerd the poor cratur fall for dead amongst the tables and
chairs I did, Mrs Kelly and I heerd the big blow smash agin her poor head,
and down she wint why wouldn't she? and he, the born ruffian, her own
brother, the big blackguard, stricking at her wid all his force! Well, wid
that ma'am, I rushed into the room at laist, I didn't rush in for how could
I, and the door locked? but I knocked agin and agin, for I war afeard he
would be murthering her out and out. So, I calls out, as loud as I could,
as how Miss Anty war wanting in the kitchen: and wid that he come to the
door, and unlocks it as bould as brass, and rushes out into the garden,
saying as how Miss Anty war afther fainting. Well, in course I goes in to
her, where he had dragged her upon the sofa, and, thrue enough, she war
faint indeed.'

'And, did she tell you, Biddy, that her own brother had trated her that
way?'

'Wait, Mrs Kelly, ma'am, till I tell yer how it all happened. When she
corned to herself and she warn't long coming round she didn't say much, nor
did I; for I didn't just like then to be saying much agin the masther, for
who could know where his ears were? perish his sowl, the blackguard!'

'Don't be cursing, Biddy.'

'No, ma'am; only he must be cursed, sooner or later. Well, when she corned
to herself, she begged av' me to help her to bed, and she went up to her
room, and laid herself down, and I thought to myself that at any rate it
was all over for that night. When she war gone, the masther he soon come
back into the house, and begun calling for the sperrits again, like mad;
and Terry said that when he tuk the biling wather into the room, Mr Barry
war just like the divil as he's painted, only for his ears. After that
Terry wint to bed; and I and Judy weren't long afther him, for we didn't
care to be sitting up alone wid him, and he mad dhrunk. So we turned in,
and we were in bed maybe two hours or so, and fast enough, when down come
the misthress as pale as a sheet, wid a candle in her hand, and begged me,
for dear life, to come up into her room to her, and so I did, in coorse.
And then she tould me all and, not contint with what he'd done down stairs,
but the dhrunken ruffian must come up into her bed-room and swear the most
dreadfullest things to her you iver heerd, Mrs Kelly. The words he war
afther using, and the things he said, war most horrid; and Miss Anty
wouldn't for her dear life, nor for all the money in Dunmore, stop another
night, nor another day in the house wid him.'

'But, is she much hurt, Biddy?'

'Oh! her head;' cut, dreadful, where she fell, ma'am: and he shuck the very
life out of her poor carcase; so he did, Mrs Kelly, the ruffian!'

'Don't be cursing, I tell you, girl. And what is it your misthress is
wishing to do now? Did she tell you to come to me?'

'No, ma'am; she didn't exactly tell me only as she war saying that she
wouldn't for anything be staying in the house with Mr Barry; and as she
didn't seem to be knowing where she'd be going, and av' she be raally going
to be married to Mr Martin.'

'Drat Mr Martin, you fool! Did she tell you she wanted to come here?'.

'She didn't quite say as much as that. To tell the thruth, thin, it wor I
that said it, and she didn't unsay it; so, wid that, I thought I'd come
down here the first thing, and av' you, Mrs Kelly, wor thinking it right,
we'd get her out of the house before the masther's stirring.'

The widow was a prudent woman, and she stood, for some time, considering;
for she felt that, if she held out her hand to Anty now, she must stick to
her through and through in the battle which there would be between her and
her brother; and there might be more plague than profit in that. But then,
again, she was not at all so indifferent as she had appeared to be, to her
favourite son's marrying four hundred a-year. She was angry at his thinking
of such a thing without consulting her; she feared the legal difficulties
he must encounter; and she didn't like the thoughts of its being said that
her son had married an old fool, and cozened her out of her money. But
still, four hundred a-year was a great thing; and Anty was a good-tempered
tractable young woman, of the right religion, and would not make a bad
wife; and, on reconsideration, Mrs Kelly thought the thing wasn't to be
sneezed at. Then, again, she hated Barry, and, having a high spirit, felt
indignant that he should think of preventing her son from marrying his
sister, if the two of them chose to do it; and she knew she'd be able, and
willing enough, too, to tell him a bit of her mind, if there should be
occasion. And lastly, and most powerfully of all, the woman's feeling came
in to overcome her prudential scruples, and to open her heart and her house
to a poor, kindly, innocent creature, ill-treated as Anty Lynch had been.
She was making up her mind what to do, and determining to give battle royal
to Barry and all his satellites, on behalf of Anty, when Biddy interrupted
her by saying,--

'I hope I warn't wrong, ma'am, in coming down and throubling you so arly? I
thought maybe you'd be glad to befrind Miss Anty seeing she and Miss Meg,
and Miss Jane, is so frindly.'

'No, Biddy for a wondher, you're right, this morning. Mr Barry won't be
stirring yet?'

'Divil a stir, ma'am! The dhrunkenness won't be off him yet this long
while. And will I go up, and be bringing Miss Anty down, ma'am?'

'Wait a while. Sit to the fire there, and warm your shins. You're a good
girl. I'll go and get on my shoes and stockings, and my cloak, and bonnet.
I must go up wid you myself, and ask yer misthress down, as she should be
asked. They'll be telling lies on her 'av she don't lave the house
dacently, as she ought.'

'More power to you thin, Mrs Kelly, this blessed morning, for a kind good
woman as you are, God bless you!' whimpered forth Biddy, who, now that she
had obtained her request, began to cry, and to stuff the corner of her
petticoat into her eyes.

'Whist, you fool whist,' said the widow. 'Go and get up Sally you know
where she sleeps-and tell her to put down a fire in the little parlour
upstairs, and to get a cup of tay ready, and to have Miss Meg up. Your
misthress'll be the better of a quiet sleep afther the night she's had, and
it'll be betther for her jist popping into Miss Meg's bed than getting
between a pair of cowld sheets.'

These preparations met with Biddy's entire approval, for she reiterated her
blessings on the widow, as she went to announce all the news to Sally and
Kate, while Mrs Kelly made such preparations as were fitting for a walk, at
that early hour, up to Dunmore House.

They were not long before they were under weigh, but they did not reach the
house quite so quickly as Biddy had left it. Mrs Kelly had to pick her way
in the half light, and observed that 'she'd never been up to the house
since old Simeon Lynch built it, and when the stones were laying for it,
she didn't think she ever would; but one never knowed what changes might
happen in this world.'

They were soon in the house, for Judy was up to let them in; and though she
stared when she saw Mrs Kelly, she merely curtsied, and said nothing.

The girl went upstairs first, with the candle, and Mrs Kelly followed, very
gently, on tiptoe. She need not have been so careful to avoid waking Barry,
for, had a drove of oxen been driven upstairs, it would not have roused
him. However, up she crept her thick shoes creaking on every stair and
stood outside the door, while Biddy went in to break the news of her
arrival.

Anty was still asleep, but it did not take much to rouse her; and she
trembled in her bed, when, on her asking what was the matter, Mrs Kelly
popped her bonnet inside the door, and said,

'It's only me, my dear. Mrs Kelly, you know, from the inn,' and then she
very cautiously insinuated the rest of her body into the room, as though
she thought that Barry was asleep under the bed, and she was afraid of
treading on one of his stray fingers. 'It's only me, my dear. Biddy 's been
down to me, like a good girl; and I tell you what this is no place for you,
just at present, Miss Anty; not till such time as things is settled a
little. So I'm thinking you'd betther be slipping down wid me to the inn
there, before your brother's up. There's nobody in it, not a sowl, only
Meg, and Jane, and me, and we'll make you snug enough between us, never
fear.'

'Do, Miss Anty, dear do, darling,' added Biddy. 'It'll be a dale betther
for you than waiting here to be batthered and bruised, and, perhaps,
murthered out and out.'

'Hush, Biddy don't be saying such things,' said the widow, who had a great
idea of carrying on the war on her own premises, but who felt seriously
afraid of Barry now that she was in his house, 'don't be saying such
things, to frighthen her. But you'll be asier there than here,' she
continued, to Anty; 'and there's nothin like having things asy. So, get up
alanna, and we'll have you warm and snug down there in no time.'

Anty did not want much persuading. She was soon induced to get up and dress
herself, to put on her cloak and bonnet, and hurry off with the widow,
before the people of Dunmore should be up to look at her going through the
town to the inn; while Biddy was left to pack up such things as were
necessary for her mistress' use, and enjoined to hurry down with them to
the inn as quick as she could; for, as the widow said, 'there war no use in
letting every idle bosthoon in the place see her crossing with a lot of
baggage, and set them all asking the where and the why and the wherefore;
though, for the matther of that, they'd all hear it soon enough.'

To tell the truth, Mrs Kelly's courage waned from the moment of her leaving
her own door, and it did not return till she felt herself within it again.
Indeed, as she was leaving the gate of Dunmore House, with Anty on her arm,
she was already beginning to repent what she was doing; for there were
idlers about, and she felt ashamed of carrying off the young heiress. But
these feelings vanished the moment she had crossed her own sill. When she
had once got Anty home, it was all right. The widow Kelly seldom went out
into the world; she seldom went anywhere except to mass; and, when out, she
was a very modest and retiring old lady; but she could face the devil, if
necessary, across her own counter.

And so Anty was rescued, for a while, from her brother's persecution. This
happened on the morning on which Martin and Lord Ballindine met together at
the lawyer's, when the deeds were prepared which young Kelly's genuine
honesty made him think necessary before he eloped with old Sim Lynch's
heiress. He would have been rather surprised to hear, at that moment, that
his mother had been before him, and carried off his bride elect to the inn!

Anty was soon domesticated. The widow, very properly, wouldn't let her
friends, Meg and Jane, ask her any questions at present. Sally had made, on
the occasion, a pot of tea sufficient to supply the morning wants of half a
regiment, and had fully determined that it should not be wasted. The Kelly
girls were both up, and ready to do anything for their friend; so they got
her to take a little of Sally's specific, and put her into a warm bed to
sleep, quiet and secure from any interruption.

While her guest was sleeping, the widow made up her mind that her best and
safest course, for the present, would be, as she expressed it to her
daughter, Meg, 'to keep her toe in her pump, and say nothing to nobody.'

'Anty can just stay quiet and asy,' she continued, 'till we see what Master
Barry manes to be afther; he'll find it difficult enough to move her out of
this, I'm thinking, and I doubt his trying. As to money matthers, I'll
neither meddle nor make, nor will you, mind; so listen to that, girls; and
as to Moylan, he's a dacent quiet poor man but it's bad thrusting any one.
Av' he's her agent, however, I s'pose he'll look afther the estate; only,
Barry'll be smashing the things up there at the house yonder in his anger
and dhrunken fits, and it's a pity the poor girl's property should go to
rack. But he's such a born divil, she's lucky to be out of his clutches
alive; though, thank the Almighty, that put a good roof over the lone widow
this day, he can't clutch her here. Wouldn't I like to see him come to the
door and ax for her! And he can't smash the acres, nor the money they say
Mulholland has, at Tuam; and faix, av' he does any harm up there at the
house, shure enough Anty can make him pay for it every pot and pan of
it out of his share, and she'll do it, too av' she's said by me. But mind,
I'll neither meddle nor make; neither do you, and then we're safe, and Anty
too. And Martin'll be here soon I wondher what good Dublin'll do him? They
might have the Repale without him, I suppose? And when he's here, why, av'
he's minded to marry her, and she's plased, why, Father Geoghegan may come
down, and do it before the whole counthry, and who's ashamed? But there'll
be no huggery-muggery, and schaming; that is, av' they're said by me. Faix,
I'd like to know who she's to be afeared of, and she undher this roof! I
s'pose Martin ain't fool enough to care for what such a fellow as Barry
Lynch can do or say and he with all the Kellys to back him; as shure they
would, and why not, from the lord down? Not that I recommend the match; I
think Martin a dale betther off as he is, for he's wanting nothing, and
he's his own industhry and, maybe, a handful of money besides. But, as for
being afeard I niver heard yet that a Kelly need be afeard of a Lynch in
Dunmore.'

In this manner did Mrs Kelly express the various thoughts that ran through
her head, as she considered Anty's affairs; and if we could analyse the
good lady's mind, we should probably find that the result of her
reflections was a pleasing assurance that she could exercise the Christian
virtues of charity and hospitality towards Anty, and, at the same time,
secure her son's wishes and welfare, without subjecting her own name to any
obloquy, or putting herself to any loss or inconvenience. She determined to
put no questions to Anty, nor even to allude to her brother, unless spoken
to on the subject; but, at the same time, she stoutly resolved to come to
no terms with Barry, and to defy him to the utmost, should he attempt to
invade her in her own territories. After a sound sleep Anty got up, much
strengthened and refreshed, and found the two Kelly girls ready to condole
with, or congratulate her, according to her mood and spirits. In spite of
their mother's caution, they were quite prepared for gossiping, as soon as
Anty showed the slightest inclination that way; and, though she at first
was afraid to talk about her brother, and was even, from kindly feeling,
unwilling to do so, the luxury of such an opportunity of unrestrained
confidence overcame her; and, before the three had been sitting together
for a couple of hours, she had described the whole interview, as well as
the last drunken midnight visit of Barry's to her own bed-room, which, to
her imagination, was the most horrible of all the horrors of the night.

Poor Anty. She cried vehemently that morning more in sorrow for her
brother, than in remembrance of her own fears, as she told her friends how
he had threatened to shut her up in a mad-house, and then to murder her,
unless she promised him not to marry; and when she described how brutally
he had struck her, and how, afterwards, he had crept to her room, with his
red eyes and swollen face, in the dead of the night, and, placing his hot
mouth close to her ears, had dreadfully sworn that she should die, if she
thought of Martin Kelly as her husband, she trembled as though she was in
an ague fit.

The girls said all they could to comfort her, and they succeeded in a great
degree; but they could not bring her to talk of Martin. She shuddered
whenever his name was mentioned, and they began to fear that Barry's threat
would have the intended effect, and frighten her from the match. However,
they kindly talked of other things of how impossible it was that she should
go back to Dunmore House, and how comfortable and snug they would make her
at the inn, till she got a home for herself; of what she should do, and of
all their little household plans together; till Anty, when she could forget
her brother's threats for a time, seemed to be more comfortable and happy
than she had been for years.

In vain did the widow that morning repeatedly invoke Meg and Jane, first
one and then the other, to assist in her commercial labours. In vain were
Sally and Kate commissioned to bring them down. If, on some urgent behest,
one of them darted down to mix a dandy of punch, or weigh a pound of sugar,
when the widow was imperatively employed elsewhere, she was upstairs again,
before her mother could look about her; and, at last, Mrs Kelly was obliged
to content herself with the reflection that girls would be girls, and that
it was 'nathural and right they shouldn't wish to lave Anty alone the first
morning, and she sthrange to the place.'

At five o'clock, the widow, as was her custom, went up to her dinner; and
Meg was then obliged to come down and mind the shop, till her sister,
having dined, should come down and relieve guard. She had only just
ensconced herself behind the counter, when who should walk into the shop
but Barry Lynch.

Had Meg seen an ogre, or the enemy of all mankind himself, she could not,
at the moment, have been more frightened; and she stood staring at him, as
if the sudden loss of the power of motion alone prevented her from running
away.

'I want to see Mrs Kelly,' said Barry; 'd'ye hear? I want to see your
mother; go and tell her.'

But we must go back, and see how Mr Lynch had managed to get up, and pass
his morning.




VII  MR BARRY LYNCH MAKES A MORNING CALL


It was noon before Barry first opened his eyes, and discovered the reality
of the headache which the night's miserable and solitary debauch had
entailed on him. For, in spite of the oft-repeated assurance that there is
not a headache in a hogshead of it, whiskey punch will sicken one, as well
as more expensive and more fashionable potent drinks. Barry was very sick
when he first awoke; and very miserable, too; for vague recollections of
what he had done, and doubtful fears of what he might have done, crowded on
him. A drunken man always feels more anxiety about what he has not done in
his drunkenness, than about what he has; and so it was with Barry. He
remembered having used rough language with his sister, but he could not
remember how far he had gone. He remembered striking her, and he knew that
the servant had come in; but he could not remember how, or with what he had
struck her, or whether he had done so more than once, or whether she had
been much hurt. He could not even think whether he had seen her since or
not; he remembered being in the garden after she had fallen, and drinking
again after that, but nothing further. Surely, he could not have killed
her? he could not even have hurt her very much, or he would have heard of
it before this. If anything serious had happened, the servants would have
taken care that he should have heard enough about it ere now. Then he began
to think what o'clock it could be, and that it must be late, for his watch
was run down; the general fate of drunkards, who are doomed to utter
ignorance of the hour at which they wake to the consciousness of their
miserable disgrace. He feared to ring the bell for the servant; he was
afraid to ask the particulars of last night's work; so he turned on his
pillow, and tried to sleep again. But in vain. If he closed his eyes, Anty
was before them, and he was dreaming, half awake, that he was trying to
stifle her, and that she was escaping, to tell all the world of his
brutality and cruelty. This happened over and over again; for when he dozed
but for a minute, the same thing re-occurred, as vividly as before, and
made even his waking consciousness preferable to the visions of his
disturbed slumbers. So, at last, he roused himself, and endeavoured to
think what he should do.

Whilst he was sitting up in his bed, and reflecting that he must undress
himself before he could dress himself for he had tumbled into bed with most
of his clothes on Terry's red head appeared at the door, showing an
anxiety, on the part of its owner, to see if 'the masther' was awake, but
to take no step to bring about such a state, if, luckily, he still slept.

'What's the time, Terry?' said Lynch, frightened, by his own state, into
rather more courtesy than he usually displayed to those dependent on him.

'Well then, I b'lieve it's past one, yer honer.'

'The d----l it is! I've such a headache. I was screwed last night; eh,
Terry?'

'I b'lieve yer war, yer honer.'

'What o'clock was it when I went to bed?'

'Well then, I don't rightly know, Mr Barry; it wasn't only about ten when I
tuk in the last hot wather, and I didn't see yer hotier afther that.'

'Well; tell Miss Anty to make me a cup of tea, and do you bring it up
here.' This was a feeler. If anything was the matter with Anty, Terry would
be sure to tell him now; but he only said, 'Yis, yer honer,' and retreated.

Barry now comforted himself with the reflection that there was no great
harm done, and that though, certainly, there had been some row between him
and Anty, it would probably blow over; and then, also, he began to reflect
that, perhaps, what he had said and done, would frighten her out of her
match with Kelly.

In the meantime. Terry went into the kitchen, with the news that 'masther
was awake, and axing for tay.' Biddy had considered herself entitled to
remain all the morning at the inn, having, in a manner, earned a right to
be idle for that day, by her activity during the night; and the other girl
had endeavoured to enjoy the same luxury, for she had been found once or
twice during the morning, ensconced in the kitchen, under Sally's wing; but
Mrs Kelly had hunted her back, to go and wait on her master, giving her to
understand that she would not receive the whole household.

'And ye're afther telling him where Miss Anty's gone, Terry?' inquired the
injured fair one.

'Divil a tell for me thin, shure, he may find it out hisself, widout my
telling him.'

'Faix, it's he'll be mad thin, when lie finds she's taken up with the likes
of the widdy Kelly!'

'And ain't she betther there, nor being murthered up here? FIe'd be killing
her out and out some night.'

'Well, but Terry, he's not so bad as all that; there's worse than him, and
ain't it rasonable he shouldn't be quiet and asy, and she taking up with
the likes of Martin Kelly?'

'May be so; but wouldn't she be a dale happier with Martin thain up here
wid him? Any ways it don't do angering him, so, get him the tay, Judy.'

It was soon found that this was easier said than done, for Anty, in her
confusion, had taken away the keys in her pocket, and there was no tea to
be had.

The bell was now rung, and, as Barry had gradually re-assured himself, rung
violently; and Terry, when he arrived distracted at the bed-room door, was
angrily asked by his thirsty master why the tea didn't appear? The truth
was now obliged to come out, or at any rate, part of it: so Terry answered,
that Miss Anty was out, and had the keys with her.

Miss Anty was so rarely out, that Barry instantly trembled again. Had she
gone to a magistrate, to swear against him? Had she run away from him? Had
she gone off with Martin?

'Where the d l's she gone, Terry?' said he, in his extremity.

'Faix, yer honour, thin, I'm not rightly knowing; but I hear tell she's
down at the widow Kelly's.'

'Who told you, you fool?'

'Well thin, yer honer, it war Judy.'

'And where's Judy?'

And it ended in Judy's being produced, and the two of them, at length,
explained to their master, that the widow had come up early in the morning
and fetched her away; and Judy swore 'that not a know she knowed how it had
come about, or what had induced the widow to come, or Miss Anty to go, or
anything about it; only, for shure, Miss Anty was down there, snug enough,
with Miss Jane and Miss Meg; and the widdy war in her tantrums, and
wouldn't let ony dacent person inside the house-door barring Biddy. And
that wor all she knowed av' she wor on the book.'

The secret was now out. Anty had left him, and put herself under the
protection of Martin Kelly's mother; had absolutely defied him, after all
his threats of the preceding night. What should he do now! All his hatred
for her returned again, all his anxious wishes that she might be somehow
removed from his path, as an obnoxious stumbling-block. A few minutes ago,
he was afraid he had murdered her, and he now almost wished that lie had
done so. He finished dressing himself, and then sat down in the parlour,
which had been the scene of his last night's brutality, to concoct fresh
schemes for the persecution of his sister.

In the meantime, Terry rushed down to the inn, demanding the keys, and
giving Mrs Kelly a fearful history of his master's anger. This she very
wisely refrained from retailing, but, having procured the keys, gave them
to the messenger, merely informing him, that 'thanks to God's kind
protection, Miss Anty was tolerably well over the last night's work, and he
might tell his master so.'

This message Terry thought it wisest to suppress, so he took the breakfast
up in silence, and his master asked no more questions. He was very sick and
pale, and could eat nothing; but he drank a quantity of tea, and a couple
of glasses of brandy-and-water, and then he felt better, and again began to
think what measures he should take, what scheme he could concoct, for
stopping this horrid marriage, and making his sister obedient to his
wishes. 'Confound her,' he said, almost aloud, as he thought, with bitter
vexation of spirit, of her unincumbered moiety of the property, 'confound
them all!' grinding his teeth, and meaning by the 'all' to include with
Anty his father, and every one who might have assisted his father in making
the odious will, as well as his own attorney in Tuam, who wouldn't find out
some legal expedient by which he could set it aside. And then, as he
thought of the shameful persecution of which he was the victim, lie kicked
the fender with impotent violence, and, as the noise of the falling fire
irons added to his passion, he reiterated his kicks till the unoffending
piece of furniture was smashed; and then with manly indignation he turned
away to the window.

But breaking the furniture, though it was what the widow predicted of him,
wouldn't in any way mend matters, or assist him in getting out of his
difficulties. What was he to do? He couldn't live on £200 a-year; he
couldn't remain in Dunmore, to be known by every one as Martin Kelly's
brother-in-law; he couldn't endure the thoughts of dividing the property
with such 'a low-born huxtering blackguard', as he called him over and over
again. He couldn't stay there, to be beaten by him in the course of legal
proceedings, or to give him up amicable possession of what ought to have
been what should have been his what he looked upon as his own. He came
back, and sat down again over the fire, contemplating the debris of the
fender, and turning all these miserable circumstances over in his mind.
After remaining there till five o'clock, and having fortified himself with
sundry glasses of wine, he formed his resolution. He would make one
struggle more; he would first go down to the widow, and claim his sister,
as a poor simple young woman, inveigled away from her natural guardian;
and, if this were unsuccessful, as he felt pretty sure it would be, he
would take proceedings to prove her a lunatic. If he failed, he might still
delay, and finally put off the marriage; and he was sure he could get some
attorney to put him in the way of doing it, and to undertake the work for
him. His late father's attorney had been a fool, in not breaking the will,
or at any rate trying it, and he would go to Daly. Young Daly, he knew, was
a sharp fellow, and wanted practice, and this would just suit him. And
then, if at last he found that nothing could be done by this means, if his
sister and the property must go from him, he would compromise the matter
with the bridegroom, he would meet him half way, and, raising what money he
could on his share of the estate, give leg bail to his creditors, and go to
some place abroad, where tidings of Dunmore would never reach him. What did
it matter what people said? he should never hear it. He would make over the
whole property to Kelly, on getting a good life income out of it. Martin
was a prudent fellow, and would jump at such a plan. As he thought of this,
he even began to wish that it was done; he pictured to himself the easy
pleasures, the card-tables, the billiard-rooms, and cafés of some Calais or
Boulogne; pleasures which he had never known, but which had been so
glowingly described to him; and he got almost cheerful again as he felt
that, in any way, there might be bright days yet in store for him.

He would, however, still make the last effort for the whole stake. It would
be time enough to give in, and make the best of a pis aller, when he was
forced to do so. If beaten, he would make use of Martin Kelly; but he would
first try if he couldn't prove him to be a swindling adventurer, and his
sister to be an idiot.

Much satisfied at having come to this salutary resolution, he took up his
hat, and set out for the widow's, in order to put into operation the first
part of the scheme. He rather wished it over, as he knew that Mrs Kelly was
no coward, and had a strong tongue in her head. However, it must be done,
and the sooner the better. He first of all looked at himself in his glass,
to see that his appearance was sufficiently haughty and indignant, and, as
he flattered himself, like that of a gentleman singularly out of his
element in such a village as Dunmore; and then, having ordered his dinner
to be ready on his return, he proceeded on his voyage for the recovery of
his dear sister.

Entering the shop, he communicated his wishes to Meg, in the manner before
described; and, while she was gone on her errand, he remained alone there,
lashing his boot, in the most approved, but, still, in a very common-place
manner.

'Oh, mother!' said Meg, rushing into the room where her mother, and Jane,
and Anty, were at dinner, 'there's Barry Lynch down in the shop, wanting
you.'

'Oh my!' said Jane. 'Now sit still, Anty dear, and he can't come near you.
Shure, he'll niver be afther coming upstairs, will he, Meg?'

Anty, who had begun to feel quite happy in her new quarters, and among her
kind friends, turned pale, and dropped her knife and fork. 'What'Il I do,
Mrs Kelly?' she said, as she saw the old lady complacently get up. 'You're
not going to give me up? You'll not go to him?'

'Faith I will thin, my dear,' replied the widow; 'never fear else I'll go
to him, or any one else that sends to me in a dacent manner. Maybe it's
wanting tay in the shop he is. I'll go to him immediately. But, as for
giving you up, I mane you to stay here, till you've a proper home of your
own; and Barry Lynch has more in him than I think, av' he makes me alter my
mind. Set down quiet, Meg, and get your dinner.' And the widow got up, and
proceeded to the shop.

The girls were all in commotion. One went to the door at the top of the
stairs, to overhear as much as possible of what was to take place; and the
other clasped Anty's hand, to re-assure her, having first thrown open the
door of one of the bed-rooms, that she might have a place of retreat in the
event of the enemy succeeding in pushing his way upstairs.

'Your humble sarvant, Mr Lynch,' said the widow, entering the shop and
immediately taking up a position of strength in her accustomed place behind
the counter. 'Were you wanting me, this evening?' and she took up the knife
with which she cut penn'orths of tobacco for her customers, and hitting the
counter with its wooden handle looked as hard as copper, and as bold as
brass.

'Yes, Mrs Kelly,' said Barry, with as much dignity as he could muster, 'I
do want to speak to you. My sister has foolishly left her home this
morning, and my servants tell me she is under your roof. Is this true?'

'Is it Anty? Indeed she is thin: ating her dinner, upstairs, this very
moment;' and she rapped the counter again, and looked her foe in the face.

'Then, with your leave, Mrs Kelly, I'll step up, and speak to her. I
suppose she's alone?'

'Indeed she ain't thin, for she's the two girls ating wid her, and myself
too, barring that I'm just come down at your bidding. No; we're not so bad
as that, to lave her all alone; and as for your seeing her, Mr Lynch, I
don't think she's exactly wishing it at present; so, av' you've a message,
I'll take it.'

'You don't mean to say that Miss Lynch my sister is in this inn, and that
you intend to prevent my seeing her? You'd better take care what you're
doing, Mrs Kelly. I don't want to say anything harsh at present, but you'd
better take care what you're about with me and my family, or you'll find
yourself in a scrape that you little bargain for.'

'I'll take care of myself, Mr Barry; never fear for me, darling; and,
what's more, I'll take care of your sister, too. And, to give you a bit of
my mind  she'll want my care, I'm thinking, while you're in the counthry.'

'I've not come here to listen to impertinence, Mrs Kelly, and I will not do
so. In fact, it is very unwillingly that I came into this house at all.'

'Oh, pray lave it thin, pray lave it! We can do without you.'

'Perhaps you will have the civility to listen to me. It is very
unwillingly, I say, that I have come here at all; but my sister, who is,
unfortunately, not able to judge for herself, is here. How she came here I
don't pretend to say '

'Oh, she walked,' said the widow, interrupting him; 'she walked, quiet and
asy, out of your door, and into mine. But that's a lie, for it was out of
her own. She didn't come through the kay-hole, nor yet out of the window.'

'I'm saying nothing about how she came here, but here she is, poor
creature!'

'Poor crature, indeed! She was like to be a poor crature, av' she stayed up
there much longer.'

'Here she is, I say, and I consider it my duty to look after her. You
cannot but be aware, Mrs Kelly, that this is not a fit place for Miss
Lynch. You must be aware that a road-side public-house, however decent, or
a village shop, however respectable, is not the proper place for my sister;
and, though I may not yet be legally her guardian, I am her brother, and am
in charge of her property, and I insist on seeing her. It will be at your
peril if you prevent me.'

'Have you done, now, Misther Barry?'

'That 's  what I've got to say; and I think you've sense enough to see the
folly not to speak of the danger, of preventing me from seeing my sister.'

'That 's your say, Misther Lynch; and now, listen to mine. Av' Miss Anty
was wishing to see you, you'd be welcome upstairs, for her sake; but she
ain't, so there's an end of that; for not a foot will you put inside this,
unless you're intending to force your way, and I don't think you'll be for
trying that. And as to bearing the danger, why, I'll do my best; and, for
all the harm you're likely to do me that's by fair manes, I don't think
I'll be axing any one to help me out of it. So, good bye t' ye, av' you've
no further commands, for I didn't yet well finish the bit I was ating.'

'And you mean to say, Mrs Kelly, you'll take upon yourself to prevent my
seeing my sister?'

'Indeed I do; unless she was wishing it, as well as yourself; and no
mistake.'

'And you'll do that, knowing, as you do, that the unfortunate young woman
is of weak mind, and unable to judge for herself, and that I'm her brother,
and her only living relative and guardian?'

'All blathershin, Masther Barry,' said the uncourteous widow, dropping the
knife from her hand, and smacking her fingers: 'as for wake mind, it's
sthrong enough to take good care of herself and her money too, now she's
once out of Dunmore House. There many waker than Anty Lynch, though few
have had worse tratement to make them so. As for guardian, I'm thinking
it's long since she was of age, and, av' her father didn't think she wanted
one, when he made his will, you needn't bother yourself about it, now she's
no one to plaze only herself. And as for brother, Masther Barry, why didn't
you think of that before you struck her, like a brute, as you are before
you got dhrunk, like a baste, and then threatened to murdher her? Why
didn't you think about brother and sisther before you thried to rob the
poor wake crature, as you call her; and when you found she wasn't quite
wake enough, as you call it, swore to have her life, av' she wouldn't act
at your bidding? That's being a brother and a guardian, is it,Masther
Barry? Talk to me of anger, you ruffian,' continued the widow, with her
back now thoroughly up; 'you'd betther look to yourself, or I know who'll
be in most danger. Av' it wasn't the throuble it'd be to Anty and, God
knows, she's had throubles enough, I'd have had her before the magisthrates
before this, to tell of what was done last night up at the house, yonder.
But mind, she can do it yet, and, av' you don't take yourself very asy, she
shall. Danger, indeed! a robber and ruffian like you, to talk of danger to
me and his dear sisther, too, and aftimer trying his best, last night, to
murdher her!'

These last words, with a long drawl on the word dear, were addressed rather
to the crowd, whom the widow's loud voice had attracted into the open shop,
than to Barry, who stood, during this tirade, half stupefied with rage, and
half frightened, at the open attack made on him with reference to his ill-
treatment of Anty. However, he couldn't pull in his horns now, and he was
obliged, in self-defence, to brazen it out.

'Very well, Mrs Kelly you shall pay for this impudence, and that dearly.
You've invented these lies, as a pretext for getting my sister and her
property into your hands!'

'Lies!' screamed the widow; 'av' you say lies to me agin, in this house,
I'll smash the bones of ye myself, with the broom-handle. Lies, indeed! and
from you, Barry Lynch, the biggest liar in all Connaught not to talk of
robber and ruffian! You'd betther take yourself out of that, fair and asy,
while you're let. You'll find you'll have the worst of it, av' you come
rampaging here wid me, my man;' and she turned round to the listening crowd
for sympathy, which those who dared were not slow in giving her.

'And that's thrue for you, Mrs Kelly, Ma'am,' exclaimed one.

'It's a shame for him to come storming here, agin a lone widdy, so it is,'
said a virago, who seemed well able, like the widow herself, to take her
own part.

'Who iver knew any good of a Lynch barring Miss Anty herself?' argued a
third.

'The Kellys is always too good for the likes of them,' put in a fourth,
presuming that the intended marriage was the subject immediately in
discourse.

'Faix, Mr Martin's too good for the best of 'em,' declared another.

'Niver mind Mr Martin, boys,' said the widow, who wasn't well pleased to
have her son's name mentioned in the affair 'it's no business of his, one
way or another; he ain't in Dunmore, nor yet nigh it. Miss Anty Lynch has
come to me for protection; and, by the Blessed Virgin, she shall have it,
as long as my name's Mary Kelly, and I ain't like to change it; so that's
the long and short of it, Barry Lynch. So you may go and get dhrunk agin as
soon as you plaze, and bate and bang Terry Hooney, or Judy Smith; only I
think either on 'em's more than a match for you.'

'Then I tell you, Mrs Kelly,' replied Barry, who was hardly able to get in
a word, 'that you'll hear more about it. Steps are now being taken to prove
Miss Lynch a lunatic, as every one here knows she unfortunately is; and, as
sure as you stand there, you'll have to answer for detaining her; and
you're much mistaken if you think you'll get hold of her property, even
though she were to marry your son, for, I warn you, she's not her own
mistress, or able to be so.'

'Drat your impudence, you low-born ruffian,' answered his opponent; 'who
cares for her money? It's not come to that yet, that a Kelly is wanting to
schame money out of a Lynch.'

'I've nothing more to say, since you insist on keeping possession of my
sister,' and Barry turned to the door. 'But you'll be indicted for
conspiracy, so you'd better be prepared.'

'Conspiracy, is it?' said one of Mrs Kelly's admirers; 'maybe, Ma'am, he'll
get you put in along with Dan and Father Tierney, God bless them! It's
conspiracy they're afore the judges for.'

Barry now took himself off, before hearing the last of the widow's final
peal of thunder.

'Get out wid you! You're no good, and never will be. An' it wasn't for the
young woman upstairs, I'd have the coat off your back, and your face well
mauled, before I let you out of the shop!' And so ended the interview, in
which the anxious brother can hardly he said to have been triumphant, or
successful.

The widow, on the other hand, seemed to feel that she had acquitted herself
well, and that she had taken the orphan's part, like a woman, a Christian,
and a mother; anti merely saying, with a kind of inward chuckle, 'Come to
me, indeed, with his roguery! he's got the wrong pig by the ear!' she
walked off, to join the more timid trio upstairs, one of whom was speedily
sent down, to see that business did not go astray.

And then she gave a long account of the interview to Anty and Meg, which
was hardly necessary, as they had heard most of what had passed. The widow
however was not to know that, and she was very voluble in her description
of Barry's insolence, and of time dreadfully abusive things he had said to
her how he had given her the lie, and called her out of her name. She did
not, however, seem to be aware that she had, herself, said a word which was
more than necessarily violent; and assured Anty over and over again, that,
out of respect to her feelings, and because the man was, after all, her
brother, she had refrained from doing and saying what she would have done
and said, had she been treated in such a manner by anybody else. She
seemed, however, in spite of the ill-treatment which she had undergone, to
be in a serene and happy state of mind. She shook Anty's two hands in hers,
and told her to make herself 'snug and asy where she was, like a dear girl,
and to fret for nothing, for no one could hurt or harum her, and she undher
Mary Kelly's roof.' Then she wiped her face in her apron, set to at her
dinner; and even went so far as to drink a glass of porter, a thing she
hadn't done, except on a Sunday, since her eldest daughter's marriage.

Barry Lynch sneaked up the town, like a beaten dog. He felt that the widow
had had the best of it, and he also felt that every one in Dunmore was
against him. It was however only what he had expected, and calculated upon;
and what should he care for the Dunmore people? They wouldn't rise up and
kill him, nor would they he likely even to injure him. Let, them hate on,
lie would follow his own plan. As he came near the house gate, there was
sitting, as usual, Jacky, the fool.

'Well, yer honer, Masther Barry,' said Jacky, 'don't forget your poor fool
this blessed morning!'

'Away with you! If I see you there again, I'll have you in Bridewell, you
blackguard.'

'Ah, you're joking, Masther Barry. You wouldn't like to be afther doing
that. So yer honer's been down to the widdy's? That's well; it's a fine
timing to see you on good terms, since you're soon like to be so sib. Well,
there an't no betther fellow, from this to Galway, than Martin Kelly,
that's one comfort, Masther Barry.'

Barry looked round for something wherewith to avenge himself for this, but
Jacky was out of his reach; so he merely muttered some customary but
inaudible curses, and turned into the house.

He immediately took pen, ink, and paper, and, writing the following note
dispatched it to Tuam, by Terry, mounted for the occasion, and directed on
no account to return, without an answer. If Mr Daly wasn't at home, he was
to wait for his return; that is, if he was expected home that night.


Dunmore House, Feb. 1844.

My dear Sir,

I wish to consult you on legal business, which will bear no delay. The
subject is of considerable importance, and I am induced to think it will be
more ably handled by you than by Mr Blake, my father's man of business.
There is a bed at your service at Dunmore House, and I shall be glad to see
you to dinner tomorrow.

I am, dear Sir, Your faithful servant,

BARRY LYNCH.

P.S. You had better not mention in Tuam that you are coming to me not that
my business is one that I intend to keep secret.

J.Daly, Esq., Solicitor, Tuam.

In about two hours' time, Terry had put the above into the hands of the
person for whom it was intended, and in two more he had brought back an
answer, saying that Mr Daly would be at Dunmore House to dinner on the
following day. And Terry, on his journey there and back, did not forget to
tell everyone he saw, from whom he came, and to whom he was going.




VIII  MR MARTIN KELLY RETURNS TO DUNMORE


We will now return to Martin Kelly. I have before said that as soon as he
had completed his legal business, namely, his instructions for the
settlement of Anty Lynch's property, respecting which he and Lord
Ballindine had been together to the lawyer's in Clare Street he started for
home, by the Ballinasloe canal-boat, and reached that famous depot of the
fleecy tribe without adventure. I will not attempt to describe the tedium
of that horrid voyage, for it has been often described before; and to
Martin, who was in no ways fastidious, it was not so unendurable as it must
always be to those who have been accustomed to more rapid movement. Nor yet
will I attempt to put on record the miserable resources of those, who,
doomed to a twenty hours' sojourn in one of these floating prisons, vainly
endeavour to occupy or amuse their minds. But I will advise any, who from
ill-contrived arrangements, or unforeseen misfortune, [FOOTNOTE: Of course
it will be remembered that this was written before railways in Ireland had
been constructed.] may find themselves on board the Ballinasloe canal-boat,
to entertain no such vain dream. The vis inertiae of patient endurance, is
the only weapon of any use in attempting to overcome the lengthened ennui
of this most tedious transit. Reading is out of the question. I have tried
it myself, and seen others try it, but in vain. The sense of the motion,
almost imperceptible, but still perceptible; the noises above you; the
smells around you; the diversified crowd, of which you are a part; at one
moment the heat this crowd creates; at the next, the draught which a window
just opened behind your ears lets in on you; the fumes of punch; the snores
of the man under the table; the noisy anger of his neighbour, who reviles
the attendant sylph; the would-be witticisms of a third, who makes
continual amorous overtures to the same overtasked damsel, notwithstanding
the publicity of his situation; the loud complaints of the old lady near
the door, who cannot obtain the gratuitous kindness of a glass of water;
and the baby-soothing lullabies of the young one, who is suckling her
infant under your elbow. These things alike prevent one from reading,
sleeping, or thinking. All one can do is to wait till the long night
gradually wears itself away, and reflect that, Time and the hour run
through the longest day.

I hardly know why a journey in one of these boats should be much more
intolerable than travelling either outside or inside a coach; for, either
in or on the coach, one has less room for motion, and less opportunity of
employment. I believe the misery of the canal-boat chiefly consists in a
pre-conceived and erroneous idea of its capabilities. One prepares oneself
for occupation an attempt is made to achieve actual comfort and both end in
disappointment; the limbs become weary with endeavouring to fix themselves
in a position of repose, and the mind is fatigued more by the search after,
than the want of, occupation.

Martin, however, made no complaints, and felt no misery. He made great play
at the eternal half-boiled leg of mutton, floating in a bloody sea of
grease and gravy, which always comes on the table three hours after the
departure from Porto Bello. He, and others equally gifted with the dura
ilia messorum, swallowed huge collops of the raw animal, and vast heaps of
yellow turnips, till the pity with which a stranger would at first be
inclined to contemplate the consumer of such unsavoury food, is transferred
to the victim who has to provide the meal at two shillings a head. Neither
love nor drink and Martin had, on the previous day, been much troubled with
both had affected his appetite; and he ate out his money with the true
persevering prudence of a Connaught man, who firmly determines not to be
done.

He was equally diligent at breakfast; and, at last, reached Ballinasloe, at
ten o'clock the morning after he had left Dublin, in a flourishing
condition. From thence he travelled, by Bianconi's car, as far as Tuam, and
when there he went at once to the hotel, to get a hack car to take him home
to Dunmore.

In the hotel yard he found a car already prepared for a journey; and, on
giving his order for a similar vehicle for his own use, was informed, by
the disinterested ostler, that the horse then being harnessed, was to take
Mr Daly, the attorney, to Tuam, and that probably that gentleman would not
object to join him, Martin, in the conveyance. Martin, thinking it
preferable to pay fourpence rather than sixpence a mile for his jaunt,
acquiesced in this arrangement, and, as he had a sort of speaking
acquaintance with Mr Daly, whom he rightly imagined would not despise the
economy which actuated himself, he had his carpet-bag put into the well of
the car, and, placing himself on it, he proceeded to the attorney's door.

He soon made the necessary explanation to Mr Daly, who made no objection to
the proposal; and he also throwing a somewhat diminutive carpet-bag into
the same well, placed himself alongside of our friend, and they proceeded
on their journey, with the most amicable feelings towards each other.

They little guessed, either the one or the other, as they commenced talking
on the now all-absorbing subject of the great trial, that they were going
to Dunmore for the express object though not with the expressed purpose, of
opposing each other that Daly was to be employed to suggest any legal means
for robbing Martin of a wife, and Anty of her property; and that Martin was
going home with the fixed determination of effecting a wedding, to prevent
which his companion was, in consideration of liberal payment, to use all
his ingenuity and energy.

When they had discussed O'Connel and his companions, and their chances of
liberation for four or five miles, and when Martin had warmly expressed his
assurance that no jury could convict the saviours of their country, and
Daly had given utterance to his legal opinion that saltpetre couldn't save
them from two years in Newgate, Martin asked his companion whether he was
going beyond Dunmore that night?

'No, indeed, then,' replied Daly; 'I have a client there now a thing I
never had in that part of the country before yesterday.'

'We'll have you at the inn, then, I suppose, Mr Daly?'

'Faith, you won't, for I shall dine on velvet. My new client is one of the
right sort, that can feed as well as fee a lawyer. I've got my dinner, and
bed tonight, whatever else I may get.'

'There's not many of that sort in Dunmore thin; any way, there weren't when
I left it, a week since. Whose house are you going to, Mr Daly, av' it's
not impertinent asking?'

'Barry Lynch's.'

'Barry Lynch's!' re-echoed Martin; 'the divil you are! I wonder what's in
the wind with him now. I thought Blake always did his business?'

'The devil a know I know, so I can't tell you; and if I did, I shouldn't,
you may be sure. But a man that's just come to his property always wants a
lawyer; and many a one, besides Barry Lynch, ain't satisfied without two.'

'Well, any way, I wish you joy of your new client. I'm not over fond of him
myself, I'll own; but then there were always rasons why he and I shouldn't
pull well together. Barry 's always been a dale too high for me, since he
was at school with the young lord. Well, good evening, Mr Daly. Never mind
time car coming down the street, as you're at your friend's gate,' and
Martin took his bag on his arm, and walked down to the inn.

Though Martin couldn't guess, as he walked quickly down the street, what
Barry Lynch could want with young Daly, who was beginning to be known as a
clever, though not over-scrupulous practitioner, he felt a presentiment
that it must have some reference to Anty and himself, and this made him
rather uncomfortable. Could Barry have heard of his engagement? Had Anty
repented of her bargain, during his short absence? Had that old reptile
Moylan, played him false, and spoilt his game? 'That must be it,' said
Martin to himself, 'and it's odd but I'll be even with the schamer, yet;
only she's so asy frightened! Av' she'd the laist pluck in life, it's
little I'd care for Moylan or Barry either.'

This little soliloquy brought him to the inn door. Some of the tribe of
loungers who were always hanging about the door, and whom in her hatred of
idleness the widow would one day rout from the place, and, in her charity,
feed the next, had seen Martin coming down the street, and had given
intelligence in the kitchen. As he walked in, therefore, at the open door,
Meg and Jane were ready to receive him in the passage. Their looks were big
with some important news. Martin soon saw that they had something to tell.

'Well, girls,' he said, as he chucked his bag and coat to Sally, 'for
heaven's sake get me something to ate, for I'm starved. What's the news at
Dunmore?'

'It's you should have the news thin,' said one, 'and you just from Dublin.'

'There's lots of news there, then; I'll tell you when I've got my dinner.
How's the ould lady?' and he stepped on, as if to pass by them, upstairs.

'Stop a moment, Martin,' said Meg; 'don't be in a hurry; there's some one
there.'

'Who's there? is it a stranger?'

'Why, then, it is, and it isn't,' said Jane.

'But you don't ask afther the young lady!' said her sister.

'May I be hanged thin, av' I know what the two of ye are afther! Is there
people in both the rooms? Come, girls, av' ye've anything to tell, why
don't you out wid it and have done? I suppose I can go into the bed-room,
at any rate?'

'Aisy, Martin, and I'll tell you. Anty's in the parlour.'

'In the parlour upstairs?' said he; 'the deuce she is! And what brought her
here? Did she quarrel with Barry, Meg?' added he, in a whisper.

'Indeed she did, out and out,' said Meg.

'Oh, he used her horrible!' said Jane.

'He'll hear all about that by and by,' said Meg. 'Come up and see her now,
Martin.'

'But does mother know she's here?'

'Why, it was she brought her here! She fetched her down from the house,
yesterday, before we was up.'

Thus assured that Anty had not been smuggled upstairs, her lover, or suitor
as he might perhaps be more confidently called, proceeded to visit her. If
he wished her to believe that his first impulse, on hearing of her being in
the house, had been to throw himself at her feet, it would have been well
that this conversation should have been carried on out of her hearing. But
Anty was not an exigent mistress, and was perfectly contented that as much
of her recent history as possible should be explained before Martin
presented himself.

Martin went slowly upstairs, and paused a moment at the door, as if he was
a little afraid of commencing the interview; he looked round to his
sisters, and made a sign to them to come in with him, and then, quickly
pushing open the unfastened door, walked briskly up to Anty and shook hands
with her.

'I hope you're very well, Anty,' said he; 'seeing you here is what I didn't
expect, but I'm very glad you've come down.'

'Thank ye, Martin,' replied she; 'it was very good of your mother, fetching
me. She's been the best friend I've had many a day.'

'Begad, it's a fine thing to see you and the ould lady pull so well
together. It was yesterday you came here?'

'Yesterday morning. I was so glad to come! I don't know what they'd been
saying to Barry; but the night before last he got drinking, and then he was
very bad to me, and tried to frighten me, and so, you see, I come down to
your mother till we could be friends again.'

Anty's apology for being at the inn, was perhaps unnecessary; but, with the
feeling so natural to a woman, she was half afraid that Martin would fancy
she had run after him, and she therefore thought it as well to tell him
that it was only a temporary measure. Poor Anty! At the moment she said so,
she trembled at the very idea of putting herself again in her brother's
power.

'Frinds, indeed!' said Meg; 'how can you iver be frinds with the like of
him? What nonsense you talk, Anty! Why, Martin, he was like to murdher
her! he raised his fist to her, and knocked her down and, afther that,
swore to her he'd kill her outright av' she wouldn't sware that she'd
niver '

 'Whist, Meg! How can you go on that way?' said Anty, interrupting her, and
blushing. 'I'll not stop in the room; don't you know he was dhrunk when he
done all that?'

'And won't he be dhrunk again, Anty?' suggested Jane.

'Shure he will: he'll be dhrunk always, now he's once begun,' replied Meg,
who, of all the family was the most anxious to push her brother's suit; and
who, though really fond of her friend, thought the present opportunity a
great deal too good to be thrown away, and could not bear the idea of
Anty's even thinking of being reconciled to her brother. 'Won't he be
always dhrurik now?' she continued; 'and ain't we all frinds here? and why
shouldn't you let me tell Martin all? Afther all's said and done, isn't he
the best frind you've got?' Here Anty blushed very red, and to tell the
truth, so did Martin too 'well so he is, and unless you tell him what's
happened, how's he to know what to advise; and, to tell the truth, wouldn't
you sooner do what he says than any one else?'

'I'm sure I'm very much obliged to Mr Martin' it had been plain Martin
before Meg's appeal; 'but your mother knows what's best for me, and I'll do
whatever she says. Av' it hadn't been for her, I don't know where I'd be
now.'

'But you needn't quarrel with Martin because you're frinds with mother,'
answered Meg.

'Nonsense, Meg,' said Jane, 'Anty's not going to quarrel with him. You
hurry her too much.'

Martin looked rather stupid all this time, but he plucked up courage and
said, 'Who's going to quarrel? I'm shure, Anty, you and I won't; but,
whatever it is Barry did to you, I hope you won't go back there again, now
you're once here. But did he railly sthrike you in arnest?'

'He did, add knocked her down,' said Jane.

'But won't you get your brother his dinner?' said Anty; 'he must be very
hungry, afther his ride and won't you see your mother afther your journey,
Mr Martin? I'm shure she's expecting you.'

This, for the present, put an end to the conversation; the girls went to
get something for their brother to eat, and he descended into the lower
regions to pay his filial respects to his mother.

A considerable time passed before Martin returned to the meal the three
young women had provided for him, during which he was in close consultation
with the widow. In the first place, she began upbraiding him for his folly
in wishing to marry an old maid for her money; she then taxed him with
villany, for trying to cheat Anty out of her property; and when he defended
himself from that charge by telling her what he had done about the
settlement, she asked him how much he had to pay the rogue of a lawyer for
that 'gander's job'. She then proceeded to point out all the difficulties
which lay in the way of a marriage between him, Martin, and her, Anty; and
showed how mad it was for either of them to think about it. From that, she
got into a narrative of Barry's conduct, and Anty's sufferings, neither of
which lost anything in the telling; and having by this time gossiped
herself into a good humour, she proceeded to show how, through her means
and assistance, the marriage might take place if he was still bent upon it.
She eschewed all running away, and would hear of no clandestine
proceedings. They should be married in the face of day, as the Kellys
ought, with all their friends round them. 'They'd have no huggery-muggery
work, up in a corner; not they indeed! why should they? for fear of Barry
Lynch? who cared for a dhrunken blackguard like that? not she indeed! who
ever heard of a Kelly being afraid of a Lynch? They'd ax him to come and
see his sister married, and av' he didn't like it, he might do the other
thing.'

And so, the widow got quite eloquent on the glories of the wedding, and the
enormities of her son's future brother-in-1aw, who had, she assured Martin,
come down and abused her horribly, in her own shop, before all the town,
because she allowed Anty to stay in the house. She then proceeded to the
consequences of the marriage, and expressed her hope that when Martin got
all that ready money he would 'do something for his poor sisthers for
Heaven knew they war like to be bad enough off, for all she'd be able to do
for them!' From this she got to Martin's own future mode of life,
suggesting a 'small snug cottage on the farm, just big enough for them two,
and, maybe, a slip of a girl servant, and not to be taring and tatthering
away, as av' money had no eend; and, afther all,' she added, 'there war
nothing like industhry; and who know'd whether that born villain, Barry,
mightn't yet get sich a hoult of the money, that there'd be no getting it
out of his fist?' and she then depicted, in most pathetic language, what
would be the misery of herself and all the Kellys if Martin, flushed with
his prosperity, were to give up the farm at Toneroe, and afterwards find
that he had been robbed of his expected property, and that he had no
support for himself and his young bride.

On this subject Martin considerably comforted her by assuring her that he
had no thoughts of abandoning Toneroe, although he did not go so far as to
acquiesce in the very small cottage; and he moreover expressed his thorough
confidence that he would neither be led himself, nor lead Anty, into the
imprudence of a marriage, until he had well satisfied himself that the
property was safe.

The widow was well pleased to find, from Martin's prudent resolves, that he
was her own son, and that she needn't blush for him; and then they parted,
she to her shop, and he to his dinner: not however, before he had promised
her to give up all ideas of a clandestine marriage, and to permit himself
to be united to his wife in the face of day, as became a Kelly.

The evening passed over quietly and snugly at the inn. Martin had not much
difficulty in persuading his three companions to take a glass of punch each
out of his tumbler, and less in getting them to take a second, and, before
they went to bed, he and Anty were again intimate. And, as he was sitting
next her for a couple of hours on the little sofa opposite the fire, it is
more than probable that he got his arm round her waist a comfortable
position, which seemed in no way to shock the decorum of either Meg or
Jane.




IX  MR DALY, THE ATTORNEY


We must now see how things went on in the enemy's camp.

The attorney drove up to the door of Dunmore House on his car, and was
shown into the drawing-room, where he met Barry Lynch. The two young men
were acquainted, though not intimate with each other, and they bowed, and
then shook hands; and Barry told the attorney that he was welcome to
Dunmore House, and the attorney made another bow, rubbed his hands before
the fire and said it was a very cold evening; and Barry said it was 'nation
cold for that time of the year; which, considering that they were now in
the middle of February, showed that Barry was rather abroad, and didn't
exactly know what to say. He remained for about a minute, silent before the
fire, and then asked Daly if he'd like to see his room; and, the attorney
acquiescing, he led him up to it, and left him there.

The truth was, that, as the time of the man's visit had drawn nearer, Barry
had become more and more embarrassed; and now that the attorney had
absolutely come, his employer felt himself unable to explain the business
before dinner. 'These fellows are so confoundedly sharp I shall never be up
to him till I get a tumbler of punch on board,' said he to himself,
comforting himself with the reflection; 'besides, I'm never well able for
anything till I get a little warmed. We'll get along like a house on fire
when we've got the hot water between us.'

The true meaning of all which was, that he hadn't the courage to make known
his villanous schemes respecting his sister till he was half drunk; and, in
order the earlier to bring about this necessary and now daily consummation,
he sneaked downstairs and took a solitary glass of brandy to fortify
himself for entertaining the attorney.

The dinner was dull enough; for, of course, as long as the man was in the
room there was no talking on business, and, in his present frame of mind
Barry was not likely to be an agreeable companion. The attorney ate his
dinner as if it was a part of the fee, received in payment of the work he
was to do, and with a determination to make the most of it.

At last, the dishes disappeared, and with them Terry Rooney; who, however,
like a faithful servant, felt too strong an interest in his master's
affairs to be very far absent when matters of importance were likely to be
discussed.

'And now, Mr Daly,' said Lynch, 'we can be snug here, without interruption,
for an hour or two. You'll find that whiskey old and good, I think; but, if
you prefer wine, that port on the table came from Barton's, in Sackville
Street.'

'Thank ye; if I take anything, it'll be a glass of punch. But as we've
business to talk of, maybe I'd better keep my head clear.'

'My head's never so clear then, as when I've done my second tumbler. I'm
never so sure of what I'm about as when I'm a little warmed; "but," says
you, "because my head's strong, it's no reason another's shouldn't be
weak:" but do as you like; liberty hall here now, Mr Daly; that is, as far
as I'm concerned. You knew my father, I believe, Mr Daly?'

'Well then, Mr Lynch, I didn't exactly know him; but living so near him,
and he having so much business in the county, and myself having a little, I
believe I've been in company with him, odd times.'

'He was a queer man: wasn't he, Mr Daly?'

'Was he, then? I dare say. I didn't know much about him. I'll take the
sugar from you, Mr Lynch; I believe I might as well mix a drop, as the
night's cold.'

'That's right. I thought you weren't the fellow to sit with an empty glass
before you. But, as I was saying before, the old boy was a queer hand; that
is, latterly for the last year or so. Of course you know all about his
will?'

'Faith then, not much. I heard lie left a will, dividing the property
between you and Miss Lynch.'

'He did! Just at the last moment, when the breath wasn't much more than
left in him, he signed a will, making away half the estate, just as you
say, to my sister. Blake could have broke the will, only he was so d   pig-
headed and stupid. It's too late now, I suppose?'

'Why, I could hardly answer that, you know, as I never heard the
circumstances; but I was given to understand that Blake consulted McMahon;
and that McMahon wouldn't take up the case, as there was nothing he could
put before the Chancellor. Mind I'm only repeating what people said in
Tuam, and about there. Of course, I couldn't think of advising till I knew
the particulars. Was it on this subject, Mr Lynch, you were good enough to
send for me?'

'Not at all, Mr Daly. I look upon that as done and gone; bad luck to Blake
and McMahon, both. The truth is, between you and me, Daly I don't mind
telling you; as I hope now you will become my man of business, and it's
only fair you should know all about it the truth is, Blake was more
interested on the other side, and he was determined the case shouldn't go
before the Chancellor. But, when my father signed that will, it was just
after one of those fits he had lately; that could be proved, and he didn't
know what he was doing, from Adam! He didn't know what was in the will,
nor, that he was signing a will at all; so help me, he didn't. However,
that's over. It wasn't to talk about that that I sent for you; only, sorrow
seize the rogue that made the old man rob me! It wasn't Anty herself, poor
creature; she knew nothing about it; it was those who meant to get hold of
my money, through her, that did it. Poor Anty! Heaven knows she wasn't up
to such a dodge as that!'

'Well, Mr Lynch, of course I know nothing of the absolute facts; but from
what I hear, I think it's as well to let the will alone. The Chancellor
won't put a will aside in a hurry; it's always a difficult job would cost
an immense sum of money, which should, any way, come out of the property;
and, after all, the chances are ten to one you'd be beat.'

'Perhaps you're right, now; though I'm sure, had the matter been properly
taken up at first had you seen the whole case at the first start, the thing
could have been done. I'm sure you would have said so; but that's over now;
it's another business I want you for. But you don't drink your punch! and
it's dry work talking, without wetting one's whistle,' and Barry carried
out his own recommendation.

'I'm doing very well, thank ye, Mr Lynch. And what is it I can do for you?'

'That's what I'm coming to. You know that, by the will, my sister Anty gets
from four to five hundred a year?'

'I didn't know the amount; but I believe she has half whatever there is.'

'Exactly: half the land, half the cash, half the house, half everything,
except the debts! and those were contracted in my name, and I must pay them
all. Isn't that hard, Mr Daly?'

'I didn't know your father had debts.'

'Oh, but he had debts which ought to have been his; though, as I said, they
stand in my name, and I must pay them.'

'And, I suppose, what you now want is to saddle the debts on the entire
property? If you can really prove that the debts were incurred for your
father's benefit, I should think you might do that. But has your sister
refused to pay the half? They can't be heavy. Won't Miss Lynch agree to pay
the half herself?'

This last lie of Barry's for, to give the devil his due, old Sim hadn't
owed one penny for the last twenty years was only a bright invention of the
moment, thrown off by our injured hero to aggravate the hardships of his
case; but he was determined to make the most of it.

'Not heavy? faith, they are heavy, and d  d heavy too, Mr Daly! what'll
take two hundred a-year out of my miserable share of the property; divil a
less. Oh! there's never any knowing how a man'll cut up till he's gone.'

'That's true; but how could your father owe such a sum as that, and no one
know it? Why, that must be four or five thousand pounds?'

'About five, I believe.'

'And you've put your name to them, isn't that it?'

'Something like it. You know, he and Lord Ballindine, years ago, were
fighting about the leases we held under the old Lord; and then, the old man
wanted ready money, and borrowed it in Dublin; and, some years since that
is, about three years ago, sooner than see any of the property sold, I took
up the debt myself. You know, it was all as good as my own then; and now,
confound it! I must pay the whole out of the miserable thing that's left me
under this infernal will. But it wasn't even about that I sent for you;
only, I must explain exactly how matters are, before I come to the real
point.'

'But your father's name must be joined with yours in the debt; and, if so,
you can come upon the entire property for the payment. There's no
difficulty about that; your sister, of course, must pay the half.'

'It's not so, my dear fellow. I can't explain the thing exactly, but it's I
that owe the money, and I must pay it. But it's no good talking of that.
Well, you see, Anty that's my sister, has this property all in her own
hands. But you don't drink your punch,' and Barry mixed his third tumbler.

'Of course she has; and, surely she won't refuse to pay half the claims on
the estate?'

'Never mind the claims!' answered Barry, who began to fear that he had
pushed his little invention a thought too far. 'I tell you, I must stand to
them; you don't suppose I'd ask her to pay a penny as a favour? No; I'm a
little too proud for that. Besides, it'd be no use, not the least; and
that's what I'm coming to. You see, Anty's got this money, and . You know,
don't you, Mr Daly, poor Anty's not just like other people?'

'No,' said Mr Daly ' I didn't. I can't say I know much about Miss Lynch. I
never had the pleasure of seeing her.'

'But did you never hear she wasn't quite right?'

'Indeed, I never did, then.'

'Well that's odd; but we never had it much talked about, poor creature.
Indeed, there was no necessity for people to know much about it, for she
never gave any trouble; and, to tell the truth, as long as she was kept
quiet, she never gave us occasion to think much about it. But, confound
them for rogues those who have got. hold of her now, have quite upset her.'

'But what is it ails your sister, Mr Lynch?'

'To have it out, at once, then she's not right in her upper story. Mind, I
don't mean she's a downright lunatic; but she's cracked, poor thing, and
quite unable to judge for herself, in money-matters, and such like; and,
though she might have done very well, poor thing, and passed without
notice, if she'd been left quiet, as was always intended, I'm afraid now,
unless she's well managed, she'd end her life in the Ballinasloe Asylum.'

The attorney made no answer to this, although Barry paused, to allow him to
do so. Daly was too sharp, and knew his employer's character too well to
believe all he said, and he now began to fancy that he saw what the
affectionate brother was after. 'Well, Daly,' continued Barry, after a
minute's pause; 'after the old man died, we went on quiet enough for some
time. I was up in Dublin mostly, about that confounded loan, and poor Anty
was left here by herself; and what should she do, but take up with a low
huxter's family in the town here.'

'That's bad,' said the attorney. 'Was there an unmarried young man among
them at all?'

'Faith there was so; as great a blackguard as there is in Connaught.'

'And Miss Lynch is going to marry him?'

'That's just it, Daly; that's what we must prevent. You know, for the sake
of the family, I couldn't let it go on. Then, poor creature, she'd be
plundered and ill-treated she'd be a downright idiot in no time; and, you
know, Daly, the property'd go to the devil; and where'd I be then?'

Daly couldn't help thinking that, in all probability, his kind host would
not be long in following the property; but he did not say so. He merely
asked the name of the 'blackguard' whom Miss Anty meant to marry?

'Wait till I tell you the whole of it. The first thing I heard was, that
Anty had made a low ruffian, named Moylan, her agent.'

'I know him; she couldn't have done much worse. Well?'

'She made him her agent without speaking to me, or telling me a word about
it; and I couldn't make out what had put it into her head, till I heard
that this old rogue was a kind of cousin to some people living here, named
Kelly.'

'What, the widow, that keeps the inn?'

'The very same! confound her, for an impertinent scheming old hag, as she
is. Well; that's the house that Anty was always going to; drinking tea with
the daughters, and walking with the son an infernal young farmer, that
lives with them, the worst of the whole set.'

'What, Martin Kelly ? There's worse fellows than him, Mr Lynch.'

'I'll be hanged if I know them, then; but if there are, I don't choose my
poor sister only one remove from an idiot, and hardly that to be carried
off from her mother's house, and married to such a fellow as that. Why,
it's all the same infernal plot; it's the same people that got the old man
to sign the will, when he was past his senses!'

'Begad, they must have been clever to do that! How the deuce could .they
have got the will drawn?'

'I tell you, they did do it!' answered Barry, whose courage was now
somewhat raised by the whiskey. 'That's neither here nor there, but they
did it; and, when the old fool was dead, they got this Moylan made Anty's
agent: and then, the hag of a mother comes up here, before daylight, and
bribes the servant, and carries her off down to her filthy den, which she
calls an inn; and when I call to see my sister, I get nothing but insolence
and abuse.'

'And when did this happen? When did Miss Lynch leave the house?'

'Yesterday morning, about four o'clock.'

'She went down of her own accord, though?'

'D l a bit. The old hag came up here, and filched her out of her bed.'

'But she couldn't have taken your sister away, unless she had wished to
go.'

'Of course she wished it; but a silly creature like her can't be let to do
all she wishes.. She wishes to get a husband, and doesn't care what sort of
a one she gets; but you don't suppose an old maid forty years old, who has
always been too stupid and foolish ever to be seen or spoken to, should be
allowed to throw away four hundred a-year, on the first robber that tries
to cheat her? You don't mean to say there isn't a law to prevent that?'

'I don't know how you'll prevent it, Mr Lynch. She's her own mistress.'

'What the d l!  Do you mean to say there's nothing to prevent an idiot like
that from marrying?'

'If she was an idiot! But I think you'll find your sister has sense enough
to marry whom she pleases.'

'I tell you she is an idiot; not raving, mind; but everybody knows she was
never fit to manage anything.'

'Who'd prove it!'

'Why, I would. Divil a doubt of it! I could prove that she never could, all
her life.'

'Ah, my dear Sir! you couldn't do it; nor could I advise you to try that
is, unless there were plenty more who could swear positively that she was
out of her mind. Would the servants swear that? Could you yourself, now,
positively swear that she was out of her mind?'

'Why she never had any mind to be out of.'

'Unless you are very sure she is, and, for a considerable time back, has
been, a confirmed lunatic, you'd be very wrong very ill-advised, I mean, Mr
Lynch, to try that game at all. Things would come out which you wouldn't
like; and your motives would be would be ' seen through at once, the
attorney was on the point of saying, but he stopped himself, and finished
by the words 'called in question'.

'And I'm to sit here, then, and see that young blackguard Kelly, run off
with what ought to be my own, and my sister into the bargain? I'm blessed
if I do! If you can't put me in the way of stopping it, I'll find those
that can.'

'You're getting too much in a hurry, Mr Lynch. Is your sister at the inn
now?'

'To be sure she is.'

'And she is engaged to this young man?'

'She is.'

'Why, then, she might be married to him tomorrow, for anything you know.'

'She might, if he was here. But they tell me he's away, in Dublin.'

'If they told you so today, they told you wrong: he came into Dunmore, from
Tuam, on the same car with myself, this very afternoon.'

'What, Martin Kelly? Then he'll be off with her this night, while we're
sitting here!' and Barry jumped up, as if to rush out, and prevent the
immediate consummation of his worst fears.

'Stop a moment, Mr Lynch,' said the more prudent and more sober lawyer. 'If
they were off, you couldn't follow them; and, if you did follow and find
them, you couldn't prevent their being married, if such were their wish,
and they had a priest ready to do it. Take my advice; remain quiet where
you are, and let's talk the matter over. As for taking out a commission "de
lunatico", as we call it, you'll find you couldn't do it. Miss Lynch may be
a little weak or so in the upper story, but she's not a lunatic; and you
couldn't make her so, if you had half Dunmore to back you, because she'd be
brought before the Commissioners herself, and that, you know, would soon
settle the question. But you might still prevent the marriage, for a time,
at any rate at least, I think so; and, after that, you must trust to the
chapter of accidents.'

'So help me, that's all I want! If I got her once up here again, and was
sure the thing was off, for a month or so, let me alone, then, for bringing
her to reason!'

As Daly watched his comrade's reddening face, and saw the malicious gleam
of his eyes as he declared how easily he'd manage the affair, if poor Anty
was once more in the house, his heart misgave him, even though he was a
sharp attorney, at the idea of assisting such a cruel brute in his cruelty;
and, for a moment, he had determined to throw up the matter. Barry was so
unprincipled, and so wickedly malicious in his want of principle, that he
disgusted even Daly. But, on second thoughts, the lawyer remembered that if
he didn't do the job, another would; and, quieting his not very violent
qualms of conscience with the idea that, though employed by the brother, he
might also, to a certain extent, protect the sister, he proceeded to give
his advice as to the course which would be most likely to keep the property
out of the hands of the Kellys.

He explained to Barry that, as Anty had left her own home in company with
Martin's mother, and as she now was a guest at the widow's, it was unlikely
that any immediate clandestine marriage should be resorted to; that their
most likely course would be to brazen the matter out, and have the wedding
solemnised without any secrecy, and without any especial notice to him,
Barry. That, on the next morning, a legal notice should be prepared in
Tuam, and served on the widow, informing her that it was his intention to
indict her for conspiracy, in enticing away from her own home his sister
Anty, for the purpose of obtaining possession of her property, she being of
weak mind, and not able properly to manage her own affairs; that a copy of
this notice should also be sent to Martin, warning him that he would be
included in the indictment if he took any proceedings with regard to Miss
Lynch; and that a further copy should, if possible, be put into the hands
of Miss Lynch herself.

'You may be sure that'll frighten them,' continued Daly; 'and then, you
know, when we see what sort of fight they make, we'll be able to judge
whether we ought to go on and prosecute or not. I think the widow'll be
very shy of meddling, when she finds you're in earnest. And you see, Mr
Lynch,' he went on, dropping his voice, 'if you do go into court, as I
don't think you will, you'll go with clean hands, as you ought to do.
Nobody can say anything against you for trying to prevent your sister from
marrying a man so much younger than herself, and so much inferior in
station and fortune; you won't seem to gain anything by it, and that's
everything with a jury; and then, you know, if it comes out that Miss
Lynch's mind is rather touched, it's an additional reason why you should
protect her from intriguing and interested schemers. Don't you see?'

Barry did see, or fancied he saw, that he had now got the Kellys in a dead
fix, and Anty back into his own hands again; and his self-confidence having
been fully roused by his potations, he was tolerably happy, and talked very
loudly of the manner in which he would punish those low-bred huxters, who
had presumed to interfere with him in the management of his family.

Towards the latter end of the evening, he became even more confidential,
and showed the cloven foot, if possible, more undisguisedly than he had
hitherto done. He spoke of the impossibility of allowing four hundred a
year to be carried off from him, and suggested to Daly that his sister
would soon drop off,  that there would then be a nice thing left, and that
he, Daly, should have the agency, and if he pleased, the use of Dunmore
House. As for himself, he had no idea of mewing himself up in such a hole
as that; but, before he went, he'd take care to drive that villain, Moylan,
out of the place. 'The cursed villany of those Kellys, to go and palm such
a robber as that off on his sister, by way of an agent!'

To all this, Daly paid but little attention, for he saw that his host was
drunk. But when Moylan's name was mentioned, he began to think that it
might be as well either to include him in the threatened indictment, or
else, which would be better still, to buy him over to their side, as they
might probably learn from him what Martin's plans really were. Barry was,
however, too tipsy to pay much attention to this, or to understand any
deep-laid plans. So the two retired to their beds, Barry determined, as he
declared to the attorney in his drunken friendship, to have it out of Anty,
when he caught her; and Daly promising to go to Tuarn early in the morning,
have the notices prepared and served, and come back in the evening to dine
and sleep, and have, if possible, an interview with Mr Moylan. As he
undressed, he reflected that, during his short professional career, he had
been thrown into the society of many unmitigated rogues of every
description; but that his new friend, Barry Lynch, though he might not
equal them in energy of villany and courage to do serious evil, beat them
all hollow in selfishness, and utter brutal want of feeling, conscience,
and principle.




X  DOT BLAKE'S ADVICE


In hour or two after Martin Kelly had left Porto Bello in the Ballinasloe
fly-boat, our other hero, Lord Ballindine, and his friend Dot Blake,
started from Morrison's hotel, with post horses, for Handicap Lodge; and,
as they travelled in Blake's very comfortable barouche, they reached their
destination in time for a late dinner, without either adventure or
discomfort. Here they remained for some days, fully occupied with the
education of their horses, the attention necessary to the engagements for
which they were to run, and with their betting-books.

Lord Ballindine's horse, Brien Boru, was destined to give the Saxons a
dressing at Epsom, and put no one knows how many thousands into his owner's
hands, by winning the Derby; and arrangements had already been made for
sending him over to John Scott, the English trainer, at an expense, which,
if the horse should by chance fail to be successful, would be of very
serious consequence to his lordship. But Lord Ballindine had made up his
mind, or rather, Blake had made it up for him, and the thing was to be
done; the risk was to be run, and the preparations the sweats and the
gallops, the physicking, feeding, and coddling, kept Frank tolerably well
employed; though the whole process would have gone on quite as well, had he
been absent.

It was not so, however, with Dot Blake. The turf, to him, was not an
expensive pleasure, but a very serious business, and one which, to give him
his due, he well understood. He himself, regulated the work, both of his
horses and his men, and saw that both did what was allotted to them. He
took very good care that he was never charged a guinea, where a guinea was
not necessary; and that he got a guinea's worth for every guinea he laid
out. In fact, he trained his own horses, and was thus able to assure
himself that his interests were never made subservient to those of others
who kept horses in the same stables. Dot was in his glory, and in his
element on the Curragh, and he was never quite happy anywhere else.

This, however, was not the case with his companion. For a couple of days
the excitement attending Brien Boru was sufficient to fill Lord
Ballindine's mind; but after that, he could not help recurring to other
things. He was much in want of money, and had been civilly told by is
agent's managing clerk, before he left town, that there was some difficulty
in the way of his immediately getting the sum required. This annoyed him,
for he could not carry on the game without money. And then, again, he was
unhappy to be so near Fanny Wyndham, from day to day, without seeing her.
He was truly and earnestly attached to her, and miserable at the threat
which had been all but made by her guardian, that the match should be
broken off.

It was true that he had made up his mind not to go to Grey Abbey, as long
as he remained at Handicap Lodge, and, having made the resolution, he
thought he was wise in keeping it; but still, he continually felt that she
must be aware that he was in the neighbourhood, and could not but be hurt
at his apparent indifference. And then he knew that her guardian would make
use of his present employment his sojourn at such a den of sporting
characters as his friend Blake's habitation and his continued absence from
Grey Abbey though known to be in its vicinity, as additional arguments for
inducing his ward to declare the engagement at an end.

These troubles annoyed him, and though he daily stood by and saw Brien Boru
go through his manoeuvres, he was discontented and fidgety.

He had been at Handicap Lodge about a fortnight, and was beginning to feel
anything but happy. His horse was to go over in another week, money was not
plentiful with him, and tradesmen were becoming obdurate and persevering.
His host, Blake, was not a soothing or a comfortable friend, under these
circumstances: he gave him a good deal of practical advice, but he could
not sympathise with him. Blake was a sharp, hard, sensible man, who reduced
everything to pounds shillings and pence. Lord Ballindine was a man of
feeling, and for the time, at least, a man of pleasure; and, though they
were, or thought themselves friends, they did not pull well together; in
fact, they bored each other terribly.

One morning, Lord Ballindine was riding out from the training-ground, when
he met, if not an old, at any rate an intimate acquaintance, named Tierney.
Mr or, as he was commonly called, Mat Tierney, was a bachelor, about sixty
years of age, who usually inhabited a lodge near the Curragh; and who kept
a horse or two on the turf, more for the sake of the standing which it gave
him in the society he liked best, than from any intense love of the sport.
He was a fat, jolly fellow, always laughing, and usually in a good humour;
he was very fond of what he considered the world; and the world, at least
that part of it which knew him, returned the compliment.

'Well, my lord,' said he, after a few minutes of got-up enthusiasm
respecting Brien Boru, 'I congratulate you, sincerely.'

'What about?' said Lord Ballindine.

'Why, I find you've got a first-rate horse, and I hear you've got rid of a
first-rate lady. You're very lucky, no doubt, in both; but I think fortune
has stood to you most, in the latter.'

Lord Ballindine was petrified: he did not know what to reply. He was aware
that his engagement with Miss Wyndham was so public that Tierney could
allude to no other lady; but he could not conceive how any one could have
heard that his intended marriage was broken off at any rate how he could
have heard it spoken of so publicly, as to induce him to mention it in that
sort of way, to himself. His first impulse was to be very indignant; but he
felt that no one would dream of quarrelling with Mat Tierney; so he said,
as soon as he was able to collect his thoughts sufficiently,

'I was not aware of the second piece of luck, Mr Tierney. Pray who is the
lady?'

'Why, Miss Wyndham,' said Mat, himself a little astonished at Lord
Ballindine's tone.

'I'm sure, Mr Tierney,' said Frank, 'you would say nothing, particularly in
connection with a lady's name, which you intended either to be impertinent,
or injurious. Were it not that I am quite certain of this, I must own that
what you have just said would appear to be both.'

'My dear lord,' said the other, surprised and grieved, 'I beg ten thousand
pardons, if I have unintentionally said anything, which you feel to be
either. But, surely, if I am not wrong in asking, the match between you and
Miss Wyndham is broken off?'

'May I ask you, Mr Tierney, who told you so?'

'Certainly Lord Kilcullen; and, as he is Miss Wyndham's cousin, and Lord
Cashel's son, I could not but think the report authentic.'

This overset Frank still more thoroughly. Lord Kilcullen would never have
spread the report publicly unless he had been authorised to do so by Lord
Cashel. Frank and Lord Kilcullen had never been intimate; and the former
was aware that the other had always been averse to the proposed marriage;
but still, he would never have openly declared that the marriage was broken
off, had he not had some authority for saying so.

'As you seem somewhat surprised,' continued Mat, seeing that Lord
Ballindine remained silent, and apparently at a loss for what he ought to
say, 'perhaps I ought to tell you, that Lord Kilcullen mentioned it last
night very publicly at a dinner-party, as an absolute fact. Indeed, from
his manner, I thought he wished it to be generally made known. I presumed,
therefore, that it had been mutually agreed between you, that the event was
not to come off that the match was not to be run; and, with my peculiar
views, you know, on the subject of matrimony, I thought it a fair point for
congratulation. If Lord Kilcullen had misled me, I heartily beg to
apologise; and at the same time, by giving you my authority, to show you
that I could not intend anything impertinent. If it suits you, you are
quite at liberty to tell Lord Kilcullen all I have told you; and, if you
wish me to contradict the report, which I must own I have spread, I will do
so.'

Frank felt that be could not be angry with Mat Tierney; he therefore
thanked him for his open explanation, and, merely muttering something about
private affairs not being worthy of public interest, rode off towards
Handicap Lodge.

It appeared very plain to him that the Grey Abbey family must have
discarded him that Fanny Wyndham, Lord and Lady Cashel, and the whole set,
must have made up their minds to drop him altogether; otherwise, one of the
family would not have openly declared the match at an end. And yet he was
at a loss to conceive how they could have done so how even Lord Cashel
could have reconciled it to himself to do so, without the common-place
courtesy of writing to him on the subject. And then, when he thought of
her, 'his own Fanny,' as he had so often called her, he was still more
bewildered: she, with whom he had sat for so many sweet hours talking of
the impossibility of their ever forgetting, deserting, or even slighting
each other; she, who had been so entirely devoted to him so much more than
engaged to him could she have lent her name to such a heartless mode of
breaking her faith?

'If I had merely proposed for her through her guardian,' thought Frank, to
himself 'if I had got Lord Cashel to make the engagement, as many men do, I
should not be surprised; but after all that has passed between us after all
her vows, and all her 'and then Lord Ballindine struck his horse with his
heel, and made a cut at the air with his whip, as he remembered certain
passages more binding even than promises, warmer even than vows, which
seemed to make him as miserable now as they had made him happy at the time
of their occurrence. 'I would not believe it,' he continued, meditating,
'if twenty Kilcullens said it, or if fifty Mat Tierneys swore to it!' and
then he rode on towards the lodge, in a state of mind for which I am quite
unable to account, if his disbelief in Fanny Wyndham's constancy was really
as strong as he had declared it to be. And, as he rode, many unusual
thoughts for, hitherto, Frank had not been a very deep-thinking man crowded
his mind, as to the baseness, falsehood, and iniquity of the human race,
especially of rich cautious old peers who had beautiful wards in their
power.

By the time he had reached the lodge, he had determined that he must now do
something, and that, as he was quite unable to come to any satisfactory
conclusion on his own unassisted judgment, he must consult Blake, who, by
the bye, was nearly as sick of Fanny Wyndham as he would have been had he
himself been the person engaged to marry her.

As he rode round to the yard, he saw his friend standing at the door of one
of the stables, with a cigar in his mouth.

'Well, Frank, how does Brien go today? Not that he'll ever be the thing
till he gets to the other side of the water. They'll never be able to bring
a horse out as he should be, on the Curragh, till they've regular trained
gallops. The slightest frost in spring, or sun in summer, and the ground's
so hard, you might as well gallop your horse down the pavement of Grafton
Street.''Confound the horse,' answered Frank; 'come here, Dot, a minute.
I want to speak to you.'

'What the d l's the matter? he's not lame, is he?'

'Who? what? Brien Boru? Not that I know of. I wish the brute had never been
foaled.'

'And why so? What crotchet have you got in your head now? Something wrong
about Fanny, I suppose?'

'Why, did you hear anything?'

'Nothing but what you've told me.'

'I've just seen Mat Tierney, and he told me that Kilcullen had declared, at
a large dinner-party, yesterday, that the match between me and his cousin
was finally broken off.'

'You wouldn't believe what Mat Tierney would say? Mat was only taking a
rise out of you.'

'Not at all: he was not only speaking seriously, but he told me what I'm
very sure was the truth, as far as Lord Kilcullen was concerned. I mean,
I'm sure Kilcullen said it, and in the most public manner he could; and
now, the question is, what had I better do?'

'There's no doubt as to what you'd better do; the question is what you'd
rather do?'

'But what had I better do? call on Kilcullen for an explanation?'

'That's the last thing to think of. No; but declare what he reports to be
the truth; return Miss Wyndham the lock of hair you have in your desk, and
next your heart, or wherever you keep it; write her a pretty note, and
conclude by saying that the "Adriatic's free to wed another". That's what I
should do.'

'It's very odd, Blake, that you won't speak seriously to a man for a
moment. You've as much heart in you as one of your own horses. I wish I'd
never come to this cursed lodge of yours. I'd be all right then.'

'As for my heart, Frank, if I have as much as my horses, I ought to be
contented for race-horses are usually considered to have a good deal; as
for my cursed lodge, I can assure you I have endeavoured, and, if you will
allow me, I will still endeavour, to make it as agreeable to you as I am
able; and as to my speaking seriously, upon my word, I never spoke more so.
You asked me what I thought you had better do and I began by telling you
there would be a great difference between that and what you'd rather do.'

'But, in heaven's name, why would you have me break off with Miss Wyndham,
when every one knows I'm engaged to her; and when you know that I wish to
marry her?'

'Firstly, to prevent her breaking off with you though I fear there's hardly
time for that; and secondly, in consequence as the newspapers say, of
incompatibility of temper.'

'Why, you don't even know her!'

'But I know you, and I know what your joint income would be, and I know
that there would be great incompatibility between you, as Lord Ballindine,
with a wife and family and fifteen hundred a year, or so. But mind, I'm
only telling you what I think you'd better do.'

'Well, I shan't do that. If I was once settled down, I could live as well
on fifteen hundred a year as any country gentleman in Ireland. It's only
the interference of Lord Cashel that makes me determined not to pull in
till I am married. If he had let me have my own way, I shouldn't, by this
time, have had a horse in the world, except one or two hunters or so, down
in the country.'

'Well, Frank, if you're determined to get yourself married, I'll give you
the best advice in my power as to the means of doing it. Isn't that what
you want?'

'I want to know what you think I ought to do, just at this minute.'

'With matrimony as the winning-post?'

'You know I wish to marry Fanny Wyndham.'

'And the sooner the better is that it?''Of course. She'll be of age now,
in a few days,' replied Lord Ballindine.

'Then I advise you to order a new blue coat, and to buy a wedding-ring.'

'Confusion!' cried Frank, stamping his foot; and turning away in a passion;
and then he took up his hat, to rush out of the room, in which the latter
part of the conversation had taken place.

'Stop a minute, Frank,' said Blake, 'and don't he in a passion. What I said
was only meant to show you how easy I think it is for you to marry Miss
Wyndham if you choose.'

'Easy! and every soul at Grey Abbey turned against me, in consequence of my
owning that brute of a horse! I'll go over there at once, and I'll show
Lord Cashel that at any rate he shall not treat me like a child. As for
Kilcullen, if he interferes with me or my name in any way, I'll '

'You'll what? thrash him?'

'Indeed, I'd like nothing better!'

'And then shoot him be tried by your peers  and perhaps hung; is that it?'

'Oh, that's nonsense. I don't wish to fight any one, but I am not going to
be insulted.'

'I don't think you are: I don't think there's the least chance of Kilcullen
insulting you; he has too much worldly wisdom. But to come back to Miss
Wyndham: if you really mean to marry her, and if, as I believe, she is
really fond of you, Lord Cashel and all the family can't prevent it. She is
probably angry that you have not been over there; he is probably irate at
your staying here, and, not unlikely, has made use of her own anger to make
her think that she has quarrelled with you; and hence Kilcullen's report.'

'And what shall I do now?'

'Nothing today, but eat your dinner, and drink your wine. Ride over
tomorrow, see Lord Cashel, and tell him but do it quite coolly, if you
can exactly what you have heard, and how you have heard it, and beg him to
assure Lord Kilcullen that he is mistaken in his notion that the match is
off; and beg also that the report may not be repeated. Do this; and do it
as if you were Lord Cashel's equal, not as if you were his son, or his
servant. If you are co1lected and steady with him for ten minutes, you'll
soon find that he will become bothered and unsteady.'

'That's very easy to say here, but it's not so easy to do there. You don't
know him as I do: he's so sedate, and so slow, and so dull especially
sitting alone, as he does of a morning, in that large, dingy,
uncomfortable, dusty-looking book-room of his. He measures his words like
senna and salts, and their tone is as disagreeable.'

'Then do you drop out yours like prussic acid, and you'll beat him at his
own game. Those are all externals, my dear fellow. When a man knows he has
nothing within his head to trust to when he has neither sense nor genius,
he puts on a wig, ties up his neck in a white choker, sits in a big chair,
and frightens the world with his silence. Remember, if you were not a baby,
he would not be a bugbear.'

'And should I not ask to see Fanny?'

'By all means. Don't leave Grey Abbey without seeing and making your peace
with Miss Wyndham. That'll be easy with you, because it's your métier. I
own that with myself it would be the most difficult part of the morning's
work. But don't ask to see her as a favour. When you've done with the lord
(and don't let your conference be very long) when you've done with the
lord, tell him you'll say a word to the lady; and, whatever may have been
his pre-determination, you'll find that, if you're cool, he'll be bothered,
and he won't know how to refuse; and if he doesn't prevent you, I'm sure
Miss Wyndham won't.'

'And if he asks about these wretched horses of mine?'

'Don't let him talk more about your affairs than you can help; but, if he
presses you and he won't if you play your game well tell him that you're
quite aware your income won't allow you to keep up an establishment at the
Curragh after you're married.'

'But about Brien Boru, and the Derby?'

'Brien Boru! You might as well talk to him about your washing-bills! Don't
go into particulars-stick to generals. He'll never ask you those questions
unless he sees you shiver and shake like a half-whipped school-boy.'

After a great deal of confabulation, in which Dot Blake often repeated his
opinion of Lord Ballindine's folly in not rejoicing at an opportunity of
breaking oft the match, it was determined that Frank should ride over the
next morning, and do exactly what his friend proposed. If, however, one
might judge from his apparent dread of the interview with Lord Cashel,
there was but little chance of his conducting it with the coolness or
assurance insisted on by Dot. The probability was, that when the time did
come, he would, as Blake said, shiver and shake like a half-whipped school-
boy.

'And what will you do when you're married, Frank?' said Blake; 'for I'm
beginning to think the symptoms are strong, and you'll hardly get out of it
now.'

'Do! why, I suppose I'll do much the same as others have two children, and
live happy ever afterwards.'

'I dare say you're right about the two children, only you might say two
dozen; but as to the living happy, that's more problematical. What do you
mean to eat and drink?'

'Eggs potatoes and bacon buttermilk, and potheen. It's odd if I can't get
plenty of them in Mayo, if I've nothing better.'

'I suppose you will, Frank; but bacon won't go down well after venison; and
a course of claret is a bad preparative for potheen punch. You're not the
man to live, with a family, on a small income, and what the d----l you'll
do I don't know. You'll fortify Kelly's Court that'll be the first step.'

'Is it against the Repealers?'

'Faith, no; you'll join them, of course: but against the sub-sheriff, and
his officers an army much more likely to crown their enterprises with
success.'

'You seem to forget, Dot, that, after all, I'm marrying a girl with quite
as large a fortune as I had any right to expect.'

'The limit to your expectations was only in your own modesty; the less you
had a right in the common parlance to expect, the more you wanted, and the
more you ought to have looked for. Say that Miss Wyndham's fortune clears a
thousand a year of your property, you would never be able to get along on
what you'd have. No; I'll tell you what you'll do. You'll shut up Kelly's
Court, raise the rents, take a moderate house in London; and Lord Cashel,
when his party are in, will get you made a court stick of, and you'll lead
just such a life as your grandfather. If it's not very glorious, at any
rate it's a useful kind of life. I hope Miss Wyndham will like it. You'll
have to christen your children Ernest and Albert, and that sort of thing;
that's the worst of it; and you'll never be let to sit down, and that's a
bore. But you've strong legs. It would never do for me. I could never stand
out a long tragedy in Drury Lane, with my neck in a stiff white choker, and
my toes screwed into tight dress boots. I'd sooner be a porter myself, for
he can go to bed when the day's over.'

'You're very witty, Dot; but you know I'm the last man in Ireland, not
excepting yourself, to put up with that kind of thing. Whatever I may have
to live on, I shall live in my own country, and on my own property.'

'Very well; if you won't be a gold stick, there's the other alternative:
fortify Kelly's Court, and prepare for the sheriff's officers. Of the two,
there's certainly more fun in it; and you can go out with the harriers on a
Sunday afternoon, and live like a "ra'al O'Kelly of the ould times" only
the punch'll kill you in about ten years.'

'Go on, Dot, go on. You want to provoke me, but you won't. I wonder whether
you'd bear it as well, if I told you you'd die a broken-down black-leg,
without a friend or a shilling to bless you.'

'I don't think I should, because I should know that you were threatening me
with a fate which my conduct and line of life would not warrant any one in
expecting.'

'Upon my word, then, I think there's quite as much chance of that as there
is of my getting shut up by bailiffs in Kelly's Court, and dying drunk.
I'll bet you fifty pounds I've a better account at my bankers than you have
in ten years.'

'Faith, I'll not take it. It'll be hard work getting fifty pounds out of
you, then! In the meantime, come and play a game of billiards before
dinner.'

To this Lord Ballindine consented, and they adjourned to the billiard-room;
but, before they commenced playing, Blake declared that if the names of
Lord Cashel or Miss Wyndham were mentioned again that evening, he should
retreat to his own room, and spend the hours by himself; so, for the rest
of that day, Lord Ballindine was again driven back upon Brien Boru and the
Derby for conversation, as Dot was too close about his own stable to talk
much of his own horses and their performances, except when he was doing so
with an eye to business.




XI  THE EARL OF CASHEL


About two o'clock on the following morning, Lord Ballindine set off for
Grey Abbey, on horseback, dressed with something more than ordinary care,
and with a considerable palpitation about his heart. He hardly knew,
himself, what or whom he feared, but he knew that he was afraid of
something. He had a cold, sinking sensation within him, and he felt
absolutely certain that he should be signally defeated in his present
mission. He had plenty of what is usually called courage; had his friend
recommended him instantly to call out Lord Kilcullen and shoot him, and
afterwards any number of other young men who might express a thought in
opposition to his claim on Miss Wyndham's hand, he would have set about it
with the greatest readiness and aptitude; but he knew he could not baffle
the appalling solemnity of Lord Cashel, in his own study. Frank was not so
very weak a man as he would appear to be when in the society of Blake. He
unfortunately allowed Blake to think for him in many things, and he found a
convenience in having some one to tell him what to do; but he was, in most
respects, a better, and in some, even a wiser man than his friend. He often
felt that the kind of life he was leading contracting debts which he could
not pay, and spending his time in pursuits which were not really congenial
to him, was unsatisfactory and discreditable: and it was this very feeling,
and the inability to defend that which he knew to be wrong sand foolish,
which made him so certain that he would not be able successfully to persist
in his claim to Miss Wyndham's hand in opposition to the trite and well-
weighed objections, which he knew her guardian would put forward. He
consoled himself, however, with thinking that, at any rate, they could not
prevent his seeing her; and he was quite sanguine as to her forgiveness, if
he but got a fair opportunity of asking it. And when that was obtained, why
should the care for any one? Fanny would be of age, and her own mistress,
in a few days, and all the solemn earls in England, and Ireland too, could
not then prevent her marrying whom and when she liked.

He thought a great deal on all his friend had said to his future poverty;
but then, his ideas and Blake's were very different about life. Blake's
idea of happiness was, the concentrating of every thing into a focus for
his own enjoyment; whereas he, Frank had only had recourse to dissipation
and extravagance, because he had nothing to make home pleasant to him. If
he once had Fanny Wyndham installed as Lady Ballindine, at Kelly's Court,
he was sure he could do his duty as a country gentleman, and live on his
income, be it what it might, not only without grumbling, but without
wishing for anything more. He was fond of his country, his name, and his
countrymen: he was fully convinced of his folly in buying race-horses, and
in allowing himself to be dragged on the turf: he would sell Brien Boru,
and the other two Irish chieftains, for what they would fetch, and show
Fanny and her guardian that he was in earnest in his intention of
reforming. Blake might laugh at him if he liked; but he would not stay to
be laughed at. He felt that Handicap Lodge was no place for him; and
besides, why should he bear Dot's disagreeable sarcasms? It was not the
part of a real friend to say such cutting things as he continually did.
After all, Lord Cashel would be a safer friend, or, at any rate, adviser;
and, instead of trying to defeat him by coolness or insolence, he would at
once tell him of all his intentions, explain to him exactly how matters
stood, and prove his good resolutions by offering to take whatever steps
the earl might recommend about the horses. This final determination made
him easier in this mind, and, as he entered the gates of Grey Abbey Park,
he was tolerably comfortable, trusting to his own good resolutions, and the
effect which he felt certain the expression of them must have on Lord
Cashel.

Grey Abbey is one of the largest but by no means one of the most
picturesque demesnes in Ireland. It is situated in the county of Kildare,
about two miles from the little town of Kilcullen, in a flat,
uninteresting, and not very fertile country. The park itself is extensive
and tolerably well wooded, but it wants water and undulation, and is
deficient of any object of attraction, except that of size and not very
magnificent timber. I suppose, years ago, there was an Abbey here, or near
the spot, but there is now no vestige of it remaining. In a corner of the
demesne there are standing the remains of one of those strong, square, ugly
castles, which, two centuries since, were the real habitations of the
landed proprietors of the country, and many of which have been inhabited
even to a much later date. They now afford the strongest record of the
apparently miserable state of life which even the favoured of the land then
endured, and of the numberless domestic comforts which years and skill have
given us, apt as we are to look back with fond regret to the happy, by-gone
days of past periods.

This old castle, now used as a cow-shed, is the only record of antiquity at
Grey Abbey; and yet the ancient family of the Greys have lived there for
centuries. The first of them who possessed property in Ireland, obtained in
the reign of Henry Il, grants of immense tracts of land, stretching through
Wicklow, Kildare, and the Queen's and King's Counties; and, although his
descendants have been unable to retain, through the various successive
convulsions which have taken place in the interior of Ireland since that
time, anything like an eighth of what the family once pretended to claim,
the Earl of Cashel, their present representative, has enough left to enable
him to consider himself a very great man. The present mansion, built on the
site of that in which the family had lived till about seventy years since,
is, like the grounds, large, commodious, and uninteresting. It is built of
stone, which appears as if it had been plastered over, is three stories
high, and the windows are all of the same size, and at regular intervals.
The body of the house looks like a huge, square, Dutch old lady, and the
two wings might be taken for her two equally fat, square, Dutch daughters.
Inside, the furniture is good, strong, and plain. There are plenty of
drawing-rooms, sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, and offices; a small gallery of
very indifferent paintings, and a kitchen, with an excellent kitchen-range,
and patent boilers of every shape.

Considering the nature of the attractions, it is somewhat strange that Lord
Cashel should have considered it necessary to make it generally known that
the park might be seen any day between the hours of nine and six, and the
house, on Tuesdays and Fridays between the hours of eleven and four. Yet
such is the case, and the strangeness of this proceeding on his part is a
good deal diminished by the fact that persons, either induced by Lord
Cashel's good nature, or thinking that any big house must be worth seeing,
very frequently pay half-a-crown to the housekeeper for the privilege of
being dragged through every room in the mansion.

There is a bed there, in which the Regent slept when in Ireland, and a room
which was tenanted by Lord Normanby, when Lord Lieutenant. There is,
moreover, a satin counterpane, which was made by the lord's aunt, and a
snuff-box which was given to the lord's grandfather by Frederick the Great.
These are the lions of the place, and the gratification experienced by
those who see them is, no doubt, great; but I doubt if it equals the
annoyance and misery to which they are subjected in being obliged to pass
one unopened door that of the private room of Lady Selina, the only
daughter of the earl at present unmarried.

It contains only a bed, and the usual instruments of a lady's toilet; but
Lady Selina does not choose to have it shown, and it has become invested,
in the eyes of the visitors, with no ordinary mystery. Many a petitionary
whisper is addressed to the housekeeper on the subject, but in vain; and,
consequently, the public too often leave Grey Abbey dissatisfied.

As Lord Ballindine rode through the gates, and up the long approach to the
house, he was so satisfied of the wisdom of his own final resolution, and
of the successful termination of his embassy under such circumstances, that
he felt relieved of the uncomfortable sensation of fear which had oppressed
him; and it was only when the six-foot high, powdered servant told him,
with a very solemn face, that the earl was alone in the book-room the
odious room he hated so much that he began again to feel a little
misgiving. However, there was nothing left for him now, so he gave up his
horse to the groom, and followed the sober-faced servant into the book-
room.

Lord Cashel was a man about sixty-three, with considerable external dignity
of appearance, though without any personal advantage, either in face,
figure, or manner. He had been an earl, with a large income, for thirty
years; and in that time he had learned to look collected, even when his
ideas were confused; to keep his eye steady, and to make a few words go a
long way. He had never been intemperate, and was, therefore, strong and
hale for his years, he had not done many glaringly foolish things, and,
therefore, had a character for wisdom and judgment. He had run away with no
man's wife, and, since his marriage, had seduced no man's daughter; he was,
therefore, considered a moral man. He was not so deeply in debt as to have
his affairs known to every one; and hence was thought prudent. And, as he
lived in his own house, with his own wife, paid his servants and labourers
their wages regularly, and nodded in church for two hours every Sunday, he
was thought a good man. Such were his virtues; and by these negative
qualities this vis inertiae, he had acquired, and maintained, a
considerable influence in the country.

When Lord Ballindine's name was announced, he slowly rose, and, just
touching the tip of Frank's fingers, by way of shaking hands with him,
hoped he had the pleasure of seeing him well.

The viscount hoped the same of the earl and of the ladies. This included
the countess and Lady Selina, as well as Fanny, and was, therefore, not a
particular question; but, having hoped this, and the earl remaining silent,
he got confused, turned red, hummed and hawed a little, sat down, and then,
endeavouring to drown his confusion in volubility, began talking quickly
about his anxiety to make final arrangements concerning matters, which, of
course, he had most deeply at heart; and, at last, ran himself fairly
aground, from not knowing whether, under the present circumstances, he
ought to speak of his affianced to her guardian as 'Fanny', or 'Miss
Wyndham'.

When he had quite done, and was dead silent, and had paused sufficiently
long to assure the earl that he was going to say nothing further just at
present, the great man commenced his answer.

'This is a painful subject, my lord most peculiarly painful at the present
time; but, surely, after all that has passed but especially after what has
not passed' Lord Cashel thought this was a dead hit 'you cannot consider
your engagement with Miss Wyndham to be still in force?'

'Good gracious! and why not, my lord? I am ready to do anything her
friends in fact I came solely, this morning, to consult yourself, about I'm
sure Fanny herself can't conceive the engagement to be broken off. Of
course, if Miss Wyndham wishes it but I can't believe I can't believe if
it's about the horses, Lord Cashel, upon my word, I'm ready to sell them
today.'

This was not very dignified in poor Frank, and to tell the truth, he was
completely bothered. Lord Cashel looked so more than ordinarily glum; had
he been going to put on a black cap and pass sentence of death, or
disinherit his eldest son, he could not have looked more stern or more
important. Frank's lack of dignity added to his, and made him feel
immeasurably superior to any little difficulty which another person might
have felt in making the communication he was going to make. He was really
quite in a solemn good humour. Lord Ballindine's confusion was so
.flattering.

'I can assure you, my lord, Miss Wyndham calls for no such sacrifice, nor
do I. There was a time when, as her guardian, I ventured to hint and I own
I was taking a liberty, a fruitless liberty, in doing so that I thought
your remaining on the turf was hardly prudent. But I can assure you, with
all kindly feeling with no approach to animosity that I will not offend in
a similar way again. I hear, by mere rumour, that you have extended your
operations to the other kingdom. I hope I have not been the means of
inducing you to do so; but, advice, if not complied with, often gives a
bias in an opposite direction. With regard to Miss Wyndham, I must
express and I really had thought it was unnecessary to do so, though it was
certainly my intention, as it was Miss Wyndham's wish, that I should have
written to you formally on the subject but your own conduct excuse me, Lord
Ballindine your own evident indifference, and continued, I fear I must call
it, dissipation and your, as I considered, unfortunate selection of
acquaintance, combined with the necessary diminution of that attachment
which I presume Miss Wyndham once felt for you necessary, inasmuch as it
was, as far as I understand, never of a sufficiently ardent nature to
outlive the slights indeed, my lord, I don't wish to offend you, or hurt
your feelings but, I must say, the slights which it encountered.' Here the
earl felt that his sentence was a little confused, but the viscount looked
more so; and, therefore, not at all abashed by the want of a finish to his
original proposition, he continued glibly enough:

'In short, in considering all the features of the case, I thought the
proposed marriage a most imprudent one; and, on questioning Miss Wyndham as
to her feelings, I was, I must own, gratified to learn that she agreed with
me; indeed, she conceived that your conduct gave ample proof, my lord, of
your readiness to be absolved from your engagement; pardon me a moment, my
lord as I said before, I still deemed it incumbent on me, and on my ward,
that I, as her guardian, should give you an absolute and written
explanation of her feelings that would have been done yesterday, and this
most unpleasant meeting would have been spared to both of us, but for the
unexpected Did you hear of the occurrence which has happened in Miss
Wyndham's family, my lord?'

'Occurrence? No, Lord Cashel; I did not hear of any especial occurrence.'

There had been a peculiarly solemn air about Lord Cashel during the whole
of the interview, which deepened into quite funereal gloom as he asked the
last question; but he was so uniformly solemn, that this had not struck
Lord Ballindine. Besides, an appearance of solemnity agreed so well with
Lord Cashel's cast of features and tone of voice, that a visage more
lengthened, and a speech somewhat slower than usual, served only to show
him off as so much the more clearly identified by his own characteristics.
Thus a man who always wears a green coat does not become remarkable by a
new green coat; he is only so much the more than ever, the man in the green
coat.

Lord Ballindine, therefore, answered the question without the appearance of
that surprise which Lord Cashel expected he would feel, if he had really
not yet heard of the occurrence about to be related to him. The earl,
therefore, made up his mind, as indeed he had nearly done before, that
Frank knew well what was going to be told him, though it suited his purpose
to conceal his knowledge. He could not, however, give his young brother
nobleman the lie; and he was, therefore, constrained to tell his tale, as
if to one to whom it was unknown. He was determined, however, though he
could not speak out plainly, to let Frank see that he was not deceived by
his hypocrisy, and that he, Lord Cashel, was well aware, not only that the
event about to be told had been known at Handicap Lodge, but that the
viscount's present visit to Grey Abbey had arisen out of that knowledge.

Lord Ballindine, up to this moment, was perfectly ignorant of this event,
and it is only doing justice to him to say that, had he heard of it, it
would at least have induced him to postpone his visit for some time. Lord
Cashel paused for a few moments, looking at Frank in a most diplomatic
manner, and then proceeded to unfold his budget.

'I am much surprised that you should not have heard of it. The distressing
news reached Grey Abbey yesterday, and must have been well known in
different circles in Dublin yesterday morning. Considering the great
intercourse between Dublin and the Curragh, I wonder you can have been left
so long in ignorance of a circumstance so likely to be widely discussed,
and which at one time might have so strongly affected your own interests.'
Lord Cashel again paused, and looked hard at Frank. He flattered himself
that he was reading his thoughts; but he looked as if he had detected a
spot on the other's collar, and wanted to see whether it was ink or soot.

Lord Ballindine was, however, confounded. When the earl spoke of 'a
circumstance so likely to be widely discussed', Mat Tierney's conversation
recurred to him, and Lord Kilcullen's public declaration that Fanny
Wyndham's match was off. It was certainly odd for Lord Cashel to call this
an occurrence in Miss Wyndham's family, but then, he had a round-about way
of saying everything.

'I say,' continued the earl, after a short pause, 'that I cannot but be
surprised that an event of so much importance, of so painful a nature, and,
doubtless, already so publicly known, should not before this have reached
the ears of one to whom, I presume, Miss Wyndham's name was not always
wholly indifferent. But, as you have not heard it, my lord, I will
communicate it to you,' and again he paused, as though expecting another
assurance of Lord Ballindine's ignorance.

'Why, my lord,' said Frank, 'I did hear a rumour, which surprised me very
much, but I could not suppose it to be true. To tell the truth, it was very
much in consequence of what I heard that I came to Grey Abbey today.'

It was now Lord Cashel's turn to be confounded. First, to deny that he had
heard anything about it and then immediately to own that he had heard it,
and had been induced to renew his visits to Grey Abbey in consequence! Just
what he, in his wisdom, had suspected was the case. But how could Lord
Ballindine have the face to own it?

I must, however, tell the reader the event of which Frank was ignorant, and
which, it appears, Lord Cashel is determined not to communicate to him.

Fanny Wyndham's father had held a governorship, or some golden appointment
in the golden days of India, and consequently had died rich. He left eighty
thousand pounds to his son, who was younger than Fanny, and twenty to his
daughter. His son had lately been put into the Guards, but he was not long
spared to enjoy his sword and his uniform. He died, and his death had put
his sister in possession of his money; and Lord Cashel thought that, though
Frank might slight twenty thousand pounds, he would be too glad to be
allowed to remain the accepted admirer of a hundred thousand.

'I thought you must have heard it, my lord,' resumed the senior, as soon as
be had collected his shreds of dignity, which Frank's open avowal had
somewhat scattered, 'I felt certain you must have heard it, and you will, I
am sure, perceive that this is no time for you excuse me if I use a word
which may appear harsh it is no time for any one, not intimately connected
with Miss Wyndham by ties of family, to intrude upon her sorrow.'

Frank was completely bothered. He thought that if she were so sorrowful, if
she grieved so deeply at the match being broken off, that was just the
reason why he should see her. After all, it was rather flattering to
himself to hear of her sorrows; dear Fanny! was she so grieved that she was
forced to part from him?

'But, Lord Cashel,' he said, 'I am ready to do whatever you please. I'll
take any steps you'll advise. But I really cannot see why I'm to be told
that the engagement between me and Miss Wyndham is off, without hearing any
reason from herself. I'll make any sacrifice you please, or she requires;
I'm sure she was attached to me, and she cannot have overcome that
affection so soon.'

'I have already said that we require Miss Wyndham requires no sacrifice
from you. The time for sacrifice is past; and I do not think her affection
was of such a nature as will long prey on her spirits.'

'My affection for her is, I can assure you '

'Pray excuse me but I think this is hardly the time either to talk of, or
to show, your affection. Had it been proved to be of a lasting, I fear I
must say, a sincere nature, it would now have been most valued. I will
leave yourself to say whether this was the case.'

'And so you mean to say, Lord Cashel, that I cannot see Miss Wyndham?'

'Assuredly, Lord Ballindine. And I must own, that I hardly appreciate your
delicacy in asking to do so at the present moment.'

There was something very hard in this. The match was to be broken off
without any notice to him; and when he requested, at any rate, to hear this
decision from the mouth of the only person competent to make it, he was
told that it was indelicate for him to wish to do so. This put his back up.

'Well, my lord,' he said with some spirit, Miss Wyndham is at present your
ward, and in your house, and I am obliged to postpone the exercise of the
right, to which, at least, I am entitled, of hearing her decision from her
own mouth. I cannot think that she expects I should be satisfied with such
an answer as I have now received. I shall write to her this evening, and
shall expect at any rate the courtesy of an answer from herself.'

'My advice to my ward will be, not to write to you; at any rate for the
present. I presume, my lord, you cannot doubt my word that Miss Wyndham
chooses to be released from an engagement, which I must say your own
conduct renders it highly inexpedient for her to keep.'

'I don't doubt your word, of course, Lord Cashel; but such being the case,
I think Miss Wyndham might at least tell me so herself.'

'I should have thought, Lord Ballindine, that you would have felt that the
sudden news of a dearly loved brother's death, was more than sufficient to
excuse Miss Wyndham from undergoing an interview which, even under ordinary
circumstances, would be of very doubtful expediency.'

'Her brother's death! Good gracious! Is Harry Wyndham dead!'

Frank was so truly surprised so effectually startled by the news, which he
now for the first time heard, that, had his companion possessed any real
knowledge of human nature, he would at once have seen that his astonishment
was not affected. But he had none, and, therefore, went on blundering in
his own pompous manner.

'Yes, my lord, he is dead. I understood you to say that you had already
heard it; and, unless my ears deceived me, you explained that his demise
was the immediate cause of your present visit. I cannot, however, go so far
as to say that I think you have exercised a sound discretion in the matter.
In expressing such an opinion, however, I am far from wishing to utter
anything which may be irritating or offensive to your feelings.'

'Upon my word then, I never heard a word about it till this moment! Poor
Harry! And is Fanny much cut up?'

'Miss Wyndham is much afflicted.'

'I wouldn't for worlds annoy her, or press on her at such a moment. Pray
tell her, Lord Cashel, how deeply I feel her sorrows: pray tell her this,
with my kindest best compliments.' This termination was very cold but so
was Lord Cashel's face. His lordship had also risen from his chair; and
Frank saw it was intended that the interview should end. But he would now
have  been glad to stay. He wanted to ask a hundred questions how the poor
lad had died? whether he had been long ill? whether it had been expected?
But he saw that he must go; so he rose and putting out his hand which Lord
Cashel just touched, he said,

'Good bye, my lord. I trust, after a few months are gone by, you may see
reason to alter the opinion you have expressed respecting your ward. Should
I not hear from you before then, I shall again do myself the honour of
calling at Grey Abbey; but will write to Miss Wyndham before I do so.'

Lord Cashel had the honour of wishing Lord Ballindine a very good morning,
and of bowing him to the door; and so the interview ended.




XII  FANNY WYNDHAM


When Lord Cashel had seen Frank over the mat which lay outside his study
door, and that there was a six foot servitor to open any other door through
which he might have to pass, he returned to his seat, and, drawing his
chair close to the fire, began to speculate on Fanny and her discarded
lover.

He was very well satisfied with himself, and with hi own judgment and
firmness in the late conversation. It was very evident that Frank had heard
of Harry Wyndham's death, and of Fanny's great accession of wealth; that he
had immediately determined that the heiress was no longer to be neglected,
and that he ought to strike while the iron was hot: hence his visit to Grey
Abbey. His pretended ignorance of the young man's death, when he found he
could not see Miss Wyndham, was a ruse; but an old bird like Lord Cashel
was not to be caught with chaff. And then, how indelicate of him to come
and press his suit immediately after news of so distressing a nature had
reached Miss Wyndham! How very impolitic, thought Lord Cashel, to show such
a hurry to take possession of the fortune! How completely he had destroyed
his own game. And then, other thoughts passed through his mind. His ward
had now one hundred thousand pounds clear, which was, certainly, a great
deal of ready money. Lord Cashel had no younger sons; but his heir, Lord
Kilcullen, was an expensive man, and owed, he did not exactly know, and was
always afraid to ask, how much. He must marry soon, or he would be sure to
go to the devil. He had been living with actresses and opera-dancers quite
long enough for his own respectability; and, if he ever intended to be such
a pattern to the country as his father, it was now time for him to settle
down. And Lord Cashel bethought himself that if he could persuade his son
to marry Fanny Wyndham and pay his debts with her fortune (surely he
couldn't owe more than a hundred thousand pounds?) he would be able to give
them a very handsome allowance to live on.

To do Lord Cashel justice, we must say that he had fully determined that it
was his duty to break off the match between Frank and his ward, before he
heard of the accident which had so enriched her. And Fanny herself, feeling
slighted and neglected knowing how near to her her lover was, and that
nevertheless he never came to see her hearing his name constantly mentioned
in connection merely with horses and jockeys had been induced to express
her acquiescence in her guardian's views, and to throw poor Frank
overboard. In all this the earl had been actuated by no mercenary views, as
far as his own immediate family was concerned. He had truly and justly
thought that Lord Ballindine, with his limited fortune and dissipated
habits, was a bad match for his ward; and he had, consequently, done his
best to break the engagement. There could, therefore, he thought, be
nothing unfair in his taking advantage of the prudence which he had
exercised on her behalf. He did not know, when he was persuading her to
renounce Lord Ballindine, that, at that moment, her young, rich, and only
brother, was lying at the point of death. He had not done it for his own
sake, or Lord Kilcullen's; there could, therefore, be nothing unjust or
ungenerous in their turning to their own account the two losses, that of
her lover and her brother, which had fallen on Miss Wyndham at the same
time. If he, as her guardian, would have been wrong to allow Lord
Ballindine to squander her twenty thousands, he would be so much the more
wrong to let him make ducks and drakes of five times as much. In this
manner he quieted his conscience as to his premeditated absorption of his
ward's fortune. It was true that Lord Kilcullen was a heartless roué,
whereas Lord Ballindine was only a thoughtless rake; but then, Lord
Kilcullen would be an earl, and a peer of parliament, and Lord Ballindine
was only an Irish viscount. It was true that, in spite of her present
anger, Fanny dearly loved Lord Ballindine, and was dearly loved by him; and
that Lord Kilcullen was not a man to love or be loved; but then, the
Kelly's Court rents what were they to the Grey Abbey rents? Not a twentieth
part of them! And, above all, Lord Kilcullen's vices were filtered through
the cleansing medium of his father's partiality, and Lord Ballindine's
faults were magnified by the cautious scruples of Fanny's guardian.

The old man settled, therefore, in his own mind, that Fanny should be his
dear daughter, and the only difficulty he expected to encounter was with
his hopeful son. It did not occur to him that Fanny might object, or that
she could be other than pleased with the arrangement. He determined,
however, to wait a little before the tidings of her future destiny should
be conveyed to her, although no time was to be lost in talking over the
matter with Lord Kilcullen. In the meantime, it would be necessary for him
to tell Fanny of Lord Ballindine's visit; and the wily peer was glad to
think that she could not but be further disgusted at the hurry which her
former lover had shown to renew his protestations of affection, as soon as
the tidings of her wealth had reached him. However, he would say nothing on
that head: he would merely tell her that Lord Ballindine had called, had
asked to see her, and had been informed of her determination to see him no
more.

He sat, for a considerable time, musing over the fire, and strengthening
his resolution; and then he stalked and strutted into the drawing-room,
where the ladies were sitting, to make his communication to Miss Wyndham.

Miss Wyndham, and her cousin, Lady Selina Grey, the only unmarried daughter
left on the earl's hands, were together. Lady Selina was not in her
première jeunesse, and, in manner, face, and disposition, was something
like her father: she was not, therefore, very charming; but his faults were
softened down in her; and what was pretence in him, was, to a certain
degree, real in her. She had a most exaggerated conception of her own
station and dignity, and of what was due to her, and expected from her.
Because her rank enabled her to walk out of a room before other women, she
fancied herself better than them, and entitled to be thought better. She
was plain, red-haired, and in no ways attractive; but she had refused the
offer of a respectable country gentleman, because he was only a country
gentleman, and then flattered herself that she owned the continuance of her
maiden condition to her high station, which made her a fit match only for
the most exalted magnates of the land. But she was true, industrious, and
charitable; she worked hard to bring her acquirements to that pitch which
she considered necessary to render her fit for her position; she truly
loved her family, and tried hard to love her neighbours, in which she might
have succeeded but for the immeasurable height from which she looked down
on them. She listened, complacently, to all those serious cautions against
pride, which her religion taught her, and considered that she was obeying
its warnings, when she spoke condescendingly to those around her. She
thought that condescension was humility, and that her self-exaltation was
not pride, but a proper feeling of her own and her family's dignity.

Fanny Wyndham was a very different creature. She, too, was proud, but her
pride was of another, if not of a less innocent cast; she was proud of her
own position; but it was as Fanny Wyndham, not as Lord Cashel's niece, or
anybody's daughter. She had been brought out in the fashionable world, and
liked, and was liked by, it; but she felt that she owed the character which
three years had given her, to herself, and not to those around her. She
stood as high as Lady Selina, though on very different grounds. Any undue
familiarity would have been quite as impossible with one as with the other.
Lady Selina chilled intruders to a distance; Fanny Wyndham's light burned
with so warm a flame, that butterflies were afraid to trust their wings
within its reach. She was neither so well read, nor so thoughtful on what
she did read, as her friend; but she could turn what she learned to more
account, for the benefit of others. The one, in fact, could please, and the
other could not.

Fanny Wyndham was above the usual height; but she did not look tall, for
her figure was well-formed and round, and her bust full. She had dark-brown
hair, which was never curled, but worn in plain braids, fastened at the
back of her head, together with the long rich folds which were collected
there under a simple comb. Her forehead was high, and beautifully formed,
and when she spoke, showed the animation of her character. Her eyes were
full and round, of a hazel colour, bright and soft when she was pleased,
but full of pride and displeasure when her temper was ruffled, or her
dignity offended. Her nose was slightly retroussé, but not so much so as to
give to her that pertness, of which it is usually the index. The line of
her cheeks and chin was very lovely: it was this which encouraged her to
comb back that luxuriant hair, and which gave the greatest charm to her
face. Her mouth was large, too large for a beauty, and therefore she was
not a regular beauty; but, were she talking to you, and willing to please
you, you could hardly wish it to be less. I cannot describe the shade of
her complexion, but it was rich and glowing; and, though she was not a
brunette, I believe that in painting her portrait, an artist would have
mixed more brown than other colours.

At the time of which I am now speaking, she was sitting, or rather lying,
on a sofa, with her face turned towards her cousin, but her eyes fixed on
vacancy. As might have been expected, she was thinking of her brother, and
his sudden death; but other subjects crowded with that into her mind, and
another figure shared with him her thoughts. She had been induced to give
her guardian an unqualified permission to reject, in her name, any further
intercourse with Frank; and though she had doubtless been induced to do so
by the distressing consciousness that she had been slighted by him, she had
cheated herself into the belief that prudence had induced her to do so. She
felt that she was not fitted to be a poor man's wife, and that Lord
Ballindine was as ill suited for matrimonial poverty. She had, therefore,
induced herself to give him up; maybe she was afraid that if she delayed
doing so, she might herself be given up. Now, however, the case was
altered; though she sincerely grieved for her brother, she could not but
recollect the difference which his death made in her own position; she was
now a great heiress, and, were she to marry Lord Ballindine, if she did not
make him a rich man, she would, at any rate, free him from all
embarrassment.

Besides, could she give him up now? now that she was rich? He would first
hear of her brother's death and her wealth, and then would immediately be
told that she had resolved to reject him. Could she bear that she should be
subjected to the construction which would fairly be put upon her conduct,
if she acted in this manner? And then, again, she felt that she loved him;
and she did love him, more dearly than she was herself aware. She began to
repent of her easy submission to her guardian's advice, and to think how
she could best unsay what she had already said. She had lost her brother;
could she afford also to lose her lover? She had had none she could really
love but those two. And the tears again came to her eyes, and Lady Selina
saw her, for the twentieth time that morning, turn her face to the back of
the sofa, and heard her sob.

Lady Selina was sitting at one of the windows, over her carpet-work frame.
She had talked a great deal of sound sense to Fanny that morning, about her
brother, and now prepared to talk some more. Preparatory to this, she threw
back her long red curls from her face, and wiped her red nose, for it was
February.

'Fanny, you should occupy yourself, indeed you should, my dear. It's no use
your attempting your embroidery, for your mind would still wander to him
that is no more. You should read; indeed you should. Do go on with Gibbon.
I'll fetch it for you, only tell me where you were.'

'I could not read, Selina; I could not think about what I read, more than
about the work.'

'But you should try, Fanny the very attempt would be work to your mind:
besides, you would be doing your duty. Could all your tears bring him back
to you? Can all your sorrow again restore him to his friends? No! and you
have great consolation, Fanny, in reflecting that your remembrance of your
brother is mixed with no alloy. He had not lived to be contaminated by the
heartless vices of that portion of the world into which he would probably
have been thrown; he had not become dissipated extravagant and sensual.
This should be a great consolation to you.' It might be thought that Lady
Selina was making sarcastic allusions to her own brother and to Fanny's
lover; but she meant nothing of the kind. Her remarks were intended to be
sensible, true, and consolatory; and they at any rate did no harm, for
Fanny was thinking of something else before she had half finished her
speech.


They had both again been silent for a short time, when the door opened, and
in came the earl. His usual pomposity of demeanour was somewhat softened by
a lachrymose air, which, in respect to his ward's grief, he put on as he
turned the handle of the door; and he walked somewhat more gently than
usual into the room.

'Well, Fanny, how are you now?' he said, as he crept up to her. 'You
shouldn't brood over these sad thoughts. Your poor brother has gone to a
better world; we shall always think of him as one who had felt no sorrow,
and been guilty of but few faults. He died before he had wasted his fortune
and health, as he might have done this will always be a consolation.'

It was singular how nearly alike were the platitudes of the daughter and
the father. The young man had not injured his name, or character, in the
world, and had left his money behind him: and, therefore, his death was
less grievous!

Fanny did not answer, but she sat upright on the sofa as he came up to
her and he then sat down beside her.

'Perhaps I'm wrong, Fanny, to speak to you on other subjects so soon after
the sad event of which we heard last night; but, on the whole, I think it
better to do so. It is good for you to rouse yourself, to exert yourself to
think of other things; besides it will be a comfort to you to know that I
have already done, what I am sure you strongly wished to have executed at
once.'

It was not necessary for the guardian to say anything further to induce his
ward to listen. She knew that he was going to speak about Lord Ballindine,
and she was all attention.

'I shall not trouble, you, Fanny, by speaking to you now, I hope?'

'No;' said Fanny, with her heart palpitating. 'If it's anything I ought to
hear, it will be no trouble to me.'

'Why, my dear, I do think you ought to know, without loss of time that Lord
Ballindine has been with me this morning.'

Fanny blushed up to her hair not with shame, but with emotion as to what
was coming next.

'I have had a long conversation with him,' continued the earl, 'in the
book-room, and I think I have convinced him that it is for your mutual
happiness' he paused, for he couldn't condescend to tell a lie; but in his
glib, speechifying manner, he was nearly falling into one 'mutual
happiness' was such an appropriate prudential phrase that he could not
resist the temptation; but he corrected himself 'at least, I think I have
convinced him that it is impossible that he should any longer look upon
Miss Wyndham as his future wife.'

Lord Cashel paused for some mark of approbation. Fanny saw that she was
expected to speak, and, therefore, asked whether Lord Ballindine was still
in the house. She listened tremulously for his answer; for she felt that if
her lover were to be rejected, he had a right, after what had passed
between them, to expect that she should, in person, express her resolution
to him. And yet, if she had to see him now, could she reject him? could she
tell him that all the vows that had been made between them were to be as
nothing? No! she could only fall on his shoulder, and weep in his arms. But
Lord Cashel had managed better than that.

'No, Fanny; neither he nor I, at the present moment, could expect you could
reasonably expect you, to subject yourself to anything so painful as an
interview must now have been. Lord Ballindine has left the house I hope,
for the last time at least, for many months.'

These words fell cold upon Fanny's ears, 'Did he leave any any message for
me?'

'Nothing of any moment; nothing which it can avail to communicate to you:
he expressed his grief for your brother's death, and desired I should tell
you how grieved he was that you should be so afflicted.'

'Poor Harry!' sobbed Fanny, for it was a relief to cry again, though her
tears were more for her lover than her brother. 'Poor Harry! they were very
fond of each other. I'm sure he must have been sorry I'm sure he'd feel
it' and she paused, and sobbed again 'He had heard of Harry's death, then?'

When she said this, she had in her mind none of the dirty suspicion that
had actuated Lord Cashel; but he guessed at her feelings by his own, and
answered accordingly.

'At first I understood him to say he had; but then, he seemed to wish to
express that he had not. My impression, I own, is, that he must have heard
of it; the sad news must have reached him.'

Fanny still did not understand the earl. The idea of her lover coming after
her money immediately on her obtaining possession of it, never entered her
mind; she thought of her wealth as far as it might have affected him, but
did not dream of its altering his conduct towards her.

'And did he seem unhappy about it?' she continued. 'I am sure it would make
him very unhappy. He could not have loved Harry better if he had been his
brother,' and then she blushed again through her tears, as she remembered
that she had intended that they should be brothers.

Lord Cashel did not say anything more on this head; he was fully convinced
that Lord Ballindine only looked on the young man's death as a windfall
which he might turn to his own advantage; but he thought it would he a
little too strong to say so outright, just at present.

'It will be a comfort for you to know that this matter is now settled,'
continued the earl, 'and that no one can attach the slightest blame to you
in the matter. Lord Ballindine has shown himself so very imprudent, so very
unfit, in every way, for the honour you once intended him, that no other
line of conduct was open to you than that which you have wisely pursued.'

This treading on the fallen was too much for Fanny. 'I have no right either
to speak or to think ill of him,' said she, through her tears; 'and if any
one is ill-treated in the matter it is he. But did be not ask to see me?

'Surely, Fanny, you would not, at the present moment, have wished to see
him!'

'Oh, no; it is a great relief, under all the circumstances, not having to
do so. But was he contented?'

I should be glad that he were satisfied that he shouldn't think I had
treated him harshly, or rudely. Did he appear as if he wished to see me
again?'

'Why, he certainly did ask for a last interview which, anticipating your
wishes, I have refused.'

'But was he satisfied? Did he appear to think that he had been badly
treated?'

'Rejected lovers,' answered the earl with a stately smile, 'seldom express
much satisfaction with the terms of their rejection; but I cannot say that
Lord Ballindine testified any strong emotion.' He rose from the sofa as he
said this, and then, intending to clinch the nail, added as he went to the
door ' to tell the truth, Fanny, I think Lord Ballindine is much more eager
for an alliance with your fair self now, than he was a few days back, when
he could never find a moment's time to leave his horses, and his friend Mr
Blake, either to see his intended wife, or to pay Lady Cashel the usual
courtesy of a morning visit.' He then opened the door, and, again closing
it, added ' I think, however, Fanny, that what has now passed between us
will secure you from any further annoyance from him.'

Lord Cashel, in this last speech, had greatly overshot his mark; his object
had been to make the separation between his ward and her lover permanent;
and, hitherto, he had successfully appealed to her pride and her judgment.
Fanny had felt Lord Cashel to be right, when he told her that she was
neglected, and that Frank was dissipated, and in debt. She knew she should
be unhappy as the wife of a poor nobleman, and she felt that it would break
her proud heart to be jilted herself. She had, therefore, though
unwillingly, still entirely agreed with her, guardian as to the expediency
of breaking off, the match; and, had Lord Cashel been judicious, he might
have confirmed her in this resolution; but his last thunderbolt, which had
been intended to crush Lord Ballindine, had completely recoiled upon
himself. Fanny now instantly understood the allusion, and, raising her
face, which was again resting on her hands, looked at him with an indignant
glance through her tears.

Lord Cashel, however, had left the room without observing the indignation
expressed in Fanny's eyes; but she was indignant; she knew Frank well
enough to be sure that he had come to Grey Abbey that morning with no such
base motives as those ascribed to him. He might have heard of Harry's
death, and come there to express his sorrow, and offer that consolation
which she felt she could accept from him sooner than from any living
creature or, he might have been ignorant of it altogether; but that he
should come there to press his suit because her brother was
dead immediately after his death was not only impossible; but the person
who could say it was possible, must be false and untrue to her. Her uncle
could not have believed it himself: he had basely pretended to believe it,
that he might widen the breach which he had made.

Fanny was alone, in the drawing-room for her cousin had left it as soon as
her father began to talk about Lord Ballindine, and she sat there glowering
through her tears for a long time. Had Lord Ballindine been able to know
all her thoughts at this moment, he would have felt little doubt as to the
ultimate success of his suit.




XIII  FATHER AND SON


Lord Cashel firmly believed, when he left the room, that he had shown great
tact in discovering Frank's mercenary schemes, and in laying them open
before Fanny; and that she had firmly and finally made up her mind to have
nothing more to do with him. He had not long been re-seated in his
customary chair in the book-room, before he began to feel a certain degree
of horror at the young lord's baseness, and to think how worthily he had
executed his duty as a guardian, in saving Miss Wyndham from so sordid a
suitor. From thinking of his duties as a guardian, his mind, not
unnaturally, recurred to those which were incumbent on him as a father, and
here nothing disturbed his serenity. It is true that, from an appreciation
of the lustre which would reflect back upon himself from allowing his son
to become a decidedly fashionable young man, he had encouraged him in
extravagance, dissipation, and heartless worldliness; he had brought him up
to be supercilious, expensive, unprincipled, and useless. But then, he was
gentlemanlike, dignified, and sought after; and now, the father reflected,
with satisfaction, that, if he could accomplish his well-conceived scheme,
he would pay his son's debts with his ward's fortune, and, at the same
time, tie him down to some degree of propriety and decorum, by a wife. Lord
Kilcullen, when about to marry, would be obliged to cashier his opera-
dancers and their expensive crews; and, though he might not leave the turf
altogether, when married he would gradually he drawn out of turf society,
and would doubtless become a good steady family nobleman, like his father.
Why, he Lord Cashel himself wise, prudent, and respectable as he
was example as he knew himself to be to all peers, English, Irish, and
Scotch, had had his horses, and his indiscretions, when he was young. And
then he stroked the calves of his legs, and smiled grimly; for the memory
of his juvenile vices was pleasant to him.

Lord Cashel thought, as he continued to reflect on the matter, that Lord
Ballindine was certainly a sordid schemer; but that his son was a young man
of whom he had just reason to be proud, and who was worthy of a wife in the
shape of a hundred thousand pounds. And then, he congratulated himself on
being the most anxious of guardians and the best of fathers; and, with
these comfortable reflections, the worthy peer strutted off, through his
ample doors, up his lofty stairs, and away through his long corridors, to
dress for dinner. You might have heard his boots creaking till he got
inside his dressing-room, but you must have owned that they did so with a
most dignified cadence.

It was pleasant enough, certainly, planning all these things; but there
would be some little trouble in executing them. In the first place, Lord
Kilcullen though a very good son, on the whole, as the father frequently
remarked to himself was a little fond of having a will of his own, and
maybe, might object to dispense with his dancing-girls. And though there
was, unfortunately, but little doubt that the money was indispensably
necessary to him, it was just possible that he might insist on having the
cash without his cousin. However, the proposal must be made, and, as the
operations necessary to perfect the marriage would cause some delay, and
the money would certainly be wanted as soon as possible, no time was to be
lost. Lord Kilcullen was, accordingly, summoned to Grey Abbey; and, as he
presumed his attendance was required for the purpose of talking over some
method of raising the wind, he obeyed the summons. I should rather have
said of raising a storm, for no gentle puff would serve to watt him through
his present necessities.

Down he came, to the great delight of his mother, who thought him by far
the finest young man of the day, though he usually slighted, snubbed, and
ridiculed her and of his sister, who always hailed with dignified joy the
return of the eldest scion of her proud family to the ancestral roof. The
earl was also glad to find that no previous engagement detained him; that
is, that he so far sacrificed his own comfort as to leave Tattersall's and
the Figuranti of the Opera-House, to come all the way to Grey Abbey, in the
county of Kildare. But, though the earl was glad to see his son, he was
still a little consternated: the business interview could not be postponed,
as it was not to be supposed that Lord Kilcullen would stay long at Grey
Abbey during the London season; and the father had yet hardly sufficiently
crammed himself for the occasion. Besides, the pressure from without must
have been very strong to have produced so immediate a compliance with a
behest not uttered in a very peremptory manner, or, generally speaking, to
a very obedient child.

On the morning after his arrival, the earl was a little uneasy in his chair
during breakfast. It was rather a sombre meal, for Fanny had by no means
recovered her spirits, nor did she appear to be it the way to do so. The
countess tried to chat a little to her son, but he hardly answered her; and
Lady Selina, though she was often profound, was never amusing. Lord Cashel
made sundry attempts at general conversation, but as often failed. It was,
at last, however, over; and the father requested the son to come with him
into the book-room.

When the fire was poked, and the chairs were drawn together over the rug,
there were no further preliminaries which could be decently introduced and
the earl was therefore forced to commence.

'Well, Kilcullen, I'm glad you're come to Grey Abbey. I'm afraid, however,
we shan't induce you to stay with us long, so it's as well perhaps to
settle our business at once. You would, however, greatly oblige your
mother, and I'm sure I need not add, myself, if you could make your
arrangements so as to stay with us till after Easter. We could then return
together.'

'Till after Easter, my lord! I should be in the Hue and Cry before that
time, if I was so long absent from my accustomed haunts. Besides I should
only put out your own arrangements, or rather, those of Lady Cashel. There
would probably be no room for me in the family coach.'.

'The family coach won't go, Lord Kilcullen. I am sorry to say, that the
state of my affairs at present renders it advisable that the family should
remain at Grey Abbey this season. I shall attend my parliamentary duties
alone.'

This was intended as a hit the first at the prodigal son, but Kilcullen was
too crafty to allow it to tell. He merely bowed his head, and opened his
eyes, to betoken his surprise at such a decision, and remained quiet.

'Indeed,' continued Lord Cashel, 'I did not even intend to have gone
myself, but the unexpected death of Harry Wyndham renders it necessary. I
must put Fanny's affairs in a right train. Poor Harry! did you see much of
him during his illness?'

'Why, no I can't say I did. I'm not a very good hand at doctoring or
nursing. I saw him once since he got his commission, glittering with his
gold lace like a new weather-cock on a Town Hall. He hadn't time to polish
the shine off.'

'His death will make a great difference, as far as Fanny is concerned eh?'

'Indeed it will: her fortune now is considerable; a deuced pretty thing,
remembering that it's all ready money, and that she can touch it the moment
she's of age. She's entirely off with Ballindine, isn't she?'

'Oh, entirely,' said the earl, with considerable self-complacency; 'that
affair is entirely over.'

'I've stated so everywhere publicly; but I dare say, she'll give him her
money, nevertheless. She's not the girl to give over a man, if she's really
fond of him.'

'But, my dear Kilcullen, she has authorised me to give him a final answer,
and I have done so. After that, you know, it would be quite impossible for
her to to '

'You'll see she'll marry Lord Ballindine. Had Harry lived, it might have
been different; but now she's got all her brother's money, she'll think it
a point of honour to marry her poor lover. Besides, her staying this year
in the country will be in his favour: she'll see no one here and she'll
want something to think of. I understand he has altogether thrown himself
into Blake's hands the keenest fellow in Ireland, with as much mercy as a
foxhound. He's a positive fool, is Ballindine.'

'I'm afraid he is I'm afraid he is. And you may be sure I'm too fond of
Fanny that is, I have too much regard for the trust reposed in me, to allow
her to throw herself away upon him.'

'That 's all very well; but what can you do?'

'Why, not allow him to see her; and I've another plan in my head for her.'

'Ah! but the thing is to put the plan into her head. I'd be sorry to hear
of a fine girl like Fanny Wyndham breaking her heart in a half-ruined
barrack in Connaught, without money to pay a schoolmaster to teach her
children to spell. But I've too many troubles of my own to think of just at
present, to care much about hers;' and the son and heir got up, and stood
with his back to the fire, and put his arms under his coat-laps. 'Upon my
soul, my lord, I never was so hard up in my life!'

Lord Cashel now prepared himself for action. The first shot was fired, and
he must go on with the battle.

'So I hear, Kilcullen; and yet, during the last four years, you've had
nearly double your allowance; and, before that, I paid every farthing you
owed. Within the last five years, you've had nearly forty thousand pounds!
Supposing you'd had younger brothers, Lord Kilcullen supposing that I had
had six or eight sons instead of only one; what would you have done? How
then would you have paid your debts?'

'Fate having exempted me and your lordship from so severe a curse, I have
never turned my mind to reflect what I might have done under such an
infliction.'

'Or, supposing I had chosen, myself, to indulge in those expensive habits,
which would have absorbed my income, and left me unable to do more for you,
than many other noblemen in my position do for their sons do you ever
reflect how impossible it would then have been for me to have helped you
out of your difficulties?'

'I feel as truly grateful for your self-denial in this respect, as I do in
that of my non-begotten brethren.'

Lord Cashel saw that he was laughed at, and he looked angry; but he did not
want to quarrel with his son, so he continued:

'Jervis writes me word that it is absolutely necessary that thirty thousand
pounds should be paid for you at once; or, that your remaining in
London or, in fact, in the country at all, is quite out of the question.'

'Indeed, my lord, I'm afraid Jervis is right.'

'Thirty thousand pounds! Are you aware what your income is?'

'Why, hardly. I know Jervis takes care that I never see much of it.'

'Do you mean that you don't receive it?'

'Oh, I do not at all doubt its accurate payment. I mean to say, that I
don't often have the satisfaction of seeing much of it at the right side of
my banker's book.'

'Thirty thousand pounds! And will that sum set you completely free in the
world?'

'I am sorry to say it will not nor nearly.'

'Then, Lord Kilcullen,' said the earl, with most severe, but still most
courteous dignity, 'may I trouble you to be good enough to tell me what, at
the present moment, you do owe?'

'I'm afraid I could not do so with any accuracy; but it is more than double
the sum you have named.'

'Do you mean, that you have no schedule of your debts? no means of
acquainting me with the amount? How can you expect that I can assist you,
when you think it too much trouble to make yourself thoroughly acquainted
with the state of your own affairs?'

'A list could certainly be made out, if I had any prospect of being able to
settle the amount. If your lordship can undertake to do so at once, I will
undertake to hand you a correct list of the sums due, before I leave Grey
Abbey. I presume you would not require to know exactly to whom all the
items were owing.'

This effrontery was too much, and Lord Cashel was very near to losing his
temper.

'Upon my honour, Kilcullen, you're cool, very cool. You come upon me to
pay, Heaven knows how many thousands more money, I know, than I'm able to
raise; and you condescendingly tell me that you will trouble yourself so
far as to let me know how much money I am to give you but that I am not to
know what is done with it! No; if I am to pay your debts again, I will do
it through Jervis.'

'Pray remember,' replied Lord Kilcullen, not at all disturbed from his
equanimity, 'that I have not proposed that you should pay my debts without
knowing where the money went; and also that I have not yet asked you to pay
them at all.'

'Who, then, do you expect will pay them? I can assure you I should be glad
to be relieved from the honour.'

'I merely said that I had not yet made any proposition respecting them. Of
course, I expect your assistance. Failing you, I have no resource but the
Jews. I should regret to put the property into their hands; especially as,
hitherto, I have not raised money on post obits.'

'At any rate, I'm glad of that,' said the father, willing to admit any
excuse for returning to his good humour. 'That would be ruin; and I hope
that anything short of that may be may be may be done something with.'

The expression was not dignified, and it pained the earl to make it; but it
was expressive, and he didn't wish at once to say that he had a proposal
for paying off his son's debts. 'But now, Kilcullen, tell me fairly, in
round figures, what do you think you owe? as near as you can guess, without
going to pen and paper, you know?'

'Well, my lord, if you will allow me, I will make a proposition to you. If
you will hand over to Mr Jervis fifty thousand pounds, for him to pay such
claims as have already been made upon him as your agent, and such other
debts as I may have sent in to him: and if you will give myself thirty
thousand, to pay such debts as I do not choose to have paid by an agent, I
will undertake to have everything settled.'

'Eighty thousand pounds in four years! Why, Kilcullen, what have you done
with it? where has it gone? You have five thousand a-year, no house to keep
up, no property to support, no tenants to satisfy, no rates to pay five
thousand a-year for your own personal expenses and, in four years, you have
got eighty thousand in debt! The property never can stand that, you know.
It never can stand at that rate. Why, Kilcullen, what have you done with
it?'

'Mr Crockford has a portion of it, and John Scott has some of it. A great
deal of it is scattered rather widely so widely that it would be difficult
now to trace it. But, my lord, it has gone. I won't deny that the greater
portion of it has been lost at play, or on the turf. I trust I may, in
future, be more fortunate and more cautious.'

'I trust so. I trust so, indeed. Eighty thousand pounds! And do you think I
can raise such a sum as that at a week's warning?'

'Indeed, I have no doubt as to your being able to do so: it may be another
question whether you are willing.'

'I am not I am not able,' said the libelled father. 'As you know well
enough, the incumbrances on the property take more than a quarter of my
income.'

'There can, nevertheless, be no doubt of your being able to have the money,
and that at once, if you chose to go into the market for it. I have no
doubt but that Mr Jervis could get it for you at once at five per cent.'

'Four thousand a-year gone for ever from the property! and what security am
I to have that the same sacrifice will not be again incurred, after another
lapse of four years?'

'You can have no security, my lord, against my being in debt. You can,
however, have every security that you will not again pay my debts, in your
own resolution. I trust, however, that I have some experience to prevent my
again falling into so disagreeable a predicament. I think I have heard your
Lordship say that you incurred some unnecessary expenses yourself in
London, before your marriage!'

'I wish, Kilcullen, that you had never exceeded your income more than I did
mine. But it is no use talking any further on this subject. I cannot, and I
will not I cannot in justice either to myself or to you, borrow this money
for you; nor, if I could, should I think it right to do so.'

'Then what the devil's the use of talking about it so long?' said the
dutiful son, hastily jumping up from the chair in which he had again sat
down. 'Did you bring me down to Grey Abbey merely to tell me that you knew
of my difficulties, and that you could do nothing to assist me?'

'Now, don't put yourself into a passion pray don't!' said the father, a
little frightened by the sudden ebullition. 'If you'll sit down, and listen
to me, I'll tell you what I propose. I did not send for you here without
intending to point out to you some method of extricating yourself from your
present pecuniary embarrassment; and, if you have any wish to give up your
course, of I must say, reckless profusion, and commence that upright and
distinguished career, which I still hope to see you take, you will, I
think, own that my plan is both a safer and a more expedient one than that
which you have proposed. It is quite time for you now to abandon the
expensive follies of youth; and,' Lord Cashel was getting into a
delightfully dignified tone, and felt himself prepared for a good burst of
common-place eloquence; but his son looked impatient, and as he could not
take such liberty with him as he could with Lord Ballindine, he came to the
point at once, and ended abruptly by saying, 'and get married.'

'For the purpose of allowing my wife to pay my debts?'

'Why, not exactly that; but as, of course, you could not marry any woman
but a woman with a large fortune, that would follow as a matter of
consequence.'

'Your lordship proposes the fortune not as the first object of my
affection, but merely as a corollary. But, perhaps, it will be as well that
you should finish your proposition, before I make any remarks on the
subject.' And Lord Kilcullen, sat down, with a well-feigned look of
listless indifference.

'Well, Kilcullen, I have latterly been thinking much about you, and so has
your poor mother. She is very uneasy that you should still still be
unmarried; and Jervis has written to me very strongly. You see it is quite
necessary that something should be done or we shall both be ruined. Now, if
I did raise this sum and I really could not do it I don't think I could
manage it, just at present; but, even if I did, it would only be
encouraging you to go on just in the same way again. Now, if you were to
marry, your whole course of life would be altered, and you would become, at
the same time, more respectable and more happy.'

'That would depend a good deal upon circumstances, I should think.'

'Oh! I am sure you would. You are just the same sort of fellow I was when
at your age, and I was much happier after I was married, so I know it. Now,
you see, your cousin has a hundred thousand pounds; in fact something more
than that.'

'What? Fanny! Poor Ballindine! So that's the way with him is it! When I was
contradicting the rumour of his marriage with Fanny, I little thought that
I was to be his rival! At any rate, I shall have to shoot him first.'

'You might, at any rate, confine yourself to sense, Lord Kilcullen, when I
am taking so much pains to talk sensibly to you, on a subject which, I
presume, cannot but interest you.'

'Indeed, my lord, I'm all attention; and I do intend to talk sensibly when
I say that I think you are proposing to treat Ballindine very ill. The
world will think well of your turning him adrift on the score of the match
being an imprudent one; but it won't speak so leniently of you if you expel
him, as soon as your ward becomes an heiress, to make way for your own
son.'

'You know that I'm not thinking of doing so. I've long seen that Lord
Ballindine would not make a fitting husband for Fanny long before Harry
died.'

'And you think that I shall?'

'Indeed I do. I think she will be lucky to get you.'

'I'm flattered into silence: pray go on.'

'You will be an earl a peer and a man of property. What would she become if
she married Lord Ballindine?'

'Oh, you are quite right! Go on. I wonder it never occurred to her before
to set her cap at me.'

'Now do be serious. I wonder how you can joke on such a subject, with all
your debts. I'm sure I feel them heavy enough, if you don't. You see Lord
Ballindine was refused I may say he was refused before we heard about that
poor boy's unfortunate death. It was the very morning we heard of it, three
or four hours before the messenger came, that Fanny had expressed her
resolution to declare it off, and commissioned me to tell him so. And,
therefore, of course, the two things can't have the remotest reference to
each other.'

'I see. There are, or have been, two Fanny Wyndhams separate persons,
though both wards of your lordship. Lord Ballindine was engaged to the girl
who had a brother; but he can have no possible concern with Fanny Wyndham,
the heiress, who has no brother.'

'How can you he so unfeeling? but you may pay your debts in your own way.
You won't ever listen to what I have to say! I should have thought that, as
your father, I might have considered myself entitled to more respect from
you.'

'Indeed, my lord, I'm all respect and attention, and I won't say one more
word till you've finished.'

'Well you must see, there can be no objection on the score of Lord
Ballindine?'

'Oh, none at all.'

'And then, where could Fanny wish for a better match than yourself? it
would be a great thing for her, and the match would be, in all things,
so so respectable, and just what it ought to be; and your mother would be
so delighted, and so should I, and '

'Her fortune would so nicely pay all my debts.'

'Exactly. Of course, I should take care to have your present income five
thousand a year settled on her, in the shape of jointure; and I'm sure that
would he treating her handsomely. The interest of her fortune would not be
more than that.'

'And what should we live on?'

'Why, of course, I should continue your present allowance.'

'And you think that that which I have found so insufficient for myself,
would be enough for both of us?'

'You must make it enough, Kilcullen in order that there may be something
left to enable you to keep up your title when I am gone.'

By this time, Lord Kilcullen appeared to be as serious, and nearly as
solemn, as his father, and he sat, for a considerable time, musing, till
his father said, 'Well, Kilcullen, will you take my advice?'

'It's impracticable, my lord. In the first place, the money must be paid
immediately, and considerable delay must occur before I could even offer to
Miss Wyndham; and, in the next place, were I to do so, I am sure she would
refuse me.'

'Why; there must be some delay, of course. But I suppose, if I passed my
word, through Jervis, for so much of the debts as are immediate, that a
settlement might be made whereby they might stand over for twelve months,
with interest, of course. As to refusing you, it 's not at all likely:
where would she look for a better offer?'

'I don't know much of my cousin; but I don't think she's exactly the girl
to take a man because he's a good match for her.'

'Perhaps not. But then, you know, you understand women so well, and would
have such opportunities; you would be sure to make yourself agreeable to
her, with very little effort on your part.'

'Yes, poor thing she would be delivered over, ready bound, into the lion's
den.' And then the young man sat silent again, for some time, turning the
matter over in his mind. At last, he said 'Well, my lord; I am a
considerate and a dutiful son, and I will agree to your proposition: but I
must saddle it with conditions. I have no doubt that the sum which I
suggested should be paid through your agent, could be arranged to be paid
in a year, or eighteen months, by your making yourself responsible for it,
and I would undertake to indemnify you. But the thirty thousand pounds I
must have at once. I must return to London, with the power of raising it
there, without delay. This, also, I would repay you out of Fanny's fortune.
I would then undertake to use my best endeavours to effect a union with
your ward. But I most positively will not agree to this nor have any hand
in the matter, unless I am put in immediate possession of the sum I have
named, and unless you will agree to double my income as soon as I am
married.'

To both these propositions the earl, at first, refused to accede; but his
son was firm. Then, Lord Cashel agreed to put him in immediate possession
of the sum of money he required, but would not hear of increasing his
income. They argued, discussed, and quarrelled over the matter, for a long
time; till, at last, the anxious father, in his passion, told his son that
he might go his own way, and that he would take no further trouble to help
so unconscionable a child. Lord Kilcullen rejoined by threatening
immediately to throw the whole of the property, which was entailed on
himself, into the hands of the Jews.

Long they argued and bargained, till each was surprised at the obstinacy of
the other. They ended, however, by splitting the difference, and it was
agreed, that Lord Cashel was at once to hand over thirty thousand pounds,
and to take his son's bond for the amount; that the other debts were to
stand over till Fanny's money was forthcoming; and that the income of the
newly married pair was to be seven thousand five hundred a-year.

'At least,' thought Lord Kilcullen to himself, as he good-humouredly shook
hands with his father at the termination of the interview 'I have not done
so badly, for those infernal dogs will be silenced, and I shall get the
money. I could not have gone back without that. I can go on with the
marriage, or not, as I may choose, hereafter. It won't be a bad
speculation, however.'

To do Lord Cashel justice, he did not intend cheating his son, not did he
suspect his son of an intention to cheat him. But the generation was
deteriorating.




XIV  THE COUNTESS


It was delightful to see on what good terms the earl and his son met that
evening at dinner. The latter even went so far as to be decently civil to
his mother, and was quite attentive to Fanny. She, however, did not seem to
appreciate the compliment. It was now a fortnight since she had heard of
her brother's death, and during the whole of that time she had been silent,
unhappy, and fretful. Not a word more had been said to her about Lord
Ballindine, nor had she, as yet, spoken about him to any one; but she had
been thinking about little else, and had ascertained at least, so she
thought that she could never be happy, unless she were reconciled to him.

The more she brooded over the subject, the more she felt convinced that
such was the case; she could not think how she had ever been induced to
sanction, by her name, such an unwarrantable proceeding as the
unceremonious dismissal of a man to whom her troth had been plighted,
merely because he had not called to see her. As for his not writing, she
was aware that Lord Cashel had recommended that, till she was of age, they
should not correspond. As she thought the matter over in her own room, long
hour after hour, she became angry with herself for having been talked into
a feeling of anger for him. What right had she to be angry because he kept
horses? She could not expect him to put himself into Lord Cashel's leading-
strings. Indeed, she thought she would have liked him less if he had done
so. And now, to reject him just when circumstances put it in her power to
enable her to free him from his embarrassments, and live a manner becoming
his station! What must Frank think of her? For he could not but suppose
that her rejection had been caused by her unexpected inheritance.

In the course of the fortnight, she made up her mind that all Lord Cashel
had said to Lord Ballindine should be unsaid but who was to do it? It would
be a most unpleasant task to perform; and one which, she was aware, her
guardian would be most unwilling to undertake. She fully resolved that she
would do it herself, if she could find no fitting ambassador to undertake
the task, though that would be a step to which she would fain not be
driven. At one time, she absolutely thought of asking her cousin,
Kilcullen, about it this was just before his leaving Grey Abbey; he seemed
so much more civil and kind than usual. But then, she knew so little of
him, and so little liked what she did know: that scheme, therefore, was
given up. Lady Selina was so cold, and prudent would talk to her so much
about propriety, self-respect, and self-control, that she could not make a
confidante of her. No one could talk to Selina on any subject more
immediately interesting than a Roman Emperor, or a pattern for worsted-
work. Fanny felt that she would not be equal, herself, to going boldly to
Lord Cashel, and desiring him to inform Lord Ballindine that he had been
mistaken in the view he had taken of his ward's wishes: no that was
impossible; such a proceeding would probably bring on a fit of apoplexy.

There was no one else to whom she could apply, but her aunt. Lady Cashel
was a very good-natured old woman, who slept the greatest portion of her
time, and knitted through the rest of her existence. She did not take a
prominent part in any of the important doings of Grey Abbey; and, though
Lord Cashel constantly referred to her, for he thought it respectable to do
so, no one regarded her much. Fanny felt, however, that she would neither
scold her, ridicule her, nor refuse to listen: to Lady Cashel, therefore,
at last, she went for assistance.

Her ladyship always passed the morning after breakfast, in a room adjoining
her own bed-room, in which she daily held deep debate with Griffiths, her
factotum, respecting household affairs, knitting-needles, and her own
little ailments and cossetings. Griffiths, luckily, was a woman of much the
same tastes as her ladyship, only somewhat of a more active temperament;
and they were most stedfast friends. It was such a comfort to Lady Cashel
to have some one to whom she could twaddle!

The morning after Lord Kilcullen's departure Fanny knocked at her door, and
was asked to come in. The countess, as usual, was in her easy chair, with
the knitting-apparatus in her lap, and Griffiths was seated at the table,
pulling about threads, and keeping her ladyship awake by small talk.

'I'm afraid I'm disturbing you, aunt,' said Fanny, 'but I wanted to speak
to you for a minute or two. Good morning, Mrs Griffiths.'

'Oh, no! you won't disturb me, Fanny. I was a little busy this morning, for
I wanted to finish this side of the You see what a deal I've done,' and the
countess lugged up a whole heap of miscellaneous worsted from a basket just
under her arm 'and I must finish it by lady-day, or I shan't get the other
done, I don't know when. But still, I've plenty of time to attend to you.'

'Then I'll go down, my lady, and see about getting the syrup boiled,' said
Griffiths. 'Good morning, Miss Wyndham.'

'Do; but mind you come up again immediately I'll ring the bell when Miss
Wyndham is going; and pray don't leave me alone, now.'

'No, my lady not a moment,' and Griffiths escaped to the syrup.

Fanny's heart beat quick and hard, as she sat down on the sofa, opposite to
her aunt. It was impossible for any one to be afraid of Lady Cashel, there
was so very little about her that could inspire awe; but then, what she had
to say was so very disagreeable to say! If she had had to tell her tale out
loud, merely to the empty easy chair, it would have been a dreadful
undertaking.

'Well, Fanny, what can I do for you? I'm sure you look very nice in your
bombazine; and it 's very nicely made up. Who was it made it for you?'

'I got it down from Dublin, aunt; from Foley's.'

'Oh, I remember; so you told me. Griffiths has a niece makes those things
up very well; but then she lives at Namptwich, and one couldn't send to
England for it. I had such a quantity of mourning by me, I didn't get any
made up new; else, I think I must have sent for her.'

'My dear aunt, I am very unhappy about something, and I want you to help
me. I'm afraid, though, it will give you a great deal of trouble.'

'Good gracious, Fanny! what is it? Is it about poor Harry? I'm sure I
grieved about him more than I can tell.'

'No, aunt: he's gone now, and time is the only cure for that grief. I know
I must bear that without complaining. But, aunt, I feel I think, that is,
that I've used Lord Ballindine very ill.'

'Good gracious me, my love! I thought Lord Cashel had managed all that I
thought that was all settled. You know, he would keep those horrid horses,
and all that kind of thing; and what more could you do than just let Lord
Cashel settle it?'

'Yes, but aunt you see, I had engaged myself to Lord Ballindine, and I
don't think in fact oh, aunt! I did not wish to break my word to Lord
Ballindine, and I am very very sorry for what has been done,' and Fanny was
again in tears.

'But, my dear Fanny,' said the countess, so far excited as to commence
rising from her seat the attempt, however, was abandoned, when she felt the
ill effects of the labour to which she was exposing herself 'but, my dear
Fanny what would you have? It's done, now, you know; and, really, it's for
the best.'

'Oh, but, dear aunt, I must get somebody to see him. I've been thinking
about it ever since he was here with. my uncle. I wouldn't let him think
that I broke it all off, merely because because of poor Harry's money,' and
Fanny sobbed away dreadfully.

'But you don't want to marry him!' said the naïve countess.

Now, Fanny did want to marry him, though she hardly liked saying so, even
to Lady Cashel.

'You know, I promised him I would,' said she; 'and what will he think of
me? what must he think of me, to throw him off so cruelly, so harshly,
after all that's past? Oh, aunt! I must see him again.'

'I know something of human nature,' replied the aunt, 'and if you do, I
tell you, it will end in your being engaged to him again. You know it's off
now. Come, my dear; don't think so much about it: I'm sure Lord Cashel
wouldn't do anything cruel or harsh.'

'Oh, I must see him again, whatever comes of it;' and then she paused for a
considerable time, during which the bewildered old lady was thinking what
she could do to relieve her sensitive niece. 'Dear, dear aunt, I don't want
to deceive you!' and Fanny, springing up, knelt at her aunt's feet, and
looked up into her face. 'I do love him I always loved him, and I cannot,
cannot quarrel with him.' And then she burst out crying vehemently, hiding
her face in the countess's lap.

Lady Cashel was quite overwhelmed. Fanny was usually so much more collected
than herself, that her present prostration, both of feeling and body, was
dreadful to see. Suppose she was to go into hysterics there they would be
alone, and Lady Cashel felt that she had not strength to ring the bell.

'But, my dear Fanny! oh dear, oh dear, this is very dreadful! but,
Fanny he's gone away now. Lift up your face, Fanny, for you frighten me.
Well, I'm sure I'll do anything for you. Perhaps he wouldn't mind coming
back again he always was very good-natured. I'm sure I always liked Lord
Ballindine very much only he would have all those horses. But I'm sure, if
you wish it, I should be very glad to see him marry you; only, you know,
you must wait some time, because of poor Harry; and I'm sure I don't know
how you'll manage with Lord Cashel.'

'Dear aunt I want you to speak to Lord Cashel. When I was angry because I
thought Frank didn't come here as he might have done, I consented that my
uncle should break off the match: besides, then, you know, we should have
had so little between us. But I didn't know then how well I loved him.
Indeed, indeed, aunt, I cannot bring my heart to quarrel with him; and I am
quite, quite sure he would never wish to quarrel with me. Will you go to my
uncle tell him that I've changed my mind; tell him that I was a foolish
girl, and did not know my mind. But tell him I must be friends with Frank
again.'

'Well, of course I'll do what you wish me indeed, I would do anything for
you, Fanny, as if you were one of my own; but really, I don't know Good
gracious! What am I to say to him? Wouldn't it be better, Fanny, if you
were to go to him yourself?'

'Oh, no, aunt; pray do you tell him first. I couldn't go to him; besides,
he would do anything for you, you know. I want you to go to him do, now,
dear aunt and tell him not from me, but from yourself how very, very much
I that is, how very very but you will know what to say; only Frank must,
must come back again.'

'Well, Fanny, dear, I'll go to Lord Cashel; or, perhaps, he wouldn't mind
coming here. Ring the bell for me, dear. But I'm sure he'll be very angry.
I'd just write a line and ask Lord Ballindine to come and dine here, and
let him settle it all himself, only I don't think Lord Cashel would like
it.'

Griffiths answered the summons, and was despatched to the book-room to tell
his lordship that her ladyship would be greatly obliged if he would step
upstairs to her for a minute or two; and, as soon as Griffiths was gone on
her errand, Fanny fled to her own apartment, leaving her aunt in a very
bewilder and pitiable state of mind: and there she waited, with palpitating
heart and weeping eyes, the effects of the interview.

She was dreadfully nervous, for she felt certain that she would be summoned
before her uncle. Hitherto, she alone, in all the house, had held him in no
kind of awe; indeed, her respect for her uncle had not been of the most
exalted kind; but now she felt she was afraid of him.

She remained in her room much longer than she thought it would have taken
her aunt to explain what she had to say. At last, however, she heard
footsteps in the corridor, and Griffiths knocked at the door. Her aunt
would be obliged by her stepping into her room. She tried not to look
disconcerted, and asked if Lord Cashel were still there. She was told that
he was; and she felt that she had to muster up all her courage to encounter
him.

When she went into the room, Lady Cashel was still in her easy-chair, but
the chair seemed to lend none of its easiness to its owner. She was sitting
upright, with her hands on her two knees, and she looked perplexed,
distressed, and unhappy. Lord Cashel was standing with his back to the
fire-place, and Fanny had never seen his face look so black. He really
seemed, for the time, to have given over acting, to have thrown aside his
dignity, and to be natural and in earnest.

Lady Cashel began the conversation.

'Oh, Fanny,' she said, 'you must really overcome all this sensitiveness;
you really must. I've spoken to your uncle, and it's quite impossible, and
very unwise; and, indeed, it can't be done at all. In fact, Lord Ballindine
isn't, by any means, the sort of person I supposed.'

Fanny knit her brows a little at this, and felt somewhat less humble than
she did before. She knew she should get indignant if her uncle abused her
lover, and that, if she did, her courage would rise in proportion. Her aunt
continued 'Your uncle's very kind about it, and says he can, of course,
forgive your feeling a little out of sorts just at present; and, I'm sure,
so can I, and I'm sure I'd do anything to make you happy; but as for making
it all up with Lord Ballindine again, indeed it cannot be thought of,
Fanny; and so your uncle will tell you.'

And then Lord Cashel opened his oracular mouth, for the purpose of doing
so.

'Really, Fanny, this is the most unaccountable thing I ever heard of. But
you'd better sit down, while I speak to you,' and Fanny sat down on the
sofa. 'I think I understood you rightly, when you desired me, less than a
month ago, to inform Lord Ballindine that circumstances that is, his own
conduct obliged you to decline the honour of his alliance. Did you not do
so spontaneously, and of your own accord?'

'Certainly, uncle, I agreed to take your advice; though I did so most
unwillingly.'

'Had I not your authority for desiring him I won't say to discontinue his
visits, for that he had long done but to give up his pretensions to your
hand? Did you not authorise me to do so?'

'I believe I did. But, uncle '

'And I have done as you desired me; and now, Fanny, that I have done so now
that I have fully explained to him what you taught me to believe were your
wishes on the subject, will you tell me for I really think your aunt must
have misunderstood you what it is that you wish me to do?'

'Why, uncle, you pointed out and it was very true then, that my fortune was
not sufficient to enable Lord Ballindine to keep up his rank. It is
different now, and I am very, very sorry that it is so; but it is different
now, and I feel that I ought not to reject Lord Ballindine, because I am so
much richer than I was when he when he proposed to me.'

'Then it's merely a matter of feeling with you, and not of affection? If I
understand you, you are afraid that you should be thought to have treated
Lord Ballindine badly?'

'It 's not only that ' And then she paused for a few moments, and added, 'I
thought I could have parted with him, when you made me believe that I ought
to do so, but I find I cannot.'

'You mean that you love him?' and the earl looked very black at his niece.
He intended to frighten her out of her resolution, but she quietly
answered,

'Yes, uncle, I do.'

'And you want me to tell him so, after having banished him from my house?'

Fanny's eyes again shot fire at the word 'banished', but she answered, very
quietly, and even with a smile,

'No, uncle; but I want you to ask him here again. I might tell him the rest
myself.'

'But, Fanny, dear,' said the countess, 'your uncle couldn't do it: you
know, he told him to go away before. Besides, I really don't think he'd
come; he's so taken up with those horrid horses, and that Mr Blake, who is
worse than any of 'em. Really, Fanny, Kilcullen says that he and Mr Blake
are quite notorious.'

'I think, aunt, Lord Kilcullen might be satisfied with looking after
himself. If it depended on him, he never had a kind word to say for Lord
Ballindine.'

'But you know, Fanny,' continued the aunt, 'he knows everybody; and if he
says Lord Ballindine is that sort of person, why, it must be so, though I'm
sure I'm very sorry to hear it.'

Lord Cashel saw that he could not trust any more to his wife: that last hit
about Kilcullen had been very unfortunate; so he determined to put an end
to all Fanny's yearnings after her lover with a strong hand, and said,

'If you mean, Fanny, after what has passed, that I should go to Lord
Ballindine, and give him to understand that he is again welcome to Grey
Abbey, I must at once tell you that it is absolutely absolutely impossible.
If I had no personal objection to the young man on any prudential score,
the very fact of my having already, at your request, desired his absence
from my house, would be sufficient to render it impossible. I owe too much
to my own dignity, and am too anxious for your reputation, to think of
doing such a thing. But when I also remember that Lord Ballindine is a
reckless, dissipated gambler I much fear, with no fixed principle, I should
consider any step towards renewing the acquaintance between you a most
wicked and unpardonable proceeding.'

When Fanny heard her lover designated as a reckless gambler, she lost all
remaining feelings of fear at her uncle's anger, and, standing up, looked
him full in the face through her tears.

'It's not so, my lord!' she said, when he had finished. 'He is not what you
have said. I know him too well to believe such things of him, and I will
not submit to hear him abused.'

'Oh, Fanny, my dear!' said the frightened countess; 'don't speak in that
way. Surely, your uncle means to act for your own happiness; and don't you
know Lord Ballindine has those horrid horses?'

'If I don't mind his horses, aunt, no one else need; but he's no gambler,
and he's not dissipated I'm sure not half so much so as Lord Kilcullen.'

'In that, Fanny, you're mistaken,' said the earl; 'but I don't wish to
discuss the matter with you. You must, however, fully understand this: Lord
Ballindine cannot be received under this roof. If you regret him, you must
remember that his rejection was your own act. I think you then acted most
prudently, and I trust it will not be long before you are of the same
opinion yourself,' and Lord Cashel moved to the door as though he had
accomplished his part in the interview.

'Stop one moment, uncle,' said Fanny, striving hard to be calm, and hardly
succeeding. 'I did not ask my aunt to speak to you on this subject, till I
had turned it over and over in my mind, and resolved that I would not make
myself and another miserable for ever, because I had been foolish enough
not to know my mind. You best know whether you can ask Lord Ballindine to
Grey Abbey or not; but I am determined, if I cannot see him here, that I
will see him somewhere else,' and she turned towards the door, and then,
thinking of her aunt, she turned back and kissed her, and immediately left
the room.

The countess looked up at her husband, quite dumbfounded, and he seemed
rather distressed himself. However, he muttered something about her being a
hot-headed simpleton and soon thinking better about it, and then betook
himself to his private retreat, to hold sweet converse with his own
thoughts having first rung the bell for Griffiths, to pick up the scattered
threads of her mistress's knitting.

Lord Cashel certainly did not like the look of things. There was a
determination in Fanny's eye, as she made her parting speech, which upset
him rather, and which threw considerable difficulties in the way of Lord
Kilcullen's wooing. To be sure, time would do a great deal: but then, there
wasn't so much time to spare. He had already taken steps to borrow the
thirty thousand pounds, and had, indeed, empowered his son to receive it:
he had also pledged himself for the other fifty; and then, after all, that
perverse fool of a girl would insist on being in love with that scapegrace,
Lord Ballindine! This, however, might wear away, and he would take very
good care that she should hear of his misdoings. It would be very odd if,
after all, his plans were to be destroyed, and his arrangements
disconcerted by his own ward, and niece especially when he designed so
great a match for her!

He could not, however, make himself quite comfortable, though he had great
confidence in his own diplomatic resources.




XV  HANDICAP LODGE


Lord Ballindine left Grey Abbey, and rode homewards, towards Handicap
Lodge, in a melancholy and speculative mood. His first thoughts were all of
Harry Wyndham. Frank, as the accepted suitor of his sister, had known him
well and intimately, and had liked him much; and the poor young fellow had
been much attached to him. He was greatly shocked to hear of his death. It
was not yet a month since he had seen him shining in all the new-blown
splendour of his cavalry regimentals, and Lord Ballindine was unfeignedly
grieved to think how short a time the lad had lived to enjoy them. His
thoughts, then, naturally turned to his own position, and the declaration
which Lord Cashel had made to him respecting himself. Could it be
absolutely true that Fanny had determined to give him up altogether? After
all her willing vows, and assurances of unalterable affection, could she be
so cold as to content herself with sending him a formal message, by her
uncle, that she did not wish to see him again? Frank argued with himself
that it was impossible; he was sure he knew her too well. But still, Lord
Cashel would hardly tell him a downright lie, and he had distinctly stated
that the rejection came from Miss Wyndham herself.

Then, he began to feel indignant, and spurred his horse, and rode a little
faster, and made a few resolutions as to upholding his own dignity. He
would run after neither Lord Cashel nor his niece; he would not even ask
her to change her mind, since she had been able to bring herself to such a
determination as that expressed to him. But he would insist on seeing her;
she could not refuse that to him, after what had passed between them, and
he would then tell her what he thought of her, and leave her for ever. But
no; he would do nothing to vex her, as long as she was grieving for her
brother. Poor Harry! she loved him so dearly! Perhaps, after all, his
sudden rejection was, in some manner, occasioned by this sad event, and
would be revoked as her sorrow grew less with time. And then, for the first
time, the idea shot across his mind, of the wealth Fanny must inherit by
her brother's death.

It certainly had a considerable effect on him, for he breathed slow awhile,
and was some little time before he could entirely realise the conception
that Fanny was now the undoubted owner of a large fortune. 'That is it,'
thought he to himself, at last; 'that sordid earl considers that he can now
be sure of a higher match for his niece, and Fanny has allowed herself to
be persuaded out of her engagement: she has allowed herself to. be talked
into the belief that it was her duty to give up a poor man like me.' And
then, he felt very angry again. 'Heavens!' said he to himself 'is it
possible she should be so servile and so mean? Fanny Wyndham, who cared so
little for the prosy admonitions of her uncle, a few months since, can she
have altered her disposition so completely? Can the possession of her
brother's money have made so vile a change in her character? Could she be
the same Fanny who had so entirely belonged to him, who had certainly loved
him truly once? Perish her money I he had sought her from affection alone;
he had truly and fondly loved her; he had determined to cling to her, in
spite of the advice of his friends! And then, he found himself deserted and
betrayed by her, because circumstances had given her the probable power of
making a better match!'

Such were Lord Ballindine's thoughts; and he flattered himself with the
reflection that he was a most cruelly used, affectionate, and disinterested
lover. He did not, at the moment, remember that it was Fanny's twenty
thousand pounds which had first attracted his notice; and that he had for a
considerable time wavered, before he made up his mind to part with himself
at so low a price. It was not to be expected that he should remember that,
just at present; and he rode on, considerably out of humour with all the
world except himself.

As he got near to Handicap Lodge, however, the genius of the master-spirit
of that classic spot came upon him, and he began to bethink himself that It
'would be somewhat foolish of him to give up the game just at present. He
reflected that a hundred thousand pounds would work a wondrous change and
improvement at Kelly's Court and that, if he was before prepared to marry
Fanny Wyndham in opposition to the wishes of her guardian, he should now be
doubly determined to do so, even though all Grey Abbey had resolved to the
contrary. The last idea in his mind, as he got off his horse at his
friend's door was, as to what Dot Blake would think, and say, of the
tidings he brought home with him?

It was dark when he reached Handicap Lodge, and, having first asked whether
Mr Blake was in, and heard that he was dressing for dinner, he went to
perform the same operation himself. When he came down, full of his budget,
and quite ready, as usual, to apply to Dot for advice, he was surprised,
and annoyed, to find two other gentlemen in the room, together with Blake.
What a bore! to have to make one of a dinner-party of four, and the long
protracted rubber of shorts which would follow it, when his mind was so
full of other concerns! However, it was not to be avoided.

The guests were, the fat, good-humoured, ready-witted Mat Tierney, and a
little Connaught member of Parliament, named Morris, who wore a wig, played
a very good rubber of whist, and knew a good deal about selling hunters. He
was not very bright, but he told one or two good stories of his own
adventures in the world, which he repeated oftener than was approved of by
his intimate friends; and he drank his wine plentifully and discreetly for,
if he didn't get a game of cards after consuming a certain quantum, he
invariably went to sleep.

There was something in the manner in which the three greeted him, on
entering the room, which showed him that they had been speaking of him and
his affairs. Dot was the first to address him.

'Well, Frank, I hope I am to wish you joy. I hope you've made a good
morning's work of it?'

Frank looked rather distressed: before he could answer, however, Mat
Tierney said,

'Well, Ballindine, upon my soul I congratulate you sincerely, though, of
course, you've seen nothing at Grey Abbey but tears and cambric
handkerchiefs. I'm very glad, now, that what Kilcullen told me wasn't true.
He left Dublin for London yesterday, and I suppose he won't hear of his
cousin's death before he gets there.'

'Upon my honour, Lord Ballindine,' said the horse-dealing member, 'you are
a lucky fellow. I believe old Wyndham was a regular golden nabob, and I
suppose, now, you'll touch the whole of his gatherings.'

Dot and his guests had heard of Harry Wyndham's death, and Fanny's
accession of fortune; but they had not heard that she had rejected her
lover, and that he had been all but turned out of her guardian's house. Nor
did he mean to tell them; but he did not find himself pleasantly situated
in having to hear their congratulations and listen to their jokes, while he
himself felt that the rumour which he had so emphatically denied to Mat
Tierney, only two days since, had turned out to be true.

Not one of the party made the slightest reference to the poor brother from
whom Fanny's new fortune had come, except as the lucky means of conveying
it to her. There was no regret even pretended for his early death, no
sympathy expressed with Fanny's sorrow. And there was, moreover, an evident
conviction in the minds of all the three, that Frank, of course, looked on
the accident as a piece of unalloyed good fortune a splendid windfall in
his way, unattended with any disagreeable concomitants. This grated against
his feelings, and made him conscious that he was not yet heartless enough
to be quite fit for, the society in which he found himself.

The party soon went into the dining-room; and Frank at first got a little
ease, for Fanny Wyndham seemed to be forgotten in the willing devotion
which was paid to Blake's soup; the interest of the fish, also, seemed to
be absorbing; and though conversation became more general towards the
latter courses, still it was on general subjects, as long as the servants
were in the room. But, much to his annoyance, his mistress again came on
the tapis, together with the claret.

'You and Kilcullen don't hit it of together eh, Ballindine?' said Mat.

'We never quarrelled,' answered Frank; 'we never, however, were very
intimate.'

'I wonder at that, for you're both fond of the turf. There's a large string
of his at Murphy's now, isn't there, Dot?'

'Too many, I believe,' said Blake. 'If you've a mind to be a purchaser,
you'll find him a very pleasant fellow especially if you don't object to
his own prices.'

'Faith I'll not trouble him,' said Mat; 'I've two of them already, and a
couple on the turf and a couple for the saddle are quite enough to suit me.
But what the deuce made him say, so publicly, that your match was off,
Ballindine? He couldn't have heard of Wyndham's death at the time, or I
should think he was after the money himself.'

'I cannot tell; he certainly had not my authority,' said Frank.

'Nor the lady's either, I hope.'

'You had better ask herself, Tierney; and, if she rejects me, maybe she'll
take you.'

'There's a speculation for you,' said Blake; 'you don't think yourself too
old yet, I hope, to make your fortune by marriage? and, if you don't, I'm
sure Miss Wyndham can't.'

'I tell you what, Dot, I admire Miss Wyndham much, and I admire a hundred
thousand pounds more. I don't know anything I admire more than a hundred
thousand pounds, except two; but, upon my word, I wouldn't take the money
and the lady together.'

'Well, that's kind of him, isn't it, Frank? So, you've a chance left, yet.'

'Ah! but you forget Morris,' said Tierney; 'and there's yourself, too. If
Ballindine is not to be the lucky man, I don't see why either of you should
despair.'

'Oh! as for me, I'm the devil. I've a tail, only I don't wear it, except on
state occasions; and I've horns and hoofs, only people can't see them. But
I don't see why Morris should not succeed: he's the only one of the four
that doesn't own a racehorse, and that's much in his favour. What do you
say, Morris?'

'I'd have no objection,' said the member; 'except that I wouldn't like to
stand in Lord Ballindine's way.'

'Oh! he's the soul of good-nature. You wouldn't take it ill of him, would
you, Frank?'

'Not the least,' said Frank, sulkily; for he didn't like the conversation,
and he didn't know how to put a stop to it.

'Perhaps you wouldn't mind giving him a line of introduction to Lord
Cashel,' said Mat.

'But, Morris,' aid Blake, 'I'm afraid your politics would go against you. A
Repealer would never go down at Grey Abbey.'

'Morris'll never let his politics harm him,' said Tierney. 'Repeal's a very
good thing the other side of the Shannon; or one might, carry it as far as
Conciliation Hall, if one was hard pressed, and near an election. Were you
ever in Conciliation Hall yet, Morris?'

'No, Mat; but I'm going next Thursday. Will you go with me?'

'Faith, I will not: but I think you should go; you ought to do something
for your country, for you're a patriot. I never was a public man.'

'Well, when I can do any good for my country, I'll go there. Talking of
that, I saw O'Connell in town yesterday, and I never saw him looking so
well. The verdict hasn't disturbed him much. I wonder what steps the
Government will take now? They must be fairly bothered. I don't think they
dare imprison him.'

'Not dare!' said Blake 'and why not? When they had courage to indict him,
you need not fear but what they'll dare to go on with a strong hand, now
they have a verdict.'

'I'll tell you what, Dot; if they imprison the whole set,' said Mat, 'and
keep them in prison for twelve months, every Catholic in Ireland will be a
Repealer by the end of that time.'

'And why shouldn't they all be Repealers?' said Morris. 'It seems to me
that it's just as natural for us to be Repealers, as it is for you to be
the contrary.'

'I won't say they don't dare to put them in prison,' continued Mat; 'but I
will say they'll be great fools to do it. The Government have so good an
excuse for not doing so: they have such an easy path out of the hobble.
There was just enough difference of opinion among the judges just enough
irregularity in the trial, such as the omissions of the names from the long
panel to enable them to pardon the whole set with a good grace.'

'If they did,' said Blake, 'the whole high Tory party in this country peers
and parsons would be furious. They'd lose one set of supporters, and
wouldn't gain another. My opinion is, they'll lock the whole party up in
the stone jug for some time, at least.'

'Why,' said Tierney, 'their own party could not quarrel with them for not
taking an advantage of a verdict, as to the legality of which there is so
much difference of opinion even among the judges. I don't know much about
these things, myself; but, as far as I can understand, they would have all
been found guilty of high treason a few years back, and probably have been
hung or beheaded; and if they could do that now, the country would be all
the quieter. But they can't: the people will have their own way; and if
they want the people to go easy, they shouldn't put O'Connell into prison.
Rob them all of the glories of martyrdom, and you'd find you'll cut their
combs and stop their crowing.'

'It's not so easy to do that now, Mat,' said Morris. 'You'll find that the
country will stick to O'Connell, whether he's in prison or out of it; but
Peel will never dare to put him there. They talk of the Penitentiary; but
I'll tell you what, if they put him there, the people of Dublin won't leave
one stone upon another; they'd have it all down in a night.'

'You forget, Morris, how near Richmond barracks are to the Penitentiary.'

'No, I don't. Not that I think there'll be any row of the kind, for I'll
bet a hundred guineas they're never put in prison at all.'

'Done,' said Dot, and his little book was out 'put that down, Morris, and
I'll initial it: a hundred guineas, even, that O'Connell is not in prison
within twelve months of this time.'

'Very well: that is, that he's not put there and kept there for six months,
in consequence of the verdict just given at the State trials.'

'No, my boy; that's not it. I said nothing about being kept there six
months. They're going to try for a writ of error, or what the devil they
call it, before the peers. But I'll bet you a cool hundred he is put in
prison before twelve months are over, in consequence of the verdict. If
he's locked up there for one night, I win. Will you take that?'

'Well, I will,' said Morris; and they both went to work at their little
books.

'I was in London,' said Mat, 'during the greater portion of the trial and
it's astonishing what unanimity of opinion there was at the club that the
whole set would be acquitted. I heard Howard make bet, at the Reform Club,
that the only man put in prison would be the Attorney-General.'

'He ought to have included the Chief Justice,' said Morris. 'By the bye,
Mat, is that Howard the brother of the Honourable and Riverind Augustus?'

'Upon my soul, I don't know whose brother he is. Who is the Riverind
Augustus?'

'Morris wants to tell a story, Mat,' said Blake; 'don't spoil him, now.'

'Indeed I don't,' said the member: 'I never told it to any one till I
mentioned it to you the other day. It only happened the other day, but it
is worth telling.'

'Out with it, Morris,' said Mat, 'it isn't very long, is it? because, if it
is, we'll get Dot to give us a little whiskey and hot water first. I'm sick
of the claret.'

'Just as you like, Mat,' and Blake rang the bell, and the hot water was
brought.

'You know Savarius O'Leary,' said Morris, anxious to tell his story, 'eh,
Tierney?'

'What, Savy, with the whiskers?' said Tierney, 'to be sure I do. Who
doesn't know Savy?'

'You know him, don't you, Lord Ballindine?' Morris was determined everybody
should listen to him.

'Oh yes, I know him; he comes from County Mayo his property's close to
mine; that is, the patch of rocks and cabins which he has managed to
mortgage three times over, and each time for more than its value which he
still calls the O'Leary estate.'

'Well; some time ago that is, since London began to fill, O'Leary was seen
walking down Regent Street, with a parson. How the deuce he'd ever got hold
of the parson, or the parson of him, was never explained; but Phil Mahon
saw him, and asked him who his friend in the white choker was. "Is it my
friend in black, you mane?" says Savy, "thin, my frind was the Honourable
and the Riverind Augustus Howard, the Dane." "Howard the Dane," said Mahon,
"how the duce did any of the Howards become Danes?" "Ah, bother!" said
Savy, "it's not of thim Danes he is; it's not the Danes of Shwaden I mane,
at all, man; but a rural Dane of the Church of England."

Mat Tierney laughed heartily at this, and even Frank forgot that his
dignity had been hurt, and that he meant to be sulky; and he laughed also:
the little member was delighted with his success, and felt himself
encouraged to persevere.

'Ah, Savy's a queer fellow, if you knew him,' he continued, turning to Lord
Ballindine, 'and, upon my soul, lie 's no fool. Oh, if you knew him as
well '

'Didn't you hear Ballindine say he was his next, door neighbour in Mayo?'
said Blake, 'or, rather, next barrack neighbour; for they dispense with
doors in Mayo eh, Frank? and their houses are all cabins or barracks.'

'Why, we certainly don't pretend to all the Apuleian luxuries of Handicap
Lodge; but we are ignorant enough to think ourselves comfortable, and
swinish enough to enjoy our pitiable state.'

'I beg ten thousand pardons, my dear fellow. I didn't mean to offend your
nationality. Castlebar, we must allow, is a fine provincial city though
Killala's the Mayo city, I believe; and Claremorris, which is your own town
I think, is, as all admit, a gem of Paradise: only it's a pity so many of
the houses have been unroofed lately. It adds perhaps to the picturesque
effect, but it must, I should think, take away from the comfort.'

'Not a house in Claremorris belongs to me,' said Lord Ballindine, again
rather sulky, 'or ever did to any of my family. I would as soon own
Claremorris, though, as I would Castleblakeney. Your own town is quite as
shattered-looking a place.'

'That's quite true but I have some hopes that Castleblakeney will be
blotted out of the face of creation before I come into possession.'

'But I was saying about Savy O'Leary,' again interposed Morris, 'did you
ever hear what he did?' But Blake would not allow his guest the privilege
of another story. 'If you encourage Morris,' said he, "we shall never get
our whist,' and with that he rose from the table and walked away into the
next room. They played high. Morris always played high if he could, for he
made money by whist. Tierney was not a gambler by profession; but the men
he lived among all played, and he, therefore, got into the way of it, and
played the game well, for he was obliged to do so in his own defence. Blake
was an adept at every thing of the kind; and though the card-table was not
the place where his light shone brightest, still he was quite at home at
it.

As might be supposed, Lord Ballindine did not fare well among the three. He
played with each of them, one after the other, and lost with them all.
Blake, to do him justice, did not wish to see his friend's money go into
the little member's pocket, and, once or twice, proposed giving up; but
Frank did not second the proposal, and Morris was inveterate. The
consequence was that, before the table was broken up, Lord Ballindine had
lost a sum of money which he could very ill spare, and went to bed in a
very unenviable state of mind, in spite of the brilliant prospects on which
his friends congratulated him.




XVI  BRIEN BORU


The next morning, at breakfast, when Frank was alone with Blake, he
explained to him how matters really stood at Grey Abbey. He told him how
impossible he had found it to insist, on seeing Miss Wyndham so soon after
her brother's death, and how disgustingly disagreeable, stiff and repulsive
the earl had been; and, by degrees, they got to talk of other things, and
among them, Frank's present pecuniary miseries.

'There can be no doubt, I suppose,' said Dot, when Frank had consoled
himself by anathematising the earl for ten minutes, 'as to the fact of Miss
Wyndham's inheriting her brother's fortune?'

'Faith, I don't know; I never thought about her fortune if you'll believe
me. I never even remembered that her brother's death would in any way
affect her in the way of money, until after I left Grey Abbey.'

'Oh, I can believe you capable of anything in the way of imprudence.'

'Ah, but, Dot, to think of that pompous fool who sits and caws in that
dingy book-room of his, with as much wise self-confidence as an antiquated
raven to think of him insinuating that I had come there looking for Harry
Wyndham's money; when, as you know, I was as ignorant of the poor fellow's
death as Lord Cashel was himself a week ago. Insolent blackguard! I would
never, willingly, speak another word to him, or put my foot inside that
infernal door of his, if it were to get ten times all Harry Wyndham's
fortune.'

'Then, if I understand you, you now mean to relinquish your claims to Miss
Wyndham's hand.'

'No; I don't believe she ever sent the message her uncle gave me. I don't
see why I'm to give her up, just because she's got this money.'

'Nor I, Frank, to tell the truth; especially considering how badly you want
it yourself. But I don't think quarrelling with the uncle is the surest way
to get the niece.'

'But, man, he quarrelled with me.'

'It takes two people to quarrel. If he quarrelled with you, do you be the
less willing to come to loggerheads with him.'

'Wouldn't it be the best plan, Dot, to carry her off?'

'She wouldn't go, my boy: rope ladders and post-chaises are out of
fashion.'

'But if she's really fond of me and, upon my honour, I don't believe I'm
flattering myself in thinking that she is why the deuce shouldn't she marry
me, malgré Lord Cashel? She must be her own mistress in a week or two. By
heavens, I cannot stomach that fellow's arrogant assumption of
superiority.'

'It will be much more convenient for her to marry you bon gré Lord Cashel,
whom you may pitch to the devil, in any way you like best, as soon as you
have Fanny Wyndham at Kelly's Court. But, till that happy time, take my
advice, and submit to the cawing. Rooks and ravens are respectable birds,
just because they do look so wise. It's a great thing to look wise; the
doing so does an acknowledged fool, like Lord Cashel, very great credit.'

'But what ought I to do? I can't go to the man's house when he told me
expressly not to do so.'

'Oh, yes, you can: not immediately, but by and by in a month or six weeks.
I'll tell you what I should do, in your place; and remember, Frank, I'm
quite in earnest now, for it's a very different thing playing a game for
twenty thousand pounds, which, to you, joined to a wife, would have been a
positive irreparable loss, and starting for five or six times that sum,
which would give you an income on which you might manage to live.'

'Well, thou sapient counsellor but, I tell you beforehand, the chances are
ten to one I shan't follow your plan.'

'Do as you like about that: you shan't, at any rate, have me to blame. I
would in the first place, assure myself that Fanny inherited her brother's
money.'

'There's no doubt about that. Lord Cashel said as much.'

'Make sure of it however. A lawyer'll do that for you, with very little
trouble. Then, take your name off the turf at once; it's worth your while
to do it now. You may either do it by a bona fide sale of the horses, or by
running them in some other person's name. Then, watch your opportunity,
call at Grey Abbey, when the earl is not at home, and manage to see some of
the ladies. If you can't do that, if you can't effect an entrée, write to
Miss Wyndham; don't be too lachrymose, or supplicatory, in your style, but
ask her to give you a plain answer personally, or in her own handwriting.'

'And if she declines the honour?'

'If, as you say and as I believe, she loves, or has loved you, I don't
think she'll do so. She'll submit to a little parleying, and then she'll
capitulate. But it will be much better that you should see her, if
possible, without writing at all.'

'I don't like the idea of calling at Grey Abbey. I wonder whether they'll
go to London this season?'

'If they do, you can go after them. The truth is simply this, Ballindine;
Miss Wyndham will follow her own fancy in the matter, in spite of her
guardian; but, if you make no further advances to her, of course she can
make none to you. But I think the game is in your own hand. You haven't the
head to play it, or I should consider the stakes as good as won.'

'But then, about these horses, Dot. I wish I could sell them, out and out,
at once.'

'You'll find it very difficult to get anything like the value for a horse
that's well up for the Derby. You see, a purchaser must make up his mind to
so much outlay: there's the purchase-money, and expense of English
training, with so remote a chance of any speedy return.'

'But you said you'd advise me to sell them.'

'That's if you can get a purchaser or else run them in another name. You
may run them in my name, if you like it; but Scott must understand that
I've nothing whatever to do with the expense.'

'Would you not buy them yourself, Blake?'

'No. I would not.'

'Why not?'

'If I gave you anything like the value for them, the bargain would not suit
me; and if I got them for what they'd be worth to me, you'd think, and
other people would say, that I'd robbed you.'

Then followed a lengthened and most intricate discourse on the affairs of
the stable. Frank much wanted his friend to take his stud entirely off his
hands, but this Dot resolutely refused to do. In the course of
conversation, Frank owned that the present state of his funds rendered it
almost impracticable for him to incur the expense of sending his favourite,
Brien Boru, to win laurels in England. He had lost nearly three hundred
pounds the previous evening which his account at his banker's did not
enable him to pay; his Dublin agent had declined advancing him more money
at present, and his tradesmen were very importunate. In fact, he was in a
scrape, and Dot must advise him how to extricate himself from it.

'I'll tell you the truth, Ballindine,' said he; 'as far as I'm concerned
myself, I never will lend money, except where I see, as a matter of
business, that it is a good speculation to do so. I wouldn't do it for my
father.'

'Who asked you?' said Frank, turning very red, and looking very angry.

'You did not, certainly; but I thought you might, and you would have been
annoyed when I refused you; now, you have the power of being indignant,
instead. However, having said so much, I'll tell you what I think you
should do, and what I will do to relieve you, as far as the horses are
concerned. Do you go down to Kelly's Court, and remain there quiet for a
time. You'll be able to borrow what money you absolutely want down there,
if the Dublin fellows actually refuse; but do with as little as you can.
The horses shall run in my name for twelve months. If they win, I will
divide with you at the end of the year the amount won, after deducting
their expenses. If they lose, I will charge you with half the amount lost,
including the expenses. Should you not feel inclined, at the end of the
year, to repay me this sum, I will then keep the horses, instead, or sell
them at Dycer's, if you like it better, and hand you the balance if there
be any. What do you say to this? You will be released from all trouble,
annoyance, and expense, and the cattle will, I trust, be in good hands.'

'That is to say, that, for one year, you are to possess one half of
whatever value the horses may be?'

'Exactly: we shall be partners for one year.'

'To make that fair,' said Frank, 'you ought to put into the concern three
horses, as good and as valuable as my three.'

'Yes; and you ought to bring into the concern half the capital to be
expended in their training; and knowledge, experience, and skill in making
use of them, equal to mine. No, Frank; you're mistaken if you think that I
can afford to give up my time, merely for the purpose of making an
arrangement to save you from trouble.'

'Upon my word, Dot,' answered the other, 'you're about the coolest hand I
ever met! Did I ask you for your precious time, or anything else? You're
always afraid that you're going to be done. Now, you might make a
distinction between me and some of your other friends, and remember that I
am not in the habit of doing anybody.'

'Why, I own I don't think it very likely that I, or indeed anyone else,
should suffer much from you in that way, for your sin is not too much
sharpness.'

'Then why do you talk about what you can afford to do?'

'Because it's necessary. I made a proposal which you thought an unfair one.
You mayn't believe me, but it is a most positive fact, that my only object
in making that proposal was, to benefit you. You will find it difficult to
get rid of your horses on any terms; and yet, with the very great stake
before you in Miss Wyndham's fortune, it would be foolish in you to think
of keeping them; and, on this account, I thought in what manner. I could
take them from you. If they belong to my stables I shall consider myself
bound to run them to the best advantage, and '

'Well, well for heaven's sake don't speechify about it.'

'Stop a moment, Frank, and listen, for I must make you understand. I must
make you see that I am not taking advantage of your position, and trying to
rob my own friend in my own house. I don't care what most people say of me,
for in my career I must expect people to lie of me. I must, also, take care
of myself. But I do wish you to know, that though I could not disarrange my
schemes for you, I would not take you in.'

'Why, Dot how can you go on so? I only thought I was taking a leaf out of
your book, by being careful to make the best bargain I could.'

'Well, as I was saying I would run the horses to the best
advantage especially Brien, for the Derby: by doing so, my whole book would
be upset: I should have to bet all round again and, very likely, not be
able to get the bets I want. I could not do this without a very strong
interest in the horse. Besides, you remember that I should have to go over
with him to England myself, and that I should be obliged to be in England a
great deal at a time when my own business would require me here.'

'My dear fellow,' said Frank, 'you're going on as though it were necessary
to defend yourself. I never accused you of anything.'

'Never mind whether you did or no. You understand me now: if it will suit
you, you can take my offer, but I should be glad to know at once.'

While this conversation was going on, the two young men had left the house,
and sauntered out into Blake's stud-yard. Here were his stables, where he
kept such horses as were not actually in the trainer's hands and a large
assortment of aged hunters, celebrated timber-jumpers, brood mares,
thoroughbred fillies, cock-tailed colts, and promising foals. They were
immediately joined by Blake's stud groom, who came on business intent, to
request a few words with his master; which meant that Lord Ballindine was
to retreat, as it was full time for his friend to proceed to his regular
day's work. Blake's groom was a very different person in appearance, from
the sort of servant in the possession of which the fashionable owner of two
or three horses usually rejoices. He had no diminutive top boots; no loose
brown breeches, buttoned low beneath the knee; no elongated waistcoat with
capacious pockets; no dandy coat with remarkably short tail. He was a very
ugly man of about fifty, named John Bottom, dressed somewhat like a seedy
gentleman; but he understood his business well, and did it; and was
sufficiently wise to know that he served his own pocket best, in the long
run, by being true to his master, and by resisting the numerous tempting
offers which were made to him by denizens of the turf to play foul with his
master's horses. He was, therefore, a treasure to Blake; and he knew it,
and valued himself accordingly.

'Well, John,' said his master, 'I suppose I must desert Lord Ballindine
again, and obey your summons. Your few words will last nearly till dinner,
I suppose?'

'Why, there is a few things, to be sure, 'll be the better for being talked
over a bit, as his lordship knows well enough. I wish we'd as crack a nag
in our stables, as his lordship.'

'Maybe we may, some day; one down and another come on, you know; as the
butcher-boy said.'

'At any rate, your horses don't want bottom' said Frank.

He he he! laughed John, or rather tried to do so. He had laughed at that
joke a thousand times; and, in the best of humours, he wasn't a merry man.

'Well, Frank,' said Blake, 'the cock has crowed; I must away. I suppose
you'll ride down to Igoe's, and see Brien: but think of what I've said,
and,' he added, whispering 'remember that I will do the best I can for the
animals, if you put them into my stables. They shall be made second to
nothing, and shall only and always run to win.'

So, Blake and John Bottom walked off to the box tables and home paddocks.

Frank ordered his horse, and complied with his friend's suggestion, by
riding down to Igoe's. He was not in happy spirits as he went; he felt
afraid that his hopes, with regard to Fanny, would be blighted; and that,
if he persevered in his suit, he would only be harassed, annoyed, and
disappointed. He did not see what steps he could take, or how he could
manage to see her. It would be impossible for him to go to Grey Abbey,
after having been, as he felt, turned out by Lord Cashel. Other things
troubled him also. What :should he now do with himself? It was true that he
could go down to his own house; but everyone at Kelly's Court expected him
to bring with him a bride and a fortune; and, instead of that, he would
have to own that he had been jilted, and would be reduced to the
disagreeable necessity of borrowing money from his own tenants. And then,
that awful subject, money took possession of him. What the deuce was he to
do? What a fool he had been, to be seduced on to the turf by such a man as
Blake! And then, he expressed a wish to himself that Blake had been a long
way off before he ever saw him. There he was, steward of the Curragh, the
owner of the best horse in Ireland, and absolutely without money to enable
him to carry on the game till he could properly retreat from it!

Then he was a little unfair upon his friend: he accused him of knowing his
position, and wishing to take advantage of it; and, by the time he had got
to Igoe's, his mind was certainly not in a very charitable mood towards
poor Dot. He had, nevertheless, determined to accept his offer, and to take
a last look at the three Milesians.

The people about the stables always made a great fuss with Lord Ballindine,
partly because he was one of the stewards, and partly because he was going
to run a crack horse for the Derby in England; and though, generally
speaking, he did not care much for personal complimentary respect, he
usually got chattered and flattered into good humour at Igoe's.

'Well, my lord,' said a sort of foreman, or partner, or managing man, who
usually presided over the yard, 'I think we'll be apt to get justice to
Ireland on the downs this year. That is, they'll give us nothing but what
we takes from 'em by hard fighting, or running, as the case may be.'

'How 's Brien looking this morning, Grady?'

'As fresh as a primrose, my lord, and as clear as crystal: he's ready, this
moment, to run through any set of three years old as could be put on the
Curragh, anyway.'

'I'm afraid you're putting him on too forward.'

'Too forrard, is it, my lord? not a bit. He's a hoss as naturally don't
pick up flesh; though he feeds free, too. He's this moment all wind and
bottom, though, as one may say, he's got no training. He's niver been
sthretched yet. Faith it's thrue I'm telling you, my lord.'

'I know Scott doesn't like getting horses, early in the season, that are
too fine too much drawn up; he thinks they lose power by it, and so they
do; it's the distance that kills them, at the Derby. It's so hard to get a
young horse to stay the distance.'

'That's thrue, shure enough, my lord; and there isn't a gentleman this side
the wather, anyway, undherstands thim things betther than your lordship.'

'Well, Grady, let's have a look at the young chieftain: he's all right
about the lungs, anyway.'

'And feet too, my lord; niver saw a set of claner feet with plates on: and
legs too! If you were to canter him down the road, I don't think he'd feel
it; not that I'd like to thry, though.'

'Why, he's not yet had much to try them.'

'Faix, he has, my lord: didn't he win the Autumn Produce Stakes?'

'The only thing he ever ran for.'

'Ah, but I tell you, as your lordship knows very well no one betther that
it's a ticklish thing to bring a two year old to the post, in anything like
condition with any running in him at all, and not hurt his legs.'

'But I think he's all right eh, Grady?'

'Right? your lordship knows he's right. I wish he may be made righter at
John Scott's, that's all. But that's unpossible.'

'Of course, Grady, you think he might be trained here, as well as at the
other side of the water?'

'No, I don't, my lord: quite different. I've none of thim ideas at all, and
never had, thank God. I knows what we can do, and I knows what they can
do breed a hoss in Ireland, train him in the North of England, and run him
in the South; and he'll do your work for you, and win your money, steady
and shure.'

'And why not run in the North, too?'

'They're too 'cute, my lord: they like to pick up the crumbs
themselves small blame to thim in that matther. No; a bright Irish nag,
with lots of heart, like Brien Boru, is the hoss to stand on for the Derby;
where all run fair and fair alike, the best wins; but I won't say but he'll
be the betther for a little polishing at Johnny Scott's.'

'Besides, Grady, no horse could run immediately after a sea voyage. Do you
remember what a show we made of Peter Simple at Kilrue?'

'To be shure I does, my lord: besides, they've proper gallops there, which
we haven't and they've betther manes of measuring horses: why, they can
measure a horse to half a pound, and tell his rale pace on a two-mile
course, to a couple of seconds. Take the sheets off, Larry, and let his
lordship run his hand over him. He's as bright as a star, isn't he?'

'I think you're getting him too fine. I'm sure Scott'll say so.'

'Don't mind him, my lord. He's not like one of those English cats, with
jist a dash of speed about 'em, and nothing more brutes that they put in
training half a dozen times in as many months. Thim animals pick up a lot
of loose, flabby flesh in no time, and loses it in less; and, in course,
av' they gets a sweat too much, there's nothin left in 'em; not a hapoth.
Brien's a different guess sort of animal from that.'

'Were you going to have him out, Grady?'

'Why, we was not that is, only just for walking exercise, with his sheets
on: but a canter down the half mile slope, and up again by the bushes won't
go agin him.'

'Well, saddle him then, and let Pat get up.'

'Yes, my lord'; and Brien was saddled by the two men together, with much
care and ceremony; and Pat was put up 'and now, Pat,' continued Grady,
'keep him well in hand down the slope don't let him out at all at all, till
you come to the turn: when you're fairly round the corner, just shake your
reins the laste in life, and when you're halfway up the rise, when the lad
begins to snort a bit, let him just see the end of the switch just raise it
till it catches his eye; and av' he don't show that he's disposed for
running, I'm mistaken. We'll step across to the bushes, my lord, and see
him come round.'

Lord Ballindine and the managing man walked across to the bushes
accordingly, and Pat did exactly as he was desired. It was a pretty thing
to see the beautiful young animal, with his sleek brown coat shining like a
lady's curls, arching his neck, and throwing down his head, in his
impatience to start. He was the very picture of health and symmetry; when
he flung up his head you'd think the blood was running from his nose, his
nostrils were so ruddy bright. He cantered off in great impatience, and
fretted and fumed because the little fellow on his back would be the
master, and not let him have his play down the slope, and round the corner
by the trees. It was beautiful to watch him, his motions were so easy, so
graceful. At the turn he answered to the boy's encouragement, and mended
his pace, till again he felt the bridle, and then, as the jock barely moved
his right arm, he bounded up the rising ground, past the spot where Lord
Ballindine and the trainer were standing, and shot away till he was beyond
the place where he knew his gallop ordinarily ended. As Grady said, he
hadn't yet been stretched; he had never yet tried his own pace, and he had
that look so beautiful in a horse when running, of working at his ease, and
much within his power.

'He's a beautiful creature,' said Lord Ballindine, as he mournfully
reflected that he was about to give up to Dot Blake half the possession of
his favourite, and the whole of the nominal title. It was such a pity he
should be so hampered; the mere éclat of possessing such a horse was so
great a pleasure; 'He is a fine creature,' said he, 'and, I am sure, will
do well.'

'Your lordship may say that: he'll go precious nigh to astonish the Saxons,
I think. I suppose the pick-up at the Derby'll be nigh four thousand this
year.'

'I suppose it will something like that.'

'Well; I would like a nag out of our stables to do the trick on the downs,
and av' we does it iver, it'll be now. Mr Igoe's standing a deal of cash on
him. I wonder is Mr Blake standing much on him, my lord?'

'You'd be precious deep, Grady, if you could find what he's doing in that
way.'

'That's thrue for you, my lord; but av' he, or your lordship, wants to get
more on, now's the time. I'll lay twenty thousand pounds this moment, that
afther he's been a fortnight at Johnny Scott's the odds agin him won't be
more than ten to one, from that day till the morning he comes out on the
downs.'

'I dare say not.'

'I wondher who your lordship'll put up?'

'That must depend on Scott, and what sort of a string he has running. He's
nothing, as yet, high in the betting, except Hardicanute.'

'Nothing, my lord; and, take my word for it, that horse is ownly jist run
up for the sake of the betting; that's not his nathural position. Well,
Pat, you may take the saddle off. Will your lordship see the mare out
today?'

'Not today, Grady. Let's see, what's the day she runs?'

'The fifteenth of May, my lord. I'm afraid Mr Watts' Patriot'll be too much
for her; that's av' he'll run kind; but he don't do that always. Well, good
morning to your lordship.'

'Good morning, Grady;' and Frank rode back towards Handicap Lodge.

He had a great contest with himself on his road home. He had hated the
horses two days since, when he was at Grey Abbey, and had hated himself,
for having become their possessor; and now he couldn't bear the thought of
parting with them. To be steward of the Curragh to own the best horse of
the year and to win the Derby, were very pleasant things in themselves; and
for what was he going to give over all this glory, pleasure and profit, to
another? To please a girl who had rejected him, even jilted him, and to
appease an old earl who had already turned him out of his house! No, he
wouldn't do it. By the time that he was half a mile from Igoe's stables he
had determined that, as the girl was gone it would be a pity to throw the
horses after her; he would finish this year on the turf; and then, if Fanny
Wyndham was still her own mistress after Christmas, he would again ask her
her mind. 'If she's a girl of spirit,' he said to himself 'and nobody knows
better than I do that she is, she won't like me the worse for having shown
that I'm not to be led by the nose by a pompous old fool like Lord Cashel,'
and he rode on, fortifying himself in this resolution, for the second half
mile. 'But what the deuce should he do about money?' There was only one
more half mile before he was again at Handicap Lodge. Guinness's people had
his title-deeds, and he knew he had twelve hundred a year after paying the
interest of the old incumbrances. They hadn't advanced him much since he
came of age; certainly not above five thousand pounds; and it surely was
very hard he could not get five or six hundred pounds when he wanted it so
much; it was very hard that he shouldn't be able to do what he liked with
his own, like the Duke of Newcastle. However, the money must be had: he
must pay Blake and Tierney the balance of what they had won at whist, and
the horse couldn't go over the water till the wind was raised. If he was
driven very hard he might get something from Martin Kelly. These unpleasant
cogitations brought him over the third half mile, and he rode through the
gate of Handicap Lodge in a desperate state of indecision.

'I'll tell you what I'll do, Dot,' he said, when he met his friend coming
in from his morning's work; 'and I'm deuced sorry to do it, for I shall be
giving you the best horse of his year, and something tells me he'll win the
Derby.'

'I suppose "something" means old Jack Igoe, or that blackguard Grady,' said
Dot. 'But as to his winning, that's as it may be. You know the chances are
sixteen to one he won't.'

'Upon my honour I don't think they are.'

'Will you take twelve to one?'

'Ah! youk now, Dot, I'm not now wanting to bet on the horse with you. I was
only saying that I've a kind of inward conviction that he will win.'

'My dear Frank,' said the other, 'if men selling horses could also sell
their inward convictions with them, what a lot of articles of that
description there would be in the market! But what were you going to say
you'd do?'

'I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll agree to your terms providing you'll pay
half the expenses of the horses since the last race each of them ran. You
must see that would be only fair, supposing the horses belonged to you,
equally with me, ever since that time.'

'It would be quite fair, no doubt, if I agreed to it: it would be quite
fair also if I agreed to give you five hundred pounds; but I will do
neither one nor the other.'

'But look here, Dot Brien ran for the Autumn Produce Stakes last October,
and won them: since then he has done nothing to reimburse me for his
expense, nor yet has anything been taken out of him by running. Surely, if
you are to have half the profits, you should at any rate pay half the
expenses?'

'That's very well put, Frank; and if you and I stood upon equal ground,
with an arbiter between us by whose decision we were bound to abide, and to
whom the settlement of the question was entrusted, your arguments would, no
doubt, be successful, but '

'Well that's the fair way of looking at it.'

'But, as I was going to say, that's not the case. We are neither of us
bound to take any one's decision; and, therefore, any terms which either of
us chooses to accept must be fair. Now I have told you my terms the lowest
price, if you like to call it so at which I will give your horses the
benefit of my experience, and save you from their immediate pecuniary
pressure; and I will neither take any other terms, nor will I press these
on you.'

'Why, Blake, I'd sooner deal with all the Jews of Israel '

'Stop, Frank: one word of abuse, and I'll wash my hands of the matter
altogether.'

'Wash away then, I'll keep the horses, though I have to sell my hunters and
the plate at Kelly's Court into the bargain.'

'I was going to add only your energy's far too great to allow of a slow
steady man like me finishing his sentence I was going to say that, if
you're pressed for money as you say, and if it will be any accommodation, I
will let you have two hundred and fifty pounds at five per cent. on the
security of the horses; that is, that you will be charged with that amount,
and the interest, in the final closing of the account at the end of the
year, before the horses are restored to you.'

Had an uninterested observer been standing by he might have seen with half
an eye that Blake's coolness was put on, and that his indifference to the
bargain was assumed. This offer of the loan was a second bid, when he found
the first was likely to be rejected: it was made, too, at the time that he
was positively declaring that he would make none but the first offer. Poor
Frank! he was utterly unable to cope with his friend at the weapons with
which they were playing, and he was consequently most egregiously
plundered. But it was in an affair of horse-flesh, and the sporting world,
when it learned the terms on which the horses were transferred from Lord
Ballindine's name to that of Mr Blake, had not a word of censure to utter
against the latter. He was pronounced to be very wide awake, and decidedly
at the top of his profession; and Lord Ballindine was spoken of, for a
week, with considerable pity and contempt.

When Blake mentioned the loan Frank got up, and stood with his back to the
fire; then bit his lips, and walked twice up and down the room, with his
hands in his pockets, and then he paused, looked out of the window, and
attempted to whistle: then he threw himself into an armchair, poked out
both his legs as far as he could, ran his fingers through his hair, and set
to work hard to make up his mind. But it was no good; in about five minutes
he found he could not do it; so he took out his purse, and, extracting
half-a-crown, threw it up to the ceiling, saying,

'Well, Dot head or harp? If you're right, you have them.'

'Harp,' cried Dot.

They both examined the coin. 'They're yours,' said Frank, with much
solemnity; 'and now you've got the best horse yes, I believe the very best
horse alive, for nothing.'

'Only half of him, Frank.'

'Well,' said Frank; 'it's done now, I suppose.'

'Oh, of course it is,' said Dot: 'I'll draw out the agreement, and give you
a cheque for the money to-night.'

And so he did; and Frank wrote a letter to Igoe, authorizing him to hand
over the horses to Mr Blake's groom, stating that he had sold them for so
ran his agreement with Dot and desiring that his bill for training, &c.,
might be forthwith forwarded to Kelly's Court. Poor Frank! he was ashamed
to go to take a last look at his dear favourites, and tell his own trainer
that he had sold his own horses.

The next morning saw him, with his servant, on the Ballinasloe coach,
travelling towards Kelly's Court; and, also, saw Brien Boru, Granuell, and
Finn M'Goul led across the downs, from Igoe's stables to Handicap Lodge.

The handsome sheets, hoods, and rollers, in which they had hitherto
appeared, and on which the initial B was alone conspicuous, were carefully
folded up, and they were henceforth seen in plainer, but as serviceable
apparel, labelled W. B.

'Will you give fourteen to one against Brien Boru?' said Viscount Avoca to
Lord Tathenham Corner, about ten days after this, at Tattersall's.

'I will,' said Lord Tathenham.

'In hundreds?' said the sharp Irishman.

'Very well,' said Lord Tathenham; and the bet was booked.

'You didn't know, I suppose,' said the successful viscount, 'that Dot Blake
has bought Brien Boru?

'And who the devil's Dot Blake?' said Lord Tathenham.

'Oh! you'll know before May's over,' said the viscount.




XVII  MARTIN KELLY'S COURTSHIP


It will be remembered that the Tuam attorney, Daly, dined with Barry Lynch,
at Dunmore House, on the same evening that Martin Kelly reached home after
his Dublin excursion; and that, on that occasion, a good deal of
interesting conversation took place after dinner. Barry, however, was
hardly amenable to reason at that social hour, and it was not till the
following morning that he became thoroughly convinced that it would be
perfectly impossible for him to make his sister out a lunatic to the
satisfaction of the Chancellor.

He then agreed to abandon the idea, and, in lieu of it, to indict, or at
any rate to threaten to indict, the widow Kelly and her son for a
conspiracy, and an attempt to inveigle his sister Anty into a disgraceful
marriage, with the object of swindling her out of her property.

'I'll see Moylan, Mr Lynch,' said Daly; 'and if I can talk him over, I
think we might succeed in frightening the whole set of them, so far as to
prevent the marriage. Moylan must know that if your sister was to marry
young Kelly, there'd be an end to his agency; but we must promise him
something, Mr Lynch.'

'Yes; I suppose we must pay him, before we get anything out of him.'

'No, not before but he must understand that he will get something, if he
makes himself useful. You must let me explain to him that if the marriage
is prevented, you will make no objection to his continuing to act as Miss
Lynch's agent; and I might hint the possibility of his receiving the rents
on the whole property.'

'Hint what you like, Daly, but don't tie me down to the infernal ruffian. I
suppose we can throw him overboard afterwards, can't we?'

'Why, not altogether, Mr Lynch. If I make him a definite promise, I shall
expect you to keep to it.'

'Confound him! but tell me, Daly; what is it he's to do? and what is it
we're to do?'

'Why, Mr Lynch, it's more than probable, I think, that this plan of Martin
Kelly's marrying your sisther may have been talked over between the ould
woman, Moylan, and the young man; and if so, that's something like a
conspiracy. If I could worm that out of him, I think I'd manage to frighten
them.'

'And what the deuce had I better do? You see, there was a bit of a row
between us. That is, Anty got frightened when I spoke to her of this
rascal, and then she left the house. Couldn't you make her understand that
she'd be all right if she'd come to the house again?'

While Barry Lynch had been sleeping off the effects of the punch, Daly had
been inquiring into the circumstances under which Anty had left the house,
and he had pretty nearly learned the truth; he knew, therefore, how much
belief to give to his client's representation.

'I don't think,' said he, 'that your sister will be likely to come back at
present; she will probably find herself quieter and easier at the inn. You
see, she has been used to a quiet life.'

'But, if she remains there, she can marry that young ruffian any moment she
takes it into her head to do so. There's always some rogue of a priest
ready to do a job of that sort.'

'Exactly so, Mr Lynch. Of course your sister can marry whom she pleases,
and when she pleases, and neither you nor any one else can prevent her; but
still '

'Then what the devil's the use of my paying you to come here and tell me
that?'

'That's your affair: I didn't come without being sent for. But I was going
to tell you that, though we can't prevent her from marrying if she pleases,
we may make her afraid to do so. You had better write her a kind,
affectionate note, regretting what has taken place between you, and
promising to give her no molestation of any kind, if she will return to her
own house and keep a copy of this letter. Then I will see Moylan; and, if I
can do anything with him, it will be necessary that you should also see
him. You could come over to Tuam, and meet him in my office; and then I
will try and force an entrance into the widow's castle, and, if possible,
see your sister, and humbug the ould woman into a belief that she has laid
herself open to criminal indictment.. We might even go so far as to have
notices served on them; but, if they snap their fingers at us, we can do
nothing further. My advice in that case would be, that you should make the
best terms in your power with Martin Kelly.'

'And let the whole thing go! I'd sooner Why, Daly, I believe you're as bad
as Blake! You're afraid of these huxtering thieves!'

'If you go on in that way, Mr Lynch, you'll get no professional gentleman
to act with you. I give you my best advice; it you don't like it, you
needn't follow it; but you won't get a solicitor in Connaught to do better
for you than what I'm proposing.'

'Confusion!' muttered Barry, and he struck the hot turf in the grate a
desperate blow with the tongs which he had in his hands, and sent the
sparks and bits of fire flying about the hearth.

'The truth is, you see, your sister's in her full senses; there's the divil
a doubt of that; the money's her own, and she can marry whom she pleases.
All that we can do is to try and make the Kellys think they have got into a
scrape.'

'But this letter What on earth am I to say to her?'

'I'll just put down what I would say, were I you; and if you like you can
copy it.' Daly then wrote the following letter

'My Dear Anty,

Before taking other steps, which could not fail of being very disagreeable
to you and to others, I wish to point out to you how injudiciously you are
acting in leaving your own house; and to try to induce you to do that which
will be most beneficial to yourself, and most conducive to your happiness
and respectability. If you will return to Dunmore House, I most solemnly
promise to leave you unmolested. I much regret that my violence on Thursday
should have annoyed you, but I can assure you it was attributable merely to
my anxiety on your account. Nothing, however, shall induce me to repeat it.
But you must be aware that a little inn is not a fit place for you to be
stopping at; and I am obliged to tell you that I have conclusive evidence
of a conspiracy having been formed, by the family with whom you are
staying, to get possession of your money; and that this conspiracy was
entered into very shortly after the contents of my father's will had been
made public. I must have this fact proved at the Assizes, and the
disreputable parties to it punished, unless you will consent, at any rate
for a time, to put yourself under the protection of your brother.

'In the meantime pray believe me, dear Anty, in spite of appearances,

'Your affectionate brother,

'BARRY LYNCH.'

It was then agreed that this letter should be copied and signed by Barry,
and delivered by Terry on the following morning, which was Sunday. Daly
then returned to Tuam, with no warm admiration for his client.

In the meantime the excitement at the inn, arising from Anty's arrival and
Martin's return, was gradually subsiding. These two important events, both
happening on the same day, sadly upset the domestic economy of Mrs Kelly's
establishment. Sally had indulged in tea almost to stupefaction, and
Kattie's elfin locks became more than ordinarily disordered. On the
following morning, however, things seemed to fall, a little more into their
places: the widow was, as usual, behind her counter; and if her girls did
not give her as much assistance as she desired of them, and as much as was
usual with them, they were perhaps excusable, for they could not well leave
their new guest alone on the day after her coming to them.

Martin went out early to Toneroe; doubtless the necessary labours of the
incipient spring required him at the farm but I believe that if his motives
were analysed, he hardly felt himself up to a tête-à-tête with his
mistress, before he had enjoyed a cool day's consideration of the
extraordinary circumstances which had brought her into the inn as his
mother's guest. He, moreover, wished to have a little undisturbed
conversation with Meg, and to learn from her how Anty might be inclined
towards him just at present. So Martin spent his morning among his lambs
and his ploughs; and was walking home, towards dusk, tired enough, when he
met Barry Lynch, on horseback, that hero having come out, as usual, for his
solitary ride, to indulge in useless dreams of the happy times he w0uld
have, were his sister only removed from her tribulations in this world.
Though Martin had never been on friendly terms with his more ambitious
neighbour, there had never, up to this time, been any quarrel between them,
and he therefore just muttered 'Good morning, Mr Lynch,' as he passed him
on the road.

Barry said nothing, and did not appear to see him as he passed; but. some
idea struck him as soon as he had passed, and he pulled in his horse and
hallooed out 'Kelly!' and, as Martin stopped, he added, 'Come here a
moment I want to speak to you.'

'Well, Mr Barry, what is it?' said the other, returning. Lynch paused, and
evidently did not know whether to speak or let it alone. At last he said,
'Never mind I'll get somebody else to say what I was going to say. But
you'd better look sharp what you're about, my lad, or you'll find yourself
in a scrape that you don't dream of.'

'And is that all you called me back for?' said Martin.

'That's all I mean to say to you at present.'

'Well then, Mr Lynch, I must say you're very good, and I'm shure I will
look sharp enough. But, to my thinking, d'you know, you want looking afther
yourself a precious dale more than I do,' and then he turned to proceed
homewards, but said, as he was going 'Have you any message for your
sisther, Mr Lynch?'

'By  ! my young man, I'll make you pay for what you're doing,' answered
Barry.

'I know you'll be glad to hear she's pretty well: she's coming round from
the thratement she got the other night; though, by all accounts, it's a
wondher she's alive this moment to tell of it.'

Barry did not attempt any further reply, but rode on, sorry enough that he
had commenced the conversation. Martin got home in time for a snug tea with
Anty and his sisters, and succeeded in prevailing on the three to take
each. a glass of punch; and, before Anty went to bed he began to find
himself more at his ease with her, and able to call her by her Christian
name without any disagreeable emotion. He certainly had a most able
coadjutor in Meg. She made room on the sofa for him between herself and his
mistress, and then contrived that the room should be barely sufficient, so
that Anty was rather closely hemmed up in one corner: moreover, she made
Anty give her opinion as to Martin's looks after his metropolitan
excursion, and tried hard to make Martin pay some compliments to Anty's
appearance. But in this she failed, although she gave him numerous
opportunities.

However, they passed. the evening very comfortably quite sufficiently so to
make Anty feel that the kindly, humble friendship of the inn was infinitely
preferable to the. miserable grandeur of Dunmore House; and it is probable
that all the lovemaking in the world would not have operated so strongly in
Martin's favour as this feeling. Meg, however, was not satisfied, for as
soon as she had seen Jane and Anty into the bedroom she returned to her
brother, and lectured him as to his lukewarm manifestations of affection.

'Martin,' said she, returning into the little sitting-room, and carefully
shutting the door after her, 'you're the biggest bosthoon of a gandher I
ever see, to be losing your opportunities with Anty this way! I b'lieve
it's waiting you are for herself to come forward to you. Do you think a
young woman don't expect something more from a lover than jist for you to
sit by her, and go on all as one as though she was one of your own
sisthers? Av' once she gets out of this before the priest has made one of
the two of you, mind, I tell you, it'll be all up with you. I wondher,
Martin, you haven't got more pluck in you!'

'Oh! bother, Meg. You're thinking of nothing but kissing and
slobbhering. Anty's not the same as you and Jane, and doesn't be all agog
for such nonsense!'

'I tell you, Martin, Anty's a woman; and, take my word for it, what another
girl likes won't come amiss to her. Besides, why don't you spake to her?'

'Spake? why, what would you have me spake?'

'Well, Martin, you're a fool. Have you, or have you not, made up your mind
to marry Anty?'

'To be shure I will, av' she'll have me.'

'And do you expect her to have you without asking?'

'Shure, you know, didn't I ask her often enough?'

'Ah, but you must do more than jist ask her that way. She'll never make up
her mind to go before the priest, unless you say something sthronger to
her. Jist tell her, plump out, you're ready and willing, and get the thing
done before Lent. What's to hindher you? shure, you know,' she added, in a
whisper, 'you'll not get sich a fortune as Anty's in your way every day.
Spake out, man, and don't be afraid of her: take my word she won't like you
a bit the worse for a few kisses.'

Martin promised to comply with his sister's advice, and to sound Anty
touching their marriage on the following morning after mass.

On the Sunday morning, at breakfast, the widow proposed to Anty that she
should go to mass with herself and her daughters; but Anty trembled so
violently at the idea of showing herself in public, after her escape from
Dunmore House, that the widow did not press her to do so, although
afterwards she expressed her disapprobation of Anty's conduct to her own
girls.

'I don't see what she has to be afeard of,' said she, 'in going to get mass
from her own clergyman in her own chapel. She don't think, I suppose, that
Barry Lynch'd dare come in there to pull her out; before the blessed altar,
glory be to God.'

'Ah but, mother, you know, she has been so frighted.'

'Frighted, indeed! She'll get over these tantrums, I hope, before Sunday
next, or I know where I'll wish her again.'

So Anty was left at home, and the rest of the family went to mass. When the
women returned, Meg manoeuvred greatly, and, in fine, successfully, that no
one should enter the little parlour to interrupt the wooing she intended
should take place there. She had no difficulty with Jane, for she told her
what her plans were; and though her less energetic sister did not quite
agree in the wisdom of her designs, and pronounced an opinion that it would
be 'better to let things settle down a bit,' still she did not presume to
run counter to Meg's views; but Meg had some work to dispose of her mother.
It would not have answered at all, as Meg had very well learned herself, to
caution her mother not to interrupt Martin in his love-making, for the
widow had no charity for such follies. She certainly expected her daughters
to get married, and wished them to be well and speedily settled; but she
watched anything like a flirtation on their part as closely as a cat does a
mouse. If any young man ere in the house, she'd listen to the fall of his
footsteps with the utmost care; and when she had reason to fear that there
was anything like a lengthened tête-à-tête upstairs, she would steal on the
pair, if possible, unawares, and interrupt, without the least reserve, any
billing and cooing which might be going on, sending the delinquent daughter
to her work, and giving a glower at the swain, which she expected might be
sufficient to deter him from similar offences for some little time.

The girls, consequently, were taught to be on the alert to steal about on
tiptoe, to elude their mother's watchful ear, to have recourse to a
thousand little methods of deceiving her, and to baffle her with her own
weapons. The mother, if she suspected that any prohibited frolic was likely
to be carried on, at a late hour, would tell her daughters that she was
going to bed, and would shut herself up for a couple of hours in her
bedroom, and then steal out eavesdropping, peeping through key-holes and
listening at door-handles; and the daughters, knowing their mother's
practice, would not come forth till the listening and peeping had been
completed, and till they had ascertained, by some infallible means, that
the old woman was between the sheets.

Each party knew the tricks of the other; and yet, taking it all in all, the
widow got on very well with her children, and everybody said what a good
mother she had been: she was accustomed to use deceit, and was therefore
not disgusted by it in others. Whether the system of domestic manners which
I have described is one likely to induce to sound restraint and good morals
is a question which I will leave to be discussed by writers on educational
points.

However Meg managed it, she did contrive that her mother should not go near
the little parlour this Sunday morning, and Anty was left alone, to receive
her. lover's visit. I regret to say that he was long in paying it. He
loitered about the chapel gates before he came home; and seemed more than
usually willing to talk to anyone about anything. At last, however, just as
Meg was getting furious, he entered the inn.

'Why, Martin, you born ideot av' she ain't waiting for you this hour and
more!'

'Thim that's long waited for is always welcome when they do come,' replied
Martin.

'Well afther all I've done for you! Are you going in now? cause, av' you
don't, I'll go and tell her not to be tasing herself about you. I'll
neither be art or part in any such schaming.'

'Schaming, is it, Meg? Faith, it'd be a clever fellow'd beat you at that,'
and, without waiting for his sister's sharp reply, he walked into the
little room where Anty was sitting.

'So, Anty, you wouldn't come to mass?' he began.

'Maybe I'll go next Sunday,' said she.

'It's a long time since you missed mass before, I'm thinking.'

'Not since the Sunday afther father's death.'

'It's little you were thinking then how soon you'd be stopping down here
with us at the inn.'

'That's thrue for you, Martin, God knows.' At this point of the
conversation Martin stuck fast: he did not know Rosalind's recipe for the
difficulty a man feels, when lie finds himself gravelled for conversation
with his mistress; so he merely scratched his head, and thought hard to
find what he'd say next. I doubt whether the conviction, which was then
strong on his mind, that Meg was listening at the keyhole to every word
that passed, at all assisted him in the operation. At last, some Muse came
to his aid, and he made out another sentence.

'It was very odd my finding you down here, all ready before me, wasn't it?'

' 'Deed it was: your mother was a very good woman to me that morning,
anyhow.'

'And tell me now, Anty, do you like the inn?'

' 'Deed I do but it's quare, like.'

'How quare?'

'Why, having Meg and Jane here: I wasn't ever used to anyone to talk to,
only just the servants.'

'You'll have plenty always to talk to now eh, Anty?' and Martin tried a
sweet look at his lady love.

'I'm shure I don't know. Av' I'm only left quiet, that's what I most care
about.'

'But, Anty, tell me you don't want always to be what you call quiet?'

'Oh! but I do why not?'

'But you don't mane, Anty, that you wouldn't like to have some kind of work
to do some occupation, like?'

'Why, I wouldn't like to be idle; but a person needn't be idle because
they're quiet.'

'And that's thrue, Anty.' And Martin broke down again.

'There'd be a great crowd in chapel, I suppose?' said Anty.

'There was a great crowd.'

'And what was father Geoghegan preaching about?'

'Well, then, I didn't mind. To tell the truth, Anty, I came out most as
soon as the preaching began; only I know he told the boys to pray that the
liberathor might be got out of his throubles; and so they should not that
there's much to throuble him, as far as the verdict's concerned.'

'Isn't there then? I thought they made him out guilty?'

'So they did, the false ruffians: but what harum'll that do? they daren't
touch a hair of his head!'

Politics, however, are riot a favourable introduction to love-making: so
Martin felt, and again gave up the subject, in the hopes that he might find
something better. 'What a fool the man is!' thought Meg to herself, at the
door 'if I had a lover went on like that, wouldn't I pull his ears!'

Martin got up walked across the room looked out of the little window felt
very much ashamed of himself, and, returning, sat himself down on the sofa.

'Anty,' he said, at last, blushing nearly brown as he spoke; 'Were you
thinking of what I was spaking to you about before I went to Dublin?'

Anty blushed also, now. 'About what?' she said.

'Why, just about you and me making a match of it. Come, Anty, dear, what's
the good of losing time? I've been thinking of little else; and, after
what's been between us, you must have thought the matther over too, though
you do let on to be so innocent. Come, Anty, now that you and mother's so
thick, there can be nothing against it.'

'But indeed there is, Martin, a great dale against it though I'm sure it's
good of you to be thinking of me. There's so much against it, I think we
had betther be of one mind, and give it over at once.'

'And what's to hinder us marrying, Anty, av' yourself is plazed? Av' you
and I, and mother are plazed, sorrow a one that I know of has a word to say
in the matther.'

'But Barry don't like it!'

'And, afther all, are you going to wait for what Barry likes? You didn't
wait for what was plazing to Barry Lynch when you came down here; nor I yet
did mother when she went up and fetched you down at five in the morning,
dreading he'd murdher you outright. And it was thrue for her, for he would,
av' he was let, the brute. And are you going to wait for what he likes?'

'Whatever he's done, he's my brother; and there's only the two of us.'

'But it's not that, Anty don't you know it's not that? Isn't it because
you're afraid of him? because he threatened and frightened you? And what on
'arth could he do to harum you av' you was the wife of of a man who'd,
anyway, not let Barry Lynch, or anyone else, come between you and your
comfort and aise?'

'But you don't know how wretched I've been since he spoke to me about about
getting myself married: you don't know what I've suffered; and I've a
feeling that good would never come of it.'

'And, afther all, are you going to tell me now, that I may jist go my own
way? Is that to be your answer, and all I'm to get from you?'

'Don't be angry with me, Martin. I'm maning to do everything for the best.'

'Maning? what's the good of maning? Anyways, Anty, let me have an answer,
for I'll not be making a fool of myself any longer. Somehow, all the boys
here, every sowl in Dunmore, has it that you and I is to be married and
now, afther promising me as you did '

'Oh, I never promised, Martin.'

'It was all one as a promise and now I'm to be thrown overboard. And
why? because Barry Lynch got dhrunk, and frightened you. Av' I'd seen the
ruffian striking you, I think I'd 've been near putting it beyond him to
strike another woman iver again.'

'Glory be to God that you wasn't near him that night,' said Anty, crossing
herself. 'It was bad enough, but av' the two of you should ever be set
fighting along of me, it would kill me outright.'

'But who's talking of fighting, Anty, dear?' and Martin drew a little
nearer to her ' who's talking of fighting? I never wish to spake another
word to Barry the longest day that ever comes. Av' he'll get out of my way,
I'll go bail he'll not find me in his.'

'But he wouldn't get out of your way, nor get out of mine, av' you and I
got married: he'd be in our way, and we'd be in his, and nothing could iver
come of it but sorrow and misery, and maybe bloodshed.'

'Them's all a woman's fears. Av' you an I were once spliced by the priest,
God bless him, Barry wouldn't trouble Dunmore long afther.'

'That's another rason, too. Why should I be dhriving him out of his own
house? you know he's a right to the house, as well as I.'

'Who's talking of dhriving him out? Faith, he'd be welcome to stay there
long enough for me! He'd go, fast enough, without dhriving, though; you
can't say the counthry wouldn't have a good riddhance of him. But never
mind that, Anty: it wasn't about Barry, one way or the other, I was
thinking, when I first asked you to have me; nor it wasn't about myself
altogether, as I could let you know; though, in course, I'm not saying but
that myself's as dear to myself as another, an' why not? But to tell the
blessed truth, I was thinking av' you too; and that you'd be happier and
asier, let alone betther an' more respecthable, as an honest man's wife, as
I'd make you, than being mewed up there in dread of your life, never daring
to open your mouth to a Christian, for fear of your own brother, who niver
did, nor niver will lift a hand to sarve you, though he wasn't backward to
lift it to sthrike you, woman and sisther though you were. Come, Anty,
darlin,' he added, after a pause, during which he managed to get his arm
behind her back, though he couldn't be said to have it fairly round her
waist 'Get quit of all these quandaries, and say at once, like an honest
girl, you'll do what I'm asking and what no living man can hindher you from
or say against it. Or else jist fairly say you won't, and I'll have done
with it.'

Anty sat silent, for she didn't like to say she wouldn't; and she thought
of her brother's threats, and was afraid to say she would. Martin advanced
a little in his proceedings, however, and now succeeded in getting his arm
round her waist and, having done so, he wasn't slow in letting her feel its
pressure. She made an attempt, with her hand, to disengage
herself certainly not a successful, and, probably, not a very energetic
attempt, when the widow's step was heard on the stairs. Martin retreated
from his position on the sofa, and Meg from hers outside the door, and Mrs
Kelly entered the room, with Barry's letter in her hand, Meg following, to
ascertain the cause of the unfortunate interruption.




XVIII  AN ATTORNEY'S OFFICE IN CONNAUGHT


'Anty, here's a letter for ye,' began the widow. 'Terry's brought it down
from the house, and says it's from Misther Barry. I b'lieve he was in the
right not to bring it hisself.'

'A letther for me, Mrs Kelly? what can he be writing about? I don't just
know whether I ought to open it or no;' and Anty trembled, as she turned
the epistle over and over again in her hands.

'What for would you not open it? The letther can't hurt you, girl, whatever
the writher might do.'

Thus encouraged, Anty broke the seal, and made herself acquainted with the
contents of the letter which Daly had dictated; but she then found, that
her difficulties had only just commenced. Was she to send an answer, and if
so, what answer? And if she sent none, what notice ought she to take of it?
The matter was one evidently too weighty to be settled by her own judgment,
so she handed the letter to be read, first by the widow, and then by
Martin, and lastly by the two girls, who, by this time, were both in the
room.

'Well, the dethermined impudence of that blackguard!' exclaimed Mrs Kelly.
'Conspiracy! av' that don't bang Banagher! What does the man mean by
"conspiracy," eh, Martin?'

'Faith, you must ask himself that, mother; and then it's ten to one he
can't tell you.'

'I suppose,' said Meg, 'he wants to say that we're all schaming to rob Anty
of her money only he daren't, for the life of him, spake it out straight
forrard.'

'Or, maybe,' suggested Jane, 'he wants to bring something agen us like this
affair of O'Connell's only he'll find, down here, that he an't got Dublin
soft goods to deal wid.'

Then followed a consultation, as to the proper steps to be taken in the
matter.

The widow advised that father Geoghegan should be sent for to indite such a
reply as a Christian ill-used woman should send to so base a letter. Meg,
who was very hot on the subject, and who had read-of some such proceeding
in a novel, was for putting up in a blank envelope the letter itself, and
returning it to Barry by the hands of Jack, the ostler; at the same time,
she declared that 'No surrender' should be her motto. Jane was of opinion
that 'Miss Anastasia Lynch's compliments to Mr Barry Lynch, and she didn't
find herself strong enough to move to Dunmore House at present,' would
answer all purposes, and be, on the whole, the safest course. While Martin
pronounced that 'if Anty would be led by him, she'd just pitch the letter
behind the fire an' take no notice of it, good, bad, or indifferent.'

None of these plans pleased Anty, for, as she remarked, 'After all, Barry
was her brother, and blood was thickher than wather.' So, after much
consultation, pen, ink, and paper were procured, and the following letter
was concocted between them, all the soft bits having been great stumbling-
blocks, in which, however, Anty's quiet perseverance carried the point, in
opposition to the wishes of all the Kellys. The words put in brackets were
those peculiarly objected to.

Dunmore Inn. February, l844.

DEAR BARRY,

I (am very sorry I) can't come back to the house, at any rate just at
present. I am not very sthrong in health, and there are kind female friends
about me here, which you know there couldn't be up at the house.' Anty
herself, in the original draft inserted 'ladies,' but the widow's good
sense repudiated the term, and insisted on the word 'females': Jane
suggested that 'females' did not sound quite respectful. alone, and Martin
thought that Anty might call them 'female friends,' which was consequently
done. 'Besides, there are reasons why I'm quieter here, till things are a
little more settled. I will forgive (and forget) all that happened up at
the house between us' 'Why, you can't forget it,' said Meg. 'Oh, I could,
av' he was kind to me. I'd forget it all in a week av' he was kind to me,'
answered Anty '(and I will do nothing particular without first letting you
know).' They were all loud against this paragraph, but they could not carry
their point. 'I must tell you, dear Barry, that you are very much mistaken
about the people of this house: they are dear, kind friends to me, and,
wherever I am, I must love them to the last day of my life but indeed I am,
and hope you believe so,

Your affectionate sister,

ANASTASIA LYNCH.


When the last paragraph was read over Anty's shoulder, Meg declared she was
a dear, dear creature: Jane gave her a big kiss, and began crying; even the
widow put the corner of her apron to her eye, and Martin, trying to look
manly and unconcerned, declared that he was 'quite shure they all loved
her, and they'd be brutes and bastes av' they didn't!'

The letter, as given above, was finally decided on; written, sealed, and
despatched by Jack, who was desired to be very particular to deliver it at
the front door, with Miss Lynch's love, which was accordingly done. All the
care, however, which had been bestowed on it did not make it palatable to
Barry, who was alone when he received it, and merely muttered, as he read
it, 'Confound her, low-minded slut! friends, indeed! what business has she
with friends, except such as I please? if I'd the choosing of her friends,
they'd be a strait waistcoat, and the madhouse doctor. Good Heaven! that
half my property no, but two-thirds of it should belong to her I the
stupid, stiff-necked robber!'

These last pleasant epithets had reference to his respected progenitor.

On the same evening, after tea, Martin endeavoured to make a little further
advance with Anty, for he felt that he had been interrupted just as she was
coming round; but her nerves were again disordered, and he soon found that
if he pressed her now, he should only get a decided negative, which he
might find it very difficult to induce her to revoke.

Anty's letter was sent off early on the Monday morning at least, as early
as Barry now ever managed to do anything  to the attorney at Tuam, with
strong injunctions that no time was to be lost in taking further steps, and
with a request that Daly would again come out to Dunmore. This, however, he
did not at present think it expedient to do. So he wrote to Barry, begging
him to come into Tuam on the Wednesday, to meet Moylan, whom he, Daly,
would, if possible, contrive to see on the intervening day.

'Obstinate puppy!' said Barry to himself 'if he'd had the least pluck in
life he'd have broken the will, or at least made the girl out a lunatic.
But a Connaught lawyer hasn't half the wit or courage now that he used to
have.' However, he wrote a note to Daly, agreeing to his proposal, and
promising to be in Tuam at two o'clock on the Wednesday.

On the following day Daly saw Moylan, and had a long conversation with him.
The old man held out for a long time, expressing much indignation at being
supposed capable of joining in any underhand agreement for transferring
Miss Lynch's property to his relatives the Kellys, and declaring that he
would make public to every one in Dunmore and Tuam the base manner in which
Barry Lynch was treating his sister. Indeed, Moylan kept to his story so
long and so firmly that the young attorney was nearly giving him up; but at
last he found his weak side.

'Well, Mr Moylan,' he said, 'then I can only say your own conduct is very
disinterested and I might even go so far as to say that you appear to me
foolishly indifferent to your own concerns. Here's the agency of the whole
property going a-begging: the rents, I believe, are about a thousand a-
year: you might be recaving them all by jist a word of your mouth, and that
only telling the blessed truth; and here, you're going to put the whole
thing into the hands of young Kelly; throwing up even the half of the
business you have got!'

'Who says I'm afther doing any sich thing, Mr Daly?'

'Why, Martin Kelly says so. Didn't as many as four or five persons hear him
say, down at Dunmore, that divil a one of the tenants'd iver pay a haporth
of the November rents to anyone only jist to himself? There was father
Geoghegan heard him, an Doctor Ned Blake.'

'Maybe he'll find his mistake, Mr Daly.'

'Maybe he will, Mr Moylan. Maybe we'll put the whole affair into the
courts, and have a regular recaver over the property, under the Chancellor.
People, though they're ever so respectable in their way and I don't mane to
say a word against the Kellys, Mr Moylan, for they were always friends of
mine but people can't be allowed to make a dead set at a property like
this, and have it all their own way, like the bull in the china-shop. I
know there has been an agreement made, and that, in the eye of the law, is
a conspiracy. I positively know that an agreement has been made to induce
Miss Lynch to become Martin Kelly's wife; and I know the parties to it,
too; and I also know that an active young fellow like him wouldn't be
paying an agent to get in his rents; and I thought, if Mr Lynch was willing
to appoint you his agent, as well as his sister's, it might be worth your
while to lend us a hand to settle this affair, without forcing us to stick
people into a witness-box whom neither I nor Mr Lynch '

'But what the devil can I '

'Jist hear me out, Mr Moylan; you see, if they once knew the Kellys I
mane that you wouldn't lend a hand to this piece of iniquity '

'Which piece of iniquity, Mr Daly? for I'm entirely bothered.'

'Ah, now, Mr Moylan, none of your fun: this piece of iniquity of theirs, I
say; for I can call it no less. If they once knew that you wouldn't help
'em, they'd be obliged to drop it all; the matter'd never have to go into
court at all, and you'd jist step into the agency fair and aisy; and, into
the bargain, you'd do nothing but an honest man's work.'

The old man broke down, and consented to 'go agin the Kellys,' as he
somewhat ambiguously styled his apostasy, provided the agency was
absolutely promised to him; and he went away with the understanding that he
was to come on the following day and meet Mr Lynch.

At two o'clock, punctual to the time of his appointment, Moylan was there,
and was kept waiting an hour in Daly's little parlour. At the end of this
time Barry came in, having invigorated his courage and spirits with a
couple of glasses of brandy. Daly had been for some time on the look-out
for him, for he wished to say a few words to him in private, and give him
his cue before lie took him into the room where Moylan was sitting. This
could not well be done in the office, for it was crowded. It would, I
think, astonish a London attorney in respectable practice, to see the
manner in which his brethren towards the west of Ireland get through their
work. Daly's office was open to all the world; the front door of the house,
of which he rented the ground floor, was never closed, except at night; nor
was the door of the office, which opened immediately into the hail.

During the hour that Moylan was waiting in the parlour, Daly was sitting,
with his hat on, upon a high stool, with his feet resting on a small
counter which ran across the room, smoking a pipe: a boy, about seventeen
years of age, Daly's clerk, was filling up numbers of those abominable
formulas of legal persecution in which attorneys deal, and was plying his
trade as steadily as though no February blasts were blowing in on him
through the open door, no sounds of loud and boisterous conversation were
rattling in his ears. The dashing manager of one of the branch banks in the
town was sitting close to the little stove, and raking out the turf ashes
with the office rule, while describing a drinking-bout that had taken place
on the previous Sunday at Blake's of Blakemount; he had a cigar in his
mouth, and was searching for a piece of well-kindled turf, wherewith to
light it. A little fat oily shopkeeper in the town, who called himself a
woollen merchant, was standing with the raised leaf of the counter in his
hand, roaring with laughter at the manager's story. Two frieze coated
farmers, outside the counter, were stretching across it, and whispering
very audibly to Daly some details of litigation which did not appear very
much to interest him; and a couple of idle blackguards were leaning against
the wall, ready to obey any behest of the attorney's which might enable
them to earn a sixpence without labour, and listening with all their, ears
to the different interesting topics of conversation which might be broached
in the inner office.

'Here's the very man I'm waiting for, at last,' said Daly, when, from his
position on the stool, he saw, through the two open doors, the bloated red
face of Barry Lynch approaching; and, giving an impulse to his body by a
shove against the wall behind him, he raised himself on to the counter,
and, assisting himself by a pull at the collar of the frieze coat of the
farmer who was in the middle of his story, jumped to the ground, and met
his client at the front door.

'I beg your pardon, Mr Lynch,' said he as soon as he had shaken hands with
him, 'but will you just step up to my room a minute, for I want to spake to
you;' and he took him up into his bed-room, for he hadn't a second sitting-
room. 'You'll excuse my bringing you up here, for the office was full, you
see, and Moylan's in the parlour.'

'The d----l he is! He came round then, did he, eh, Daly?'

'Oh, I've had a terrible hard game to play with him. I'd no idea he'd be so
tough a customer, or make such a good fight; but I think I've managed him.'

'There was a regular plan then, eh, Daly? Just as I said. It was a regular
planned scheme among them?'

'Wait a moment, and you'll know all about it, at least as much as I know
myself; and, to tell the truth, that's devilish little. But, if we manage
to break off the match, and get your sister clane out of the inn there, you
must give Moylan your agency, at any rate for two or three years.'

'You haven't promised that?'

'But I have, though. We can do nothing without it: it was only when I
hinted that, that the old sinner came round.'

'But what the deuce is it he's to do for us, after all?'

'He's to allow us to put him forward as a bugbear, to frighten the Kellys
with: that's all, and, if we can manage that, that's enough. But come down
now. I only wanted to warn you that, if you think the agency is too high a
price to pay for the man's services, whatever they may be, you must make up
your mind to dispense with them.'

'Well,' answered Barry, as he followed the attorney downstairs, 'I can't
understand what you're about; but I suppose you must be right;' and they
went into the little parlour where Moylan was sitting.

Moylan and Barry Lynch had only met once, since the former had been
entrusted to receive Anty's rents, on which occasion Moylan had been
grossly insulted by her brother. Barry, remembering the meeting, felt very
awkward at the idea of entering into amicable conversation with him, and
crept in at the door like a whipped dog. Moylan was too old to feel any
such compunctions, and consequently made what he intended to be taken as a
very complaisant bow to his future patron. He was an ill-made, ugly, stumpy
man, about fifty; with a blotched face, straggling sandy hair, and grey
shaggy whiskers. He wore a long brown great coat, buttoned up to his chin,
and this was the only article of wearing apparel visible upon him: in his
hands he twirled a shining new four-and-fourpenny hat.

As soon as their mutual salutations were over, Daly commenced his business.

'There is no doubt in the world, Mr Lynch,' said he, addressing Barry,
'that a most unfair attempt has been made by this family to get possession
of your sister's property a most shameful attempt, which the law will no
doubt recognise as a misdemeanour. But I think we shall be able to stop
their game without any law at all, which will save us the annoyance of
putting Mr Moylan here, and other respectable witnesses, on the table. Mr
Moylan says that very soon afther your father's will was made known '

'Now, Mr Daly shure I niver said a word in life at all about the will,'
said Moylan, interrupting him.

'No, you did not: I mane, very soon afther you got the agency '

'Divil a word I said about the agency, either.'

'Well, well; some time ago he says that, some time ago, he and Martin Kelly
were talking over your sister's affairs; I believe the widow was there,
too.'

'Ah, now, Mr Daly why'd you be putting them words into my mouth? sorrow a
word of the kind I iver utthered at all.'

'What the deuce was it you did say, then?'

'Faix, I don't know that I said much, at all.'

'Didn't you say, Mr Moylan, that Martin Kelly was talking to you about
marrying Anty, some six weeks ago?'

'Maybe I did; he was spaking about it.'

'And, if you were in the chair now, before a jury, wouldn't you swear that
there was a schame among them to get Anty Lynch married to Martin Kelly?
Come, Mr Moylan, that's all we want to know: if you can't say as much as
that for us now, just that we may let the Kellys know what sort of evidence
we could bring against them, if they push us, we must only have you and
others summoned, and see what you'll have to say then.'

'Oh, I'd say the truth, Mr Daly divil a less and I'd do as much as that
now; but I thought Mr Lynch was wanting to say something about the
property?'

'Not a word then I've to say about it,' said Barry, 'except that I won't
let that robber, young Kelly, walk off with it, as long as there's law in
the land.'

'Mr Moylan probably meant about the agency,' observed Daly.

Barry looked considerably puzzled, and turned to the attorney for
assistance. 'He manes,' continued Daly, 'that he and the Kellys are good
friends, and it wouldn't be any convenience to him just to say anything
that wouldn't be pleasing to them, unless we could make him independent of
them: isn't that about the long and the short of it, Mr Moylan?'

'Indepindent of the Kellys, is it, Mr Daly? Faix, thin, I'm teetotally
indepindent of them this minute, and mane to continue so, glory be to God.
Oh, I'm not afeard to tell the thruth agin ere a Kelly in Galway or
Roscommon and, av' that was all, I don't see why I need have come here this
day. When I'm called upon in the rigular way, and has a rigular question
put me before the Jury, either at Sessions or 'Sizes, you'll find I'll not
be bothered for an answer, and, av' that's all, I b'lieve I may be
going,' and he made a movement towards the door.

'Just as you please, Mr Moylan,' said Daly; 'and you may be sure that
you'll not be long without an opportunity of showing how free you are with
your answers. But, as a friend, I tell you you'll be wrong to lave this
room till you've had a little more talk with Mr Lynch and myself. I believe
I mentioned to you Mr Lynch was looking out for someone to act as agent
over his portion of the Dunmore property?'

Barry looked as black as thunder, but he said nothing.

'You war, Mr Daly. Av' I could accommodate Mr Lynch, I'm shure I'd be happy
to undhertake the business.'

'I believe, Mr Lynch,' said Daly, turning to the other, 'I may go so far as
to promise Mr Moylan the agency of the whole property, provided Miss Lynch
is induced to quit the house of the Kellys? Of course, Mr Moylan, you can
see that as long as Miss Lynch is in a position of unfortunate hostility to
her brother, the same agent could not act for both; but I think my client
is inclined to put his property under your management, providing his sister
returns to her own home. I believe I'm stating your wishes, Mr Lynch.'

'Manage it your own way,' said Barry, 'for I don't see what you're doing.
If this man can do anything for me, why, I suppose I must pay him for it;
and if so, your plan's as good a way of paying him as another.'

The attorney raised his hat with his hand, and scratched his head: he was
afraid that Moylan would have again gone off in a pet at Lynch's brutality,
but the old man sat quite quiet. He wouldn't have much minded what was said
to him, as long as he secured the agency.

'You see, Mr Moylan,' continued Daly, 'you can have the agency. Five per
cent. upon the rents is what my client '

'No, Daly Five per cent! I'm shot if I do!' exclaimed Barry.

'I'm gething twenty-five pounds per annum from Miss Anty, for her half, and
I wouldn't think of collecting the other for less,' declared Moylan.

And then a long battle followed on this point, which it required all Daly's
tact and perseverance to adjust. The old man was pertinacious, and many
whispers had to be made into Barry's ear before the matter could be
settled. It was, however, at last agreed that notice was to be served on
the Kellys, of Barry Lynch's determination to indict them for a conspiracy;
that Daly was to see the widow, Martin, and, if possible, Anty, and tell
them all that Moylan was prepared to prove that such a conspiracy had been
formed care was also to be taken that copies of the notices so served
should be placed in Anty's hands. Moylan, in the meantime, agreed to keep
out of the way, and undertook, should he be unfortunate enough to encounter
any of the family of the Kellys, to brave the matter out by declaring that
'av' he war brought before the Judge and Jury he couldn't do more than tell
the blessed thruth, and why not?' In reward for this, he was to be
appointed agent over the entire property the moment that Miss Lynch left
the inn, at which time he was to receive a document, signed by Barry,
undertaking to retain him in the agency for four years certain, or else to
pay him a hundred pounds when it was taken from him.

These terms having been mutually agreed to, and Barry having, with many
oaths, declared that he was a most shamefully ill-used man, the three
separated. Moylan skulked off to one of his haunts in the town; Barry went
to the bank, to endeavour to get a bill discounted; and Daly returned to
his office, to prepare the notices for the unfortunate widow and her son.




XIX  MR DALY VISITS THE DUNMORE INN


Daly let no grass grow under his feet, for early on the following morning
he hired a car, and proceeded to Dunmore, with the notices in his pocket.
His feelings were not very comfortable on his journey, for he knew that he
was going on a bad errand, and he was not naturally either a heartless or
an unscrupulous man, considering that he was a provincial attorney; but he
was young in business, and poor, and he could not afford to give up a
client. He endeavoured to persuade himself that it certainly was a wrong
thing for Martin Kelly to marry such a woman as Anty Lynch, and that Barry
had some show of justice on his side; but he could not succeed. He knew
that Martin was a frank, honourable fellow, and that a marriage with him
would be the very thing most likely to make Anty happy; and he was certain,
moreover, that, however anxious Martin might naturally be to secure the
fortune, he would take no illegal or even unfair steps to do so. He felt
that his client was a ruffian of the deepest die: that his sole object was
to rob his sister, and that he had no case which it would be possible even
to bring before a jury. His intention now was, merely to work upon the
timidity and ignorance of Anty and the other females, and to frighten them
with a bugbear in the shape of a criminal indictment; and Daly felt that
the work he was about was very, very dirty work. Two or three times on the
road, he had all but made up his mind to tear the letters he had in his
pocket, and to drive at once to Dunmore House, and tell Barry Lynch that he
would do nothing further in the case. And he would have done so, had he not
reflected that he had gone so far with Moylan, that he could not recede,
without leaving it in the old rogue's power to make the whole matter
public.

As he drove down the street of Dunmore, he endeavoured to quiet his
conscience, by reflecting that he might still do much to guard Anty from
the ill effects of her brother's rapacity; and that at any rate he would
not see her property taken from her, though she might he frightened out of
he matrimonial speculation.

He wanted to see the widow, Martin, and Anty, and if possible to see them,
at first, separately; and fortune so far favoured him that, as he got off
the car, he saw our hero standing at the inn door.

'Ah! Mr Daly,' said he, coming up to the car and shaking hands with the
attorney, for Daly put out his hand to him 'how are you again? I suppose
you're going up to the house? They say you're Barry's right hand man now.
Were you coming into the inn?'

'Why, I will step in just this minute; but I've a word I want to spake to
you first.'

'To me!' said Martin.

'Yes, to you, Martin Kelly: isn't that quare?' and then he gave directions
to the driver to put up the horse, and bring the car round again in an
hour's time. 'D' you remember my telling you, the day we came into Dunmore
on the car together, that I was going up to the house?'

'Faith I do, well; it's not so long since.'

'And do you mind my telling you, I didn't know from Adam what it was for,
that Barry Lynch was sending for me?'

'And I remember that, too.'

'And that I tould you, that when I did know I shouldn't tell you?'

'Begad you did, Mr Daly; thim very words.'

'Why then, Martin, I tould you what wasn't thrue, for I'm come all the way
from Tuam, this minute, to tell you all about it.'

Martin turned very red, for he rightly conceived that when an attorney came
all the way from Tuam to talk to him, the tidings were not likely to be
agreeable.

'And is it about Barry Lynch's business?'

'It is.'

'Then it's schames there's divil a doubt of that.'

'It is schames, as you say, Martin,' said Daly, slapping him on the
shoulder 'fine schames no less than a wife with four hundred a-year!
Wouldn't that be a fine schame?'

' 'Deed it would, Mr Daly, av' the wife and the fortune were honestly come
by.'

'And isn't it a hundred pities that I must come and upset such a pretty
schame as that? But, for all that, it's thrue. I'm sorry for you, Martin,
but you must give up Anty Lynch.'

'Give her up, is it? Faith I haven't got her to give up, worse luck.'

'Nor never will, Martin; and that 's worse luck again.'

'Well, Mr Daly, av' that's all you've come to say, you might have saved
yourself car-hire. Miss Lynch is nothing to me, mind; how should she be?
But av' she war, neither Barry Lynch who's as big a rogue as there is from
this to hisself and back again nor you, who, I take it, ain't rogue enough
to do Barry's work, wouldn't put me off it.'

'Well, Martin; thank 'ee for the compliment. But now, you know what I've
come about, and there's no joke in it. Of course I don't want you to tell
me anything of your plans; but, as Mr Lynch's lawyer, I must tell you so
much as this of his: that, if his sister doesn't lave the inn, and honestly
assure him that she'll give up her intention of marrying you, he's
determined to take proceedings.' He then fumbled in his pocket, and,
bringing out the two notices, handed to Martin the one addressed to him.
'Read that, and it'll give you an idea what we're afther. And when I tell
you that Moylan owns, and will swear to it too, that he was present when
all the plans were made, you'll see that we're not going to sea without
wind in our sails.'

'Well I'm shot av' I know the laist in the world what all this is about!'
said Martin, as he stood in the street, reading over the legally-worded
letter '"conspiracy!" well that'll do, Mr Daly; go on "enticing away from
her home! " that's good, when the blackguard nearly knocked the life out of
her, and mother brought her down here, from downright charity, and to
prevent murdher "wake intellects!" well, Mr Daly, I didn't expect this kind
of thing from you: begorra, I thought you were above this! wake intellects!
faith, they're a dale too sthrong, and too good and too wide awake too, for
Barry to get the betther of her that way. Not that I'm in the laist in life
surprised at anything he'd do; but I thought that you, Mr Daly, wouldn't
put your hands to such work as that.'

Daly felt the rebuke, and felt it strongly, too; but now that he was
embarked in the business, he must put the best face he could upon it. Still
it was a moment or two before he could answer the young farmer.

'Why,' he said 'why did you put your hands to such a dirty job as this,
Martin? you were doing well, and not in want and how could you let anyone
persuade you to go and sell yourself to, an ugly ould maid, for a few
hundred pounds? Don't you know, that if you were married to her this
minute, you'd have a lawsuit that'd go near to ruin you before you could
get possession of the property?'

'Av' I'm in want of legal advice, Mr Daly, which thank God, I'm not, nor
likely to be but av' I war, it's not from Barry Lynch's attorney I'd be
looking for it.'

'I'd be sorry to see you in want of it, Martin; but if you mane to keep,
out of the worst kind of law, you'd better have done with Anty Lynch. I'd a
dale sooner be drawing up a marriage settlement between you and some pretty
girl with five or six hundred pound fortune, than I'd be exposing to the
counthry such a mane trick as this you're now afther, of seducing a poor
half-witted ould maid, like Anty Lynch, into a disgraceful marriage.'

'Look here, Mr Daly,' said the other; 'you've hired yourself out to Barry
Lynch,, and you must do his work, I suppose, whether it's dirthy or clane;
and you know yourself, as well as I can tell you, which it's likely to be '

'That's my concern; lave that to me; you've quite enough to do to mind
yourself.'

'But av' he's nothing betther for you to do, than to send you here bally-
ragging and calling folks out of their name, he must have a sight more
money to spare than I give him credit for; and you must be a dale worse off
than your neighbours thought you, to do it for him.'

'That'll do,' said Mr Daly, knocking at the door of the inn; 'only,
remember, Mr Kelly, you've now received notice of the steps which my client
feels himself called upon to take.'

Martin turned to go away, but then, reflecting that it would be as well not
to leave the women by themselves in the power of the enemy, he also waited
at the door till it was opened by Katty.

'Is Miss Lynch within?' asked Daly.

'Go round to the shop, Katty,' said Martin, 'and tell mother to come to the
door. There's a gentleman wanting her.'

'It was Miss Lynch I asked for,' said Daly, still looking to the girl for
an answer.

'Do as I bid you, you born idiot, and don't stand gaping there,' shouted
Martin to the girl, who immediately ran off towards the shop.

'I might as well warn you, Mr Kelly, that, if Miss Lynch is denied to me,
the fact of her being so denied will be a very sthrong proof against you
and your family. In fact, it amounts to an illegal detention of her person,
in the eye of the law.' Daly said this in a very low voice, almost a
whisper.

'Faith, the law must have quare eyes, av' it makes anything wrong with a
young lady being asked the question whether or no she wishes to see an
attorney, at eleven in the morning.'

'An attorney!' whispered Meg to Jane and Anty at the top of the stairs.

'Heaven and 'arth,' said poor Anty, shaking and shivering 'what's going to
be the matter now?'

'It's young Daly,' said Jane, stretching forward and peeping clown the
stairs: 'I can see the curl of his whiskers.'

By this time the news had reached Mrs Kelly, in the shop, 'that a sthrange
gentleman war axing for Miss Anty, but that she warn't to be shown to him
on no account;' so the widow dropped her tobacco knife, flung off her dirty
apron, and, having summoned Jane and Meg to attend to the mercantile
affairs of the establishment turned into the inn, and met Mr Daly and her
son still standing at the bottom of the stairs

The widow curtsied ceremoniously, and wished Mr. Daly good morning, and he
was equally civil in his salutation.

'Mr Daly's going to have us all before the assizes, mother. We'll never get
off without the treadmill, any way: it's well av' the whole kit of us don't
have to go over the wather at the queen's expense.'

'The Lord be good to us;' said the widow, crossing herself. What's the
matter, Mr Daly?'

'Your son's joking, ma'am. I was only asking to see Miss Lynch, on
business.'

'Step upstairs, mother, into the big parlour, and don't let's be standing
talking here where all the world can hear us.'

'And wilcome, for me, I'm shure' said the widow, stroking down the front of
her dress with the palms of her hands, as she walked upstairs 'and wilcome
too for me I'm very shure. I've said or done nothing as I wish to consail,
Mr Daly. Will you be plazed to take a chair?' and the widow sat down
herself on a chair in the middle of the room, with her hands folded over
each other in her lap, as if she was preparing to answer questions from
that time to a very late hour in the evening.

'And now, Mr Daly av' you've anything to say to a poor widdy like me, I'm
ready.'

'My chief object in calling, Mrs Kelly, was to see Miss Lynch. Would you
oblige me by letting Miss Lynch know that I'm waiting to see her on
business.'

'Maybe it's a message from her brother, Mr Daly?' said Mrs Kelly.

'You had better go in to Miss Lynch, mother,' said Martin, 'and ask her av'
it's pleasing to her to see Mr Daly. She can see him, in course, av' she
likes.'

'I don't see what good'll come of her seeing him,' rejoined the widow.
'With great respect to you, Mr Daly, and not maning to say a word agin you,
I don't see how Anty Lynch'll be the betther for seeing ere an attorney in
the counthry.'

'I don't want to frighten you, ma'am,' said Daly; 'but I can assure you,
you will put yourself in a very awkward position if you refuse to allow me
to see Miss Lynch.'

'Ah, mother!' said Martin, 'don't have a word to say in the matther at all,
one way or the other. Just tell Anty Mr Daly wishes to see her let her come
or not, just as she chooses. What's she afeard of, that she shouldn't hear
what anyone has to say to her?'

The widow seemed to be in great doubt and perplexity, and continued
whispering with Martin for some time, during which Daly remained standing
with his back to the fire. At length Martin said, 'Av' you've got another
of them notices to give my mother, Mr Daly, why don't you do it?'

'Why, to tell you the thruth,' answered the attorney, 'I don't want to
throuble your mother unless it's absolutely necessary; and although I have
the notice ready in my pocket, if I could see Miss Lynch, I might be spared
the disagreeable job of serving it on her.'

'The Holy Virgin save us!' said the widow; 'an' what notice is it at all;
you're going to serve on a poor lone woman like me?'

'Be said by me, mother, and fetch Anty in here. Mr Daly won't expect, I
suppose, but what you, should stay and hear what it is he has to say?'

'Both you and your mother are welcome to hear all that I have to say to the
lady,' said Daly; for he felt that it would be impossible for him to see
Anty alone.

The widow unwillingly got up to fetch her guest. When she got to the door,
she turned round, and said, 'And is there a notice, as you calls it, to be
sarved on Miss Lynch?'

'Not a line, Mrs Kelly; not a line, on my honour. I only want her to hear a
few words that I'm commissioned by her brother to say to her.'

'And you're not going to give her any paper nor nothing of that sort at
all?'

'Not a word, Mrs Kelly.'

'Ah, mother,' said Martin, 'Mr Daly couldn't hurt her, av' he war wishing,
and he's not. Go and bring her in.'

The widow went out, and in a few minutes returned, bringing Anty with her,
trembling from head to foot. The poor young woman had not exactly heard
what had passed between the attorney and the mother and her son, but she
knew very well that his visit had reference to her, and that it was in some
way connected with her brother. She had, therefore, been in a great state
of alarm since Meg and Jane had left her alone. When Mrs Kelly came into
the little room where she was sitting, and told her that Mr Daly had come
to Dunmore on purpose to see her, her first impulse was to declare that she
wouldn't go to him; and had she done so, the widow would not have pressed
her. But she hesitated, for she didn't like to refuse to do anything which
her friend asked her; and when Mrs Kelly said, 'Martin says as how the man
can't hurt you, Anty, so you'd betther jist hear what it is he has to say,'
she felt that she had no loophole of escape, and got up to comply.

'But mind, Anty,' whispered the cautious widow, as her hand was on the
parlour door, 'becase this Daly is wanting to speak to you, that's no rason
you should be wanting to spake to him; so, if you'll be said by me, you'll
jist hould your tongue, and let him say on.'

Fully determined to comply with this prudent advice, Anty followed the old
woman, and, curtseying at Daly without looking at him, sat herself down in
the middle of the old sofa, with her hands crossed before her.

'Anty,' said Martin, making great haste to speak, before Daly could
commence, and then checking himself as he remembered that he shouldn't have
ventured on the familiarity of calling her by her Christian name in Daly's
presence 'Miss Lynch, I mane as Mr Daly here has come all the way from Tuam
on purpose to spake to you, it wouldn't perhaps be manners in you to let
him go back without hearing him. But remember, whatever your brother says,
or whatever Mr Daly says for him and it's all one you're still your own
mistress, free to act and to spake, to come and to go; and that neither the
one nor the other can hurt you, or mother, or me, nor anybody belonging to
us.'

'God knows,' said Daly, 'I want to have no hand in hurting any of you; but,
to tell the truth, Martin, it would be well for Miss Lynch to have a better
adviser than you or she may get herself, and, what she'll think more of,
she'll get her friends maning you, Mrs Kelly, and your family into a heap
of throubles.'

'Oh, God forbid, thin!' exclaimed Anty.

'Niver mind us, Mr Daly,' said the widow. 'The Kellys was always able to
hould their own; thanks be to glory.'

'Well, I've said my say, Mr Daly,' said Martin, 'and now do you say your'n:
as for throubles, we've all enough of thim; but your own must have been
bad, when you undhertook this sort of job for Barry Lynch.'

'Mind yourself, Martin, as I told you before, and you'll about have enough
to do. Miss Lynch, I've been instructed by your brother to draw up an
indictment against Mrs Kelly and Mr Kelly, charging them with conspiracy to
get possession of your fortune.'

'A what!' shouted the widow, jumping up from her chair 'to rob Anty Lynch
of her fortune! I'd have you to know, Mr Daly, I wouldn't demane myself to
rob the best gentleman in Connaught, let alone a poor unprotected young
woman, whom I've '

'Whist, mother go asy,' said Martin. 'I tould you that that was what war in
the paper he gave me; he'll give you another, telling you all about it just
this minute.'

'Well, the born ruffian! Does he dare to accuse me of wishing to rob his
sister! Now, Mr Daly, av' the blessed thruth is in you this minute, don't
your own heart know who it is, is most likely to rob Anty Lynch? Isn't it
Barry Lynch himself is thrying to rob his own sisther this minute? ay, and
he'd murdher her too, only the heart within him isn't sthrong enough.'

'Ah, mother! don't be saying such things,' said Martin; 'what business is
that of our'n? Let Barry send what messages he plazes; I tell you it's all
moonshine; he can't hurt the hair of your head, nor Anty's neither. Go asy,
and let Mr Daly say what he has to say, and have done with it.'

'It's asy to say "go asy" but who's to sit still and be tould sich things
as that? Rob Anty Lynch indeed!'

'If you'll let me finish what I have to say, Mrs Kelly, I think you'll find
it betther for the whole of us,' said Daly.

'Go on thin, and be quick with it; but don't talk to dacent people about
robbers any more. Robbers indeed! they're not far to fitch; and black
robbers too, glory be to God.'

'Your brother, Miss Lynch, is determined to bring this matter before a jury
at the assizes, for the sake of protecting you and your property.'

'Protecthing Anty Lynch! is it Barry? The Holy Virgin defind her from sich
prothection! a broken head the first moment the dhrink makes his heart
sthrong enough to sthrike her!'

'Ah, mother! you're a fool,' exclaimed Martin: 'why can't you let the man
go on? ain't he paid for saying it? Well, Mr Daly, begorra I pity you, to
have such things on your tongue; but go on, go on, and finish it.'

'Your brother conceives this to be his duty,' continued Daly, rather
bothered by the manner in which he had to make his communication, 'and it
is a duty which he is determined to go through with.'

'Duty!' said the widow, with a twist of her nose, and giving almost a
whistle through her lips, in a manner which very plainly declared the
contempt she felt for Barry's ideas of duty.

'With this object,' continued Daly, 'I have already handed to Martin Kelly
a notice of what your brother means to do; and I have another notice
prepared in my pocket for his mother. The next step will be to swear the
informations before a magistrate, and get the committals made out; Mrs
Kelly and her son will then have to give bail for their appearance at the
assizes.'

'And so we can,' said the widow; 'betther bail than e'er a Lynch or
Daly not but what the Dalys is respictable betther bail, any way, than e'er
a Lynch in Galway could show, either for sessions or 'sizes, by night or by
day, winter or summer.'

'Ah, mother! you don't understhand: he's maning that we're to be tried in
the dock, for staling Anty's money.'

'Faix, but that'd be a good joke! Isn't Anty to the fore herself to say
who's robbed her? Take an ould woman's advice, Mr Daly, and go back to
Tuam: it ain't so asy to put salt on the tail of a Dunmore bird.'

'And so I will, Mrs Kelly,' said Daly; 'but you must let me finish what I
have to tell Miss Lynch. This will be a proceeding most disagreeable to
your brother's feelings.'

'Failings, indeed!' muttered the widow; 'faix, I b'lieve his chief failing
at present's for sthrong dhrink!'

' But he must go on with it, unless you at once lave the inn, return to
your own home, and give him pour promise that you will never marry Martin
Kelly.'

Anty blushed deep crimson over her whole face at the mention of her
contemplated marriage; and, to tell the truth, so did Martin.

'Here is the notice,' said Daly, taking the paper out of his pocket; 'and
the matter now rests with yourself. If you'll only tell me that you'll be
guided by your brother on this subject, I'll burn the notice at once; and
I'll undertake to say that, as far as your property is concerned, your
brother will not in the least interfere with you in the management of it.'

'And good rason why, Mr Daly,' said the widow  'jist becase he can't.'

'Well, Miss Lynch, am I to tell your brother that you are willing to oblige
him in this matter?'

Whatever effect Daly's threats may have had on the widow and her son, they
told strongly upon Anty; for she sat now the picture of misery and
indecision. At last she said: 'Oh, Lord defend me! what am I to do, Mrs
Kelly?'

'Do?' said Martin; 'why, what should you do but just wish Mr Daly good
morning, and stay where you are, snug and comfortable?'

'Av' you war to lave this, Anty, and go up to Dunmore House afther all
that's been said and done, I'd say Barry was right, and that Ballinasloe
Asylum was the fitting place for you,' said the widow.

'The blessed virgin guide and prothect me,' said Anty, 'for I want her
guidance this minute. Oh, that the walls of a convent was round me this
minute I wouldn't know what throuble was!'

'And you needn't know anything about throuble,' said Martin, who didn't
quite like his mistress's allusion to a convent. 'You don't suppose there's
a word of thruth in all this long story of Mr Daly's? He knows and I'll say
it out to his face he knows Barry don't dare carry on with sich a schame.
He knows he's only come here to frighten, you out of this, that Barry may
have his will on you again.'

'And God forgive him his errand here this day,' said the widow, 'for it was
a very bad one.'

'If you will allow me to offer you my advice, Miss Lynch,' said Daly, 'you
will put yourself, at any rate for a time; under your brother's
protection.'

'She won't do no sich thing,' said the widow. 'What! to be locked into the
parlour agin and be nigh murdhered? holy father!'

'Oh, no,' said Anty, at last, shuddering in horror at the remembrance of
the last night she passed in Dunmore House, 'I cannot go back to live with
him, but I'll do anything else, av' he'll only lave me, and my kind, kind
friends, in pace and quiet.'

'Indeed, and you won't, Anty,' said the widow; 'you'll do nothing for him.
Your frinds that's av' you mane the Kellys is very able to take care of
themselves.'

'If your brother, Miss Lynch, will lave Dunmore House altogether, and let
you have it to yourself, will you go and live there, and give him the
promise not to marry Martin Kelly?'

'Indeed an' she won't,' said the widow. 'She'll give no promise of the
kind. Promise, indeed! what for should she promise Barry Lynch whom she
will marry, or whom she won't?'

'Raily, Mrs Kelly, I think you might let Miss Lynch answer for herself.'

'I wouldn't, for all the world thin, go to live at Dunmore House,' said
Anty.

'And you are determined to stay in this inn here?'

'In course she is that's till she's a snug house of her own,' said the
widow.

'Ah, mother!' said Martin, 'what for will you be talking?'

'And you're determined,' repeated Daly, 'to stay here?'

'I am,' faltered Anty.

'Then I have nothing further to do than to hand you this, Mrs Kelly' and he
offered the notice to the widow, but she refused to touch it, and he
consequently put it down on the table. 'But it is my duty to tell you, Miss
Lynch, that the gentry of this counthry, before whom you will have to
appear, will express very great indignation at your conduct in persevering
in placing poor people like the Kellys in so dreadful a predicament, by
your wilful and disgraceful obstinacy.'

Poor Anty burst into tears. She had been for some time past trying to
restrain herself, but Daly's last speech, and the horrible idea of the
gentry of the country browbeating and frowning at her, completely upset
her, and she hid her face on the arm of the sofa, and sobbed aloud.

'Poor people like the Kellys!' shouted the widow, now for the first time
really angry with Daly 'not so poor, Mr Daly, as to do dirthy work for
anyone. I wish I could say as much this day for your mother's son! Poor
people, indeed! I suppose, now, you wouldn't call Barry Lynch one of your
poor people; but in my mind he's the poorest crature living this day in
county Galway. Av' you've done now, Mr Daly, you've my lave to be walking;
and the less you let the poor Kellys see of you, from this time out, the
betther.'

When Anty's sobs commenced, Martin had gone over to her to comfort her,
'Ah, Anty, dear,' he whispered to her, 'shure you'd not be minding what
such a fellow as he'd be saying to you? shure he's jist paid for all
this he's only sent here by Barry to thry and frighten you,' but it was of
no avail: Daly had succeeded at any rate in making her miserable, and it
was past the power of Martin's eloquence to undo what the attorney had
done.

'Well, Mr Daly,' he said, turning round sharply, 'I suppose you have done
here now, and the sooner you turn your back on this place the betther An'
you may take this along with you. Av' you think you've frightened my mother
or me, you're very much mistaken.'

'Yes,' said Daly, 'I have done now, and I am sorry my business has been so
unpleasant. Your mother, Martin, had betther not disregard that notice.
Good morning, Miss Lynch: good morning, Mrs Kelly; good morning, Martin;'
and Daly took up his hat, and left the room.

'Good morning to you, Mr Daly,' said Martin: 'as I've said before, I'm
sorry to see you've taken to this line of business.'

As soon as the attorney was gone, both Martin and his mother attempted to
console and re-assure poor Anty, but they did not find the task an easy
one. 'Oh, Mrs Kelly,' she said, as soon as she was able to say anything,
'I'm sorry I iver come here, I am: I'm sorry I iver set my foot in the
house!'

'Don't say so, Anty, dear,' said the widow. 'What'd you be sorry for an't
it the best place for you?'

'Oh! but to think that I'd bring all these throubles on you! Betther be up
there, and bear it all, than bring you and yours into law, and sorrow, and
expense. Only I couldn't find the words in my throat to say it, I'd 've
tould the man that I'd 've gone back at once. I wish I had indeed, Mrs
Kelly, I wish I had.'

'Why, Anty,' said Martin, 'you an't fool enough to believe what Daly's been
saying? Shure all he's afther is to frighthen you, out of this. Never fear:
Barry can't hurt us a halfporth, though no doubt he's willing enough, av'
he had the way.'

'I wish I was in a convent, this moment,' said Anty. 'Oh! I wish I'd done
as father asked me long since. Av' the walls of a convent was around me,
I'd niver know what throubles was.'

'No more you shan't now,' said Martin: 'Who's to hurt you? Come, Anty, look
up; there's nothing in all this to vex you.'

But neither son nor mother were able to soothe the poor young woman. The
very presence of an attorney was awful to her; and all the jargon which
Daly had used, of juries, judges, trials, and notices, had sounded terribly
in her ears. The very names of such things were to her terrible realities,
and she couldn't bring herself to believe that her brother would threaten
to make use of such horrible engines of persecution, without having the
power to bring them into action. Then, visions of the lunatic asylum, into
which he had declared that he would throw her, flitted across her, and made
her whole body shiver and shake; and again she remembered the horrid glare
of his eye, the hot breath, and the frightful form of his visage, on the
night when he almost told her that he would murder her.

Poor Anty had at no time high or enduring spirits, but such as she had were
now completely quelled. A dreadful feeling of coming evil a foreboding of
misery, such as will sometimes overwhelm stronger minds than Anty's, seemed
to stifle her; and she continued sobbing till she fell into hysterics, when
Meg and Jane were summoned to her assistance. They sat with her for above
an hour, doing all that kindness and affection could suggest; but after a
time Anty told them that she had a cold, sick feeling within herself, that
she felt weak and ill, and that she'd sooner go to bed. To bed they
accordingly took her; and Sally brought her tea, and Katty lighted a fire
in her room, and Jane read to her an edifying article from the lives of the
Saints, and Meg argued with her as to the folly of being frightened. But it
was all of no avail; before night, Anty was really ill.

The next morning, the widow was obliged to own to herself that such was the
case. In the afternoon, Doctor Colligan was called in; and it was many,
many weeks before Anty recovered from the effects of the attorney's visit.




XX  VERY LIBERAL


When the widow left the parlour, after having placed her guest in the
charge of her daughters, she summoned her son to follow her down stairs,
and was very careful not to 1eave behind her the notice which Daly had
placed on the table. As soon as she found herself behind the shutter of her
little desk, which stood in the shop-window, she commenced very eagerly
spelling it over. The purport of the notice was, to inform her that Barry
Lynch intended immediately to apply to the magistrates to commit her and
her son, for conspiring together to inveigle Anty into a marriage; and that
the fact of their having done so would be proved by Mr Moylan, who was
prepared to swear that he had been present when the plan had been arranged
between them. The reader is aware that whatever show of truth there might
be for this accusation, as far as Martin and Moylan himself were concerned,
the widow at any rate was innocent; and he can conceive the good lady's
indignation at the idea of her own connection, Moylan, having been seduced
over to the enemy. Though she had put on a bold front against Daly, and
though she did not quite believe that Barry was in earnest in taking
proceedings against her, still her heart failed her as she read the legal
technicalities of the papers she held in her hand, and turned to her son
for counsel in considerable tribulation.

'But there must be something in it, I tell you,' said she. 'Though Barry
Lynch, and that limb o' the divil, young Daly, 'd stick at nothin in the
way of lies and desait, they'd niver go to say all this about Moylan,
unless he'd agree to do their bidding.'

'That's like enough, mother: I dare say Moylan has been talked over bought
over rather; for he's not one of them as'd do mischief for nothin.'

'And does the ould robber mane to say that I . As I live, I niver as much
as mentioned Anty's name to Moylan, except jist about the agency!'

'I'm shure you didn't, mother.'

'And what is it then he has to say agin us?'

'Jist lies; that's av' he were called on to say anything; but he niver will
be. This is all one of Barry's schames to frighten you, and get Anty turned
out of the inn.'

'Thin Master Barry doesn't know the widdy Kelly, I can tell him that; for
when I puts my hand to a thing, I mane to pull through wid it. But tell
me all this'll be costing money, won't, it? Attorneys don't bring thim sort
of things about for nothing,' and she gave a most contemptuous twist to the
notice.

'Oh, Barry must pay for that.'

'I doubt that, Martin: he's not fond of paying, the mane, dirthy
blackguard. I tell you what, you shouldn't iver have let Daly inside the
house: he'll make us pay for the writing o' thim as shure as my name's Mary
Kelly: av' he hadn't got into the house, he couldn't've done a halfporth.'

'I tell you, mother, it wouldn't have done not to let him see Anty. They'd
have said we'd got her shut up here, and wouldn't let any one come nigh
her.'

'Well, Martin, you'll see we'll have to pay for it. This comes of meddling
with other folks! I wonder how I was iver fool enough to have fitched her
down here! Good couldn't come of daling with such people as Barry Lynch.'

'But you wouldn't have left her up there to be murdhered?'

'She's nothin' to me, and I don't know as she's iver like to be.'

'Maybe not.'

'But, tell me, Martin was there anything said between you and Moylan about
Anty before she come down here?''

'How, anything said, mother?'

'Why, was there any schaming betwixt you?'

'Schaming? when I want to schame, I'll not go shares with sich a fellow as
Moylan.'

'Ah, but was there anything passed about Anty and you getting married?
Come- now, Martin; I'm in all this throuble along of you, and you shouldn't
lave me in the dark. Was you talking to Moylan about Anty and her fortune?'

'Why, thin', I'll jist tell you the whole thruth, as I tould it all before
to Mister Frank that is, Lord Ballindine, up in Dublin; and as I wouldn't
mind telling it this minute to Barry, or Daly, or any one else in the three
counties. When Moylan got the agency, he come out to me at Toneroe; and
afther talking a bit about Anty and her fortune, he let on bow it would be
a bright spec for me to marry her, and I won't deny that it was he as first
put it into my head. Well, thin, he had schames of his own about keeping
the agency, and getting a nice thing out of the property himself, for
putting Anty in my way; but I tould him downright I didn't know anything
about that; and that 'av iver I did anything in the matter it would be all
fair and above board; and that was all the conspiracy I and Moylan had.'

'And enough too, Martin,' said the widow. 'You'll find it's quite enough to
get us into throuble. And why wouldn't you tell me what was going on
between you?'

'There was nothing going on between us.'

'I say there was; and to go and invaigle me into your schames without
knowing a word about it! It was a murdhering shame of you and av' I do have
to pay for it, I'll never forgive you.'

'That's right, mother; quarrel with me about it, do. It was I made you
bring Anty down here, wasn't it? when I was up in Dublin all the time.'

'But to go and put yourself in the power of sich a fellow as Moylan! I
didn't think you were so soft.'

'Ah, bother, mother! Who's put themselves in the power of Moylan?'

'I'll moyle him, and spoil him too, the false blackguard, to turn agin the
family them as has made him! I wondher what he's to get for swearing agin
us?' And then, after a pause, she added in a most pathetic voice 'oh,
Martin, to think of being dragged away to Galway, before the whole
counthry, to be made a conspirather of! I, that always paid my way, before
and behind, though only a poor widdy! Who's to mind the shop, I
wondher? I'm shure Meg's not able; and there'll be Mary'll be jist nigh her
time, and won't be able to come! Martin, you've been and ruined me with
your plots and your marriages! What did you want with a wife, I wondher,
and you so well off! and Mrs Kelly began wiping her eyes, for she was
affected to tears at. the prospect of her coming misery.

'Av' you take it so to heart, mother, you'd betther give Anty a hint to be
out of this. You heard Daly tell her, that was all Barry wanted.'

Martin knew his mother tolerably well, or he would not have made this
proposition. He understood what the real extent of her sorrow was, and how
much of her lamentation he was to attribute to her laudable wish to appear
a martyr to the wishes and pleasures of her children.

'Turn her out!' replied she, 'no, niver; and I didn't think I'd 've heard
you asking me to.'

'I didn't ask you, mother, only anything'd be betther than downright ruin.'

'I wouldn't demane myself to Barry so much as to wish her out of this now
she's here. But it was along of you she came here, and av' I've to pay for
all this lawyer work, you oughtn't to see me at a loss. I'm shure I don't
know where your sisthers is to look for a pound or two when I'm gone, av'
things goes on this way,' and again the widow whimpered.

'Don't let that throuble you, mother: av' there's anything to pay, I won't
let it come upon you, any way. But I tell you there'll be nothing more
about it.'

Mrs Kelly was somewhat quieted by her son's guarantee, and, muttering that
she couldn't afford to be wasting her mornings in that way, diligently
commenced weighing out innumerable three-halfporths of brown sugar, and
Martin went about his own business.

Daly left the inn, after his interview with Anty and the Kellys, in
anything but a pleasant frame of mind. In the first place, he knew that he
had been signally unsuccessful, and that his want of success had been
mainly attributable to his having failed to see Anty alone; and, in the
next place, he felt more than ever disgusted with his client. He began to
reflect, for the first time, that he might, and probably would,
irretrievably injure his character by undertaking, as Martin truly called
it, such a very low line of business: that, if the matter were persevered
in, every one in Connaught would be sure to hear of Anty's persecution; and
that his own name would be so mixed up with Lynch's in the transaction as
to leave him no means of escaping the ignominy which was so justly due to
his employer. Beyond these selfish motives of wishing to withdraw from the
business, he really pitied Anty, and felt a great repugnance at being the
means of adding to her troubles; and he was aware of the scandalous shame
of subjecting her again to the ill-treatment of such a wretch as her
brother, by threatening proceedings which he knew could never be taken.

As he got on the car to return to Tuam, he determined that whatever plan he
might settle on adopting, 'he would have nothing further to do with
prosecuting or persecuting either Anty or the Kellys. 'I'll give him the
best advice I can about it,' said Daly to himself; 'and if he don't like it
he may do the other thing. I wouldn't carry on with this game for all he's
worth, and that I believe is not much.' He had intended to go direct to
Dunmore House from the Kellys, and to have seen Barry, but he would have
had to stop for dinner if he had done so; and though, generally speaking,
not very squeamish in his society, he did not wish to enjoy another after-
dinner tête-à-tête with him 'It's better to get him over to Tuam,' thought
he, 'and try and make him see rason when he's sober: nothing's too hot or
too bad for him, when he's mad dhrunk afther dinner.'

Accordingly, Lynch was again summoned to Tuam, and held a second council in
the attorney's little parlour. Daly commenced by telling him that his
sister had seen him, and had positively refused to leave the inn, and that
the widow and her son had both listened to the threats of a prosecution
unmoved and undismayed. Barry indulged in his usual volubility of
expletives; expressed his fixed intention of exterminating the Kellys;
declared, with many asseverations, his conviction that his sister was a
lunatic; swore, by everything under, in, and above the earth, that he would
have her shut up in the Lunatic Asylum in Ballinasloe, in the teeth of the
Lord Chancellor and all the other lawyers in Ireland; cursed the shades of
his father, deeply and copiously; assured Daly that he was only prevented
from recovering his own property by the weakness and ignorance of his legal
advisers, and ended by asking the attorney's advice as to his future
conduct.

'What the d l, then, am I to do with the confounded ideot?' said he.

'If you'll take my advice, you'll do nothing.'

'What, and let her marry and have that young blackguard brought up to
Dunmore under my very nose?'

'I'm very much afraid, Mr Lynch, if you wish to be quit of Martin Kelly, it
is you must lave Dunmore. You may be shure he won't.'

'Oh, as for that, I've nothing to tie me to Dunmore. I hate the place; I
never meant to live there. If I only saw my sister properly taken care of,
and that it was put out of her power to throw herself away, I should leave
it at once.'

'Between you and me, Mr Lynch, she will be taken care of; and as for
throwing herself away, she must judge of that herself. Take my word for it,
the best thing for you to do is to come to terms with Martin Kelly, and to
sell out your property in Dun-more. You'll make much better terms before
marriage than you would afther, it stands to rason.'

Barry was half standing, and half sitting on the small parlour table, and
there he remained for a few minutes, meditating on Daly's most unpleasant
proposal. It was a hard pill for him to swallow, and he couldn't get it
down without some convulsive grimaces. He bit his under lip, till the blood
came through it, and at last said,

'Why, you've taken this thing up, Daly, as if you were to be paid by the
Kellys instead of by me! I can't understand it, confound me if I can!'

Daly turned very red at the insinuation. He was within an ace of seizing
Lynch by. the collar, and expelling him in a summary way from his premises,
a feat which he was able to perform; and willing also, for he was sick of
his client; but he thought of it a second time, and restrained himself.

'Mr Lynch,' he said, after a moment or two, 'that's the second time you've
made an observation of that kind to me; and I'll tell you what; if your
business was the best in the county, instead of being as bad a case as was
ever put into a lawyer's hands, I wouldn't stand it from you. If you think
you can let out your passion against me, as you do against your own people,
you'll find your mistake out very soon; so you'd betther mind what you're
saying.'

'Why, what the devil did I say?' said Lynch, half abashed.

'I'll not repeat it and you hadn't betther, either. And now, do you choose
to hear my professional advice, and behave to me as you ought and shall do?
or will you go out of this and look out for another attorney? To tell you
the truth, I'd jist as lieve you'd take your business to some one else.'

Barry's brow grew very black, and he looked at Daly as though he would much
like to insult him again if he dared. But he did not dare. He had no one
else to look to for advice or support; he had utterly estranged from him
his father's lawyer; and though he suspected that Daly was not true to him,
he felt that he could not break with him. He was obliged, therefore, to
swallow his wrath, though it choked him, and to mutter something in the
shape of an apology.

It was a mutter: Daly heard something about its being only a joke, and not
expecting to be taken up so d   sharp; and, accepting these sounds as an
amende honorable, again renewed his functions as attorney.

'Will you authorise me to see Martin Kelly, and to treat with him? You'll
find it the cheapest thing you can do; and, more than that, it'll be what
nobody can blame you for.'

'How treat with him? I owe him nothing I don't see what I've got to treat
with him about. Am I to offer him half the property on condition he'll
consent to marry my sister? Is that what you mean?'

'No: that's not what I mean; but it'll come to much the same thing in the
end. In the first place, you must withdraw all opposition to Miss Lynch's
marriage; indeed, you must give it your direct sanction; and, in the next
place, you must make an amicable arrangement with Martin about the division
of the property.'

'What coolly give him all he has the impudence to ask? throw up the game
altogether, and pitch the whole stakes into his lap? Why, Daly, you '

'Well, Mr Lynch, finish your speech,' said Daly, looking him full in the
face.

Barry had been on the point of again accusing the attorney of playing false
to him, but he paused in time; he caught Daly's eye, and did not dare to
finish the sentence which he had begun.

'I can't understand you, I mean,' said he; 'I can't understand what you're
after: but go on; maybe you're right, but I can't see, for the life of me.
What am I to get by such a plan as that?'

Barry was now cowed and frightened; he had no dram-bottle by him to
reassure him, and he became, comparatively speaking, calm and subdued.
Indeed, before the interview was over he fell into a pitiably lachrymose
tone, and claimed sympathy for the many hardships he had to undergo through
the ill-treatment of his family.

'I'll try and explain to you, Mr Lynch, what you'll get by it. As far as I
can understand, your father left about eight hundred a-year between the
two that's you and your sisther; and then there's the house and furniture.
Nothing on earth can keep her out of her property, or prevent her from
marrying whom she plases. Martin Kelly, who is an honest fellow, though
sharp enough, has set his eye on her, and before many weeks you'll find
he'll make her his wife. Undher these circumstances, wouldn't he be the
best tenant you could find for Dunmore? You're not fond of the place, and
will be still less so when he's your brother-in-law. Lave it altogether, Mr
Lynch; give him a laise of the whole concern, and if you'll do that now at
once, take my word for it you'll get more out of Dunmore than iver you will
by staying here, and fighting the matther out.'

'But about the debts, Daly?'

'Why, I suppose the fact is, the debts are all your own, eh?'

'Well suppose they are?'

'Exactly so: personal debts of your own. Why, when you've made some final
arrangement about the property, you must make some other arrangement with
your creditors. But that's quite a separate affair; you don't expect Martin
Kelly to pay your debts, I suppose?'

'But I might get a sum of money for the good-will, mightn't 1?'

'I don't think Martin's able to put a large sum down. I'll tell you what I
think you might ask; and what I think he would give, to get your good-will
and consent to the match, and to prevent any further difficulty. I think
he'd become your tenant, for the whole of your share, at a rent of five-
hundred a year; and maybe he'd give you three hundred pounds for the
furniture and stock, and things about the place. If so, you should give him
a laise of three lives.'

There was a good deal in this proposition that was pleasing to Barry's
mind: five hundred a-year without any trouble in collecting it; the power
of living abroad in the unrestrained indulgence of hotels and billiard
rooms; the probable chance of being able to retain his income and bilk his
creditors; the prospect of shaking off from himself the consequences of a
connection with the Kellys, and being for ever rid of Dunmore encumbrances.
These things all opened before his eyes a vista of future, idle,
uncontrolled enjoyment, just suited to his taste, and strongly tempted him
at once to close with Daly's offer. But still, he could hardly bring
himself to consent to be vanquished by his own sister; it was wormwood to
him to think that after all she should be left to. the undisturbed
enjoyment of her father's legacy. He had been brow-beaten by the widow,
insulted by young Kelly, cowed and silenced by the attorney whom he had
intended to patronise and convert into a creature of his own: he could
however have borne and put up with all this, if he could only have got his
will of his sister; but to give up to her, who had been his slave all his
life to own, at last, that he had no power over her, whom he had always
looked upon as so abject, so mean a thing; to give in, of his own accord,
to the robbery which had been committed on him by his own father; and to do
this, while he felt convinced as he still did, that a sufficiently
unscrupulous attorney could save him from such cruel disgrace and loss, was
a trial to which he could hardly bring himself to submit, crushed and tamed
as he was.

He still sat on the edge of the parlour table, and there he remained mute,
balancing the pros and cons of Daly's plan. Daly waited a minute or two for
his answer, and, finding that he said nothing, left him alone for a time,
to make up his mind, telling him that he would return in about a quarter of
an hour. Barry never moved from his position; it was an important question
he had to settle, and so he felt it, for he gave up to the subject his
undivided attention. Since his boyhood he had looked forward to a life of
ease, pleasure, and licence, and had longed for his father's death that he
might enjoy it. It seemed now within his reach; for his means, though
reduced, would still be sufficient for sensual gratification. But, idle,
unprincipled, brutal, castaway wretch as Barry was, he still felt the
degradation of inaction, when he had such stimulating motives to energy as
unsatisfied rapacity and hatred for his sister: ignorant as he was of the
meaning of the word right, he tried to persuade himself that it would be
wrong in him to yield.

Could he only pluck up sufficient courage to speak his mind to Daly, and
frighten him into compliance with. his wishes, he still felt that he might
be successful that he might, by some legal tactics, at any rate obtain for
himself the management of his sister's property. But this he could not do:
he felt that Daly was his master; and though he still thought that he might
have triumphed had he come sufficiently prepared, that is, with a
considerable quantum of spirits inside him, he knew himself well enough to
be aware that he could do nothing without this assistance; and, alas, he
could not obtain it there. He had great reliance in the efficacy of
whiskey; he would trust much to a large dose of port wine; but with brandy
he considered himself invincible.

He sat biting his lip, trying to think, trying to make up his mind, trying
to gain sufficient self-composure to finish his interview with Daly with
some appearance of resolution and self-confidence, but it was in vain; when
the attorney returned, his face still plainly showed that he was utterly
unresolved, utterly unable to resolve on anything.

'Well, Mr Lynch,' said Daly, 'will you let me spake to Kelly about this, or
would you rather sleep on the matther?'

Barry gave a long sigh 'Wouldn't he give six hundred, Daly? he'd still have
two hundred clear, and think what that'd be for a fellow like him!'

'You must ask him for it yourself then; I'll not propose to him any such
thing. Upon my soul, he'll be a great fool to give the five hundred,
because he's no occasion to meddle with you in the matther at all, at all.
But still I think he may give it; but as for asking for more at any rate I
won't do it; you can do what you like, yourself.'

'And am I to sell the furniture, and everything horses, cattle, and
everything about the place for three hundred pounds?'

'Not unless you like it, you ain't, Mr Lynch; but I'll tell you this if you
can do so, and do do so, it'll be the best bargain you ever made mind, one-
half of it all belongs to your sisther.'

Barry muttered an oath through his ground teeth; he would have liked to
scratch the ashes of his father from their resting-place, and wreak his
vengeance on them, whenever this degrading fact was named to him.

'But I want the money, Daly,' said he: 'I couldn't get afloat unless I had
more than that: I couldn't pay your bill, you know, unless I got a higher
figure down than that. Come, Daly, you must do something for me; you must
do something, you know, to earn the fees,' and he tried to look facetious,
by giving a wretched ghastly grin.

'My bill won't be a long one, Mr Lynch, and you may be shure I'm trying to
make it as short as I can. And as for earning it, whatever you may think, I
can assure you I shall never have got money harder. I've now given you my
best advice; if your mind's not yet made up, perhaps you'll have the
goodness to let me hear from you when it is?' and Daly walked from the fire
towards the door, and placed his hand upon the handle of it.

This was a hint which Barry couldn't misunderstand. 'Well, I'll write to
you,' he said, and passed through the door. He felt, however, that it was
useless to attempt to trust himself to his own judgment, and he turned
back, as Daly passed into his office  'Daly,' he said, 'step out one
minute: I won't keep you a second.' The attorney unwillingly lifted up the
counter, and came out to him. 'Manage it your own way,' said he; 'do
whatever you think best; but you must see that I've been badly
used infernally cruelly treated, and you ought to do the best you can for
me. Here am I, giving away, as I may say, my own property to a young
shopkeeper, and upon my soul you ought to make him pay something for it;
upon my soul you ought, for it's only fair!'

'I've tould you, Mr Lynch, what I'll propose to Martin Kelly; if you don't
think the terms fair, you can propose any others yourself; or you're at
liberty to employ any other agent you please.'

Barry sighed again, but he yielded. He felt broken-hearted, and unhappy,
and he longed to quit a country so distasteful to him, and relatives and
neighbours so ungrateful; he longed in his heart for the sweet, easy haunts
of Boulogne, which he had never known, but of which he had heard many a
glowing description from congenial spirits whom he knew. He had heard
enough of the ways and means of many a leading star in that Elysium, to be
aware that, with five hundred a-year, unembarrassed and punctually paid, he
might shine as a prince indeed. He would go at once to that happy foreign
shore, where the memory of no father would follow him, where the presence
of no sister would degrade and irritate him, where billiard-tables were
rife, and brandy cheap; where virtue was easy, and restraint unnecessary;
where no duties would harass him, no tenants upbraid him, no duns persecute
him. There, carefully guarding himself against the schemes of those less
fortunate followers of pleasure among whom he would be thrown in his social
hours, he would convert every shilling of his income to some purpose of
self-enjoyment, and live a life of luxurious abandonment. And he need not
be altogether idle, he reflected within himself afterwards, as he was
riding home: he felt that he was possessed of sufficient energy and talent
to make himself perfectly master of a pack of cards, to be a proficient
over a billiard-table, and even to get the upper hand of a box of dice.
With such. pursuits left to him, he might yet live to be talked of, feared,
and wealthy; and Barry's utmost ambition would have carried him no further.

As I said before, he yielded to the attorney, and commissioned him fully to
treat with Martin Kelly in the manner proposed by himself. Martin was to
give him five hundred a-year for his share of the property, and three
hundred pounds for the furniture, &c.; and Barry was to give his sister his
written and unconditional assent to her marriage; was to sign any document
which might be necessary as to her settlement, and was then to leave
Dunmore for ever. Daly made him write an authority for making such a
proposal, by which he bound himself to the terms, should they be acceded to
by the other party.

'But you must bear in mind,' added Daly, as his client for the second time
turned from the door, 'that I don't guarantee that Martin Kelly will accept
these terms: it's very likely he may be sharp enough to know that he can
manage as well without you as he can with you. You'll remember that, Mr
Lynch.'

'I will I will, Daly; but look here if he bites freely and I think he will,
and if you find you could get as much as a thousand out of him, or even
eight hundred, you shall have one hundred clear for yourself.'

This was Barry's last piece of diplomacy for that day. Daly vouchsafed him
no answer, but returned into his office, and Barry mounted his horse, and
returned home not altogether ill-pleased with his prospects, but still
regretting that he should have gone about so serious a piece of business,
so utterly unprepared.

These regrets rose stronger, when his after-dinner courage returned to him
as he sate solitary over his fire. 'I should have had him here,' said he to
himself, 'and not gone to that confounded cold hole of his. After all,
there's no place for a cock to fight on like his own dunghill; and there's
nothing able to carry a fellow well through a tough bit of jobation with a
lawyer like a stiff tumbler of brandy punch. It'd have been worth a couple
of hundred to me, to have had him out here impertinent puppy! Well, devil a
halfpenny I'll pay him!' This thought was consolatory, and he began again
to think of Boulogne.




XXI  LORD BALLINDINE AT HOME


Two days after the last recorded interview between Lord Ballindine and his
friend, Dot Blake, the former found himself once more sitting down to
dinner with his mother and sisters, the Honourable Mrs O'Kelly and the
Honourable Misses O'Kelly; at least such were the titular dignities
conferred on them in County Mayo, though I believe, strictly speaking, the
young ladies had no claim to the appellation.

Mrs O'Kelly was a very small woman, with no particularly developed
character, and perhaps of no very general utility. She was fond of her
daughters, and more than fond of her son, partly because he was so tall and
so handsome, and partly because he was the lord, the head of the family,
and the owner of the house. She was, on the whole, a good-natured person,
though perhaps her temper was a little soured by her husband having, very
unfairly, died before he had given her a right to call herself Lady
Ballindine. She was naturally shy and reserved, and the seclusion of
O'Kelly's Court did not tend to make her less so; but she felt that the
position and rank of her son required her to be dignified; and
consequently, when in society, she somewhat ridiculously aggravated her
natural timidity with an assumed rigidity of demeanour. She was, however, a
good woman, striving, with small means, to do the best for her family;
prudent and self-denying, and very diligent in looking after the house
servants.

Her two daughters had been, at the instance of their grandfather, the
courtier, christened Augusta and Sophia, after the two Princesses of that
name, and were now called Guss and Sophy: they were both pretty, good-
natured girls one with dark brown and the other light brown hair: they both
played the harp badly, sung tolerably, danced well, and were very fond of
nice young men. They both thought Kelly's Court rather dull; but then they
had known nothing better since they had grown up, and there were some
tolerably nice people not very far off, whom they occasionally saw: there
were the Dillons, of Ballyhaunis, who had three thousand a-year, and spent
six; they were really a delightful family three daughters and four sons,
all unmarried, and up to anything: the sons all hunted, shot, danced, and
did everything that they ought to do at least in the eyes of young ladies;
though some of their more coldly prudent acquaintances expressed an opinion
that it would be as well if the three younger would think of doing
something for themselves; but they looked so manly and handsome when they
breakfasted at Kelly's Court on a hunt morning, with their bright tops, red
coats, and hunting-caps, that Guss and Sophy, and a great many others,
thought it would be a shame to interrupt them in their career. And then,
Ballyhaunis was only eight miles from Kelly's Court; though they were Irish
miles, it is true, and the road was not patronised by the Grand Jury; but
the distance was only eight miles, and there were always beds for them when
they went to dinner at Peter Dillon's. Then there were the Blakes of
Castletown. To be sure they could give no parties, for they were both
unmarried; but they were none the worse for that, and they had plenty of
horses, and went out everywhere. And the Blakes of Morristown; they also
were very nice people; only unfortunately, old Blake was always on his
keeping, and couldn't show himself out of doors except on Sundays, for fear
of the bailiffs. And the Browns of Mount Dillon, and the Browns of Castle
Brown; and General Bourke of Creamstown. All these families lived within
fifteen or sixteen miles of Kelly's Court, and prevented the O'Kellys from
feeling themselves quite isolated from the social world. Their nearest
neighbours, however, were the Armstrongs, and of them they saw a great
deal.

The Reverend Joseph Armstrong was rector of Ballindine, and Mrs O'Kelly was
his parishioner, and the only Protestant one he had; and, as Mr Armstrong
did not like to see his church quite deserted, and as Mrs O'Kelly was, as
she flattered herself, a very fervent Protestant, they were all in all to
each other.

Ballindine was not a good living, and Mr Armstrong had a very large family;
he was, therefore, a poor man. His children were helpless, uneducated, and
improvident; his wife was nearly worn out with the labours of bringing them
forth and afterwards catering for them and a great portion of his own life
was taken up in a hard battle with tradesmen and tithe-payers, creditors,
and debtors. Yet, in spite of the insufficiency of his two hundred a-year
to meet all or half his wants, Mr Armstrong was not an unhappy man. At any
moment of social enjoyment he forgot all his cares and poverty, and was
always the first to laugh, and the last to cease to do so. He never refused
an invitation to dinner, and if he did not entertain many in his own house,
it was his fortune, and not his heart, that prevented him from doing so. He
could hardly be called a good clergyman, and yet his remissness was not so
much his own fault as that of circumstances. How could a Protestant rector
be a good parish clergyman, with but one old lady and her daughters, for
the exercise of his clerical energies and talents? He constantly lauded the
zeal of St. Paul for proselytism; but, as he himself once observed, even
St. Paul had never had to deal with the obstinacy of an Irish Roman
Catholic. He often regretted the want of work, and grieved that his
profession, as far as he saw and had been instructed, required nothing of
him but a short service on every Sunday morning, and the celebration of the
Eucharist four times a-year; but such were the facts; and the idleness
which this want of work engendered, and the habits which his poverty
induced, had given him a character as a clergyman, very different from that
which the high feelings and strict principles which animated him at his
ordination would have seemed to ensure. He was, in fact, a loose, slovenly
man, somewhat too fond of his tumbler of punch; a little lax, perhaps, as
to clerical discipline, but very staunch as to doctrine. He possessed no
industry or energy of any kind; but he was good-natured and charitable,
lived on friendly terms with all his neighbours, and was intimate with
every one that dwelt within ten miles of him, priest and parson, lord and
commoner.

Such was the neighbourhood of Kelly's Court, and among such Lord Ballindine
had now made up his mind to remain a while, till circumstances should
decide what further steps he should take with regard to Fanny Wyndham.
There were a few hunting days left in the season, which he intended to
enjoy; and then he must manage to make shift to lull the time with
shooting, fishing, farming, and nursing his horses and dogs.

His mother and sisters had heard nothing of the rumour of the quarrel
between Frank and Fanny, which Mat Tierney had so openly alluded to at
Handicap Lodge; and he was rather put out by their eager questions on the
subject. Nothing was said about it till the servant withdrew, after dinner,
but the three ladies were too anxious for information to delay their
curiosity any longer.

'Well, Frank,' said the elder sister, who was sitting over the fire, close
to his left elbow (he had a bottle of claret at his right) 'well, Frank, do
tell us something about Fanny Wyndham; we are so longing to hear; and you
never will write, you know.'

'Everybody says it's a brilliant match,' said the mother. 'They say here
she's forty thousand pounds: I'm sure I hope she has, Frank.'

'But when is it to be?' said Sophy. 'She's of age now, isn't she? and I
thought you were only waiting for that. I'm sure we shall like her; come,
Frank, do tell us when are we to see Lady Ballindine?'

Frank looked rather serious and embarrassed, but did not immediately make
any reply.

'You haven't quarrelled, have you, Frank?' said the mother.

'The match isn't off is it?' said Guss.

'Miss Wyndham has just lost her only brother,' said he; 'he died quite
suddenly in London about ten days since; she was very much attached to
him.'

'Good gracious, how shocking!' said Sophy.

'I'm sorry,' said Guss.

'Why, Frank,' said their mother, now excited into absolute animation; 'his
fortune was more than double hers, wasn't it? who'll have it now?'

'It was, mother; five times as much as hers, I believe.'

'Gracious powers! and who has it now? Why don't you tell me, Frank?'

'His sister Fanny.'

'Heavens and earth I hope you're not going to let her quarrel with you, are
you? Has there been anything between you? Have there been any words between
you and Lord Cashel? Why don't you tell me, Frank, when you know how
anxious I am?'

'If you must know all about it, I have not had any words, as you call them,
with Fanny Wyndham; but I have with her guardian. He thinks a hundred and
twenty thousand pounds much too great a fortune for a Connaught viscount.
However, I don't think so. It will be for time to show what Fanny thinks.
Meanwhile, the less said about it the better; remember that, girls, will
you?'

'Oh, we will we won't say a word about it; but she'll never change her mind
because of her money, will she?'

'That's what would make me love a man twice the more,' said Guss; 'or at
any rate show it twice the stronger.'

'Frank,' said the anxious mother, 'for heaven's sake don't let anything
stand between you and Lord Cashel; think what a thing it is you'd lose!
Why; it'd pay all the debts, and leave the property worth twice what it
ever was before. If Lord Cashel thinks you ought to give up the hounds, do
it at once, Frank; anything rather than quarrel with him. You could get
them again, you know, when all's settled.'

'I've given up quite as much as I intend for Lord Cashel.'

'Now, Frank, don't be a fool, or you'll repent it all your life: what does
it signify how much you give up to such a man as Lord Cashel? You don't
think, do you, that he objects to our being at Kelly's Court? Because I'm
sure we wouldn't stay a moment if we thought that.'

'Mother, I wouldn't part with a cur dog out of the place to please Lord
Cashel. But if I were to do everything on earth at his beck and will, it
would make no difference: he will never let me marry Fanny Wyndham if he
can help it; but, thank God, I don't believe he can.'

'I hope not I hope not. You'll never see half such a fortune again.'

'Well, mother, say nothing about it one way or the other, to anybody. And
as you now know how the matter stands, it's no good any of us talking more
about it till I've settled what I mean to do myself.'

'I shall hate her,' said Sophy, 'if her getting all her brother's money
changes her; but I'm sure it won't.' And so the conversation ended.

Lord Ballindine had not rested in his paternal halls the second night,
before he had commenced making arrangements for a hunt breakfast, by way of
letting all his friends know that he was again among them. And so missives,
in Guss and Sophy's handwriting, were sent round by a bare-legged little
boy, to all the Mounts, Towns, and Castles, belonging to the Dillons,
Blakes, Bourkes, and Browns of the neighbourhood, to tell them that the
dogs would draw the Kelly's Court covers at eleven o'clock on the following
Tuesday morning, and that the preparatory breakfast would be on the table
at ten. This was welcome news to the whole neighbourhood. It was only on
the Sunday evening that the sportsmen got the intimation, and very busy
most of them were on the following Monday to see that their nags and
breeches were all right fit to work and fit to be seen. The four Dillons,
of Ballyhaunis, gave out to their grooms a large assortment of pipe-clay
and putty-powder. Bingham Blake, of Castletown, ordered a new set of girths
to his hunting saddle; and his brother Jerry, who was in no slight degree
proud of his legs, but whose nether trappings were rather the worse from
the constant work of a heavy season, went so far as to go forth very early
on the Monday morning to excite the Ballinrobe tailor to undertake the
almost impossible task of completing him a pair of doeskin by the Tuesday
morning. The work was done, and the breeches home at Castletown by
eight though the doeskin had to be purchased in Tuam, and an assistant
artist taken away from his mother's wake, to sit up all night over the
seams. But then the tailor owed a small trifle of arrear of rent for his
potato-garden, and his landlord was Jerry Blake's cousin german. There's
nothing carries one further than a good connexion, thought both Jerry and
the tailor when the job was finished.

Among the other invitations sent was one to Martin Kelly not exactly worded
like the others, for though Lord Ballindine was perhaps more anxious to see
him than anyone else, Martin had not yet got quite so high in the ladder of
life as to be asked to breakfast at Kelly's Court. But the fact that Frank
for a moment thought of asking him showed that he was looking upwards in
the world's estimation. Frank wrote him a note himself, saying that the
hounds would throw off at Kelly's Court, at eleven; that, if he would ride
over, he would be sure to see a good hunt, and that he, Lord Ballindine,
had a few words to say to him on business, just while the dogs were being
put into the cover. Martin, as usual, had a good horse which he was
disposed to sell, if, as he said, he got its value; and wrote to say he
would wait on Lord Ballindine at eleven. The truth was, Frank wanted to
borrow money from him.

Another note was sent to the Glebe, requesting the Rector to come to
breakfast and to look at the hounds being thrown off. The modest style of
the invitation was considered as due to Mr Armstrong's clerical position,
but was hardly rendered necessary by his habits; for though the parson
attended such meetings in an old suit of rusty black, and rode an equally
rusty-looking pony, he was always to be seen, at the end of the day, among
those who were left around the dogs.

On the Tuesday morning there was a good deal of bustle at Kelly's Court.
All the boys about the place were collected in front of the house, to walk
the gentlemen's horses about while the riders were at breakfast, and earn a
sixpence or a fourpenny bit; and among them, sitting idly on the big
steppingstone placed near the door, was Jack the fool, who, for the day,
seemed to have deserted the service of Barry Lynch.

And now the red-coats flocked up to the door, and it was laughable to see
the knowledge of character displayed by the gossoons in the selection of
their customers. One or two, who were known to be 'bad pays,' were allowed
to dismount without molestation of any kind, and could not even part with
their steeds till they had come to an absolute bargain as to the amount of
gratuity to be given. Lambert Brown was one of these unfortunate
characters a younger brother who had a little, and but a very little money,
and who was determined to keep that. He was a miserable hanger-on at his
brother's house, without profession or prospects; greedy, stingy, and
disagreeable; endowed with a squint, and long lank light-coloured hair: he
was a bad horseman, always craning and shirking in the field, boasting and
lying after dinner; nevertheless, he was invited and endured because he was
one of the Browns of Mount Dillon, cousin to the Browns of Castle Brown,
nephew to Mrs Dillon the member's wife, and third cousin of Lord
Ballaghaderrin.

He dismounted in the gravel circle before the door, and looked round for
someone to take his horse; but none of the urchins would come to him. At
last he caught hold of a little ragged boy whom he knew, from his own side
of the country, and who had come all the way there, eight long Irish miles,
on the chance of earning sixpence and seeing a hunt.

'Here, Patsy, come here, you born little divil,' and he laid hold of the
arm of the brat, who was trying to escape from him come and hold my horse
for me and I'll not forget you.'

'Shure, yer honer, Mr Lambert, I can't thin, for I'm afther engaging myself
this blessed minute to Mr Larry Dillon, only he's jist trotted round to the
stables to spake a word to Mick Keogh.'

'Don't be lying, you little blackguard; hould the horse, and don't stir out
of that.'

'Shure how can I, Mr Lambert, when I've been and guy my word to Mr Larry?'
and the little fellow put his hands behind him, that he might not be forced
to take hold of the reins.

'Don't talk to me, you young imp, but take the horse. I'll not forget you
when I come out. What's the matter with you, you fool; d'ye think I'd tell
you a lie about it?'

Patsy evidently thought he would; for though he took the horse almost upon
compulsion, he whimpered as he did so, and said:

'Shure, Mr Lambert, would you go and rob a poor boy of his chances? I
come'd all the way from Ballyglass this blessed morning to 'arn a tizzy,
and av' I doesn't get it from you this turn, I'll ' But Lambert Brown had
gone into the house, and on his return after breakfast he fully justified
the lad's suspicion, for he again promised him that he wouldn't forget him,
and that he'd see him some day at Mr Dillon's.

'Well, Lambert Brown,' said the boy, as that worthy gentleman rode off,
'it's you're the raal blackguard and it's well all the counthry knows you:
sorrow be your bed this night; it's little the poor'll grieve for you, when
you're stretched, or the rich either, for the matther of that.'

Very different was the reception Bingham Blake got, as he drove up with his
tandem and tax-cart: half-a-dozen had kept themselves idle, each in the
hope of being the lucky individual to come in for Bingham's shilling.

'Och, Mr Bingham, shure I'm first,' roared one fellow.

But the first, as he styled himself, was soon knocked down under the wheels
of the cart by the others.

'Mr Blake, thin Mr Blake, darlint doesn't ye remimber the promise you guy
me?'

'Mr Jerry, Mr Jerry, avick,' this was addressed to the brother 'spake a
word for me; do, yer honour; shure it was I come all the way from Teddy
Mahony's with the breeches this morning, God bless 'em, and the fine legs
as is in 'em.'

But they were all balked, for Blake had his servant there.

'Get out, you blackguards!' said he, raising his tandem whip, as if to
strike them. 'Get out, you robbers! Are you going to take the cart and
horses clean away from me? That mare'll settle some of ye, if you make so
free with her! she's not a bit too chary of her hind feet. Get out of that,
I tell you;' and he lightly struck with the point of his whip the boy who
had Lambert Brown's horse.

'Ah, Mr Bingham,' said, the boy, pretending to rub the part very hard, 'you
owe me one for that, anyhow, and it's you are the good mark for it, God
bless you.'

'Faix,' said another, 'one blow from your honour is worth two promises from
Lambert Brown, any way.'

There was a great laugh at this among the ragged crew, for Lambert Brown
was still standing on the doorsteps: when he heard this sally, however, he
walked in, and the different red-coats and top-boots were not long in
crowding after him.

Lord Ballindine received them in the same costume, and very glad they all
seemed to see him again. When an Irish gentleman is popular in his
neighbourhood, nothing can exceed the real devotion paid to him; and when
that gentleman is a master of hounds, and does not require a subscription,
he is more than ever so.

'Welcome back, Ballindine better late than never; but why did you stay away
so long?' said General Bourke, an old gentleman with long, thin, flowing
grey hairs, waving beneath his broad-brimmed felt hunting-hat. 'You're not
getting so fond of the turf, I hope, as to be giving up the field for it?
Give me the sport where I can ride my own horse myself; not where I must
pay a young rascal for doing it for me, and robbing me into the bargain,
most likely.'

'Quite right, General,' said Frank; 'so you see I've given up the Curragh,
and come down to the dogs again.'

'Yes, but you've waited too long, man; the dogs have nearly done their work
for this year. I'm sorry for it; the last day of the season is the worst
day in the year to me. I'm ill for a week after it.'

'Well, General, please the pigs, we'll be in great tune next October. I've
as fine a set of puppies to enter as there is in Ireland, let alone
Connaught. You must come down, and tell me what you think of them.'

'Next October's all very well for you young fellows, but I'm seventy-eight.
I always make up my mind that I'll never turn out another season, and it'll
be true for me this year. I'm hunting over sixty years, Ballindine, in
these three counties. I ought to have had enough of it by this time, you'll
say.'

'I'll bet you ten pounds,' said Bingham Blake, 'that you hunt after
eighty.'

'Done with you Bingham,' said the General, and the bet was booked.

General Bourke was an old soldier, who told the truth in saying that he had
hunted over the same ground sixty years ago. But he had not been at it ever
since, for he had in the meantime seen a great deal of hard active service,
and obtained high military reputation. But he had again taken kindly to the
national sport of his country, on returning to his own estate at the close
of the Peninsular War; and had ever since attended the meets twice a week
through every winter, with fewer exceptions than any other member of the
hunt. He always wore top-boots of the ancient cut, with deep painted tops
and square toes, drawn tight up over the calf of his leg; a pair of most
capacious dark-coloured leather breeches, the origin of which was unknown
to any other present member of the hunt, and a red frock coat, very much
soiled by weather, water, and wear. The General was a rich man, and
therefore always had a horse to suit him. On the present occasion, he was
riding a strong brown beast, called Parsimony, that would climb over
anything, and creep down the gable end of a house if he were required to do
so. He was got by Economy; those who know county Mayo know the breed well.

They were now all crowded into the large dining-room at Kelly's Court;
about five-and-twenty redcoats, and Mr Armstrong's rusty black. In spite of
his shabby appearance, however, and the fact that the greater number of
those around him were Roman Catholics, he seemed to be very popular with
the lot; and his opinion on the important subject of its being a scenting
morning was asked with as much confidence in his judgment, as though the
foxes of the country were peculiarly subject to episcopalian jurisdiction.

'Well, then, Peter,' said he, 'the wind's in the right quarter. Mick says
there's a strong dog-fox in the long bit of gorse behind the firs; if he
breaks from that he must run towards Ballintubber, and when you're once
over the meering into Roscommon, there's not an acre of tilled land, unless
a herd's garden, between that and the deuce knows where all further than
most of you'll like to ride, I take it.'

'How far'll you go yourself, Armstrong? Faith, I believe it's few of the
crack nags'll beat the old black pony at a long day.'

'Is it I?' said the Parson, innocently. 'As soon as I've heard the dogs
give tongue, and seen them well on their game, I'll go home. I've land
ploughing, and I must look after that. But, as I was saying, if the fox
breaks well away from the gorse, you'll have the best run you've seen this
season; but if he dodges back into the plantation, you'll have enough to do
to make him break at all; and when he does, he'll go away towards
Ballyhaunis, through as cross a country as ever a horse put a shoe into.'

And having uttered this scientific prediction, which was listened to with
the greatest deference by Peter Dillon, the Rev. Joseph Armstrong turned
his attention to the ham and tea.

The three ladies were all smiles to meet their guests; Mrs O'Kelly, dressed
in a piece of satin turk, came forward to shake hands with the General, but
Sophy and Guss kept their positions, beneath the coffee-pot and tea-urn, at
each end of the long table, being very properly of opinion that it was the
duty of the younger part of the community to come forward, and make their
overtures to them. Bingham Blake, the cynosure on whom the eyes of the
beauty of county Mayo were most generally placed, soon found his seat
beside Guss, rather to Sophy's mortification; but Sophy was good-natured,
and when Peter Dillon placed himself at her right hand, she was quite
happy, though Peter's father was still alive, and Bingham's had been dead
this many a year and Castletown much in want of a mistress.

'Now, Miss O'Kelly,' said Bingham, 'do let me manage the coffee-pot; the
cream-jug and sugar-tongs will be quite enough for your energies.'

'Indeed and I won't, Mr Blake; you're a great deal too awkward, and a great
deal too hungry. The last hunt-morning you breakfasted here you threw the
coffee-grouts into the sugar-basin, when I let you help me.'

'To think of your remembering that! but I'm improved since then. I've been
taking lessons with my old aunt at Castlebar.'

'You don't mean you've really been staying with Lady Sarah?'

'Oh, but I have, though. I was there three days; made tea every night;
washed the poodle every morning, and clear-starched her Sunday pelerine,
with my own hands on Saturday evening.'

'Oh, what a useful animal! What a husband you'll make, when you're a little
more improved!'

'Shan't I? As you're so fond of accomplishments, perhaps you'll take me
yourself by-and-by?'

'Why, as you're so useful, maybe I may.'

'Well, Lambert,' said Lord Ballindine, across the table, to the stingy
gentleman with the squint, 'are you going to ride hard today?'

'I'll go bail I'm not much behind, my lord,' said Lambert; 'if the dogs go,
I'll follow.'

'I'll bet you a crown, Lambert,' said his cousin, young Brown of Mount
Brown, 'the dogs kill, and you don't see them do it.'

'Oh, that may be, and yet I mayn't be much behind.'

'I'll bet you're not in the next field to them.'

'Maybe you'll not be within ten fields yourself.'

'Come, Lambert, I'll tell you what we'll ride together, and I'll bet you a
crown I pound you before you're over three leaps.'

'Ah, now, take it easy with yourself,' said Lambert; 'there are others ride
better than you.'

'But no one better than yourself; is that it, eh?'

'Well, Jerry, how do the new articles fit?' said Nicholas Dillon.

'Pretty well, thank you: they'd be a deal more comfortable though, if you'd
pay for them.'

'Did you hear, Miss O'Kelly, what Jerry Blake did yesterday?' said Nicholas
Dillon aloud, across the table.

'Indeed, I did not,' said Guss 'but I hope, for the sake of the Blakes in
general, he didn't do anything much amiss?'

'I'll tell you then,' continued Nicholas. 'A portion of his ould hunting-
dress I'll not specify what, you know but a portion, which he'd been
wearing since the last election, were too shabby to show: well, he couldn't
catch a hedge tailor far or near, only poor lame Andy Oulahan, who was
burying his wife, rest her sowl, the very moment Jerry got a howld of him.
Well, Jerry was wild that the tailors were so scarce, so he laid his hands
on Andy, dragged him away from the corpse and all the illigant
enthertainment of the funeral, and never let him out of sight till he'd put
on the last button.'

'Oh, Mr Blake!' said Guss, 'you did not take the man away from his dead
wife?'

'Indeed I did not, Miss O'Kelly: Andy'd no such good chance; his wife's to
the fore this day, worse luck for him. It was only his mother he was
burying.'

'But you didn't take him away from his mother's funeral?'

'Oh, I did it according to law, you know. I got Bingham to give me a
warrant first, before I let the policeman lay a hand on him.'

'Now, General, you've really made no breakfast at all,' said the hospitable
hostess: 'do let Guss give you a hot cup of coffee.'

'Not a drop more, Mrs O'Kelly. I've done more than well; but, if you'll
allow me, I'll just take a crust of bread in my pocket.'

'And what would you do that for? you'll be coming back to lunch, you know.'

'Is it lunch, Mrs O'Kelly, pray don't think of troubling yourself to have
lunch on the table. Maybe we'll be a deal nearer Creamstown than Kelly's
Court at lunch time. But it's quite time we were off. As for Bingham Blake,
from the look of him, he's going to stay here with your daughter Augusta
all the morning.'

'I believe then he'd much sooner be with the dogs, General, than losing his
time with her.'

'Are you going to move at all, Ballindine,' said the impatient old
sportsman. 'Do you know what time it is? it'll be twelve o'clock before you
have the dogs in the cover.'

'Very good time, too, General: men must eat, you know, and the fox won't
stir till we move him. But come, gentlemen, you seem to be dropping your
knives and forks. Suppose we get into our saddles?'

And again the red-coats sallied out. Bingham gave Guss a tender squeeze,
which she all but returned, as she bade him take care and not go and kill
himself. Peter Dillon stayed to have a few last words with Sophy, and to
impress upon her his sister Nora's message, that she and her sister were to
be sure to come over on Friday to Ballyhaunis, and spend the night there.

'We will, if we're let, tell Nora,' said Sophy; 'but now Frank's at home,
we must mind him, you know.

'Make him bring you over: there'll be a bed for him; the old house is big
enough, heaven knows.'

'Indeed it is. Well, I'll do my best; but tell Nora to be sure and get the
fiddler from Hollymount. It's so stupid for her to be sitting there at the
piano while we're dancing.'

'I'll manage that; only do you bring Frank to dance with her,' and another
tender squeeze was given and Peter hurried out to the horses.

And now they were all gone but the Parson. 'Mrs O'Kelly,' said he, 'Mrs
Armstrong wants a favour from you. Poor Minny's very bad with her throat;
she didn't get a wink of sleep last night.'

'Dear me poor thing; Can I send her anything?'

'If you could let them have a little black currant jelly, Mrs Armstrong
would be so thankful. She has so much to think of, and is so weak herself,
poor thing, she hasn't time to make those things.'

'Indeed I will, Mr Armstrong. I'll send it down this morning; and a little
calf's foot jelly won't hurt her. It is in the house, and Mrs Armstrong
mightn't be able to get the feet, you know. Give them my love, and if I can
get out at all tomorrow, I'll go and see them.'

And so the Parson, having completed his domestic embassy for the benefit of
his sick little girl, followed the others, keen for the hunt; and the three
ladies were left alone, to see the plate and china put away.




XXII  THE HUNT


Though the majority of those who were in the habit of hunting with the
Kelly's Court hounds had been at the breakfast, here were still a
considerable number of horsemen waiting on the lawn in front of the house,
when Frank and his friends sallied forth. The dogs were collected round the
huntsman, behaving themselves, for the most part, with admirable propriety;
an occasional yelp from a young hound would now and then prove that the
whipper had his eye on them, and would not allow rambling; but the old dogs
sat demurely on their haunches, waiting the well-known signal for action.
There they sat, as grave as so many senators, with their large heads
raised, their heavy lips hanging from each side of their jaws, and their
deep, strong chests expanded so as to show fully their bone, muscle, and
breeding.

Among the men who had arrived on the lawn during, breakfast were two who
certainly had not come together, and who had not spoken since they had been
there. They were Martin Kelly and Barry Lynch. Martin was dressed just as
usual, except that he had on a pair of spurs, but Barry was armed cap-a-
pie. Some time before his father's death he had supplied himself with all
the fashionable requisites for the field not because he was fond of
hunting, for he was not but in order to prove himself as much a gentleman
as other people. He had been out twice this year, but had felt very
miserable, for no one spoke to him, and he had gone home, on both
occasions, early in the day; but he had now made up his mind that he would
show himself to his old schoolfellow in his new character as an independent
country gentleman; and what was more, he was determined that Lord
Ballindine should not cut him.

He very soon had an opportunity for effecting his purpose, for the moment
that Frank got on his horse, he unintentionally rode close up to him.

'How d'ye do, my lord? I hope I see your lordship well?' said Barry, with a
clumsy attempt at ease and familiarity. 'I'm glad to find your lordship in
the field before the season's over.'


'Good morning, Mr Lynch,' said Frank, and was turning away from him, when,
remembering that he must have come from Dunmore, he asked, 'did you see
Martin Kelly anywhere?'

'Can't say I did, my lord,' said Barry, and he turned away completely
silenced, and out of countenance.

Martin had been talking to the huntsman, and criticizing the hounds. He
knew every dog's name, character, and capabilities, and also every horse in
Lord Ballindine's stable, and was consequently held in great respect by
Mick Keogh and his crew.

And now the business began. 'Mick,' said the lord, 'we'll take them down to
the young plantation, and bring them back through the firs and so into the
gorse. If the lad's lying there, we must hit him that way.'

'That's thrue for yer honer, my lord;' and he started off with his obedient
family.

'You're wrong, Ballindine,' said the Parson; 'for you'll drive him up into
the big plantation, and you'll be all day before you make him break; and
ten to one they'll chop him in the cover.'

'Would you put them into the gorse at once then?'

'Take 'em gently through the firs; maybe he's lying out and down into the
gorse, and then, if he's there, he must go away, and into a tip-top country
too miles upon miles of pasture right away to Ballintubber,'

'That's thrue, too, my lord: let his Rivirence alone for understandhing a
fox,' said Mick, with a wink.

The Parson's behests were obeyed. The hounds followed Mick into the
plantation, and were followed by two or three of the more eager of the
party, who did not object to receiving wet boughs in their laces, or who
delighted in riding for half an hour with their heads bowed close down over
their saddle-bows. The rest remained with the whipper, outside.

'Stay a moment here, Martin,' said Lord Ballindine. They can't get away
without our seeing them, and I want to speak a few words to you.'

'And I want particularly to spake to your lordship,' said Martin; 'and
there's no fear of the fox! I never knew a fox lie in those firs yet.'

'Nor I either, but you see the Parson would have his way. I suppose, if the
priest were out, and he told you to run the dogs through the gooseberry-
bushes, you'd do it?'

'I'm blessed if I would, my lord! Every man to his trade. Not but what Mr
Armstrong knows pretty well what he's about.'

'Well but, Martin, I'll tell you what I want of you. I want a little money,
without bothering those fellows up in Dublin; and I believe you could let
me have it; at any rate, you and your mother together. Those fellows at
Guinness's are stiff about it, and I want three hundred pounds, without
absolutely telling them that they must give it me I'd give you my bill for
the amount at twelve months, and, allow you six per cent.; but then I want
it immediately. Can you let me have it?'

'Why, my lord,' said Martin, after pausing awhile and looking very
contemplative during the time, 'I certainly have the money; that is, I and
mother together; but '

'Oh, if you've any doubt about it or if it puts you out, don't do it.'

'Divil a doubt on 'arth, my lord; but I'll tell you I was just going to ask
your lordship's advice about laying out the same sum in another way, and I
don't think I could raise twice that much.'

'Very well, Martin; if you've anything better to do with your money, I'm
sure I'd be sorry to take it from you.'

'That's jist it, my lord. I don't think I can do betther but I want your
advice about it.'

'My advice whether you ought to lend me three hundred pounds or not! Why,
Martin, you're a fool. I wouldn't ask you to lend it me, if I thought you
oughtn't to lend it.'

'Oh I'm certain sure of that, my lord; but there's an offer made me, that
I'd like to have your lordship's mind about. It's not much to my liking,
though; and I think it'll be betther for me to be giving you the money,'
and then Martin told his landlord the offer which had been made to him by
Daly, on the part of Barry Lynch. 'You see, my lord,' he concluded by
saying, 'it'd be a great thing to be shut of Barry entirely out of the
counthry, and to have poor Anty's mind at ase about it, should she iver
live to get betther; but thin, I don't like to have dailings with the
divil, or any one so much of his colour as Barry Lynch.'

'This is a very grave matter, Martin, and takes some little time to think
about. To tell the truth, I forgot your matrimonial speculation when I
asked for the money. Though I want the cash, I think you should keep it in
your power to close with Barry: no, you'd better keep the money by you.'

'After all, the ould woman could let me have it on the security of the
house, you know, av' I did take up with the offer. So, any way, your
lordship needn't be balked about the cash.'

'But is Miss Lynch so very ill, Martin?'

''Deed, and she is, Mr Frank; very bad intirely. Doctor Colligan was with
her three times yestherday.'

'And does Barry take any notice of her now she's ill?'

'Why, not yet he didn't; but then, we kept it from him as much as we could,
till it got dangerous like. Mother manes to send Colligan to him today, av'
he thinks she's not betther.'

'If she were to die, Martin, there'd be an end of it all, wouldn't there?'

'Oh, in course there would, my lord' and then he added, with a sigh, 'I'd
be sorry she'd die, for, somehow, I'm very fond of her, quare as it'll seem
to you. I'd be very sorry she should die.'

'Of course you would, Martin; and it doesn't seem queer at all.'

'Oh, I wasn't thinking about the money, then, my lord; I was only thinking
of Anty herself: you don't know what a good young woman she is it's
anything but herself she's thinking of always.'

'Did she make any will?'

"Deed she didn't, my lord: nor won't, it's my mind.'

'Ah! but she should, after all that you and your mother've gone through.
It'd be a thousand pities that wretch Barry got all the property again.'

'He's wilcome to it for the Kellys, av' Anty dies. But av' she lives he
shall niver rob a penny from her. Oh, my lord! we wouldn't put sich a thing
as a will into her head, and she so bad, for all the money the ould man
their father iver had. But, hark! my lord that's Gaylass, I know the note
well, and she's as true as gould: there's the fox there, just inside the
gorse, as the Parson said' and away they both trotted, to the bottom of the
plantation, from whence the cheering sound of the dog's voices came, sharp,
sweet, and mellow.

Yes; the Parson was as right as if he had been let into the fox's
confidence overnight, and had betrayed it in the morning. Gaylass was
hardly in the gorse before she discovered the doomed brute's vicinity, and
told of it to the whole canine confraternity. Away from his hiding-place he
went, towards the open country, but immediately returned into the covert,
for he saw a lot of boys before him, who had assembled with the object of
looking at the hunt, but with the very probable effect of spoiling it; for,
as much as a fox hates a dog, he fears the human race more, and will run
from an urchin with a stick into the jaws of his much more fatal enemy.

'As long as them blackguards is there, a hollowing, and a screeching, divil
a fox in all Ireland'd go out of this,' said Mick to his master.

'Ah, boys,' said Frank, riding up, 'if you want to see a hunt, will you
keep back!'

'Begorra we will, yer honer,' said one.

'Faix we wouldn't be afther spiling your honer's divarsion, my lord, on no
account,' said another.

'We'll be out o' this althogether, now this blessed minute,' said a third,
but still there they remained, each loudly endeavouring to banish the
others.

At last, however, the fox saw a fair course before him, and away he went;
and with very little start, for the dogs followed him out of the covert
almost with a view.

And now the men settled themselves to the work, and began to strive for the
pride of place, at least the younger portion of them: for in every field
there are two classes of men. Those, who go out to get the greatest
possible quantity of riding, and those whose object is to get the least.
Those who go to work their nags, and those who go to spare them. The former
think that the excellence of the hunt depends on the horses; the latter, on
the dogs. The former go to act, and the latter to see. And it is very
generally the case that the least active part of the community know the
most about the sport.

They, the less active part above alluded to, know every high-road and bye-
road; they consult the wind, and calculate that a fox won't run with his
nose against it; they remember this stream and this bog, and avoid them;
they are often at the top of eminences, and only descend when they see
which way the dogs are going; they take short cuts, and lay themselves out
for narrow lanes; they dislike galloping, and eschew leaping; and yet, when
a hard-riding man is bringing up his two hundred guinea hunter, a minute or
two late for the finish, covered with foam, trembling with his exertion,
not a breath left in him he'll probably find one of these steady fellows
there before him, mounted on a broken-down screw, but as cool and as fresh
as when he was brought out of the stable; and what is, perhaps, still more
amazing, at the end of the day, when the hunt is canvassed after dinner,
our dashing friend, who is in great doubt whether his thoroughbred
steeplechaser will ever recover his day's work, and who has been personally
administering warm mashes and bandages before he would venture to take his
own boots off, finds he does not know half as much about the hunt, or can
tell half as correctly where the game went, as our, quiet-going friend,
whose hack will probably go out on the following morning under the car,
with the mistress and children. Such a one was Parson Armstrong; and when
Lord Ballindine and most of the others went away after the hounds, he
coolly turned round in a different direction, crept through a broken wall
into a peasant's garden, and over a dunghill, by the cabin door into a
road, and then trotted along as demurely and leisurely as though he were
going to bury an old woman in the next parish.

Frank was, generally speaking, as good-natured a man as is often met, but
even he got excited and irritable when hunting his own pack. All masters of
hounds do. Some one was always too forward, another too near the dogs, a
third interfering with the servants, and a fourth making too much noise.

'Confound it, Peter,' he said, when they had gone over a field or two, and
the dogs missed the scent for a moment, 'I thought at any rate you knew
better than to cross the dogs that way.'

'Who crossed the dogs?' said the other 'what nonsense you're talking: why I
wasn't out of the potato-field till they were nearly all at the next wall.'

'Well, it may be nonsense,' continued Frank; 'but when I see a man riding
right through the hounds, and they hunting, I call that crossing them.'

'Hoicks! Tally' hollowed some one 'there's Graceful has it again well done,
Granger! Faith, Frank, that's a good dog! if he's not first, he's always
second.'

'Now, gentlemen, steady, for heaven's sake. Do let the dogs settle to their
work before you're a-top of them. Upon my soul, Nicholas Brown, it's
ridiculous to see you!'

'It'd be a good thing if he were half as much in a hurry to get to heaven,'
said Bingham Blake.

'Thank'ee,' said Nicholas; 'go to heaven yourself. I'm well enough where I
am.'

And now they were off again. In the next field the whole pack caught a view
of the fox just as he was stealing out; and after him they went, with their
noses well above the ground, their voices loud and clear, and in one bevy.

Away they went: the game was strong; the scent was good; the ground was
soft, but not too soft; and a magnificent hunt they had; but there were
some misfortunes shortly after getting away. Barry Lynch, wishing, in his
ignorance, to lead and show himself off, and not knowing how scurrying
along among the dogs, and bothered at every leap, had given great offence
to Lord Ballindine. But, not wishing to speak severely to a man whom he
would not under any circumstances address in a friendly way, he talked at
him, and endeavoured to bring him to order by blowing up others in his
hearing. But this was thrown away on Barry, and he continued his career in
a most disgusting manner; scrambling through gaps together with the dogs,
crossing other men without the slightest reserve, annoying every one, and
evidently pluming himself on his performance. Frank's brow was getting
blacker and blacker. Jerry Blake and young Brown were greatly amusing
themselves at the exhibition, and every now and then gave him a word or two
of encouragement, praising his mare, telling how well he got over that last
fence, and bidding him mind and keep well forward. This was all new to
Barry, and he really began to feel himself in his element if it hadn't been
for those abominable walls, he would have enjoyed himself. But this was too
good to last, and before very long he made a faux pas, which brought down
on him in a torrent the bottled-up wrath of the viscount.

They had been galloping across a large, unbroken sheep-walk, which exactly
suited Barry's taste, and he had got well forward towards the hounds. Frank
was behind, expostulating with Jerry Blake and the others for encouraging
him, when the dogs came to a small stone wall about two feet and a half
high. In this there was a broken gap, through which many of them crept.
Barry also saw this happy escape from the grand difficulty of jumping, and,
ignorant that if he rode the gap at all, he should let the hounds go first,
made for it right among them, in spite of Frank's voice, now raised loudly
to caution him. The horse the man rode knew his business better than
himself, and tried to spare the dogs which were under his feet; but, in
getting out, he made a slight spring, and came down on the haunches of a
favourite young hound called 'Goneaway'; he broke the leg close to the
socket, and the poor beast most loudly told his complaint.

This was too much to be borne, and Frank rode up red with passion; and a
lot of others, including the whipper, soon followed.

'He has killed the dog!' said he. 'Did you ever see such a clumsy, ignorant
fool? Mr Lynch, if you'd do me the honour to stay away another day, and
amuse yourself in any other way, I should be much obliged.'

much obliged.' '

'It wasn't my fault then,' said Barry.

'Do you mean to give me the lie, sir?' replied Frank.

'The dog got under the horse's feet. How was I to help it?'

There was a universal titter at this, which made Barry wish himself at home
again, with his brandy-bottle.

'Ah! sir,' said Frank; 'you're as fit to ride a hunt as you are to do
anything else which gentlemen usually do. May I trouble you to make
yourself scarce? Your horse, I see, can't carry you much farther, and if
you'll take my advice, you'll go home, before you're ridden over yourself.
Well, Martin, is the bone broken?'

Martin had got off his horse, and was kneeling down beside the poor hurt
brute. 'Indeed it is, my lord, in two places. You'd better let Tony kill
him; he has an awful sprain in the back, as well; he'll niver put a foot to
the ground again.'

'By heavens, that's too bad! isn't it Bingham? He was, out and out, the
finest puppy we entered last year.'

'What can you expect,' said Bingham, 'when such fellows as that come into a
field? He's as much business here as a cow in a drawing-room.'

'But what can we do? one can't turn him off the land; if he chooses to
come, he must.'

'Why, yes,' said Bingham, 'if he will come he must. But then, if he insists
on doing so, he may be horsewhipped; he may be ridden over; he may be
kicked; and he may be told that he's a low, vulgar, paltry scoundrel; and,
if he repeats his visits, that's the treatment he'll probably receive.'

Barry was close to both the speakers, and of course heard, and was intended
to hear, every word that was said. He contented himself, however, with
muttering certain inaudible defiances, and was seen and heard of no more
that day.

The hunt was continued, and the fox was killed; but Frank and those with
him saw but little more of it. However, as soon as directions were given
for the death of poor Goneaway, they went on, and received a very
satisfactory account of the proceedings from those who had seen the finish.
As usual, the Parson was among the number, and he gave them a most detailed
history, not only of the fox's proceedings during the day, but also of all
the reasons which actuated the animal, in every different turn he took.

'I declare, Armstrong,' said Peter Dillon, 'I think you were a fox
yourself, once! Do you remember anything about it?'

'What a run he would give!' said Jerry; 'the best pack that was ever
kennelled wouldn't have a chance with him.'

'Who was that old chap,' said Nicholas Dillon, showing off his classical
learning, 'who said that dead animals always became something else? maybe
it's only in the course of nature for a dead fox to become a live parson.'

'Exactly: you've hit it,' said Armstrong; 'and, in the same way, the moment
the breath is out of a goose it becomes an idle squireen, and, generally
speaking, a younger brother.'

'Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Nick,' said Jerry; 'and take care how
you meddle with the Church again.'

'Who saw anything of Lambert Brown?' said another; 'I left him bogged below
there at Gurtnascreenagh, and all he could do, the old grey horse wouldn't
move a leg to get out for him.'

'Oh, he's there still,' said Nicholas. 'He was trying to follow me, and I
took him there on purpose. It's not deep, and he'll do no hurt: he'll keep
as well there, as anywhere else.'

'Nonsense, Dillon!' said the General 'you'll make his brother really angry,
if you go on that way. If the man's a fool, leave him in his folly, but
don't be playing tricks on him. You'll only get yourself into a quarrel
with the family.'

'And how shall we manage about the money, my lord?' said Martin, as he drew
near the point at which he would separate from the rest, to ride towards
Dunmore. 'I've been thinking about it, and there's no doubt about having it
for you on Friday, av that'll suit.'

'That brother-in-law of yours is a most unmitigated blackguard, isn't he,
Martin?' said Frank, who was thinking more about poor Goneaway than the
money.

'He isn't no brother-in-law of mine yet, and probably niver will be, for
I'm afeard poor Anty'll go. But av he iver is, he'll soon take himself out
of the counthry, and be no more throuble to your lordship or any of us.'

'But to think of his riding right a-top of the poor brute, and then saying
that the dog got under his horse's feet! Why, he's a fool as well as a
knave. Was he ever out before?'

'Well, then, I believe he was, twice this year; though I didn't see him
myself.'

'Then I hope this'll be the last time: three times is quite enough for such
a fellow as that.'

'I don't think he'll be apt to show again afther what you and Mr Bingham
said to him. Well, shure, Mr Bingham was very hard on him!'

'Serve him right; nothing's too bad for him.'

'Oh, that's thrue for you, my lord: I don't pity him one bit. But about the
money, and this job of my own. Av it wasn't asking too much, it'd be a
great thing av your lordship'd see Daly.'

It was then settled that Lord Ballindine should ride over to Dunmore on the
following Friday, and if circumstances seemed to render it advisable, that
he and Martin should go on together to the attorney at Tuam.




XXIII  DOCTOR COLLIGAN


Doctor Colligan, the Galen of Dunmore, though a practitioner of most
unprepossessing appearance and demeanour, was neither ignorant nor
careless. Though for many years he had courted the public in vain, his
neighbours had at last learned to know and appreciate him; and, at the time
of Anty's illness, the inhabitants of three parishes trusted their
corporeal ailments to his care, with comfort to themselves and profit to
him. Nevertheless, there were many things about Doctor Colligan not
calculated to inspire either respect or confidence. He always seemed a
little afraid of his patient, and very much afraid of his patient's
friends: he was always dreading the appearance at Dunmore of one of those
young rivals, who had lately established themselves at Tuam on one side,
and Hollymount on the other; and, to prevent so fatal a circumstance, was
continually trying to be civil and obliging to his customers. He would not
put on a blister, or order a black dose, without consulting with the lady
of the house, and asking permission of the patient, and consequently had
always an air of doubt and indecision. Then, he was excessively dirty in
his person and practice: he carried a considerable territory beneath his
nails; smelt equally strongly of the laboratory and the stable; would wipe
his hands on the patient's sheets, and wherever he went left horrid marks
of his whereabouts: he was very fond of good eating and much drinking, and
would neglect the best customer that ever was sick, when tempted by the
fascination of a game of loo. He was certainly a bad family-man; for though
he worked hard for the support of his wife and children, he was little
among them, paid them no attention, and felt no scruple in assuring Mrs C.
that he had been obliged to remain up all night with that dreadful Mrs
Jones, whose children were always so tedious; or that Mr Blake was so bad
after his accident that he could not leave him for a moment; when, to tell
the truth, the Doctor had passed the night with the cards in his hands, and
a tumbler of punch beside him.

He was a tall, thick-set, heavy man, with short black curly hair; was a
little bald at the top of his head; and looked always as though he had
shaved himself the day before yesterday, and had not washed since. His face
was good-natured, but heavy and unintellectual. He was ignorant of
everything but his profession, and the odds on the card-table or the race-
course. But to give him his due, on these subjects he was not ignorant; and
this was now so generally known that, in dangerous cases, Doctor Colligan
had been sent for, many, many miles.

This was the man who attended poor Anty in her illness, and he did as much
for her as could be done; but it was a bad case, and Doctor Colligan
thought it would be fatal. She had intermittent fever, and was occasionally
delirious; but it was her great debility between the attacks which he
considered so dangerous.

On the morning after the hunt, he told Martin that he greatly feared she
would go off, from exhaustion, in a few days, and that it would be wise to
let Barry know the state in which his sister was. There was a consultation
on the subject between the two and Martin's mother, in which it was agreed
that the Doctor should go up to Dunmore House, and tell Barry exactly the
state of affairs.

'And good news it'll be for him,' said Mrs Kelly; 'the best he heard since
the ould man died. Av he had his will of her, she'd niver rise from the bed
where she's stretched. But, glory be to God, there's a providence over all,
and maybe she'll live yet to give him the go-by.'

'How you talk, mother,' said Martin; 'and what's the use? Whatever he
wishes won't harum her; and maybe, now she's dying, his heart'll be
softened to her. Any way, don't let him have to say she died here, without
his hearing a word how bad she was.'

'Maybe he'd be afther saying we murdhered her for her money,' said the
widow, with a shudder.

'He can hardly complain of that, when he'll be getting all the money
himself. But, however, it's much betther, all ways, that Doctor Colligan
should see him.'

'You know, Mrs Kelly,' said the Doctor, 'as a matter of course he'll be
asking to see his sister.'

'You wouldn't have him come in here to her, would you? Faix, Doctor
Colligan, it'll be her death out right at once av he does.'

'It'd not be nathural, to refuse to let him see her,' said the Doctor; 'and
I don't think it would do any harm: but I'll be guided by you, Mrs Kelly,
in what I say to him.'

'Besides,' said Martin, 'I know Anty would wish to see him: he is her
brother; and there's only the two of 'em.'

'Between you be it,' said the widow; 'I tell you I don't like it. You
neither of you know Barry Lynch, as well as I do; he'd smother her av it
come into his head.'

'Ah, mother, nonsense now; hould your tongue; you don't know what you're
saying.'

'Well; didn't he try to do as bad before?'

'It wouldn't do, I tell you,' continued Martin, 'not to let him see her;
that is, av Anty wishes it.'

It ended in the widow being sent into Anty's room, to ask her whether she
had any message to send to her brother. The poor girl knew how ill she was,
and expected her death; and when the widow told her that Doctor Colligan
was going to call on her brother, she said that she hoped she should see
Barry once more before all was over.

'Mother,' said Martin, as soon as the Doctor's back was turned, 'you'll get
yourself in a scrape av you go on saying such things as that about folk
before strangers.'

 'Is it about Barry?'

'Yes; about Barry. How do you know Colligan won't be repating all them
things to him?'

'Let him, and wilcome. Shure wouldn't I say as much to Barry Lynch himself?
What do I care for the blagguard? only this, I wish I'd niver heard his
name, or seen his foot over the sill of the door. I'm sorry I iver heard
the name of the Lynches in Dunmore.'

'You're not regretting the throuble Anty is to you, mother?'

'Regretting? I don't know what you mane by regretting. I don't know is it
regretting to be slaving as much and more for her than I would for my own,
and no chance of getting as much as thanks for it.'

'You'll be rewarded hereafther, mother; shure won't it all go for charity?'

'I'm not so shure of that,' said the widow. 'It was your schaming to get
her money brought her here, and, like a poor wake woman, as I was, I fell
into it; and now we've all the throuble and the expinse, and the time lost,
and afther all, Barry'll be getting everything when she's gone. You'll see,
Martin; we'll have the wake, and the funeral, and the docthor and all, on
us mind my words else. Och musha, musha! what'll I do at all? Faix, forty
pounds won't clear what this turn is like to come to; an' all from your
dirthy undherhand schaming ways.'

In truth, the widow was perplexed in her inmost soul about Anty; torn and
tortured by doubts and anxieties. Her real love of Anty and true charity
was in state of battle with her parsimony; and then, avarice was strong
within her; and utter, uncontrolled hatred of Barry still stronger. But,
opposed to these was dread of some unforeseen evil some tremendous law
proceedings: she had a half-formed idea that she was doing what she had no
right to do, and that she might some day be walked off to Galway assizes.
Then again, she had an absurd pride about it, which often made her declare
that she'd never be beat by such a 'scum of the 'arth' as Barry Lynch, and
that she'd fight it out with him if it cost her a hundred pounds; though no
one understood what the battle was which she was to fight.

Just before Anty's illness had become so serious, Daly called, and had
succeeded in reconciling both Martin and the widow to himself; but he had
not quite made them agree to his proposal. The widow, indeed, was much
averse to it. She wouldn't deal with such a Greek as Barry, even in the
acceptance of a boon. When she found him willing to compromise, she became
more than ever averse to any friendly terms; but now the whole ground was
slipping from under her feet. Anty was dying: she would have had her
trouble for nothing; and that hated Barry would gain his point, and the
whole of his sister's property, in triumph.

Twenty times the idea of a will had come into her mind, and how comfortable
it would be if Anty would leave her property, or at any rate a portion of
it, to Martin. But though the thoughts of such a delightful arrangement
kept her in a continual whirlwind of anxiety, she never hinted at the
subject to Anty. As she said to herself, 'a Kelly wouldn't demane herself
to ask a brass penny from a Lynch.' She didn't even speak to her daughters
about it, though the continual twitter she was in made them aware that
there was some unusual burthen on her mind.

It was not only to the Kellys that the idea occurred that Anty in her
illness might make a will. The thoughts of such a catastrophe had robbed
Barry of half the pleasure which the rumours of his sister's dangerous
position had given him. He had not received any direct intimation of Anty's
state, but had heard through the servants that she was ill very
ill dangerously 'not expected,' as the country people call it; and each
fresh rumour gave him new hopes, and new life. He now spurned all idea of
connexion with Martin; he would trample on the Kellys for thinking of such
a thing: he would show Daly, when in the plenitude of his wealth and power,
how he despised the lukewarmness and timidity of his councils. These and
other delightful visions were floating through his imagination; when, all
of a sudden, like a blow, like a thunderbolt, the idea of a will fell as it
were upon him with a ton weight. His heart sunk low within him; he became
white, and his jaw dropped. After all, there were victory and triumph,
plunder and wealth, his wealth, in the very hands of his enemies! Of course
the Kellys would force her to make a will, if she didn't do it of her own
accord; if not, they'd forge one. There was some comfort in that thought:
he could at any rate contest the will, and swear that it was a forgery.

He swallowed a dram, and went off, almost weeping to Daly.

'Oh, Mr Daly, poor Anty's dying: did you hear, Mr Daly she's all but gone?'
Yes; Daly had been sorry to hear that Miss Lynch was very ill. 'What shall
I do,' continued Barry, 'if they say that she's left a will?'

'Go and hear it read. Or, if you don't like to do that yourself, stay away,
and let me hear it.'

'But they'll forge one! They'll make out what they please, and when she's
dying, they'll make her put her name to it; or they'll only just put the
pen in her hand, when she's not knowing what she's doing. They'd do
anything now, Daly, to get the money they've been fighting for so hard.'

'It's my belief,' answered the attorney, 'that the Kellys not only won't do
anything dishonest, but that they won't even take any unfair advantage of
you. But at any rate you can do nothing. You must wait patiently; you, at
any rate, can take no steps till she's dead.'

'But couldn't she make a will in my favour? I know she'd do it if I asked
her if I asked her now now she's going off, you know. I'm sure she'd do it.
Don't you think she would?'

 'You're safer, I think, to let it alone,' said Daly, who could hardly
control the ineffable disgust he felt.

'I don't know that,' continued Barry. 'She's weak, and'll do what she's
asked: besides, they'll make her do it. Fancy if, when she's gone, I find I
have to share everything with those people!' And he struck his forehead and
pushed the hair off his perspiring face, as he literally shook with
despair. 'I must see her, Daly. I'm quite sure she'll make a will if I beg
her; they can't hinder me seeing my own, only, dying sister; can they,
Daly? And when I'm once there, I'll sit with her, and watch till it's all
over. I'm sure, now she's ill, I'd do anything for her.'

Daly said nothing, though Barry paused for him to reply. 'Only about the
form,' continued he, 'I wouldn't know what to put. By heavens, Daly! you
must come with me. You can be up at the house, and I can have you down at a
minute's warning.' Daly utterly declined, but Barry continued to press him.
'But you must, Daly; I tell you I know I'm right. I know her so well she'll
do it at once for the sake for the sake of You know she is my own sister,
and all that and she thinks so much of that kind of thing. I'll tell you
what, Daly; upon my honour and soul,' and he repeated the words in a most
solemn tone, 'if you'll draw the will, and she signs it, so that I come in
for the whole thing and I know she will I'll make over fifty ay, seventy
pounds a year for you for ever and ever. I will, as I live.'

The interview ended by the attorney turning Barry Lynch into the street,
and assuring him that if he ever came into his office again, on any
business whatsoever, he would unscrupulously kick him out. So ended, also,
the connexion between the two; for Daly never got a farthing for his
labour. Indeed, after all that had taken place, he thought it as well not
to trouble his çi-devant client with a bill. Barry went home, and of course
got drunk.

When Doctor Colligan called on Lynch, he found that he was not at home. He
was at that very moment at Tuam, with the attorney. The doctor repeated his
visit later in the afternoon, but Barry had still not returned, and he
therefore left word that he would call early after breakfast the following
morning. He did so; and, after waiting half an hour in the dining-room,
Barry, only half awake and half dressed, and still half drunk, came down to
him.

The doctor, with a long face, delivered his message, and explained to him
the state in which his sister was lying; assured him that everything in the
power of medicine had been and should be done; that, nevertheless, he
feared the chance of recovery was remote; and ended by informing him that
Miss Lynch was aware of her danger, and had expressed a wish to see him
before it might be too late. Could he make it convenient to come over just
now in half an hour or say an hour? said the doctor, looking at the red
face and unfinished toilet of the distressed brother.

Barry at first scarcely knew what reply to give. On his return from Tuam,
he had determined that he would at any rate make his way into his sister's
room, and, as he thought to himself, see what would come of it. In his
after-dinner courage he had further determined, that he would treat the
widow and her family with a very high hand, if they dared to make objection
to his seeing his sister; but now, when the friendly overture came from
Anty herself, and was brought by one of the Kelly faction, he felt himself
a little confounded, as though he rather dreaded the interview, and would
wish to put it off for a day or two.

'Oh, yes certainly, Doctor Colligan; to be sure  that is tell me, doctor,
is she really so bad?'

'Indeed, Mr Lynch, she is very weak.'

'But, doctor, you don't think there is any chance I mean, there isn't any
danger, is there, that she'd go off at once?'

'Why, no, I don't think there is; indeed, I have no doubt she will hold out
a fortnight yet.'

'Then, perhaps, doctor, I'd better put it off till tomorrow; I'll tell you
why: there's a person I wish '

'Why, Mr Lynch, today would be better. The fever's periodical, you see, and
will be on her again tomorrow '

'I beg your pardon, Doctor Colligan,' said Barry, of a sudden remembering
to be civil, 'but you'll take a glass of wine?'

'Not a drop, thank ye, of anything.'

'Oh, but you will;' and Barry rang the bell and had the wine brought. 'And
you expect she'll have another attack tomorrow?'

'That's a matter of course, Mr Lynch; the fever'll come on her again
tomorrow. Every attack leaves her weaker and weaker, and we fear she'll go
off, before it leaves her altogether.'

'Poor thing!' said Barry, contemplatively.

'We had her head shaved,' said the doctor.

'Did you, indeed!' answered Barry. 'She was my favourite sister, Doctor
Colligan that is, I had no other.'

'I believe not,' said Doctor Colligan, looking sympathetic.

'Take another glass of wine, doctor? now do,' and he poured out another
bumper.

'Thank'ee, Mr Lynch, thank'ee; not a drop more. And you'll be over in an
hour then? I'd better go and tell her, that she may be prepared, you know,'
and the doctor returned to the sick room of his patient.

Barry remained standing in the parlour, looking at the glasses and the
decanter, as though he were speculating on the manner in which they had
been fabricated. 'She may recover, after all,' thought he to himself.
'She's as strong as a horse I know her better than they do. I know she'll
recover, and then what shall I do? Stand to the offer Daly made to Kelly, I
suppose!' And then he sat down close to the table, with his elbow on it,
and his chin resting on his hand; and there he remained, full of thought.
To tell the truth, Barry Lynch had never thought more intensely than he did
during those ten minutes. At last he jumped up suddenly, as though
surprised at what had been passing within himself; he looked hastily at the
door and at the window, as though to see that he had not been watched, and
then went upstairs to dress himself, preparatory to his visit to the inn.




XXIV  ANTY LYNCH'S BED-SIDE SCENE THE FIRST


Anty had borne her illness with that patience and endurance which were so
particularly inherent in her nature. She had never complained; and had
received the untiring attentions and care of her two young friends, with a
warmth of affection and gratitude which astonished them, accustomed as they
had been in every little illness to give and receive that tender care with
which sickness is treated in affectionate families. When ill, they felt
they had a right to be petulant, and to complain; to exact, and to he
attended to: they had been used to it from each other, and thought it an
incidental part of the business. But Anty had hitherto had no one to nurse
her, and she looked on Meg and Jane as kind ministering angels, emulous as
they were to relieve her wants and ease her sufferings.

Her thin face had become thinner, and was very pale; her head had been
shaved close, and there was nothing between the broad white border of her
nightcap and her clammy brow and wan cheek. But illness was more becoming
to Anty than health; it gave her a melancholy and beautiful expression of
resignation, which, under ordinary circumstances, was wanting to her
features, though not to her character. Her eyes were brighter than they
usually were, and her complexion was clear, colourless, and transparent. I
do not mean to say that Anty in her illness was beautiful, but she was no
longer plain; and even to the young Kellys, whose feelings and sympathies
cannot be supposed to have been of the highest order, she became an object
of the most intense interest, and the warmest affection.

'Well, doctor,' she said, as Doctor Colligan crept into her room, after the
termination of his embassy to Barry; 'will he come?'

'Oh, of course he will; why wouldn't he, and you wishing it? He'll be here
in an hour, Miss Lynch. He wasn't just ready to come over with me.'

'I'm glad of that,' said Anty, who felt that she had to collect her
thoughts before she saw him; and then, after a moment, she added, 'Can't I
take my medicine now, doctor?'

'Just before he comes you'd better have it, I think. One of the girls will
step up and give it you when he's below. He'll want to speak a word or so
to Mrs Kelly before he comes up.'

'Spake to me, docthor!' said the widow, alarmed. 'What'll he be spaking to
me about? Faix, I had spaking enough with him last time he was here.'

'You'd better just see him, Mrs Kelly,' whispered the, doctor. 'You'll find
him quiet enough, now; just take him fair and asy; keep him downstairs a
moment, while Jane gives her the medicine. She'd better take it just before
he goes to her, and don't let him stay long, whatever you do. I'll be back
before the evening's over; not that I think that she'll want me to see her,
but I'll just drop in.'

'Are you going, doctor?' said Anty, as he stepped up to the bed. He told
her he was. 'You've told Mrs Kelly, haven't you, that I'm to see Barry
alone?'

'Why, I didn't say so,' said the doctor, looking at the widow; 'but I
suppose there'll be no harm eh, Mrs Kelly?'

'You must let me see him alone, dear Mrs Kelly!'

'If Doctor Colligan thinks you ought, Anty dear, I wouldn't stay in the
room myself for worlds.'

'But you won't keep him here long, Miss Lynch eh? And you won't excite
yourself? indeed, you mustn't. You'll allow them fifteen minutes, Mrs
Kelly, not more, and then you'll come up;' and with these cautions, the
doctor withdrew.

'I wish he was come and gone,' said the widow to her elder daughter. 'Well;
av I'd known all what was to follow, I'd niver have got out of my warm bed
to go and fetch Anty Lynch down here that cowld morning! Well, I'll be wise
another time. Live and lam, they say, and it's thrue, too.'

'But, mother, you ain't wishing poor Anty wasn't here?'

'Indeed, but I do; everything to give and nothin to get  that's not the way
I have managed to live. But it's not that altogether, neither. I'm not
begrudging Anty anything for herself; but that I'd be dhriven to let that
blagguard of a brother of hers into the house, and that as a frind like, is
what I didn't think I'd ever have put upon me!'

Barry made his appearance about an hour after the time at which they had
begun to expect him; and as soon as Meg saw him, one of them flew upstairs,
to tell Anty and give her her tonic. Barry had made himself quite a dandy
to do honour to the occasion of paying probably a parting visit to his
sister, whom he had driven out of her own house to die at the inn. He had
on his new blue frock-coat, and a buff waistcoat with gilt buttons, over
which his watch-chain was gracefully arranged. His pantaloons were strapped
clown very tightly over his polished boots; a shining new silk hat was on
one side of his head; and in his hand he was dangling an ebony cane. In
spite, however, of all these gaudy trappings, he could not muster up an
easy air; and, as he knocked, he had that look proverbially attributed to
dogs who are going to be hung.

Sally opened the door for him, and the widow, who had come out from the
shop, made him a low courtesy in the passage.

'Oh ah yes Mrs Kelly, I believe?' said Barry.

'Yes, Mr Lynch, that's my name; glory be to God!'

'My sister, Miss Lynch, is still staying here, I believe?'

'Why, drat it, man; wasn't Dr Colligan with you less than an hour ago,
telling you you must come here, av you wanted to see her?'

'You'll oblige me by sending up the servant to tell Miss Lynch I'm here.'

'Walk up here a minute, and I'll do that errand for you myself. Well,'
continued she, muttering to herself 'for him to ax av she war staying here,
as though he didn't know it! There niver was his ditto for desait, maneness
and divilry!'

A minute or two alter the widow had left him, Barry found himself by his
sister's bed-side, but never had he found himself in a position for which
he was less fitted, or which was less easy to him. He assumed, however, a
long and solemn face, and crawling up to the bed-side, told his sister, in
a whining voice, that he was very glad to see her.

'Sit down, Barry, sit down,' said Anty, stretching out her thin pale hand,
and taking hold of her brother's.

Barry did as he was told, and sat down. 'I'm so glad to see you, Barry,'
said she: 'I'm so very glad to see you once more ' and then after a pause,
'and it'll be the last time, Barry, for I'm dying.'

Barry told her he didn't think she was, for he didn't know when he'd seen
her looking better.

'Yes, I am, Barry: Doctor Colligan has said as much; and I should know it
well enough myself, even if he'd never said a word. We're friends now, are
we not? Everything's forgiven and forgotten, isn't it, Barry?'

Anty had still hold of her brother's hand, and seemed desirous to keep it.
He sat on the edge of his chair, with his knees tucked in against the bed,
the very picture of discomfort, both of body and mind.

'Oh, of course it is, Anty,' said he; 'forgive and forget; that was always
my motto. I'm sure I never bore any malice indeed I never was so sorry as
when you went away, and '

'Ah, Barry,' said Anty; 'it was better I went then; maybe it's all better
as it is. When the priest has been with me and given me comfort, I won't
fear to die. But there are other things, Barry, I want to spake to you
about.'

'If there's anything I can do, I'm sure I'd do it: if there's anything at
all you wish done. Would you like to come up to the house again?'

'Oh no, Barry, not for worlds.'

'Why, perhaps, just at present, you are too weak to move; only wouldn't it
be more comfortable for you to be in your own house? These people here are
all very well, I dare say, but they must be a great bother to you, eh? so
interested, you know, in everything they do.'

'Ah! Barry, you don't know them.'

Barry remembered that he would be on the wrong tack to abuse the Kellys.
'I'm sure they're very nice people,' said he; 'indeed I always thought so,
and said so but they're not like your own flesh and blood, are they,
Anty? and why shouldn't you come up and be '

'No, Barry,' said she; 'I'll not do that; as they're so very, very kind as
to let me stay here, I'll remain till till God takes me to himself. But
they're not my flesh and blood' and she turned round and looked
affectionately in the face of her brother 'there are only the two of us
left now; and soon, very soon you'll be all alone.' Barry felt very
uncomfortable, and wished the interview was over: he tried to say
something, but failed, and Anty went on 'when that time comes, will you
remember what I say to you now? When you're all alone, Barry; when there's
nothing left to trouble you or put you out will you think then of the last
time you ever saw your sister, and '

'Oh, Anty, sure I'll be seeing you again!'

'No, Barry, never again. This is the last time we shall ever meet, and
think how much we ought to be to each other! We've neither of us father or
mother, husband or wife. When I'm gone you'll be alone: will you think of
me then and will you remember, remember every day what I say to you now?'

'Indeed I will, Anty. I'll do anything, everything you'd have me. Is there
anything you'd wish me to give to any person?'

'Barry,' she continued, 'no good ever came of my father's will.' Barry
almost jumped off his chair as he heard his sister's words, so much did
they startle him; but he said nothing. 'The money has done me no good, but
the loss of it has blackened your heart, and turned your blood to gall
against me. Yes, Barry yes don't speak now, let me go on; the old man
brought you up to look for it, and, alas, he taught you to look for nothing
else; it has not been your fault, and I'm not blaming you I'm not maning to
blame you, my own brother, for you are my own' and she turned round in the
bed and shed tears upon his hand, and kissed it. 'But gold, and land, will
never make you happy, no, not all the gold of England, nor all the land the
old kings ever had could make you happy, av the heart was bad within you.
You'll have it all now, Barry, or mostly all. You'll have what you think
the old man wronged you of; you'll have it with no one to provide for but
yourself, with no one to trouble you, no one to thwart you. But oh, Barry,
av it's in your heart that that can make you happy there's nothing before
you but misery and death and hell.' Barry shook like a child in the
clutches of its master 'Yes, Barry; misery and death, and all the tortures
of the damned. It's to save you from this, my own brother, to try and turn
your heart from that foul love of money, that your sister is now speaking
to you from her grave. Oh, Barry! try and cure it. Learn to give to others,
and you'll enjoy what you have yourself. Learn to love others, and then
you'll know what it is to be loved yourself. Try, try to soften that hard
heart. Marry at once, Barry, at once, before you're older and worse to
cure; and you'll have children, and love them; and when you feel, as feel
you must, that the money is clinging round your soul, fling it from you,
and think of the last words your sister said to you.'

The sweat was now running down the cheeks of the wretched man, for the
mixed rebuke and prayer of his sister had come home to him, and touched
him; but it was neither with pity, with remorse, nor penitence. No; in that
foul heart there was no room, even for remorse; but he trembled with fear
as he listened to her words, and, falling on his knees, swore to her that
he would do just as she would have him.

'If I could but think,' continued she, 'that you would remember what I am
saying '

'Oh, I will, Anty: I will indeed, indeed, I will!'

'If I could believe so, Barry I'd die happy and in comfort, for I love you
better than anything on earth;' and again she pressed his hot red hand 'but
oh, brother! I feel for you: you never kneel before the altar of God you've
no priest to move the weight of sin from your soul and how heavy that must
be! Do you remember, Barry; it's but a week or two ago and you threatened
to kill me for the sake of our father's money? you wanted to put me in a
mad-house; you tried to make me mad with fear and cruelty; me, your sister;
and I never harmed or crossed you. God is now doing what you threatened; a
kind, good God is now taking me to himself, and you will get what you so
longed for without more sin on your conscience; but it'll never bless you,
av you've still the same wishes in your heart, the same love of gold the
same hatred of a fellow-creature.'

'Oh, Anty!' sobbed out Barry, who was now absolutely in tears, 'I was drunk
that night; I was indeed, or I'd never have said or done what I did.'

'And how often are you so, Barry? isn't it so with you every night? That's
another thing; for my sake, for your own sake for God's sake, give up the
dhrink. It's killing you from day to day, and hour to hour. I see it in
your eyes, and smell it in your breath, and hear it in your voice; it's
that that makes your heart so black it's that that gives you over, body and
soul, to the devil. I would not have said a word about that night to hurt
you now; and, dear Barry, I wouldn't have said such words as these to you
at all, but that I shall never speak to you again. And oh! I pray that
you'll remember them. You're idle now, always don't continue so; earn your
money, and it will be a blessing to you and to others. But in idleness, and
drunkenness, and wickedness, it will only lead you quicker to the devil.'

Barry reiterated his promises; he would take the pledge; he would work at
the farm; he would marry and have a family; he would not care the least for
money; he would pay his debts; he would go to church, or chapel, if Anty
liked it better; at any rate, he'd say his prayers; he would remember every
word she had said to the last day of his life; he promised everything or
anything, as though his future existence depended on his appeasing his
dying sister. But during the whole time, his chief wish, his longing
desire, was to finish the interview, and get out of that horrid room. He
felt that he was mastered and cowed by the creature whom he had so
despised, and he could not account for the feeling. Why did he not dare to
answer her? She had told him he would have her money: she had said it would
come to him as a matter of course; and it was not the dread of losing that
which prevented his saying a word in his own defence. No; she had really
frightened him: she had made him really feel that he was a low, wretched,
wicked creature, and he longed to escape from her, that he might recover
his composure.

'I have but little more to say to you, Barry,' she continued, 'and that
little is about the property. You will have it all, but a small sum of
money '

Here Anty was interrupted by a knock at the door, and the entrance of the
widow. She came to say that the quarter of an hour allowed by the doctor
had been long exceeded, and that really Mr Barry ought to take his leave,
as so much talking would be bad for Anty.

This was quite a god-send for Barry, who was only anxious to be off; but
Anty begged for a respite.

'One five minutes longer, dear Mrs Kelly,' said she, 'and I shall have
done; only five minutes I'm much stronger now, and really it won't hurt
me.'

'Well, then mind, only five minutes,' said the widow, and again left them
alone.

'You don't know, Barry you can never know how good that woman has been to
me; indeed all of them and all for nothing. They've asked nothing of me,
and now that they know I'm dying, I'm sure they expect nothing from me. She
has enough; but I wish to leave something to Martin, and the girls;' and a
slight pale blush covered her wan cheeks and forehead as she mentioned
Martin's name. 'I will leave him five hundred pounds, and them the same
between them. It will be nothing to you, Barry, out of the whole; but see
and pay it at once, will you?' and she looked kindly into his face.

He promised vehemently that he would, and told her not to bother herself
about a will: they should have the money as certainly as if twenty wills
were made. To give Barry his due, at that moment, he meant to be as good as
his word. Anty, however, told him that she would make a will; that she
would send for a lawyer, and have the matter properly settled.

'And now,' she said, 'dear Barry, may God Almighty bless you may He guide
you and preserve you; and may He, above all, take from you that horrid love
of the world's gold and wealth. Good bye,' and she raised herself up in her
bed good bye, for the last time, my own dear brother; and try to remember
what I've said to you this day. Kiss me before you go, Barry.'

Barry leaned over the bed, and kissed her, and then crept out of the room,
and down the stairs, with the tears streaming down his red cheeks; and
skulked across the street to his own house, with his hat slouched over his
face, and his handkerchief held across his mouth.




XXV  ANTY LYNCH'S BED-SIDE SCENE THE SECOND


Anty was a good deal exhausted by her interview with her brother, but
towards evening she rallied a little, and told Jane, who was sitting with
her, that she wanted to say one word in private, to Martin.

Jane was rather surprised, for though Martin was in the habit of going into
the room every morning to see the invalid, Anty had never before asked for
him. However, she went for Martin, and found him.

'Martin,' said she; 'Anty wants to see you alone, in private.'

'Me?' said Martin, turning a little red. 'Do you know what it's about?'

'She didn't say a word, only she wanted to see you alone; but I'm thinking
it's something about her brother; he was with her a long long time this
morning, and went away more like a dead man than a live one. But come,
don't keep her waiting; and, whatever you do, don't stay long; every word
she spakes is killing her.'

Martin followed his sister into the sick-room, and, gently taking Anty's
offered hand, asked her in a whisper, what he could do for her. Jane went
out; and, to do her justice sat herself down at a distance from the door,
though she was in a painful state of curiosity as to what was being said
within.

'You're all too good to me, Martin,' said Anty; 'you'll spoil me, between
you, minding every word I say so quick.'

Martin assured her again, in a whisper, that anything and everything they
could do for her was only a pleasure.

'Don't mind whispering,' said Anty; 'spake out; your voice won't hurt me. I
love to hear your voices, they're all so kind and good. But Martin, I've
business you must do for me, and that at once, for I feel within me that
I'll soon he gone from this.'

'We hope not, Anty; but it's all with God now isn't it? No one knows that
betther than yourself.'

'Oh yes, I do know that; and I feel it is His pleasure that it should be
so, and I don't fear to die. A few weeks back the thoughts of death, when
they came upon me, nearly killed me; but that feeling's all gone now.'

Martin did not know what answer to make; he again told her he hoped she
would soon get better. It is a difficult task to talk properly to a dying
person about death, and Martin felt that he was quite incompetent to do so.

'But,' she continued, after a little, 'there 's still much that I want to
do that I ought to do. In the first place, I must make my will.'

Martin was again puzzled. This was another subject on which he felt himself
equally unwilling to speak; he could not advise her not to make one; and he
certainly would not advise her to do so.

'Your will, Anty? there's time enough for that; you'll be sthronger you
know, in a day or two. Doctor Colligan says so and then we'll talk about
it.'

'I hope there is time enough, Martin; but there isn't more than enough;
it's not much that I'll have to say '

'Were you spaking to Barry about it this morning?'

'Oh, I was. I told him what I'd do: he'll have the property now, mostly all
as one as av the ould man had left it to him. It would have been betther
so, eh Martin?' Anty never doubted her lover's disinterestedness; at this
moment she suspected him of no dirty longing alter her money, and she did
him only justice. When he came into her room he had no thoughts of
inheriting anything from her. Had he been sure that by asking he could have
induced her to make a will in his favour, he would not have done so. But
still his heart sunk a little within him when he heard her declare that she
was going to leave everything back to her brother. It was, however, only
for a moment; he remembered his honest determination firmly and resolutely
to protect their joint property against any of her brother's attempts,
should he ever marry her; but in no degree to strive or even hanker after
it, unless it became his own in a fair, straightforward manner.

'Well, Anty; I think you're right,' said he. 'But wouldn't it all go to
Barry, nathurally, without your bothering yourself about a will, and you so
wake.'

'In course it would, at laist I suppose so; but Martin,' and she smiled
faintly as she looked up into his face, 'I want the two dear, dear girls,
and I want yourself to have some little thing to remember me by; and your
dear kind mother she doesn't want money, but if I ask her to take a few of
the silver things in the house, I'm sure she'll keep them for my sake. Oh,
Martin! I do love you all so very so very much!' and the warm tears
streamed down her cheeks.

Martin's eyes were affected, too: he made a desperate struggle to repress
the weakness, but he could not succeed, and was obliged to own it by
rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. 'And I'm shure, Anty,' said
he, 'we all love you; any one must love you who knew you.' And then he
paused: he was trying to say something of his own true personal regard for
her, but he hardly knew how to express it. 'We all love you as though you
were one of ourselves and so you are it's all the same at any rate it is to
me.'

'And I would have been one of you, had I lived. I can talk to you more
about it now, Martin, than I ever could before, because I know I feel I am
dying.'

'But you mustn't talk, Anty; it wakens you, and you've had too much talking
already this day.'

'It does me good, Martin, and I must say what I have to say to you. I
mayn't be able again. Had it plazed God I should have lived, I would have
prayed for nothing higher or betther than to be one of such a family as
yourselves. Had I been had I been' and now Anty blushed again, and she also
found a difficulty in expressing herself; but she soon got over it, and
continued, 'had I been permitted to marry you, Martin, I think I would have
been a good wife to you. I am very, very sure I would have been an
affectionate one.'

'I'm shure you would I'm shure you would, Anty. God send you may still: av
you war only once well again there's nothing now to hindher us.'

'You forget Barry,' Anty said, with a shudder. 'But it doesn't matther
talking of that now' Martin was on the point of telling her that Barry had
agreed, under certain conditions, to their marriage: but, on second
thoughts, he felt it would be useless to do so; and Anty continued,

'I would have done all I could, Martin. I would have loved you fondly and
truly. I would have liked what you liked, and, av I could, I would've made
your home quiet and happy. Your mother should have been my mother, and your
sisthers my sisthers.'

'So they are now, Anty so they are now, my own, own Anty they love you as
much as though they were.'

'God Almighty bless them for their goodness, and you too, Martin. I cannot
tell you, I niver could tell you, how I've valued your honest thrue love,
for I know you have loved me honestly and thruly; but I've always been
afraid to spake to you. I've sometimes thought you must despise me, I've
been so wake and cowardly.'

'Despise you, Anty? how could I despise you, when I've always loved you?'

'But now, Martin, about poor Barry for he is poor. I've sometimes thought,
as I've been lying here the long long hours awake, that, feeling to you as
I do, l ought to be laving you what the ould man left to me.'

'I'd be sorry you did, Anty. I'll not be saying but what I thought of that
when I first looked for you, but it was never to take it from you, but to
share it with you, and make you happy with it.'

'I know it, Martin: I always knew it and felt it.'

'And now, av it's God's will that you should go from us, I'd rather Barry
had the money than us. We've enough, the Lord be praised; and I wouldn't
for worlds it should be said that it war for that we brought you among us;
nor for all County Galway would I lave it to Barry to say, that when you
were here, sick, and wake, and dying, we put a pen into your hand to make
you sign a will to rob him of what should by rights be his.'

'That's it, dear Martin; it wouldn't bless you if you had it; it can bless
no one who looks to it alone for a blessing. It wouldn't make you happy it
would make you miserable, av people said you had that which you ought not
to have. Besides, I love my poor brother; he is my brother, my only real
relation; we've lived all our lives together; and though he isn't what he
should be, the fault is not all his own, I should not sleep in my grave, av
I died with his curse upon me; as I should, av he found, when I am gone,
that I'd willed the property all away. I've told him he'd have it
all nearly all; and I've begged him, prayed to him, from. my dying bed, to
mend his ways; to try and be something betther in the world than what I
fear he 's like to be. I think he minded what I said when he was here, for
death-bed words have a solemn sound to the most worldly; but when I'm gone
he'll be all alone, there'll be no one to look afther him. Nobody loves
him no one even likes him; no one will live with him but those who mane to
rob him; and he will be robbed, and plundered, and desaved, when he thinks
he's robbing and desaving others.' Anty paused, more for breath than for a
reply, but Martin felt that he must say something.

'Indeed, Anty, I fear he'll hardly come to good. He dhrinks too much, by
all accounts; besides, he's idle, and the honest feeling isn't in him.'

'It's thrue, dear Martin; it's too thrue. Will you do me a great great
favour, Martin' and she rose up a little and turned her moist clear eye
full upon him 'will you show your thrue love to your poor Anty, by a rale
lasting kindness, but one that'll be giving you much much throuble and
pain? Afther I'm dead and gone long long after I'm in my cold grave, will
you do that for me, Martin?'.

'Indeed I will, Anty,' said Martin, rather astonished, but with a look of
solemn assurance; 'anything that I can do, I will: you needn't dread my not
remembering, but I fear it isn't much that I can do for you.'

'Will you always think and spake of Barry will you always act to him and by
him, and for him, not as a man whom you know and dislike, but as my
brother your own Anty's only brother? Whatever he does, will you thry to
make him do betther? Whatever troubles he's in, will you lend him your
hand? Come what come may to him, will you be his frind? He has no frind
now. When I'm gone, will you be a frind to him?'

Martin was much confounded. 'He won't let me be his frind,' he said; 'he
looks down on us and despises us; he thinks himself too high to be
befrinded by us. Besides, of all Dunmore he hates us most.'

'He won't when he finds you haven't got the property from him: but
frindship doesn't depend on letting rale frindship doesn't. I don't want
you to be dhrinking, and ating, and going about with him. God
forbid! you're too good for that. But when you find he wants a frind, come
forward, and thry and make him do something for himself. You can't but come
together; you'll be the executhor in the will; won't you, Martin? and then
he'll meet you about the property; he can't help it, and you must meet then
as frinds. And keep that up. If he insults you, forgive it or my sake; if
he's fractious and annoying, put up with it for my sake; for my sake thry
to make him like you, and thry to make others like him.' Martin felt that
this would be impossible, but he didn't say so 'No one respects him now,
but all respect you. I see it in people's eyes and manners, without hearing
what they say. Av you spake well of him at any rate kindly of him, people
won't turn themselves so against him. Will you do all this, for my sake?'

Martin solemnly promised that, as far as he could, he would do so; that, at
any rate as far as himself was concerned, he would never quarrel with him.

'You'll have very, very much to forgive,' continued Anty; 'but then it's so
sweet to forgive; and he's had no fond mother like you; he has not been
taught any duties, any virtues, as you have. He has only been taught that
money is the thing to love, and that he should worship nothing but that.
Martin, for my sake, will you look on him as a brother? a wicked, bad,
castaway brother; but still as a brother, to be forgiven, and, if possible,
redeemed?'

'As I hope for glory in Heaven, I will,' said Martin; 'but I think he'll go
far from this; I think he'll quit Dunmore.'

'Maybe he will; perhaps it's betther he should; but he'll lave his name
behind him. Don't be too hard on that, and don't let others; and even av he
does go, it'll not be long before he'll want a frind, and I don't know
anywhere he can go that he's likely to find one. Wherever he may go, or
whatever he may do, you won't forget he was my brother; will you, Martin?
You won't forget he was your own Anty's only brother.'

Martin again gave her his solemn word that he would, to the best of his
ability, act as a friend and brother to Barry.

'And now about the will.' Martin again endeavoured to dissuade her from
thinking about a will just at present.

'Ah! but my heart's set upon it,' she said; ' I shouldn't be happy unless I
did it, and I'm sure you don't want to make me unhappy, now. You must get
me some lawyer here, Martin; I'm afraid you're not lawyer enough for that
yourself.'

'Indeed I'm not, Anty; it's a trade I know little about.'

'Well; you must get me a lawyer; not tomorrow, for I know I shan't be well
enough; but I hope I shall next day, and you may tell him just what to put
in it. I've no secrets from you.' And she told him exactly what she had
before told her brother. 'That'll not hurt him,' she continued; 'and I'd
like to think you and the dear girls should accept something from me.'

Martin then agreed to go to Daly. He was on good terms with them all now,
since making the last offer to them respecting the property; besides, as
Martin said, 'he knew no other lawyer, and, as the will was so decidedly in
Barry's favour, who was so proper to make it as Barry's own lawyer?'

'Good-bye now, Martin,' said Anty; 'we shall be desperately scolded for
talking so long; but it was on my mind to say it all, and I'm betther now
it's all over.'

'Good night, dear Anty,' said Martin, 'I'll be seeing you tomorrow.'

'Every day, I hope, Martin, till it's all over. God bless you, God bless
you all and you above all. You don't know, Martin at laist you didn't know
all along, how well, how thruly I've loved you. Good night,' and Martin
left the room, as Barry had done, in tears. But he had no feeling within
him of which he had cause to be ashamed. He was ashamed, and tried to hide
his face, for he was not accustomed to be seen with the tears running down
his cheeks; but still he had within him a strong sensation of gratified
pride, as he reflected that he was the object of the warmest affection to
so sweet a creature as Anty Lynch.

'Well, Martin what was it she wanted?' said his mother, as she met him at
the bottom of the stairs.

'I couldn't tell you now, mother,' said he; 'but av there was iver an angel
on 'arth, it's Anty Lynch.' And saying so, he pushed open the door and
escaped into the street.

'I wondher what she's been about now?' said the widow, speculating to
herself ' well, av she does lave it away from Barry, who can say but what
she has a right to do as she likes with her own? and who's done the most
for her, I'd like to know?' and pleasant prospects of her son's enjoying an
independence flitted before her mind's eye. 'But thin,' she continued,
talking to herself, 'I wouldn't have it said in Dunmore that a Kelly
demaned hisself to rob a Lynch, not for twice all Sim Lynch ever had.
Well we'll see; but no good'll ever come of meddling with them people.
Jane, Jane,' she called out, at the top of her voice, 'are you niver coming
down, and letting me out of this? bad manners to you.'

Jane answered, in the same voice, from the parlour upstairs, 'Shure,
mother, ain't I getting Anty her tay?

'Drat Anty and her tay! Well, shure, I'm railly bothered now wid them
Lynches! Well, glory be to God, there's an end to everything not that I'm
wishing her anywhere but where she is; she's welcome, for Mary Kelly.'




XXVI  LOVE'S AMBASSADOR


Two days after the hunt in which poor Goneaway was killed by Barry's horse,
Ballindine received the following letter from his friend Dot Blake.

Limmer's Hotel, 27th March, 1844.

Dear Frank,

I and Brien, and Bottom, crossed over last Friday night, and, thanks to the
God of storms, were allowed to get quietly through it. The young chieftain
didn't like being boxed on the quay a bit too well; the rattling of the
chains upset him, and the fellows there are so infernally noisy and
awkward, that I wonder he was ever got on board. It's difficult to make an
Irishman handy, but it 's the very devil to make him quiet. There were four
at his head, and three at his tail, two at the wheel, turning, and one up
aloft, hallooing like a demon in the air; and when Master Brien showed a
little aversion to this comic performance, they were going to drag him into
the box bon gré, mal gré, till Bottom interposed and saved the men and the
horse from destroying each other.

We got safe to Middleham on Saturday night, the greatest part of the way by
rail. Scott has a splendid string of horses. These English fellows do their
work in tiptop style, only they think more of spending money than they do
of making it. I waited to see him out on Monday, when he'd got a trot, and
he was as bright as though he'd never left the Curragh. Scott says he's a
little too fine; but you know of course he must find some fault. To give
Igoe his due, he could not be in better condition, and Scott was obliged to
own that, considering where he came from, he was very well. I came on here
on Tuesday, and have taken thirteen wherever I could get it, and thought
the money safe. I have got a good deal on, and won't budge till I do it at
six to one; and I'm sure I'll bring him to that. I think he'll rise
quickly, as he wants so little training, and as his qualities must be at
once known now he's in Scott's stables; so if you mean to put any more on
you had better do it at once.

So much for the stables. I left the other two at home, but have one of my
own string here, as maybe I'll pick up a match: and now I wish to let you
know a report that I heard this morning at least a secret, which bids fair
to become a report. It is said that Kilcullen is to marry F   W  , and that
he has already paid Heaven only knows how many thousand pounds of debt with
her money; that the old earl has arranged it all, and that the beautiful
heiress has reluctantly agreed to be made a viscountess. I'm very far from
saying that I believe this; but it may suit you to know that I heard the
arrangement mentioned before two other persons, one of whom was
Morris strange enough this, as he was one of the set at Handicap Lodge when
you told them that the match with yourself was still on. I have no doubt
the plan would suit father and son; you best know how far the lady may have
been likely to accede. At any rate, my dear Frank, if you'll take my
advice, you'll not sit quiet till she does marry some one. You can't expect
she'll wear the willow for you very long, if you do nothing yourself. Write
to her by post, and write to the earl by the same post, saying you have
done so. Tell her in the sweetest way you can, that you cannot live without
seeing her, and getting your congé, if congé it is to be, from her own dear
lips; and tell him, in as few words, as you please, that you mean to do
yourself the honour of knocking at his door on such and such a day and do
it.

By the bye, Kilcullen certainly returns to Ireland immediately. There's
been the devil's own smash among him and the Jews. He has certainly been
dividing money among them; but not near enough, by all accounts, to satisfy
the half of them. For the sake of your reputation, if not of your pocket,
don't let him walk off with the hundred and thirty thousand pounds. They
say it's not a penny less.

Very faithfully yours,

W. BLAKE.

Shall I do anything for you here about Brien? I think I might still get you
eleven to one, but let me hear at once.


As Frank read the first portion of this epistle, his affection for his poor
dear favourite nag returned in full force, and he felt all the pangs of
remorse for having parted with him; but when he came to the latter part, to
Lord Kilcullen's name, and the initials by which his own Fanny was
designated, he forgot all about horse and owner; became totally regardless
of thirteen, eleven, and six to one, and read on hastily to the end; read
it all again then closed the letter, and put it in his pocket, and remained
for a considerable time in silent contemplation, trying to make up his mind
what he would do.

Nobody was with him as he opened his post-bag, which he took from the
messenger as the boy was coming up to the house; he therefore read his
letter alone, on the lawn, and he continued pacing up and down before the
house with a most perturbed air, for half an hour.

Kilcullen going to marry Fanny Wyndham! So, that was the cause of Lord
Cashel's singular behaviour his incivility, and refusal to allow Frank to
see his ward. 'What! to have arranged it all in twenty-four hours,' thought
Frank to himself; 'to have made over his ward's money to his son, before
her brother, from whom she inherited it, was in his grave: to determine at
once to reject an accepted suitor for the sake of closing on the poor
girl's money and without the slightest regard for her happiness, without a
thought for her welfare! And then, such lies,' said the viscount, aloud,
striking his heel into the grass in his angry impetuosity; 'such base,
cruel lies! to say that she had authorised him, when he couldn't have dared
to make such a proposal to her, and her brother but two days dead. Well; I
took him for a stiff-necked pompous fool, but I never thought him such an
avaricious knave.' And Fanny, too could Fanny have agreed, so soon, to give
her hand to another? She could not have transferred her heart. His own
dear, fond Fanny! A short time ago they had been all in all to each other;
and now so completely estranged as they were! However, Dot was right; up to
this time Fanny might be quite true to him; indeed, there was not ground
even for doubting her, for it was evident that no reliance was to be placed
in Lord Cashel's asseverations. But still he could not expect that she
should continue to consider herself engaged, if she remained totally
neglected by her lover. He must do something, and that at once; but there
was very great difficulty in deciding what that something was to be. It was
easy enough for Dot to say, first write, and then go. If he were to write,
what security was there that his letter would be allowed to reach Fanny?
and, if he went, how much less chance was there that he would be allowed to
see her. And then, again to be turned out of the house! again informed, by
that pompous scheming earl, that his visits there were not desired. Or,
worse still, not to be admitted; to be driven from the door by a footman
who would well know for what he came! No; come what come might, he would
never again go to Grey Abbey; at least not unless he was specially and
courteously invited thither by the owner; and then it should only be to
marry his ward, and take her from the odious place, never to return again.

'The impudent impostor!' continued Frank to himself; 'to pretend to suspect
me, when he was himself hatching his dirty, mercenary, heartless schemes!'

But still the same question recurred what was to be done? Venting his wrath
on Lord Cashel would not get him out of the difficulty: going was out of
the question; writing was of little use. Could he not send somebody else?
Some one who could not be refused admittance to Fanny, and who might at any
rate learn what her wishes and feelings were? He did not like making love
by deputy; but still, in his present dilemma, he could think of nothing
better. But whom was he to send? Bingham Blake was a man of character, and
would not make a fool of himself; but he was too young; he would not be
able to make his way to Fanny. No a young unmarried man would not do. Mat
Tierney? he was afraid of no one, and always cool and collected; but then,
Mat was in London; besides, he was a sort of friend of Kilcullen's. General
Bourke? No one could refuse an entrée to his venerable grey hairs, and
polished manner; besides, his standing in the world was so good, so
unexceptionable; but then the chances were he would not go on such an
errand; he was too old to be asked to take such a troublesome service; and
besides, if asked, it was very probable he would say that he considered
Lord Cashel entitled to his ward's obedience. The rector the Rev. Joseph
Armstrong? He must be the man: there was, at any rate, respectability in
his profession; and he had sufficient worldly tact not easily to be thrust
aside from his object: the difficulty would be, whether he had a coat
sufficiently decent to appear in at Grey Abbey.

After mature consideration he made up his mind that the parson should be
his ambassador. He would sooner have confided in Bingham Blake, but an
unmarried man would not do. No; the parson must be the man. Frank was,
unfortunately, but little disposed to act in any case without advice, and
in his anxiety to consult some one as to consulting the parson, returned
into the house, to make a clear breast of it to his mother. He found her in
the breakfast-room with the two girls, and the three were holding council
deep.

'Oh, here's Frank,' said Sophy; 'we'd better tell him all about it at
once and he'll tell us which she'd like best.'

'We didn't mean to tell you,' said Guss; 'but I and Sophy are going to work
two sofas for the drawing-room in Berlin wool, you know: they'll be very
handsome everybody has them now, you know; they have a splendid pair at
Ballyhaunis which Nora and her cousin worked.'

'But we want to know what pattern would suit Fanny's taste,' said Sophy.

'Well; you can't know that,' said Frank rather pettishly, 'so you'd better
please yourselves.'

'Oh, but you must know what she likes,' continued Guss; 'I'm for this,' and
she, displayed a pattern showing forth two gorgeous macaws each with
plumage of the brightest colours. 'The colours are so bright, and the
feathers will work in so well.'

'I don't like anything in worsted-work but flowers,' said Sophy; 'Nora
Dillon says she saw two most beautiful wreaths at that shop in Grafton
Street, both hanging from bars, you know; and that would be so much
prettier. I'm sure Fanny would like flowers best; wouldn't she now,
Frank? Mamma thinks the common cross-bar patterns are nicer for furniture.'

'Indeed I do, my dear,' said Mrs O'Kelly; 'and you see them much more
common now in well-furnished drawing-rooms. But still I'd much sooner have
them just what Fanny would like best. Surely, Frank, you must have heard
her speak about worsted-work?'

All this completely disconcerted Frank, and made him very much out of love
with his own plan of consulting his mother. He gave the trio some not very
encouraging answer as to their good-natured intentions towards his drawing-
room, and again left them alone. 'Well; there's nothing for it but to send
the parson; I don't think he'll make a fool of himself, but then I know
he'll look so shabby. However, here goes,' and he mounted his nag, and rode
off to Ballindine glebe.

The glebe-house was about a couple of miles from Kelly's Court, and it was
about half-past four when Lord Ballindine got there. He knocked at the
door, which was wide open, though it was yet only the last day of March,
and was told by a remarkably slatternly maid-servant, that her master was
'jist afther dinner; that he was stepped out,' but was about the place, and
could be 'fetched in at oncet'; and would his honour walk in? And so Lord
Ballindine was shown into the rectory drawing-room on one side of the
passage (alias hall), while the attendant of all work went to announce his
arrival in the rectory dining-room on the other side. Here Mrs Armstrong
was sitting among her numerous progeny, securing the débris of the dinner
from their rapacious paws, and endeavouring to make two very unruly boys
consume the portions of fat which had been supplied to them with, as they
loudly declared, an unfairly insufficient quantum of lean. As the girl was
good-natured enough to leave both doors wide open, Frank had the full
advantage of the conversation.

'Now, Greg,' said the mother, 'if you leave your meat that way I'll have it
put by for you, and you shall have nothing but potatoes till it's ate.'

'Why, mother, it's nothing but tallow; look here; you gave me all the
outside part.'

'I'll tell your dada, and see what he'll say, if you call the meat tallow;
and you're just as bad, Joe; worse if anything gracious me, here's waste!
well, I'll lock it up for you, and you shall both of you eat it to-morrow,
before you have a bit of anything else.'

Then followed a desperate fit of coughing.

'My poor Minny!' said the mother, 'you're just as bad as ever. Why would
you go out on the wet grass? Is there none of the black currant jam left?'

'No, mother,' coughed Minny, 'not a bit.'

'Greg ate it all,' peached Sarah, an elder sister; 'I told him not, but he
would.'

'Greg, I'll have you flogged, and you never shall come from school again.
What's that you're saying, Mary?'

'There's a jintleman in the drawing-room as is axing afther masther.'

'Gentleman what gentleman?' asked the lady.

'Sorrow a know I know, ma'am!' said Mary, who was a new importation 'only,
he's a dark, sightly jintleman, as come on a horse.'

'And did you send for the master?'

'I did, ma'am; I was out in the yard, and bad Patsy go look for him.'

'It's Nicholas Dillon, I'll bet twopence,' said Greg, jumping up to rush
into the other room: 'he's come about the black colt, I know.'

'Stay where you are, Greg; and don't go in there with your dirty face and
fingers; and, after speculating a little longer, the lady went into the
drawing-room herself; though, to tell the truth, her own face and fingers
were hardly in a state suitable for receiving company.
Mrs Armstrong marched into the drawing-room with something of a stately
air, to meet the strange gentleman, and there she found her old friend Lord
Ballindine. Whoever called at the rectory, and at whatever hour the visit
might be made, poor Mrs Armstrong was sure to apologise for the confusion
in which she was found. She had always just got rid of a servant, and could
not get another that suited her; or there was some other commonplace reason
for her being discovered en déshabille. However, she managed to talk to
Frank for a minute or two with tolerable volubility, till her eyes
happening to dwell on her own hands, which were certainly not as white as a
lady's should be, she became a little uncomfortable and embarrassed tried
to hide them in her drapery then remembered that she had on her morning
slippers, which were rather the worse for wear; and, feeling too much
ashamed of her tout ensemble to remain, hurried out of the room, saying
that she would go and see where Armstrong could possibly have got himself
to. She did not appear again to Lord Ballindine.

Poor Mrs Armstrong! though she looked so little like one, she had been
brought up as a lady, carefully and delicately; and her lot was the more
miserable, for she knew how lamentable were her present deficiencies. When
she married a poor curate, having, herself, only a few hundred pounds'
fortune, she had made up her mind to a life of comparative poverty; but she
had meant even in her poverty to be decent, respectable, and lady-like.
Weak health, nine children, an improvident husband, and an income so
lamentably ill-suited to her wants, had however been too much for her, and
she had degenerated into a slatternly, idle scold.

In a short time the parson came in from his farm, rusty and muddy rusty,
from his clerical dress; muddy from his farming occupations; and Lord
Ballindine went into the business of his embassy. He remembered, however,
how plainly he had heard the threats about the uneaten fat, and not wishing
the household to hear all he had to say respecting Fanny Wyndham, he took
the parson out into the road before the house, and, walking up and down,
unfolded his proposal.

Mr Armstrong expressed extreme surprise at the nature of the mission on
which he was to be sent; secondly at the necessity of such a mission at
all; and thirdly, lastly, and chiefly, at the enormous amount of the
heiress's fortune, to lose which he declared would be an unpardonable sin
on Lord Ballindine's part. He seemed to be not at all surprised that Lord
Cashel should wish to secure so much money in his own family; nor did he at
all participate in the unmeasured reprobation with which Frank loaded the
worthy earl's name. One hundred and thirty thousand pounds would justify
anything, and he thought of his nine poor children, his poor wife, his poor
home, his poor two hundred a-year, and his poor self. He calculated that so
very rich a lady would most probably have some interest in the Church,
which she could not but exercise in his favour, if he were instrumental in
getting her married; and he determined to go. Then the, difficult question
as to the wardrobe occurred to him. Besides, he had no money for the road.
Those, however, were minor evils to be got over, and he expressed himself
willing to undertake the embassy.

'But, my dear Ballindine; what is it I'm to do?' said he. 'Of course you
know, I'd do anything for you, as of course I ought anything that ought to
be done; but what is it exactly you wish me to say?'

'You see, Armstrong, that pettifogging schemer told me he didn't wish me to
come to his house again, and I wouldn't, even for Fanny Wyndham, force
myself into any man's house. He would not let me see her when I was there,
and I could not press it, because her brother was only just dead; so I'm
obliged to take her refusal second hand. Now I don't believe she ever sent
the message he gave me. I think he has made her believe that I'm deserting
and ill-treating her; and in this way she may be piqued and tormented into
marrying Kilcullen.'

'I see it now: upon my word then Lord Cashel knows how to play his cards!
But if I go to Grey Abbey I can't see her without seeing him.'

'Of course not but I'm coming to that. You see, I have no reason to doubt
Fanny's love; she has assured me of it a thousand times. I wouldn't say so
to you even, as it looks like boasting, only it's so necessary you should
know how the land lies; besides, everybody knew it; all the world knew we
were engaged.'

'Oh, boasting it's no boasting at all: it would be very little good my
going to Grey Abbey, if she had not told you so.'

'Well, I think that if you were to see Lord Cashel and tell him, in your
own quiet way, who you are; that you are rector of Ballindine, and my
especial friend; and that you had come all the way from County Mayo
especially to see Miss Wyndham, that you might hear from herself whatever
message she had to send to me if you were to do this, I don't think he
would dare to prevent you from seeing her.'

'If he did, of course I would put it to him that you, who were so long
received as Miss Wyndham's accepted swain, were at least entitled to so
much consideration at her hands; and that I must demand so much on your
behalf, wouldn't that be it, eh?'

'Exactly. I see you understand it, as if you'd been at it all your life;
only don't call me her swain.'

'Well, I'll think of another word her beau.'

'For Heaven's sake, no! that's ten times worse.'

'Well, her lover?'

'That's at any rate English: but say, her accepted husband that'll be true
and plain: if you do that I think you will manage to see her, and then '

'Well, then for that'll be the difficult part.'

'Oh, when you see her, one simple word will do: Fanny Wyndham loves plain
dealing. Merely tell her that Lord Ballindine has not changed his mind; and
that he wishes to know from herself, by the mouth of a friend whom he can
trust, whether she has changed hers. If she tells you that she has, I would
not follow her farther though she were twice as rich as Croesus. I'm not
hunting her for her money; but I am determined that Lord Cashel shall not
make us both miserable by forcing her into a marriage with his roué of a
son.'

'Well, Ballindine, I'll go; but mind, you must not blame me if I fail. I'll
do the best I can for you.'

'Of course I won't. When will you be able to start?'

'Why, I suppose there's no immediate hurry? said the parson, remembering
that the new suit of clothes must be procured.

'Oh, but there is. Kilcullen will be there at once; and considering how
long it is since I saw Fanny three months, I believe no time should be
lost.'

'How long is her brother dead?'

'Oh, a month or very near it.'

'Well, I'll go Monday fortnight; that'll do, won't it?'

It was at last agreed that the parson was to start for Grey Abbey on the
Monday week following; that he was to mention to no one where he was going;
that he was to tell his wife that he was going on business he was not
allowed to talk about she would be a very meek woman if she rested
satisfied with that! and that he was to present himself at Grey Abbey on
the following Wednesday.

'And now,' said the parson, with some little hesitation, 'my difficulty
commences. We country rectors are never rich; but when we've nine children,
Ballindine, it's rare to find us with money in our pockets. You must
advance me a little cash for the emergencies of the road.'

'My dear fellow! Of course the expense must be my own. I'll send you down a
note between this and then; I haven't enough about me now. Or, stay I'll
give you a cheque,' and he turned into the house, and wrote him a cheque
for twenty pounds.

That'll get the coat into the bargain, thought the rector, as he rather
uncomfortably shuffled the bit of paper into his pocket. He had still a
gentleman's dislike to be paid for his services. But then, Necessity how
stern she is! He literally could not have gone without it.




XXVII  MR LYNCH'S LAST RESOURCE


On the following morning Lord Ballindine as he had appointed to do, drove
over to Dunmore, to settle with Martin about the money, and, if necessary,
to go with him to the attorney's office in Tuam. Martin had as yet given
Daly no answer respecting Barry Lynch's last proposal; and though poor
Anty's health made it hardly necessary that any answer should be given,
still Lord Ballindine had promised to see the attorney, if Martin thought
it necessary. The family were all in great confusion that morning, for Anty
was very bad worse than she had ever been. She was in a paroxysm of fever,
was raving in delirium, and in such a state that Martin and his sister were
occasionally obliged to hold her in bed.

Sally, the old servant, had been in the room for a considerable time during
the morning, standing at the foot of the bed with a big tea-pot in her
hand, and begging in a whining voice, from time to time, that 'Miss Anty,
God bless her, might get a dhrink of tay!' But, as she had been of no other
service, and as the widow thought it as well that she should not, hear what
Anty said in her raving, she had been desired to go down-stairs, and was
sitting over the fire. She had fixed the big tea-pot among the embers, and
held a slop-bowl of tea in her lap, discoursing to Nelly, who with her hair
somewhat more than ordinarily dishevelled, in token of grief for Anty's
illness, was seated on a low stool, nursing a candle-stick.

'Well, Nelly,' said the prophetic Sally, boding evil in her anger for,
considering how long she had been in the family, she had thought herself
entitled to hear Anty's ravings; 'mind, I tell you, good won't come of
this. The Virgin prothect us from all harum! it niver war lucky to have
sthrangers dying in the house.'

'But shure Miss Anty 's no stranger.'

'Faix thin, her words must be sthrange enough when the likes o' me wouldn't
be let hear 'em. Not but what I did hear, as how could I help it? There'll
be no good come of it. Who's to be axed to the wake, I'd like to know.'

'Axed to the wake, is it? Why, shure, won't there be rashions of ating and
lashings of dhrinking? The misthress isn't the woman to spare, and sich a
frind as Miss Anty dead in the house. Let 'em ax whom they like.'

'You're a fool, Nelly Ax whom they like! that's asy said. Is they to ax
Barry Lynch, or is they to let it alone, and put the sisther into the sod
without a word said to him about it? God be betwixt us and all evil' and
she took a long pull at the slop-bowl; and, as the liquid flowed down her
throat, she gradually threw back her head till the top of her mop cap was
flattened against the side of the wide fire-place, and the bowl was turned
bottom upwards, so that the half-melted brown sugar might trickle into her
mouth. She then gave a long sigh, and repeated that difficult question 'Who
is they to ax to the wake?'

It was too much for Nelly to answer: she reechoed the sigh, and more
closely embraced the candlestick.

'Besides, Nelly, who'll have the money when she's gone? and she's nigh that
already, the Blessed Virgin guide and prothect her. Who'll get all her
money?

'Why; won't Mr Martin? Sure, an't they as good as man and wife all as one?'

'That 's it; they'll be fighting and tearing, and tatthering about that
money, the two young men will, you'll see. There'll be lawyering, an'
magisthrate's work an' factions an' fighthins at fairs; an' thin, as in
course the Lynches can't hould their own agin the Kellys, there'll be
undherhand blows, an' blood, an' murdher! you'll see else.'

'Glory be to God,' involuntarily prayed Nelly, at the thoughts suggested by
Sally's powerful eloquence.

'There will, I tell ye,' continued Sally, again draining the tea-pot into
the bowl. 'Sorrow a lie I'm telling you;' and then, in a low whisper across
the fire, 'didn't I see jist now Miss Anty ketch a hould of Misther Martin,
as though she'd niver let him go agin, and bid him for dear mercy's sake
have a care of Barry Lynch? Shure I knowed what that meant. And thin,
didn't he thry and do for herself with his own hands? Didn't Biddy say
she'd swear she heard him say he'd do it? and av he wouldn't boggle about
his own sisther, it's little he'd mind what he'd do to an out an out inemy
like Misther Martin.'

'Warn't that a knock at the hall-door, Sally?'

'Run and see, girl; maybe it's the docthor back again; only mostly he don't
mind knocking much.'

Nelly went to the door, and opened it to Lord Ballindine, who had left his
gig in charge of his servant. He asked for Martin, who in a short time,
joined him in the parlour.

'This is a dangerous place for your lordship, now,' said he: 'the fever is
so bad in the house. Thank God, nobody seems to have taken it yet, but
there's no knowing.'

'Is she still so bad, Martin?'

'Worse than iver, a dale worse; I don't think It'll last long, now: another
bout such as this last'll about finish it. But I won't keep your lordship.
I've managed about the money;' and the necessary writing was gone through,
and the cash was handed to Lord Ballindine.

'You've given over all thoughts then, about Lynch's offer eh, Martin? I
suppose you've done with all that, now?'

'Quite done with it, my lord; and done with fortune-hunting too. I've seen
enough this last time back to cure me altogether at laist, I hope so.'

'She doesn't mean to make any will, then?'

'Why, she wishes to make one, but I doubt whether she'll ever be able;' and
then Martin gave his landlord an account of all that Anty had said about
her will, her wishes as to the property, her desire to leave something to
him (Martin) and his sisters: and last he repeated the strong injunctions
which Anty had given him respecting her poor brother, and her assurance, so
full of affection, that had she lived she would have done her best to make
him happy as her husband.

Lord Ballindine was greatly affected; he warmly shook hands with Martin,
told him how highly he thought of his conduct, and begged him to take care
that Anty had the gratification of making her will as she had desired to
do. 'The fact,' Lord Ballindine said, 'of your being named in the will as
her executor will give you more. control over Barry than anything else
could do.' He then proposed at once to go, himself, to Tuam, and explain to
Daly what it was Miss Lynch wished him to do. This Lord Ballindine did, and
the next day the will was completed.

For a week or ten days Anty remained in much the same condition. After each
attack of fever it was expected that she would perish from weakness and
exhaustion; but she still held on, and then the fever abated, and Doctor
Colligan thought that it was possible she might recover: she was, however,
so dreadfully emaciated and worn out, there was so little vitality left in
her, that he would not encourage more than the faintest hope. Anty herself
was too weak either to hope or fear and the women of the family, who from
continual attendance knew how very near to death she was, would hardly
allow themselves to think that she could recover.

There were two persons, however, who from the moment of her amendment felt
an inward sure conviction of her convalescence. They were Martin and Barry.
To the former this feeling was o course one of unalloyed delight. He went
over to Kelly's Court, and spoke there of his betrothed as though she were
already sitting up and eating mutton chops; was congratulated by the young
ladies on his approaching nuptials, and sauntered round the Kelly's Court
shrubberies with Frank, talking over his future prospects; asking advice
about this and that, and propounding the pros and cons on that difficult
question, whether he would live at Dunmore, or build a house at Toneroe for
himself and Anty. With Barry, however, the feeling was very different: he
was again going to have his property wrenched from him; he was again to
suffer the pangs he had endured, when first he learned the purport of his
father's will; after clutching the fruit for which he had striven, as even
he himself felt, so basely, it was again to be torn from him so cruelly.

He had been horribly anxious for a termination to Anty's sufferings;
horribly impatient to feel himself possessor of the whole. From day to day,
and sometimes two or three times a day, he had seen Dr Colligan, and
inquired how things were going on: he had especially enjoined that worthy
man to come up after his morning call at the inn, and get a glass of sherry
at Dunmore House; and the doctor had very generally done so. For some time
Barry endeavoured to throw the veil of brotherly regard over the true
source of his anxiety; but the veil was much too thin to hide what it
hardly covered, and Barry, as he got intimate with the doctor, all but
withdrew it altogether. When Barry would say, 'Well, doctor, how is she to-
day?' and then remark, in answer to the doctor's statement that she was
very bad 'Well, I suppose it can't last much longer; but it's very tedious,
isn't it, poor thing?' it was plain enough that the brother was not longing
for the sister's recovery. And then he would go a little further, and
remark that 'if the poor thing was to go, it would be better for all she
went at once,' and expressed an opinion that he was rather ill-treated by
being kept so very long in suspense.

Doctor Colligan ought to have been shocked at this; and so he was,, at
first, to a certain extent, but he was not a man of a very high tone of
feeling. He had so often heard of heirs to estates longing for the death of
the proprietors of them; he had so often seen relatives callous and
indifferent at the loss of those who ought to have been dear to them; it
seemed so natural to him that Barry should want the estate, that he
gradually got accustomed to his impatient inquiries, and listened to, and
answered them, without disgust. He fell too into a kind of intimacy with
Barry; he liked his daily glass, or three or four glasses, of sherry; and
besides, it was a good thing for him to stand well in a professional point
of view with a man who had the best house in the village, and who would
soon have eight hundred a-year.

If Barry showed his impatience and discontent as long as the daily
bulletins told him that Anty was still alive, though dying, it may easily
be imagined that he did not hide his displeasure when he first heard that
she was alive and better. His brow grew very black, his cheeks flushed, the
drops of sweat stood on his forehead, and he said, speaking through his
closed teeth, 'D   it, doctor, you don't mean to tell me she's recovering
now?'

'I don't say, Mr Lynch, whether she is or no; but it's certain the fever
has left her. She's very weak, very weak indeed; I never knew a person to
be alive and have less life in 'em; but the fever has left her and there
certainly is hope.'

'Hope!' said Barry 'why, you told me she couldn't live!'

'I don't say she will, Mr Lynch, but I say she may. Of course we must do
what we can for her,' and the doctor took his sherry and went his way.

How horrible then was the state of Barry's mind! For a time he was
absolutely stupified with despair; he stood fixed on the spot where the
doctor had left him, realising, bringing home to himself, the tidings which
he had heard. His sister to rise again, as though it were from the dead, to
push him off his stool! Was he to fall again into that horrid low abyss in
which even the Tuam attorney had scorned him; in which he had even invited
that odious huxter's son to marry his sister and live in his house? What!
was he again to be reduced to poverty, to want, to despair, by her whom he
so hated? Could nothing be done? Something must be done she should not be,
could not be allowed to leave that bed of sickness alive. 'There must be an
end of her,' he muttered through his teeth, 'or she'll drive me mad!' And
then he thought how easily he might have smothered her, as she lay there
clasping his hand, with no one but themselves in the room; and as the
thought crossed his brain his eyes nearly started from his head, the sweat
ran down his face, he clutched the money in his trousers' pocket till the
coin left an impression on his flesh, and he gnashed his teeth till his
jaws ached with his own violence. But then, in that sick-room, he had been
afraid of her; he could not have touched her then for the wealth of the
Bank of England! but now!

The devil sat within him, and revelled with full dominion over his soul:
there was then no feeling left akin to humanity to give him one chance of
escape; there was no glimmer of pity, no shadow of remorse, no sparkle of
love, even though of a degraded kind; no hesitation in the will for crime,
which might yet, by God's grace, lead to its eschewal: all there was black,
foul, and deadly, ready for the devil's deadliest work. Murder crouched
there, ready to spring, yet afraid cowardly, but too thirsty alter blood to
heed its own fears. Theft low, pilfering, pettifogging, theft; avarice,
lust, and impotent, scalding hatred. Controlled by these the black blood
rushed quick to and from his heart, filling him with sensual desires below
the passions of a brute, but denying him one feeling or one appetite for
aught that was good or even human.

Again the next morning the doctor was questioned with intense anxiety; 'Was
she going? was she drooping? had yesterday's horrid doubts raised only a
false alarm?' It was utterly beyond Barry's power to make any attempt at
concealment, even of the most shallow kind. 'Well, doctor, is she dying
yet?' was the brutal question he put.

'She is, if anything, rather stronger;' answered the doctor, shuddering
involuntarily at the open expression of Barry's atrocious wish, and yet
taking his glass of wine.

'The devil she is!' muttered Barry, throwing himself into an arm-chair. He
sat there some little time, and the doctor also sat down, said nothing, but
continued sipping his wine.

'In the name of mercy, what must I do?' said Barry, speaking more to
himself than to the other.

'Why, you've enough, Mr Lynch, without hers; you can do well enough without
it.'

'Enough! Would you think you had enough if you were robbed of more than
half of all you have. Half, indeed,' he shouted 'I may say all, at once. I
don't believe there's a man in Ireland would bear it. Nor will I.'

Again there was a silence; but still, somehow, Colligan seemed to stay
longer than usual. Every now and then Barry would for a moment look full in
his face, and almost instantly drop his eyes again. He was trying to mature
future plans; bringing into shape thoughts which had occurred to him, in a
wild way at different times; proposing to himself schemes, with which his
brain had been long loaded, but which he had never resolved on which he had
never made palpable and definite. One thing he found sure and certain; on
one point he was able to become determined: he could not do it alone; he
must have an assistant; he must buy some one's aid; and again he looked at
Colligan, and again his eyes fell. There was no encouragement there, but
there was no discouragement. Why did he stay there so long? Why did he so
slowly sip that third glass of wine? Was he waiting to be asked? was he
ready, willing, to be bought? There must be something in his thoughts he
must have some reason for sitting there so long, and so silent, without
speaking a word, or taking his eyes off the fire.

Barry had all but made up his mind to ask the aid he wanted; but he felt
that he was not prepared to do so that he should soon quiver and shake,
that he could not then carry it through. He felt that he wanted spirit to
undertake his own part in the business, much less to inspire another with
the will to assist him in it. At last he rose abruptly from his chair, and
said,

'Will you dine with me to-day, Colligan? I'm so down in the mouth, so
deucedly hipped, it will be a charity.'

'Well,' said Colligan, 'I don't care if I do. I must go down to your sister
in the evening, and I shall be near her here.'

'Yes, of course; you'll be near her here, as you say: come at six, then. By
the bye, couldn't you go to Anty first, so that we won't be disturbed over
our punch?'

'I must see her the last thing, about nine, but I can look up again
afterwards, for a minute or so. I don't stay long with her now: it's better
not.'

'Well, then, you'll be here at six?'

'Yes, six sharp;' and at last the doctor got up and went away.

It was odd that Doctor Colligan should have sat thus long; it showed a
great want of character and of good feeling in him. He should never have
become intimate, or even have put up with a man expressing such wishes as
those which so often fell from Barry's lips. But he was entirely innocent
of the thoughts which Barry attributed to him. It had never even occurred
to him that Barry, bad as he was, would wish to murder his sister. No; bad,
heedless, sensual as Doctor Colligan might be, Barry was a thousand fathoms
deeper in iniquity than he.

As soon as he had left the room the other uttered a long, deep sigh. It was
a great relief to him to be alone: he could now collect his thoughts,
mature his plans, and finally determine. He took his usual remedy in his
difficulties, a glass of brandy; and, going out into the garden, walked up
and down the gravel walk almost unconsciously, for above an hour.

Yes: he would do it. He would not be a coward. The thing had been clone a
thousand times before. Hadn't he heard of it over and over again? Besides,
Colligan's manner was an assurance to him that he would not boggle at such
a job. But then, of course, he must be paid and Barry began to calculate
how much he must offer for the service; and, when the service should be
performed, how he might avoid the fulfilment of his portion of the bargain.

He went in and ordered the dinner; filled the spirit decanters, opened a
couple of bottles of wine, and then walked out again. In giving his orders,
and doing the various little things with which he had to keep himself
employed, everybody, and everything seemed strange to him. He hardly knew
what he was about, and felt almost as though he were in a dream. He had
quite made up his mind as to what he would do; his resolution was fixed to
carry it through but: still there was the but, how was he to open it to
Doctor Colligan? He walked up and down the gravel path for a long time,
thinking of this; or rather trying to think of it, for his thoughts would
fly away to all manner of other subjects, and he continually found himself
harping upon some trifle, connected with Anty, but wholly irrespective of
her death; some little thing that she had done for him, or ought to have
done; something she had said a long time ago, and which he had never
thought of till now; something she had worn, and which at the time he did
not even know that he had observed; and as often as he found his mind thus
wandering, he would start off at a quicker pace, and again endeavour to lay
out a line of conduct for the evening.

At last, however, he came to the conclusion that it would he better to
trust to the chapter of chances: there was one thing, or rather two things,
he could certainly do: he could make the doctor half drunk before he opened
on the subject, and he would take care to be in the same state himself. So
he walked in and sat still before the fire, for the two long remaining
hours, which intervened before the clock struck six.

It was about noon when the doctor left him, and during those six long
solitary hours no one feeling of remorse had entered his breast. He had
often doubted, hesitated as to the practicability of his present plan, but
not once had he made the faintest effort to overcome the wish to have the
deed done. There was not one moment in which lie would not most willingly
have had his sister's blood upon his hands, upon his brain, upon his soul;
could he have willed and accomplished her death, without making himself
liable to the penalties of the law.

At length Doctor Colligan came, and Barry made a great effort to appear
unconcerned and in good humour.

'And how is she now, doctor?' he said, as they sat down to table.

'Is it Anty? why, you know I didn't mean to see her since I was here this
morning, till nine o'clock.'

'Oh, true; so you were saying. I forgot. Well, will you take a glass of
wine?' and Barry filled his own glass quite full.

He drank his wine at dinner like a glutton, who had only a short time
allowed him, and wished during that time to swallow as much as possible;
and he tried to hurry his companion in the same manner. But the doctor
didn't choose to have wine forced down his throat; he wished to enjoy
himself, and remonstrated against Barry's violent hospitality.

At last, dinner was over; the things were taken away, they both drew their
chairs over the fire, and began the business of the evening the making and
consumption of punch. Barry had determined to begin upon the subject which
lay so near his heart, at eight o'clock. He had thought it better to fix an
exact hour, and had calculated that the whole matter might be completed
before Colligan went over to the inn. He kept continually looking at his
watch, and gulping down his drink, and thinking over and over again how he
would begin the conversation.

'You're very comfortable here, Lynch,' said the doctor, stretching his long
legs before the fire, and putting his dirty boots upon the fender.

'Yes, indeed,' said Barry, not knowing what the other was saying.

'All you want's a wife, and you'd have as warm a house as there is in
Galway. You'll be marrying soon, I suppose?'

'Well, I wouldn't wonder if I did. You don't take your punch; there's
brandy there, if you like it better than whiskey.'

'This is very good, thank you couldn't be better. You haven't much land in
your own hands, have you?'

'Why, no I don't think I have. What's that you're saying? land? No, not
much: if there's a thing I hate, it's farming.'

'Well, upon my word you're wrong. I don't see what else a gentleman has to
do in the country. I wish to goodness I could give up the gallipots and
farm a few acres of my own land. There's nothing I wish so much as to get a
bit of land: indeed, I've been looking out for it, but it's so difficult to
get.'

Up to this, Barry had hardly listened to what the doctor had been saying;
but now he was all attention. 'So that is to be his price,' thought he to
himself, 'he'll cost me dear, but I suppose he must have it.'

Barry looked at his watch: it was near eight o'clock, but he seemed to feel
that all he had drank had had no effect on him: it had not given him the
usual pluck; it had not given him the feeling of reckless assurance, which
he mistook for courage and capacity.

'If you've a mind to be a tenant of mine, Colligan, I'll keep a look out
for you. The land's crowded now, but there's a lot of them cottier devils I
mean to send to the right about. They do the estate no good, and I hate the
sight of them. But you know how the property's placed, and while Anty's in
this wretched state, of course I can do nothing.'

'Will you bear it in mind though, Lynch? When a bit of land does fall into
your hands, I should be glad to be your tenant. I'm quite in earnest, and
should take it as a great favour.'

'I'll not forget it;' and then he remained silent for a minute. What an
opportunity this was for him to lose! Colligan so evidently wished to be
bribed so clearly showed what the price was which was to purchase him. But
still he could not ask the fatal question.

Again he sat silent for a while, till he looked at his watch, and found it
was a quarter past eight.

'Never fear,' he said, referring to the farm; 'you shall have it, and it
shall not be the worst land on the estate that I'll give you, you may be
sure; for, upon my soul, I have a great regard for you; I have indeed.'

The doctor thanked him for his good opinion.

'Oh! I'm not blarneying you; upon my soul I'm not; that 's not the way with
me at all; and when you know me better you'll say so and you may be sure
you shall have the farm by Michaelmas.' And then, in a voice which he tried
to make as unconcerned as possible, he continued: 'By the bye, Colligan,
when do you think this affair of Anty's will be over? It's the devil and
all for a man not to know when he'll be his own master.'

'Oh, you mustn't calculate on your sister's property at all now,' said the
other, in an altered voice. 'I tell you it's very probable she may
recover.'

This again silenced Barry, and he let the time go by, till the doctor took
up his hat, to go down to his patient.

'You'll not be long, I suppose?' said Barry.

'Well, it's getting late,' said Colligan, 'and I don't think I'll be coming
back to-night.'

'Oh, but you will; indeed, you must. You promised you would, you know, and
I want to hear how she goes on.'

'Well, I'll just come up, but I won't stay, for I promised Mrs Colligan to
be home early.' This was always the doctor's excuse when he wished to get
away. He never allowed his domestic promises to draw him home when there
was anything to induce him to stay abroad; but, to tell the truth, he was
getting rather sick of his companion. The doctor took his hat, and went to
his patient.

'He'll not be above ten minutes or at any rate a quarter of an hour,'
thought Barry, 'and then I must do it. How he sucked it all in about the
farm! that's the trap, certainly.' And he stood leaning with his back
against the mantel-piece, and his coat-laps hanging over his arm, waiting
for and yet. fearing, the moment of the doctor's return. It seemed an age
since he went. Barry looked at his, watch almost every minute; it was
twenty minutes  past nine, five-and-twenty thirty forty three quarters of
an hour 'By Heaven!' said he, 'the man is not coming! he is going to desert
me and I shall be ruined! Why the deuce didn't I speak out when the man was
here!'

At last his ear caught the sound of the doctor's heavy foot on the gravel
outside the door, and immediately afterwards the door bell was rung. Barry
hastily poured out a glass of raw spirits and swallowed it; he then threw
himself into his chair, and Doctor Colligan again entered the room.

'What a time you've been, Colligan! Why I thought you weren't coming all
night. Now, Terry, some hot water, and mind you look sharp about it. Well,
how's Anty to-night?'

'Weak, very weak; but mending, I think. The disease won't kill her now; the
only thing is whether the cure will.'

'Well, doctor, you can't expect me to be very anxious about it:
unfortunately, we had never any reason to be proud of Anty, and it would be
humbug in me to pretend that I wish she should recover, to rob me of what
you know I've every right to consider my own.' Terry brought the hot water
in, and left the room.

'Well, I can't say you do appear very anxious about it. I'll just swallow
one dandy of punch, and then I'll get home. I'm later now than I meant to
be.'

'Nonsense, man. The idea of your being in a hurry, when everybody knows
that a doctor can never tell how long he may be kept in a sick-room! But
come now, tell the truth; put yourself in my condition, and do you mean to
say you'd be very anxious that Anty should recover? Would you like your own
sister to rise from her death-bed to rob you of everything you have? For,
by Heaven! it is robbery nothing less. She's so stiff-necked, that there's
no making any arrangement with her. I've tried everything, fair means and
foul, and nothing'll do but she must go and marry that low young Kelly so
immeasurably beneath her, you know, and of course only scheming for her
money. Put yourself in my place, I say; and tell me fairly what your own
wishes would be?'

'I was always fond of my brothers and sisters,' answered the doctor; 'and
we couldn't well rob each other, for none of us had a penny to lose.'

'That's a different thing, but just supposing you were exactly in my shoes
at this moment, do you mean to tell me that you'd be glad she should get
well? that you'd be glad she should be able to deprive you of your
property, disgrace your family, drive you from your own home, and make your
life miserable for ever after?'

'Upon my soul I can't say; but good night now, you're getting excited, and
I've finished my drop of punch.'

'Ah! nonsense, man, sit down. I've something in earnest I want to say to
you,' and Barry got up and prevented the doctor from leaving the room.
Colligan had gone so far as to put on his hat and great coat, and now sat
down again without taking them off.

'You and I, Colligan, are men of the world, and too wide awake for all the
old woman's nonsense people talk. What can I, or what could you in my
place, care for a half-cracked old maid like Anty, who's better dead than
alive, for her own sake and everybody's else; unless it is some scheming
ruffian like young Kelly there, who wants to make money by her?'

'I'm not asking you to care for her; only, if those are your ideas, it's as
well not to talk about them for appearance sake.'

'Appearance sake! There's nothing makes me so sick, as for two men like you
and me, who know, what's what, to be talking about appearance sake, like
two confounded parsons, whose business it is to humbug everybody, and
themselves into the bargain. I'll tell you what: had my father bad luck to
him for an old rogue not made such a will as he did, I'd've treated Anty as
well as any parson of 'em all would treat an old maid of a sister; but I'm
not going to have her put over my head this way. Come, doctor, confound all
humbug. I say it openly to you to please me, Anty must never come out of
that bed alive.'

'As if your wishes could make any difference. If it is to be so, she'll
die, poor creature, without your saying so much about it; but maybe, and
it' very likely too, she'll be alive and strong, after the two of us are
under the sod.'

'Well; if it must be so, it must; but what I wanted to say to you is this:
while you were away, I was thinking about what you said of the farm of
being a tenant of mine, you know.'

'We can talk about that another time,' said the doctor, who began to feel
an excessive wish to be out of the house.

'There's no time like the present, when I've got it in my mind; and, if
you'll wait, I can settle it all for you to-night. I was telling you that I
hate farming, and so I do. There are thirty or five-and-thirty acres of
land about the house, and lying round to the back of the town; you shall
take them off my hands, and welcome.'

This was too good an offer to be resisted, and Colligan said he would take
the land, with many thanks, if the rent any way suited him.

'We'll not quarrel about that, you may be sure, Colligan,' continued Barry;
'and as I said fifty acres at first it was fifty acres I think you were
saying you wished for I'll not baulk you, and go back from my own word.'

'What you have yourself, round the house, 'll be enough; only I'm thinking
the rent'll be too high.'

'It shall not; it shall be low enough; and, as I was saying, you shall have
the remainder, at the same price, immediately after Michaelmas, as soon as
ever those devils are ejected.'

'Well;' said Colligan, who was now really interested, 'what's the figure?'

Barry had been looking steadfastly at the fire during the whole
conversation, up to this: playing with the poker, and knocking the coals
about. He was longing to look into the other's face, but he did not dare.
Now, however, was his time; it was now or never: he took one furtive glance
at the doctor, and saw that he was really anxious on the subject that his
attention was fixed.

'The figure,' said he; 'the figure should not trouble you if you had no one
but me to deal, with. But there'll be Anty, confound her, putting her fist
into this and every other plan of mine!'

'I'd better deal with the agent, I'm thinking,' said Colligan; 'so, good
night.'

'You'll find you'd a deal better be dealing with me: you'll never find an
easier fellow to deal with, or one who'll put a better thing in your way.'

Colligan again sat down. He couldn't quite make Barry out: he suspected he
was planning some iniquity, but he couldn't, tell what; and he remained
silent, looking full into the other's face till he should go on. Barry
winced under the look, and hesitated; but at last he screwed himself up to
the point, and said,

'One word, between two friends, is as good as a thousand. If Anty dies of
this bout, you shall have the fifty acres, with a lease for perpetuity, at
sixpence an acre. Come, that's not a high figure, I think.'

'What?' said Colligan, apparently not understanding him, 'a lease for
perpetuity at how much an acre?'

'Sixpence a penny a pepper-corn just anything you please. But it's all on
Anty's dying. While she's alive I can do nothing for the best friend I
have.'

'By the Almighty above us,' said the doctor, almost in a whisper, 'I
believe the wretched man means me to murder her his own sister!'

'Murder? Who talked or said a word of murder?' said Barry, with a hoarse
and croaking voice 'isn't she dying as she is? and isn't she better dead
than alive? It's only just not taking so much trouble to keep the life in
her; you're so exceeding clever you know!' and he made a ghastly attempt at
smiling. 'With any other doctor she'd have been dead long since: leave her
to herself a little, and the farm's your own; and I'm sure there'll 've
been nothing at all like murder between us.'

'By Heavens, he does!' and Colligan rose quickly from his seat 'he means to
have her murdered, and thinks to make me do the deed! Why, you vile,
thieving, murdering reptile!' and as he spoke the doctor seized him by the
throat, and shook him violently in his strong grasp 'who told you I was a
fit person for such a plan? who told you to come to me for such a deed? who
told you I would sell my soul for your paltry land?' and he continued
grasping Barry's throat till he was black in the face, and nearly choked.
'Merciful Heaven! that I should have sat here, and listened to such a
scheme! Take care of yourself,' said he; and he threw him violently
backwards over the chairs 'if you're to be found in Connaught to-morrow, or
in Ireland the next day, I'll hang you!' and so saying, he hurried out of
the room, and went home.

'Well,' thought he, on his road: 'I have heard of such men as that before,
and I believe that when I was young I read of such: but I never expected to
meet so black a villain! What had I better do? If I go and swear an
information before a magistrate there'll be nothing but my word and his.
Besides, he said nothing that the law could take hold of. And yet I
oughtn't to let it pass: at any rate I'll sleep on it.' And so he did; but
it was not for a 1ong time, for the recollection of Barry's hideous
proposal kept him awake.

Barry lay sprawling among the chairs till the sound of the hall door
closing told him that his guest had gone, when he slowly picked himself up,
and sat down upon the sofa. Colligan's last words were ringing in his
ear 'If you're found in Ireland the next day, I'll hang you.' Hang him! and
had he really given any one the power to speak to him in such language as
that? After all, what had he said? He had not even whispered a word of
murder; he had only made an offer of what he would do if Anty should die:
besides, no one but themselves had heard even that; and then his thoughts
went off to another train. 'Who'd have thoughts' he said to himself 'the
man was such a fool! He meant it, at first, as well as I did myself. I'm
sure he did. He'd never have caught as he did about the farm else, only he
got afraid -the confounded fool! As for hanging, I'll let him know; it's
just as easy for me to tell a story, I suppose, as it is for him.' And then
Barry, too, dragged himself up to bed, and cursed himself to sleep. His
waking thoughts, however, were miserable enough.




XXVIII  FANNY WYNDHAM REBELS


We will now return to Grey Abbey, Lord Cashel, and that unhappy love-sick
heiress, his ward, Fanny Wyndham. Affairs there had taken no turn to give
increased comfort either to the earl or to his niece, during the month
which succeeded the news of young Harry Wyndham's death.

The former still adhered, with fixed pertinacity of purpose, to the
matrimonial arrangement which he had made with his son. Circumstances,
indeed, rendered it even much more necessary in the earl's eyes than it had
appeared to be when he first contemplated this scheme for releasing himself
from his son's pecuniary difficulties. He had, as the reader will remember,
advanced a very large sum of money to Lord Kilcullen, to be repaid out of
Fanny Wyndham's fortune, This money Lord Kilcullen had certainly
appropriated in the manner intended by his father, but it had anything but
the effect of quieting the creditors. The payments were sufficiently large
to make the whole hungry crew hear that his lordship was paying his debts,
but not at all sufficient to satisfy their craving. Indeed, nearly the
whole went in liquidation of turf engagements, and gambling debts. The
Jews, money-lenders, and tradesmen merely heard that money was going from
Lord Kilcullen's pocket; but with all their exertions they got very little
of it themselves.

Consequently, claims of all kinds bills, duns, remonstrances and threats,
poured in not only upon the son but also upon the father. The latter, it is
true, was not in his own person liable, for one penny of them, nor could he
well, on his own score, be said to be an embarrassed man; but he was not
the less uneasy. He had determined if possible to extricate his son once
more, and as a preliminary step had himself already raised a large sum of
money which it would much trouble him to pay; and he moreover, as he
frequently said to Lord Kilcullen, would not and could not pay another
penny for the same purpose, until he saw a tolerably sure prospect of being
repaid out of his ward's fortune.

He was therefore painfully anxious on the subject; anxious not only that
the matter should be arranged, but that it should be done at once. It was
plain that Lord Kilcullen could not remain in London, for he would be
arrested; the same thing would happen at Grey Abbey, if, he were to remain
there long without settling his affairs; and if he were once to escape his
creditors by going abroad, there would be no such thing as getting him back
again. Lord Cashel saw no good reason why there should, be any delay; Harry
Wyndham was dead above a month, and Fanny was evidently grieving more for
the loss of her lover than that of her brother; she naturally felt alone in
the world and, as Lord Cashel thought, one young viscount would be just as
good as another. The advantages, too, were much in favour of his son; he
would one day be an earl, and possess Grey Abbey. So great an accession of
grandeur, dignity, and rank could not but be, as the earl considered, very
delightful to a sensible girl like his ward. The marriage, of course,
needn't be much hurried; four or five months' time would do for that; he
was only anxious that they should be engaged that Lord Kilcullen should be
absolutely accepted Lord Ballindine finally rejected.

The earl certainly felt some scruples of conscience at the sacrifice he was
making of his ward, and stronger still respecting his ward's fortune; but
he appeased them with the reflection that if his son were a gambler, a
roué, and a scamp, Lord Ballindine was probably just as bad; and that if
the latter were to spend all Fanny's money there would be no chance of
redemption; whereas he could at any rate settle on his wife a jointure,
which would be a full compensation for the loss of her fortune, should she
outlive her husband and father-in-law. Besides, he looked on Lord
Kilcullen's faults as a father is generally inclined to look on those of a
son, whom he had not entirely given up whom he is still striving to redeem.
He called his iniquitous vices, follies his licentiousness, love of
pleasure his unprincipled expenditure and extravagance, a want of the
knowledge of what money was: and his worst sin of all, because the one
least likely to be abandoned, his positive, unyielding damning selfishness,
he called 'fashion' the fashion of the young men of the day.

Poor Lord Cashel! he wished to be honest to his ward; and yet to save his
son, and his own pocket at the same time, at her expense: he wished to be,
in his own estimation, high-minded, honourable, and disinterested, and yet
he could not resist the temptation to be generous to his own flesh and
blood at the expense of another. The contest within him made him miserable;
but the devil and mammon were too strong for him, particularly coming as
they did, half hidden beneath the gloss of parental affection. There was
little of the Roman about the earl, and he could not condemn his own son;
so he fumed and fretted, and twisted himself about in the easy chair in his
dingy book-room, and passed long hours in trying to persuade himself that
it was for Fanny's advantage that he was going to make her Lady Kilcullen.

He might have saved himself all his anxiety. Fanny Wyndham had much too
strong a mind much too marked a character of her own, to be made Lady
Anything by Lord Anybody. Lord Cashel might possibly prevent her from
marrying Frank, especially as she had been weak enough, through ill-founded
pique and anger, to lend him her name for dismissing him; but neither he
nor anyone else could make her accept one man, while she loved another, and
while that other was unmarried.

Since the interview between Fanny and her uncle and aunt, which has been
recorded, she had been nearly as uncomfortable as Lord Cashel, and she had,
to a certain extent, made the whole household as much so as herself. Not
that there was anything of the kill-joy character in Fanny's composition;
but that the natural disposition of Grey Abbey and all belonging to it was
to be dull, solemn, slow, and respectable. Fanny alone had ever given any
life to the place, or made the house tolerable; and her secession to the
ranks of the sombre crew was therefore the more remarked. If Fanny moped,
all Grey Abbey might figuratively be said to hang down its head. Lady
Cashel was, in every sense of the words, continually wrapped up in wools
and worsteds. The earl was always equally ponderous, and the specific
gravity of Lady Selina could not be calculated. It was beyond the power of
figures, even in algebraic denominations, to describe her moral weight.

And now Fanny did mope, and Grey Abbey was triste indeed. Griffiths in my
lady's boudoir rolled and unrolled those huge white bundles of mysterious
fleecy hosiery with more than usually slow and unbroken perseverance. My
lady herself bewailed the fermentation among the jam-pots with a voice that
did more than whine, it was almost funereal. As my lord went from
breakfast-room to book-room, from book-room to dressing-room, and from
dressing-room to dining-room, his footsteps creaked with a sound more
deadly than that of a death-watch. The book-room itself had caught a darker
gloom; the backs of the books seemed to have lost their gilding, and the
mahogany furniture its French polish. There, like a god, Lord Cashel sate
alone, throned amid clouds of awful dulness, ruling the world of
nothingness around by the silent solemnity of his inertia.

Lady Selina was always useful, but with a solid, slow activity, a dignified
intensity of heavy perseverance, which made her perhaps more intolerable
than her father. She was like some old coaches which we remember very sure,
very respectable; but so tedious, so monotonous, so heavy in their motion,
that a man with a spark of mercury in his composition would prefer any
danger from a faster vehicle to their horrid, weary, murderous, slow
security. Lady Selina from day to day performed her duties in a most
uncompromising manner; she knew what was due to her position, and from it,
and exacted and performed accordingly with a stiff, steady propriety which
made her an awful if not a hateful creature. One of her daily duties, and
one for the performance of which she had unfortunately ample opportunity,
was the consolation of Fanny under her troubles. Poor Fanny! how great an
aggravation was this to her other miseries! For a considerable time Lady
Selma had known nothing of the true cause of Fanny's gloom; for though the
two cousins were good friends, as far as Lady Selina was capable of
admitting so human a frailty as friendship, still Fanny could not bring
herself to make a confidante of her. Her kind, stupid, unpretending old
aunt was a much better person to talk to, even though she did arch her
eyebrows, and shake her head when Lord Ballindine's name was mentioned, and
assure her niece that though she had always liked him herself, he could not
be good for much, because Lord Kilcullen had said so. But Fanny could not
well dissemble; she was tormented by Lady Selina's condolements, and
recommendations of Gibbon, her encomiums on industry, and anathemas against
idleness; she was so often reminded that weeping would not bring back her
brother, nor inactive reflection make his fate less certain, that at last
she made her monitor understand that it was about Lord Ballindine's fate
that she was anxious, and that it was his coming back which might be
effected by weeping or other measures.

Lady Selina was shocked by such feminine, girlish weakness, such want of
dignity and character, such forgetfulness, as she said to Fanny, of what
was due to her own position. Lady Selina was herself unmarried, and not
likely to marry; and why had she maintained her virgin state, and foregone
the blessings of love and matrimony? Because, as she often said to herself,
and occasionally said to Fanny, she would not step down from the lofty
pedestal on which it had pleased fortune and birth to place her.

She learned, however, by degrees, to forgive, though she couldn't approve,
Fanny's weakness; she remembered that it was a very different thing to be
an earl's niece and an earl's daughter, and that the same conduct could not
be expected from Fanny Wyndham and Lady Selina Grey.

The two were sitting together, in one of the Grey Abbey drawing-rooms,
about the middle of April. Fanny had that morning again been talking to her
guardian on the subject nearest to her heart, and had nearly distracted him
by begging him to take steps to make Frank understand that a renewal of his
visits at Grey Abbey would not be ill received. Lord Cashel at first tried
to frighten her out of her project by silence, frowns, and looks: but not
finding himself successful, he commenced a long oration, in which he broke
down, or rather, which he had to cut up into sundry short speeches; in
which he endeavoured to make it appear that Lord Ballindine's expulsion had
originated with Fanny herself, and that, banished or not banished, the
less. Fanny had to do with him the better. His ward, however, declared, in
rather a tempestuous manner, that if she could not see him at Grey Abbey
she would see him elsewhere; and his lordship was obliged to capitulate by
promising that if Frank were unmarried in twelve months' time, and Fanny
should then still be of the same mind, he would consent to the match and
use his influence to bring it about. This by no means satisfied Fanny, but
it was all that the earl would say, and she had now to consider whether she
would accept those terms or act for herself. Had she had any idea what
steps she could with propriety take in opposition to the earl, she would
have withdrawn herself and her fortune from his house and hands, without
any scruples of conscience. But what was she to do? She couldn't write to
her lover and ask him to come back to her! Whither could she go? She
couldn't well set up house for herself.

Lady Selina was bending over her writing-desk, and penning most decorous
notes, with a precision of calligraphy which it was painful to witness. She
was writing orders to Dublin tradesmen, and each order might have been
printed in the Complete Letter-Writer, as a specimen of the manner in which
young ladies should address such correspondents. Fanny had a volume of
French poetry in her hand, but had it been Greek prose it would have given
her equal occupation and amusement. It had been in her hands half-an-hour,
and she had not read a line.

'Fanny,' said Lady Selina, raising up her thin red spiral tresses from her
desk, and speaking in a firm, decided tone, as if well assured of the
importance of the question she was going to put; 'don't you want some
things from Ellis's?'

'From where, Selina?' said Fanny, slightly starting.

'From Ellis's,' repeated Lady Selina.

'Oh, the man in Grafton Street. No, thank you.' And Fanny returned to her
thoughts.

'Surely you do, Fanny,' said her ladyship. 'I'm sure you want black crape;
you were saying so on Friday last.'

'Was I? Yes; I think I do. It'll do another time, Selina; never mind now.'

'You had better have it in the parcel he will send to-morrow; if you'll
give me the pattern and tell me how much you want, I'll write for it.'

'Thank you, Selina. You're very kind, but I won't mind it to-day.'

'How very foolish of you, Fanny; you know you want it, and then you'll be
annoyed about it. You'd better let me order it with the other things.'

'Very well, dear: order it then for me.'

'How much will you want? you must send the pattern too, you know.'

'Indeed, Selina, I don't care about having it at all; I can do very well
without it, so don't mind troubling yourself.'

'How very ridiculous, Fanny! You know you want black crape and you must get
it from Ellis's.' Lady Selina paused for a reply, and then added, in a
voice of sorrowful rebuke, 'It's to save yourself the trouble of sending
Jane for the pattern.'

'Well, Selina, perhaps it is. Don't bother me about it now, there's a dear.
I'll be more myself by-and-by; but indeed, indeed, I'm neither well nor
happy now.'

'Not well, Fanny! What ails you?'

'Oh, nothing ails me; that is, nothing in the doctor's way. I didn't mean I
was ill.'

'You said you weren't well; and people usually mean by that, that they are
ill.'

'But I didn't mean it,' said Fanny, becoming almost irritated, 'I only
meant ' and she paused and did not finish her sentence.
Lady Selina wiped her pen, in her scarlet embroidered pen-wiper, closed the
lid of her patent inkstand, folded a piece of blotting-paper over the note
she was writing, pushed back the ruddy ringlets from her contemplative
forehead, gave a slight sigh, and turned herself towards her cousin, with
the purpose of commencing a vigorous lecture and cross-examination, by
which she hoped to exorcise the spirit of lamentation from Fanny's breast,
and restore her to a healthful activity in the performance of this world's
duties. Fanny felt what was coming; she could not fly; so she closed her
book and her eyes, and prepared herself for endurance.

'Fanny,' said Lady Selina, in a voice which was intended to be both severe
and sorrowful, 'you are giving way to very foolish feelings in a very
foolish way; you are preparing great unhappiness for yourself, and allowing
your mind to waste itself in uncontrolled sorrow in a manner in a manner
which cannot but be ruinously injurious. My dear Fanny, why don't you do
something? why don't you occupy yourself? You've given up your work; you've
given up your music; you've given up everything in the shape of reading;
how long, Fanny, will you go on in this sad manner?' Lady Selina paused,
but, as Fanny did not immediately reply, she continued her speech  'I've
begged you to go on with your reading, because nothing but mental
employment will restore your mind to its proper tone. I'm sure I've brought
you the second volume of Gibbon twenty times, but I don't believe you've
read a chapter this month back. How long will you allow yourself to go on
in this sad manner?'

'Not long, Selina. As you say, I'm sad enough.'

'But is it becoming in you, Fanny, to grieve in this way for a man whom you
yourself rejected because he was unworthy of you?'

'Selina, I've told you before that such was not the case. I believe him to
be perfectly worthy of me, and of any one much my superior too.'

'But you did reject him, Fanny: you bade papa tell him to discontinue his
visits didn't you?'

Fanny felt that her cousin was taking an unfair advantage in throwing thus
in her teeth her own momentary folly in having been partly persuaded,
partly piqued, into quarrelling with her lover; and she resented it as
such. 'If I did,' she said, somewhat angrily, 'it does not make my grief
any lighter, to know that I brought it on myself.'

'No, Fanny; but it should show you that the loss for which you grieve is
past recovery. Sorrow, for which there is no cure, should cease to be
grieved for, at any rate openly. If Lord Ballindine were to die you would
not allow his death to doom you to perpetual sighs, and perpetual
inactivity. No; you'd then know that grief was hopeless, and you'd
recover.'

'But Lord Ballindine is not dead,' said Fanny.

'Ah! that's just the point,' continued her ladyship; 'he should be dead to
you; to you he should now be just the same as though he were in his grave.
You loved him some time since, and accepted him; but you found your love
misplaced, unreturned, or at any rate coldly returned. Though you loved
him, you passed a deliberate judgment on him, and wisely rejected him.
Having done so, his name should not be on your lips; his form and figure
should be forgotten. No thoughts of him should sully your mind, no love for
him should be permitted to rest in your heart; it should be rooted out,
whatever the exertion may cost you.'

'Selina, I believe you have no heart yourself.'

'Perhaps as much as yourself, Fanny. I've heard of some people who were
said to be all heart; I flatter myself I am not one of them. I trust I have
some mind, to regulate my heart; and some conscience, to prevent my
sacrificing my duties for the sake of my heart.'

'If you knew,' said Fanny, 'the meaning of what love was, you'd know that
it cannot be given up in a moment, as you suppose; rooted out, as you
choose to call it. But, to tell you the truth, Selina, I don't choose to
root it out. I gave my word to Frank not twelve months since, and that with
the consent of every one belonging to me. I owned that I loved him, and
solemnly assured him I would always do so. I cannot, and I ought not, and I
will not break my word. You would think of nothing but what you call your
own dignity; I will not give up my own happiness, and, I firmly believe
his, too, for anything so empty.'

'Don't be angry with me, Fanny,' said Lady Selina; 'my regard for your
dignity arises only from my affection for you. I should be sorry to see you
lessen yourself in the eyes of those around you. You must remember that you
cannot act as another girl might, whose position was less exalted. Miss
O'Joscelyn might cry for her lost lover till she got him back again, or got
another; and no one would be the wiser, and she would not be the worse; but
you cannot do that. Rank and station are in themselves benefits; but they
require more rigid conduct, much more control over the feelings than is
necessary in a humbler position. You should always remember, Fanny, that
much is expected from those to whom much is given.'

'And I'm to be miserable all my life because I'm not a parson's daughter,
like Miss O'Joscelyn!'

'God forbid, Fanny! If you'd employ your time, engage your mind, and cease
to think of Lord Ballindine, you'd soon cease to be miserable. Yes; though
you might never again feel the happiness of loving, you might still be far
from miserable.'

'But I can't cease to think of him, Selina ; I won't even try.'

'Then, Fanny, I truly pity you.'

'No, Selina; it's I that pity you,' said Fanny, roused to energy as
different thoughts crowded to her mind. 'You, who think more of your
position as an earl's daughter an aristocrat, than of your nature as a
woman! Thank Heaven, I'm not a queen, to be driven to have other feelings
than those of my sex. I do love Lord Ballindine, and if I had the power to
cease to do so this moment, I'd sooner drown myself than exercise it.'

'Then why were you weak enough to reject him?'

'Because I was a weak, wretched, foolish girl. I said it in a moment of
passion, and my uncle acted on it at once, without giving me one minute for
reflection without allowing me one short hour to look into my own heart,
and find how I was deceiving myself in thinking that I ought to part from
him. I told Lord Cashel in the morning that I would give him up; and before
I had time to think of what I had said, he had been here, and had been
turned out of the house. Oh, Selina! it was very, very cruel in your father
to take me at my word so shortly!' And Fanny hid her face in her
handkerchief, and burst into tears.

'That's unfair, Fanny; it couldn't be cruel in him to do for you that which
he would have done for his own daughter. He thought, and thinks, that Lord
Ballindine would not make you happy.'

'Why should he think so? he'd no business to think so,' sobbed Fanny
through her tears.

'Who could have a business to think for you, if not your guardian?'

'Why didn't he think so then, before he encouraged me to receive him? It
was because Frank wouldn't do just what he was bid; it was because he
wouldn't become stiff, and solemn, and grave like like ' Fanny was going to
make a comparison that would not have been flattering either to Lady Selina
or to her father, but she did not quite forget herself, and stopped short
without expressing the likeness. 'Had he spoken against him at first, I
would have obeyed; but I will not destroy myself now for his prejudices.'
And Fanny buried her face among the pillows of the sofa, and sobbed aloud.

Lady Selina walked over to the sofa, and stood at the head of it bending
over her cousin. She wished to say something to soothe and comfort her, but
did not know how; there was nothing soothing or comforting in her nature,
nothing soft in her voice; her manner was repulsive, and almost unfeeling;
and yet she was not unfeeling. She loved Fanny as warmly as she was capable
of loving; she would have made almost any personal sacrifice to save her
cousin from grief; she would, were it possible, have borne her sorrows
herself; but she could not unbend; she could not sit down by Fanny's side,
and, taking her hand, say soft and soothing things; she could not make her
grief easier by expressing hope for the future or consolation for the past.
She would have felt that she was compromising truth by giving hope, and
dignity by uttering consolation for the loss of that which she considered
better lost than retained. Lady Selina's only recipe was endurance and
occupation. And at any rate, she practised what she preached; she was never
idle, and she never complained.

As she saw Fanny's grief, and heard her sobs, she at first thought that in
mercy she should now give up the subject of the conversation; but then she
reflected that such mercy might be the greatest cruelty, and that the
truest kindness would be to prove to Fanny the hopelessness of her passion.

'But, Fanny,' she said, when the other's tears were a little subsided,
'it's no use either saying or thinking impossibilities. What are you to do?
You surely will not willingly continue to indulge a hopeless passion?'

'Selina, you'll drive me mad; if you go on! Let me have my own way.'

'But, Fanny, if your own way's a bad way? Surely you won't refuse to listen
to reason? You must know that what I say is only from my affection. I want
you to look before you; I want you to summon courage to look forward; and
then I'm sure your common sense will tell you that Lord Ballindine can
never be anything to you.'

'Look here, Selina,' and Fanny rose, and wiped her eyes, and somewhat
composed her ruffled hair, which she shook back from her face and forehead,
as she endeavoured to repress the palpitation which had followed her tears;
'I have looked forward, and I have determined what I mean to do. It was
your father who brought me to this, by forcing me into a childish quarrel
with the man I love. I have implored him, almost on my knees, to invite
Lord Ballindine again to Grey Abbey: he has refused to do so, at any rate
for twelve months '

'And has he consented to ask him at the end of twelve months?' asked
Selina, much astonished, and, to tell the truth, considerably shocked at
this instance of what she considered her father's weakness.

'He might as well have said twelve years,' replied Fanny. 'How can I, how
can any one, suppose that he should remain single for my sake for twelve
months, after being repelled without a cause, or without a word of
explanation; without even seeing me turned out of the house, and insulted
in every way? No; whatever he might do, I will not wait twelve months. I'll
ask Lord Cashel once again, and then ' Fanny paused for a moment, to
consider in what words she would finish her declaration.

'Well, Fanny,' said Selina, waiting with eager expectation for Fanny's
final declaration; for she expected to hear her say that she would drown
herself, or lock herself up for ever, or do something equally absurd.

'Then,' continued Fanny and a deep blush covered her face as she spoke, 'I
will write to Lord Ballindine, and tell him that I am still his own if he
chooses to take me.'

'Oh, Fanny! do not say such a horrid thing. Write to a man, and beg him to
accept you? No, Fanny; I know you too well, at any rate, to believe that
you'll do that.'

'Indeed, indeed, I will.'

'Then you'll disgrace yourself for ever. Oh, Fanny! though my heart were
breaking, though I knew I were dying for very love, I'd sooner have it
break, I'd sooner die at once, than disgrace my sex by becoming a suppliant
to a man.'

'Disgrace, Selina! and am I not now disgraced? Have I not given him my
solemn word? Have I not pledged myself to him as his wife? Have I not sworn
to him a hundred times that my heart was all his own? Have I not suffered
those caresses which would have been disgraceful had I not looked on myself
as almost already his bride? And is it no disgrace, after that, to break my
word? to throw him aside like a glove that wouldn't fit? to treat him as a
servant that wouldn't suit me? to send him a contemptuous message to be
gone? and so, to forget him, that I might lay myself out for the addresses
and admiration of another? Could any conduct be worse than that? any
disgrace deeper? Oh, Selina! I shudder as I think of it. Could I ever bring
my lips to own affection for another, without being overwhelmed with shame
and disgrace? And then, that the world should say that I had accepted, and
rejoiced in his love when I was poor, and rejected it with scorn when I was
rich! No; I would sooner .-ten thousand times sooner my uncle should do it
for me! but if he will not write to Frank, I will. And though my hand will
shake, and my face will be flushed as I do so, I shall never think that I
have disgraced myself.'

'And if, Fanny if, after that he refuses you?'

Fanny was still standing, and she remained so for a moment or two,
meditating her reply, and then she answered 'Should he do so, then I have
the alternative which you say you would prefer; then I will endeavour to
look forward to a broken heart, and death, without a complaint and without
tears. Then, Selina,' and she tried to smile through the tears which were
again running down her cheeks, 'I'll come to you, and endeavour to borrow
your stoic endurance, and patient industry;' and, as she said so, she
walked to the door and escaped, before Lady Selina had time to reply.




XXIX  THE COUNTESS OF CASHEL IN TROUBLE


After considerable negotiation between the father and the son, the time was
fixed for Lord Kilcullen's arrival at Grey Abbey. The earl tried much to
accelerate it, and the viscount was equally anxious to stave off the evil
day; but at last it was arranged that, on the 3rd of April, he was to make
his appearance, and that he should commence his wooing as soon as possible
after that day.

When this was absolutely fixed, Lord Cashel paid a visit to his countess,
in her boudoir, to inform her of the circumstance, and prepare her for the
expected guest. He did not, however, say a word of the purport of his son's
visit. He had, at one time, thought of telling the old lady all about it,
and bespeaking her influence with Fanny for the furtherance of his plan;
but, on reconsideration, he reflected that his wife was not the person to
he trusted with any intrigue. So he merely told her that Lord Kilcullen
would be at Grey Abbey in five days; that he would probably remain at home
a long time; that, as he was giving up his London vices and extravagances,
and going to reside at Grey Abbey, he wished that the house should be made
as pleasant for him as possible; that a set of friends, relatives, and
acquaintances should be asked to come and stay there; and, in short, that
Lord Kilcullen, having been a truly prodigal son, should have a fatted calf
prepared for his arrival.

All this flurried and rejoiced, terrified and excited my lady exceedingly.
In the first place it was so truly delightful that her son should turn good
and proper, and careful and decorous, just at the right time of life; so
exactly the thing that ought to happen. Of course young noblemen were
extravagant, and wicked, and lascivious, habitual breakers of the
commandments, and self-idolators; it was their nature. In Lady Cashel's
thoughts on the education of young men, these evils were ranked with the
measles and hooping cough; it was well that they should be gone through and
be done with early in life. She had a kind of hazy idea that an opera-
dancer and a gambling club were indispensable in fitting a young aristocrat
for his future career; and I doubt whether she would not have agreed to the
expediency of inoculating a son of hers with these ailments in a mild,
degree vaccinating him as it were with dissipation, in order that he might
not catch the disease late in life in a violent and fatal form. She had not
therefore made herself unhappy about her son for a few years after his
first entrance on a life in London, but latterly she had begun to be a
little uneasy. Tidings of the great amount of his debts reached even her
ears; and, moreover, it was nearly time that he should reform and settle
down. During the last twelve months she had remarked fully twelve times, to
Griffiths, that she wondered when Kilcullen would marry? and she had even
twice asked her husband, whether he didn't think that such a circumstance
would be advantageous. She was therefore much rejoiced to hear that her son
was coming to live at home. But then, why was it so sudden? It was quite
proper that the house should be made a little gay for his reception; that
he shouldn't be expected to spend his evenings with no other society than
that of his father and mother, his sister and his cousin; but how was she
to get the house ready for the people, and the people ready for the house,
at so very short a notice? What trouble, also, it would be to her! Neither
she nor Griffiths would know another moment's rest; besides and the thought
nearly drove her into hysterics where was she to get a new cook?

However, she promised her husband to do her best. She received from him a
list of people to be invited, and, merely stipulating that she shouldn't be
required to ask any one except the parson of the parish under a week,
undertook to make the place as bearable as possible to so fastidious and
distinguished a person as her own son.

Her first confidante was, of course, Griffiths; and, with her assistance,
the wool and the worsted, and the knitting-needles, the unfinished
vallances and interminable yards of fringe, were put up and rolled out of
the way; and it was then agreed that a council should be held, to which her
ladyship proposed to invite Lady Selina and Fanny. Griffiths, however,
advanced an opinion that the latter was at present too lack-a-daisical to
be of any use in such a matter,
and strengthened her argument by asserting that Miss Wyndham had of late
been quite mumchance.

Lady Cashel was at first rather inclined to insist on her niece being
called to the council, but Griffiths's

eloquence was too strong, and her judgment too undoubted; so Fanny was left
undisturbed, and Lady Selina alone summoned to join the aged female
senators of Grey Abbey.

'Selina,' said her ladyship, as soon as her daughter was seated on the sofa
opposite to her mother's easy chair, while Griffiths, having shut the door,
had, according to custom, sat herself down on her own soft-bottomed chair,
on the further side of the little table that always stood at the countess's
right hand. 'Selina, what do you think your father tells me?'

Lady Selina couldn't think, and declined guessing; for, as she remarked,
guessing was a loss of time, and she never guessed right.

'Adolphus is coming home on Tuesday.'

'Adolphus! why it's not a month since he was here.'

'And he's not coming only for a visit; he's coming to stay here; from what
your father says, I suppose he'll stay here the greater part of the
summer.'

'What, stay at Grey Abbey all May and June?' said Lady Selina, evidently
discrediting so unlikely a story, and thinking it all but impossible that
her brother should immure himself at Grey Abbey during the London season.

 'It's true, my lady,' said Griffiths, oracularly; as if her word were
necessary to place the countess's statement beyond doubt.

'Yes,' continued Lady Cashel; 'and he has given up all his establishment in
London his horses, and clubs, and the opera, and all that. He'll go into
Parliament, I dare say, now, for the county; at any rate he's coming to
live at home here for the summer.'

'And has he sold all his horses?' asked Lady Selina. 'If he's not done it,
he's doing it,' said the countess. 'I declare I'm delighted with him; it
shows such proper feeling. I always knew he would; I was sure that when the
time came for doing it, Adolphus would not forget what was due to himself
and to his family.'

'If what you say is true, mamma, he's going to be married.'

'That's just what I was thinking, my lady,' said Griffiths. 'When her
ladyship first told me all about it how his lordship was coming down to
live regular and decorous among his own people, and that he was turning his
back upon his pleasures and iniquities, thinks I to myself there'll be
wedding favours coming soon to Grey Abbey.'

'If it is so, Selina, your father didn't say anything to me about it,' said
the countess, somewhat additionally flustered by the importance of the last
suggestion; 'and if he'd even guessed such a thing, I'm sure he'd have
mentioned it.'

'It mightn't be quite fixed, you know, mamma: but if Adolphus is doing as
you say, you may be sure he's either engaged, or thinking of becoming so.'

'Well, my dear, I'm sure I wish it may be so; only I own I'd like to know,
because it makes a difference, as to the people he'd like to meet, you
know. I'm sure nothing would delight me so much as to receive Adolphus's
wife. Of course she'd always be welcome to lie in here indeed it'd be the
fittest place. But we should be dreadfully put about, eh, Griffiths?'

 'Why, we should, my lady; but, to my mind, this would be the only most
proper place for my lord's heir to be born in. If the mother and child
couldn't have the best of minding here, where could they?'

'Of course, Griffiths; and we wouldn't mind the trouble, on such an
occasion. I think the south room would be the best, because of the
dressing-room being such a good size, and neither of the fireplaces
smoking, you know.'

'Well, I don't doubt but it would, my lady; only the blue room is nearer to
your ladyship here, and in course your ladyship would choose to be in and
out.'

And visions of caudle cups, cradles, and monthly nurses, floated over Lady
Cashel's brain, and gave her a kind of dreamy feel that the world was going
to begin again with her.

'But, mamma, is Adolphus really to be here on Tuesday?' said Lady Selina,
recalling the two old women from their attendance on the unborn, to the
necessities of the present generation.

'Indeed he is, my dear, and that's what I sent for you for. Your papa
wishes to have a good deal of company here to meet your brother; and indeed
it's only reasonable, for of course this place would be very dull for him,
if there was nobody here but ourselves and he's always used to see so many
people; but the worst is, it's all to be done at once, and you know
there'll be so much to be got through before we'll be ready for a house
full of company things to be got from Dublin, and the people to be asked.
And then, Selina,' and her ladyship almost wept as the latter came to her
great final difficulty 'What are we to do about a cook? Richards'll never
do; Griffiths says she won't even do for ourselves, as it is.'

'Indeed she won't, my lady; it was only impudence in her coming to such a
place at all. She'd never be able to send a dinner up for eighteen or
twenty.'

'What are we to do, Griffiths? What can have become of all the cooks? I'm
sure there used to be cooks enough when I was first married.'
'Well, my lady, I think they must be all gone to England, those that are
any good; but I don't know what's come to the servants altogether; as your
ladyship says, they're quite altered for the worse since we were young.'

'But, mamma,' said Lady Selina, 'you're not going to ask people here just
immediately, are you?'

'Directly, my dear; your papa wishes it done at once. We're to have a
dinner-party this day week that'll be Thursday; and we'll get as many of
the people as we can to stay afterwards; and we'll get the O'Joscelyns to
come on Wednesday, just to make the table look not quite so bare, and I
want you to write the notes at once. There'll be a great many things to be
got from Dublin too.'

'It's very soon after poor Harry Wyndham's death, to be receiving company,'
said Lady Selina, solemnly. 'Really, mamma, I don't think it will be
treating Fanny well to be asking all these people so soon. The O'Joscelyns,
or the Fitzgeralds, are all very well just our own near neighbours; but
don't you think, mamma, it's rather too soon to be asking a house-full of
strange people?'

'Well, my love, I was thinking so, and I mentioned it to your father; but
he said that poor Harry had been dead a month now and that's true, you
know and that people don't think so much now about those kind of things as
they used to; and that's true too, I believe.'

'Indeed you may say that, my lady,' interposed Griffiths. 'I remember when
bombazines used to be worn three full months for an uncle or cousin, and
now they're hardly ever worn at all for the like, except in cases where the
brother or sister of him or her as is dead may be stopping in the house,
and then only for a month: and they were always worn the full six months
for a brother or sister, and sometimes the twelve months round. Your aunt,
Lady Charlotte, my lady, wore hers the full twelve months, when your uncle,
Lord Frederick, was shot by Sir Patrick O'Donnel; and now they very seldom,
never, I may say, wear them the six months I Indeed, I think mourning is
going out altogether; and I'm very sorry for it, for it's a very decent,
proper sort of thing; at least, such was always my humble opinion, my
lady.'

'Well; but what I was saying is,' continued the countess, 'that what would
be thought strange a few years ago, isn't thought at all so now; and though
I'm sure, Selina, I wouldn't like to do anything that looked unkind to
Fanny, I really don't see how we can help it, as your father makes such a
point of it.'

'I can't say I think it's right, mamma, for I don't. But if you and papa
do, of course I've nothing further to my.'

'Well, my love, I don't know that I do exactly think it's right; and I'm
sure it's not my wish to be having people especially when I don't know
where on earth to turn for a cook. But what can we do, my dear? Adolphus
wouldn't stay the third night here, I'm sure, if there was nobody to amuse
him; and you wouldn't have him turned out of the house, would you?'

'I have him turned out, mamma? God forbid! I'd sooner he should be here
than anywhere, for here he must be out of harm's way; but still I think
that if he comes to a house of mourning, he might, for a short time, submit
to put up with its decent tranquillity.'
'Selina,' said the mother, pettishly, 'I really thought you'd help me when
I've so much to trouble and vex me and not make any fresh difficulties. How
can I help it? If your father says the people are to come, I can't say I
won't let them in. I hope you won't make Fanny think I'm doing it from
disrespect to her. I'm sure I wouldn't have a soul here for a twelvemonth,
on my own account.'

'I'm sure Miss Wyndham won't think any such thing, my lady,' said
Griffiths; 'will she, Lady Selina? Indeed, I don't think she'll matter it
one pin.'

'Indeed, Selina, I don't think she will,' said the countess; and then she
half whispered to her daughter. 'Poor Fanny! it's not about her brother
she's grieving; it's that horrid man, Ballindine. She sent him away, and
now she wants to have him back. I really think a little company will be the
best thing to bring her to herself again.' There was a little degree of
humbug in this whisper, for her ladyship meant her daughter to understand
that she wouldn't speak aloud about Fanny's love-affair before Griffiths;
and yet she had spent many a half hour talking to her factotum on that very
subject. Indeed, what subject was there of any interest to Lady Cashel on
which she did not talk to Griffiths!

'Well, mamma,' said Lady Selina, dutifully, 'I'll not say another word
about it; only let me know what you want me to do, and I'll do it. Who is
it you mean to ask?'

'Why, first of all, there's the Fitzgeralds: your father thinks that Lord
and Lady George would come for a week or so, and you know the girls have
been long talking of coming to Grey Abbey these two years I believe, and
more.'

'The girls will come, I dare say, mamma; though I don't exactly think
they're the sort of people who will amuse Adolphus; but I don't think Lord
George or Lady George will sleep away from home. We can ask them, however;
Mountains is only five miles from here, and I'm sure they'll go back after
dinner.'

'Well, my dear, if they will, they must, and I can't help it; only I must
say it'll be very ill-natured of them. I'm sure it's a long time since they
were asked to stay here.'

'As you say, mamma, at any rate we can ask them. And who comes next?'

'Why your father has put down the Swinburn people next; though I'm sure I
don't know how they are to come so far.'

'Why, mamma, the colonel is a martyr to the gout!'

'Yes, my lady,' said Griffiths, 'and Mrs. Ellison is worse again, with
rheumatics. There would be nothing to do, the whole time, but nurse the two
of them.'

'Never mind, Griffiths; you'll not have to nurse them, so you needn't be so
ill-natured.'

'Me, ill-natured, my lady? I'm sure I begs pardon, but I didn't mean
nothing ill-natured; besides, Mrs. Ellison was always a very nice lady to
me, and I'm sure I'd be happy to nurse her, if she wanted it; only that, as
in duty bound, I've your ladyship to look to first, and so couldn't spare
time very well for nursing any one.'
'Of course you couldn't, Griffiths; but, Selina, at any rate you must ask
the Ellisons: your papa thinks a great deal about the colonel he has so
much influence in the county, and Adolphus will very likely stand, now.
Your papa and the colonel were members together for the county more than
forty years since.'

'Well, mamma, I'll write Mrs. Ellison. Shall I say for a week or ten days?'

'Say for ten days or a fortnight, and then perhaps they'll stay a week.
Then there's the Bishop of Maryborough, and Mrs. Moore. I'm sure Adolphus
will be glad to meet the bishop, for it was he that christened him.'

'Very well, mamma, I'll write to Mrs. Moore. I suppose the bishop is in
Dublin at present?'

'Yes, my dear, I believe so. There can't be anything to prevent their
coming.'

'Only that he's the managing man on the Education Board, and he's giving up
his time very much to that at present. I dare say he'll come, but he won't
stay long.'

'Well, Selina, if he won't, I can't help it; and I'm sure, now I think
about the cook, I don't see how we're to expect anybody to stay. What am I
to do, Griffiths, about that horrid woman?'

'I'll tell you what I was thinking, my lady; only I don't know whether your
ladyship would like it, either, and if you didn't you could easily get rid
of him when all these people are gone.'

'Get rid of who?'

'I was going to say, my lady if your ladyship would consent to have a man
cook for a time, just to try.'

'Then I never will, Griffiths: there'd be no peace in the house with him!'

'Well, your ladyship knows best, in course; only if you thought well of
trying it, of course you needn't keep the man; and I know there's Murray in
Dublin, that was cook so many years to old Lord Galway. I know he's to be
heard of at the hotel in Grafton Street.'

'I can't bear the thoughts of a man cook, Griffiths:

'I'd sooner have three women cooks, and I'm sure one's enough to plague
anybody.'

'But none's worse, my lady,' said Griffiths.

'You needn't tell me that. I wonder, Selina, if I were to write to my
sister, whether she could send me over anything that would answer?'

'What, from London, my lady?' answered Griffiths 'You'd find a London woman
cook sent over in that way twice worse than any man: she'd be all airs and
graces. If your ladyship thought well of thinking about Murray, Richards
would do very well under him: she's a decent poor creature, poor woman only
she certainly is not a cook that'd suit for such a house as this; and it
was only impudence her thinking to attempt it.'
'But, mamma,' said Lady Selina, 'do let me know to whom I am to write, and
then you and Griffiths can settle about the cook afterwards; the time is so
very short that I ought not to lose a post.'

The poor countess threw herself back in her easy chair, the picture of
despair. Oh, how much preferable were rolls of worsted and yards of
netting, to the toils and turmoil of preparing for, and entertaining
company! She was already nearly overcome by the former: she didn't dare to
look forward to the miseries of the latter. She already began to feel the
ill effects of her son's reformation, and to wish that it had been
postponed just for a month or two, till she was a little more settled.

'Well, mamma,' said Lady Selina, as undisturbed and calm as ever, and as
resolved to do her duty without flinching, 'shall we go on?'

The countess groaned and sighed 'There's the list there, Selina, which your
father put down in pencil. You know the people as well as I do: just ask
them all '

'But, mamma, I'm not to ask them all to stay here I suppose some are only
to come to dinner? the O'Joscelyns, and the Parchments?'

'Ask the O'Joscelyns for Wednesday and Thursday: the girls might as well
stay and sleep here. But what's the good of writing to them? can't you
drive over to the Parsonage and settle it all there? you do nothing but
make difficulties, Selina, and my head's racking.'

Lady Selina sate silent for a short time, conning the list, and
endeavouring to see her way through the labyrinth of difficulties which was
before her, without further trouble to her mother; while the countess
leaned back, with her eyes closed, and her hands placed on the arms of her
chair, as though she were endeavouring to get some repose, after the labour
she had gone through. Her daughter, however, again disturbed her.

'Mamma,' she said, trying by the solemnity of her tone to impress her
mother with the absolute necessity she was under of again appealing to her
upon the subject, 'what are we to do about young men?'

'About young men, my dear?'
'Yes, mamma: there'll be a house-full of young ladies there's the
Fitzgeralds and Lady Louisa Pratt and Miss Ellison and the three
O'Joscelyns and not a single young man, except Mr O'Joscelyn's curate!'

'Well, my dear, I'm sure Mr. Hill's a very nice young man'.

"So he is, mamma; a very good young man; but he won't do to amuse such a
quantity of girls. If there were only one or two he'd do very well;
besides, I'm sure Adolphus won't like it.'

'Why; won't he talk to the young ladies? I'm sure he was always fond of
ladies' society.'

'I tell you, mamma, it won't do. There'll be the bishop and two other
clergymen, and old Colonel Ellison, who has always got the gout, and Lord
George, if he comes and I'm sure he won't. If you want to make a pleasant
party for Adolphus, you must get some young men; besides, you can't ask all
those girls, and have nobody to dance with them or talk to them.'
'I'm sure, my dear, I don't know what you're to do. I don't know any young
men except Mr. Hill; and there's that young Mr. Grundy, who lives in
Dublin. I promised his aunt to be civil to him: can't you ask him down?'

'He was here before, mamma, and I don't think he liked it. I'm sure we
didn't. He didn't speak a word the whole day he was here. He's not at all
the person to suit Adolphus.'

'Then, my dear, you must go to your papa, and ask bin: it's quite clear I
can't make young men. I remember, years ago, there always used to be too
many of them, and I don't know where they're all gone to. At any rate, when
they do come, there'll be nothing for them to eat,' and Lady Cashel again
fell back upon her deficiencies in the kitchen establishment.

Lady Selina saw that nothing more could be obtained from her mother, no
further intelligence as regarded the embryo party. The whole burden was to
lie on her shoulders, and very heavy she felt it. As far as concerned
herself, she had no particular wish for one kind of guest more than
another: it was not for herself that she wanted young men; she knew that at
any rate there were none within reach whom she could condescend to notice
save as her father's guests; there could be no one there whose presence
could be to her of any interest: the gouty colonel, and the worthy bishop,
would be as agreeable to her as any other men that would now be likely to
visit Grey Abbey. But Lady Selina felt a real desire that others in the
house might be happy while there. She was no flirt herself, nor had she
ever been; it was not in her nature to be so. But though she herself might
be contented to twaddle with old men, she knew that other girls would not.
Yet it was not that she herself had no inward wish for that admiration
which is desired by nearly every woman, or that she thought a married state
was an unenviable one. No; she could have loved and loved truly, and could
have devoted herself most scrupulously to the duties of a wife; but she had
vainly and foolishly built up for herself a pedestal, and there she had
placed herself; nor would she come down to stand on common earth, though
Apollo had enticed her, unless he came with the coronet of a peer upon his
brow.

She left her mother's boudoir, went down into the drawing-room, and there
she wrote her notes of invitation, and her orders to the tradesmen; and
then she went to her father, and consulted him on the difficult subject of
young men. She suggested the Newbridge Barracks, where the dragoons were;
and the Curragh, where perhaps some stray denizen of pleasure might be
found, neither too bad for Grey Abbey, nor too good to be acceptable to
Lord Kilcullen; and at last it was decided that a certain Captain Cokely,
and Mat Tierney, should be asked. They were both acquaintances of Adolphus;
and though Mat was not a young man, he was not very old, and was usually
very gay.

So that matter was settled, and the invitations were sent off. The countess
overcame her difficulty by consenting that Murray the man cook should be
hired for a given time, with the distinct understanding that he was to take
himself off with the rest of the guests, and so great was her ladyship's
sense of the importance of the negotiation, that she absolutely despatched
Griffiths to Dublin to arrange it, though thereby she was left two whole
days in solitary misery at Grey Abbey; and had to go to bed, and get up,
she really hardly knew how, with such assistance as Lady Selina's maid
could give her.

When these things were all arranged, Selina told her cousin that Adolphus
was coming home, and that a house full of company had been asked to meet
him. She was afraid that Fanny would be annoyed and offended at being
forced to go into company so soon after her brother's death, but such was
not the case. She felt, herself, that her poor brother was not the cause of
the grief that was near her heart; and she would not pretend what she
didn't really feel.

'You were quite right, Selina,' she said, smiling, 'about the things you
said yesterday I should want from Dublin: now, I shall want them; and, as I
wouldn't accept of your good-natured offer, I must take the trouble of
writing myself.'

'If you like it, Fanny, I'll write for you,' said Selina.

'Oh no, I'm not quite so idle as that' and she also began her preparations
for the expected festivities. Little did either of them think that she,
Fanny Wyndham, was the sole cause of all the trouble which the household
and neighbourhood were to undergo the fatigue of the countess; Griffiths's
journey; the arrival of the dread man cook; Richards's indignation at being
made subordinate to such authority; the bishop's desertion of the Education
Board; the colonel's dangerous and precipitate consumption of colchicum;
the quarrel between Lord and Lady George as to staying or not staying; the
new dresses of the Miss O'Joscelyns, which their worthy father could so ill
afford; and, above all, the confusion, misery, rage, and astonishment which
attended Lord Kilcullen's unexpected retreat from London, in the middle of
the summer. And all in vain!

How proud and satisfied Lord Ballindine might have been, had he been able
to see all this, and could he have known how futile was every effort Lord
Cashel could make to drive from Fanny Wyndham's heart the love she felt for
him.

The invitations, however, were, generally speaking, accepted. The bishop
and his wife would be most happy; the colonel would come if the gout would
possibly allow; Lady George wrote a note to say they would be very happy to
stay a few days, and Lord George wrote another soon after to say he was
sorry, but that they must return the same evening. The O'Joscelyns would be
delighted; Mat Tierney would be very proud; Captain Cokely would do himself
the honour; and, last but not least, Mr. Murray would preside below
stairs for a serious consideration.

What a pity so much trouble should have been taken! They might all have
stayed at home; for Fanny Wyndham will never become Lady Kilcullen.




XXX  LORD KILCULLEN OBEYS HIS FATHER


On the appointed day, or rather on the night of the appointed day, Lord
Kilcullen reached Grey Abbey; for it was about eleven o'clock when his
travelling-phaëton rattled up to the door. He had been expected to dinner
at seven, and the first attempts of Murray in the kitchens of Grey Abbey
had been kept waiting for him till half-past eight; but in vain. At that
hour the earl, black with ill-humour, ordered dinner; and remarked that he
considered it criminal in any man to make an appointment, who was not
sufficiently attached to veracity to keep

The evening was passed in moody silence. The countess was disappointed, for
she always contrived to persuade herself that she was very anxious to see
her son. Lady Selina was really vexed, and began to have her doubts as to
her brother's coming at all: what was to be done, if it turned out that all
the company had been invited for nothing? As to Fanny, though very
indifferent to the subject of her cousin's coming, she was not at all in a
state of mind to dissipate the sullenness which prevailed. The ladies went
to bed early, the countess grumbling at her lot, in not being allowed to
see her son, and her daughter and niece marching off with their respective
candlesticks in solemn silence. The earl retired to his book-room soon
afterwards; but he had not yet sat down, when the quick rattle of the
wheels was heard upon the gravel before the house.

Lord Cashel walked out into the hall, prepared to meet his son in a
befitting manner; that is, with a dignified austerity that could not fail
to convey a rebuke even to his hardened heart. But he was balked in his
purpose, for he found that Lord Kilcullen was not alone; Mat Tierney had
come down with him. Kilcullen had met his friend in Dublin, and on learning
that he also was bound for Grey Abbey on the day but one following, had
persuaded him to accelerate his visit, had waited for him, and brought him
down in his own carriage. The truth was, that Lord Kilcullen had thought
that the shades of Grey Abbey would be too much for him, without some
genial spirit to enlighten them: he was delighted to find that Mat Tierney
was to be there, and was rejoiced to be able to convey him with him, as a
sort of protection from his father's eloquence for the first two days of
the visit.

'Lord Kilcullen, your mother and I ' began the father, intent on at once
commenting on the iniquity of the late arrival; when he saw the figure of a
very stout gentleman, amply wrapped up in travelling habiliments, follow
his son into the inner hall.

'Tierney, my lord,' said the son, 'was good enough to come down with me. I
found that he intended to be here to-morrow, and I told him you and my
mother would be delighted to see him to-day instead.'

The earl shook Mr. Tierney's hand, and told him how very welcome he was at
all times, and especially at present unexpected pleasures were always the
most agreeable; and then the earl bustled about, and ordered supper and
wine, and fussed about the bedrooms, and performed the necessary rites of
hospitality, and then went to bed, without having made one solemn speech to
his son. So far, Lord Kilcullen had been successful in his manoeuvre; and
he trusted that by making judicious use of Mat Tierney, he might be able to
stave off the evil hour for at any rate a couple of days.

But he was mistaken. Lord Cashel was now too much in earnest to be put off
his purpose; he had been made too painfully aware that his son's position
was desperate, and that lie must at once be saved by a desperate effort, or
given over to utter ruin. And, to tell the truth, so heavy were the new
debts of which he heard from day to day, so insurmountable seemed the
difficulties, that he all but repented that he had not left him to his
fate. The attempt, however, must again be made; he was there, in the house,
and could not be turned out; but Lord Cashel determined that at any rate no
time should be lost.

The two new arrivals made their appearance the next morning, greatly to
Lady Cashel's delight; she was perfectly satisfied with her son's apology,
and delighted to find that at any rate one of her expected guests would not
fail her in her need. The breakfast went over pleasantly enough, and
Kilcullen was asking Mat to accompany him into the stables, to see what
novelties they should find there, when Lord Cashel spoiled the arrangement
by saying,

'Could you spare me half-an-hour in tile bookroom first, Kilcullen?'

This request, of course, could not be refused; and the father and son
walked off, leaving Mat Tierney to the charity of the ladies.

There was much less of flippant overbearing impudence now, about Lord
Kilcullen, much less of arrogance and insult from the son towards the
father, than there had been in the previous interview which has been
recorded. He seemed to be somewhat in dread, to be cowed, and ill at ease;
he tried, however, to assume his usual manner, and followed his father into
the book-room with an affected air of indifference, which very ill
concealed his real feelings.

'Kilcullen,' began the earl, 'I was very sorry to see Tierney with you last
night. It would have been much better that we should have been alone
together, at any rate for one morning. I suppose you are aware that there
is a great deal to be talked over between us?'

'I suppose there is,' said the son; 'but I couldn't well help bringing the
man, when he told me he was coming here.'

'He didn't ask you to bring him, I suppose? but we will not talk about
that. Will you do me the favour to inform me what your present plans are?'

'My present plans, my lord? Indeed, I've no plans! It's a long time since I
had a plan of my own. I am, however, prepared to acquiesce entirely in any
which you may propose. I have come quite prepared to throw at Miss
Wyndham's feet myself and my fortune.'

'And do you expect her to accept you?'

'You said she would, my lord: so I have taken that for granted. I, at any
rate, will ask her; if she refuses me, your lordship will perhaps be able
to persuade her to a measure so evidently beneficial to all parties.'

'The persuading must be with yourself; but if you suppose you can carry her
with a high hand, without giving yourself the trouble to try to please her,
you are very much mistaken. If you think she'll accept you merely because
you ask her, you might save yourself the trouble, and as well return to
London at once.'

'Just as you please, my lord; but I thought I came in obedience to your
express wishes.'

 'So you did; but, to tell you the truth your manner in coming is very
different from what I would wish it to be. Your '

'Did you want me to crawl here on my hands and knees?'

'I wanted you to come, Kilcullen, with some sense of what you owe to those
who are endeavouring to rescue you from ruin: with some feeling of, at any
rate, sorrow for the mad extravagance of your past career. Instead of that,
you come gay, reckless, and unconcerned as ever; you pick up the first
jovial companion you meet, and with him disturb the house at a most
unseasonable hour. You are totally regardless of the appointments you make;
and plainly show, that as you come here solely for your own pleasure, you
consider it needless to consult my wishes or my comfort .Are you aware that
you kept your mother and myself two hours waiting for dinner yesterday?'

The pathos with which Lord Cashel terminated his speech and it was one the
thrilling effect of which he intended to be overwhelming almost restored
Lord Kilcullen to his accustomed effrontery.

'My lord,' he said, 'I did not consider myself of sufficient importance to
have delayed your dinner ten minutes.'

'I have always endeavoured, Kilcullen, to show the same respect to you in
my house, which my father showed to me in his; but you do not allow me the
opportunity. But let that pass; we have more important things to speak of.
When last we were here together why did you not tell me the whole truth?'

'What truth, my lord?'

'About your debts, Kilcullen: why did you conceal from me their full
amount? Why, at any rate, did you take pains to make me think them so much
less than they really are?'

'Conceal, my lord? that is hardly fair, considering that 1 told you
expressly I could not give you any idea what was the amount I owed. I
concealed nothing; if you deceived yourself, the fault was not mine.'

'You could not but have known that the claims against you were much larger
than I supposed them to be double, I suppose. Good heaven! why in ten years
more, at this rate, you would more than consume the lee simple of the whole
property! What can I say to you, Kilcullen, to make you look on your own
conduct in the proper light?'

'I think you have said enough for the purpose; you have told me to marry,
and I have consented to do so.'

'Do you think, Kilcullen, you have spent the last eight years in a way
which it can please a father to contemplate? Do you think I can look back
on your conduct with satisfaction or content? And yet you have no regret to
express for the past no promises to make for the future. I fear it is all
in vain. I fear that what I am doing what I am striving to do, is now all
in vain. I fear it is hopeless to attempt to recall you from the horrid,
reckless, wicked mode of life you have adopted.' The sombre mantle of
expostulatory eloquence had now descended on the earl, and he continued,
turning full upon his victim, and raising and lowering his voice with
monotonous propriety. 'I fear it is to no good purpose that I am subjecting
your mother and myself to privation, restraint, and inconvenience; that I
am straining every nerve to place you again in a position of
respectability, a position suitable to my fortune and your own rank. I am
endeavouring to retrieve the desperate extravagance the I must say though I
do not wish to hurt your feelings, yet I must say, disgraceful ruin of your
past career. And how do you help me? what regret do you show? what promises
of amendment do you afford? You drive up to my hall-door at midnight with
your boon companion; you disturb the whole household at most unseasonable
hours, and subject my family to the same disreputable irregularity in which
you have yourself so long indulged. Can such doings, Kilcullen, give me any
hopes for the future? Can '

'My lord I am extremely sorry for the dinner: what can I say more? And as
for Mat Tierney, he is your own guest or her ladyship's not mine. It is my
misfortune to have come in the same carriage with him, but that is the
extent of my offence.'

'Well, Kilcullen; if you think your conduct has always been such as it
ought to be, it is of little use for me to bring up arguments to the
contrary.'

'I don't think so, my lord. What can I say more? I have done those things
which I ought not to have done. Were I to confess my transgressions for the
hour together, I could not say more; except that I have left undone the
things which I ought to have done. Or, do you want me to beat my breast and
tear my hair?'

'I want you, Lord Kilcullen, to show some sense of decency some filial
respect.'

'Well, my lord, here I am, prepared to marry a wife of your own choosing,
and to set about the business this morning, if you please. I thought you
would have called that decent, filial, and respectable.'

The earl could hardly gainsay this; but still he could not bring himself to
give over so soon the unusual pleasure of blowing up his only son. It was
so long since Lord Kilcullen had been regularly in his power, and it might
never occur again. So he returned from consideration of the future to a
further retrospect on the past.

'You certainly have played your cards most foolishly; you have thrown away
your money rather, I should say, my money, in a manner which nothing can
excuse or palliate. You might have made the turf a source of gratifying
amusement; your income was amply sufficient to enable you to do so; but you
have possessed so little self-control, so little judgment, so little
discrimination, that you have allowed yourself to be plundered by every
blackleg, and robbed by every everybody in short, who chose to rob you. The
same thing has been the case in all your other amusements and pursuits '

'Well, my lord, I confess it all; isn't that enough?'

'Enough, Kilcullen!' said the earl, in a voice of horrified astonishment,
'how enough? how can anything be enough after such a course so wild, so
mad, so ruinous!'

'For Heaven's sake, my lord, finish the list of my iniquities, or you'll
make me feel that I am utterly unfit to become my cousin's husband.'

'I fear you are indeed I fear you are. Are the horses disposed of yet,
Kilcullen?'

'Indeed they are not, my lord; nor can I dispose of them. There is more
owing for them than they are worth; you may say they belong to the trainer
now.'

'Is the establishment in Curzon Street broken up?'

'To tell the truth, not exactly; but I've no thoughts of returning there.
I'm still under rent for the house.'

The cross-examination was continued for a considerable time till the earl
had literally nothing more to say, and Lord Kilcullen was so irritated that
he told his father he would not stand it any longer. Then they went into
money affairs, and the earl spoke despondingly about ten thousands and
twenty thousands, and the viscount somewhat flippantly of fifty thousands
and sixty thousands; and this was continued till the earl felt that his son
was too deep in the mire to be pulled out, and the son thought that, deep
as he was there, it would be better to remain and wallow in it than undergo
so disagreeable a process as that to which his father subjected him in
extricating him from it. It was settled, however, that Mr. Jervis, Lord
Cashel's agent, should receive full authority to deal summarily in all
matters respecting the horses and their trainers, the house in Curzon
Street, and its inhabitants, and all other appendages and sources of
expense which Lord Kilcullen had left behind him; and that he, Kilcullen,
should at once commence his siege upon his cousin's fortune. And on this
point the son bargained that, as it would be essentially necessary that his
spirits should be light and easy, he was not, during the operation, to be
subjected to any of his father's book-room conversations: for this he
stipulated as an absolute sine qua non in the negotiation, and the clause
was at last agreed to, though not without much difficulty.

Both father and son seemed to think that the offer should be made at once.
Lord Cashel really feared that his son would be arrested at Grey Abbey, and
he was determined to pay nothing further for him, unless he felt secure of
Fanny's fortune; and whatever were Lord Kilcullen's hopes and fears as to
his future lot, he was determined not to remain long in suspense, as far as
his projected marriage was concerned. He was determined to do his best to
accomplish it, for he would have done anything to get the command of ready
money; if he was not successful, at any rate he need not remain in the
purgatory of Grey Abbey. The Queen's Bench would be preferable to that. He
was not, however, very doubtful; he felt but little confidence in the
constancy of any woman's affection, and a great deal in his own powers of
fascination: he had always been successful in his appeals to ladies'
hearts, and did not doubt of being so now, when the object of his adoration
must, as he thought, be so dreadfully in want of some excitement, something
to interest her. Any fool might have her now, thought he, and she can't
have any violent objection to being Lady Kilcullen for the present, and
Lady Cashel in due time. He felt, however, something like remorse at the
arrangement to which he was a party; it was not that he was about to make a
beautiful creature, his own cousin, miserable for life, by uniting her to a
spendthrift, a roué, and a gambler such was the natural lot of women in the
higher ranks of life but he felt that he was robbing her of her money. He
would have thought it to be no disgrace to carry her off had another person
been her guardian. She would then have had fair play, and it would be the
guardian's fault if her fortune were not secure. But she had no friend now
to protect her: it was her guardian himself who was betraying her to ruin.

However, the money must he had, and Lord Kilcullen was not long in quieting
his conscience.

'Tierney,' said Kilcullen, meeting his friend after his escape from the
book-room; 'you are not troubled with a father now, I believe do you
recollect whether you ever had one?'

'Well, I can't say I remember just at present,' said Mat; 'but I believe I
had a sort of one, once.'

'I'm a more dutiful son than you,' said the other; 'I never can forget
mine. I have no doubt an alligator on the banks of the Nile is a fearful
creature a shark when one's bathing, or a jungle tiger when one's out
shooting, ought, I'm sure, to be avoided; but no creature yet created,
however hungry, or however savage, can equal in ferocity a governor who has
to shell out his cash! I've no wish for a tête-à-tête with any bloody-
minded monster; but I'd sooner meet a starved hyena, single-handed in the
desert, than be shut up for another hour with my Lord Cashel in that room
of his on the right-band side of the hall. If you hear of my having beat a
retreat from Grey Abbey, without giving you or any one else warning of my
intention, you will know that I have lacked courage to comply with a second
summons to those gloomy realms. If I receive another invite such as that I
got this morning, I am off.'

Lady Cashel's guests came on the day appointed; the carriages were driven
up, one after another, in quick succession, about an hour before dinner-
time; and, as her ladyship's mind became easy on the score of
disappointments, it was somewhat troubled as to the multitude of people to
be fed and entertained. Murray had not yet forgiven the injury inflicted on
him when the family dinner was kept waiting for Lord Kilcullen, and
Richards was still pouting at her own degraded position. The countess had
spent the morning pretending to make arrangements, which were in fact all
settled by Griffiths; and when she commenced the operation of dressing
herself, she declared she was so utterly exhausted by what she had gone
through during the last week, as to be entirely unfit to entertain her
company. Poor dear Lady Cashel! Was she so ignorant of her own nature as to
suppose it possible that she should ever entertain anybody?

However, a glass of wine, and some mysterious drops, and a little paint; a
good deal of coaxing, the sight of her diamonds, and of a large puce-
coloured turban, somewhat revivified her; and she was in her drawing-room
in due time, supported by Lady Selina and Fanny, ready to receive her
visitors as soon as they should descend from their respective rooms.

Lady Cashel had already welcomed Lord George, and shaken hands with the
bishop: and was now deep in turnips and ten-pound freeholders with the
gouty colonel, who had hobbled into the room on a pair of crutches, and was
accommodated with two easy chairs in a corner one for himself, and the
other for his feet.

'Now, my dear Lady George,' said the countess, 'you must not think of
returning to Mountains tonight: indeed, we made sure of you and Lord George
for a week.'

'My dear Lady Cashel, it's impossible; indeed, we wished it of all things,
and tried it every way: but we couldn't manage it; Lord George has so much
to do: there's the Sessions to-morrow at Dunlavin, and he has promised to
meet Sir Glenmalure Aubrey, about a road, or a river, or a bridge I forget
which it is; and they must attend to those things, you know, or the tenants
couldn't get their corn to market. But you don't know how sorry we are, and
such a charming set you have got here!'

'Well, I know it's no use pressing you; but I can't tell you how vexed I
am, for I counted on you, above all, and Adolphus will be so sorry. You
know Lord Kilcullen's come home, Lady George?'

'Yes; I was very glad to hear we were to meet him.'

'Oh, yes! He's come to stay here some time, I believe; he's got quite fond
of Grey Abbey lately.

He and his father get on so well together, it's quite a delight to me.'

'Oh, it must be, I'm sure,' said Lady George; and the countess sidled off
to the bishop's fat wife.

'Well, this is very kind of you and the bishop, to come at so short a
notice: indeed I hardly dared expect it. I know he has so much to do in
Dublin with those horrid boards and things.'

'He is busy there, to be sure, Lady Cashel; but he couldn't deny himself
the pleasure of coming to Grey Abbey; he thinks so very much of the earl.
Indeed, he'd contrive to be able to come here, when he couldn't think of
going anywhere else.'

'I'm sure Lord Cashel feels how kind he is; and so do I, and so does
Adolphus. Lord Kilcullen will be delighted to meet you and the bishop.'

The bishop's wife assured the countess that nothing on earth, at the
present moment, would give the bishop so much pleasure as meeting Lord
Kilcullen.

'You know the bishop christened him, don't you?' said Lady Cashel.

'No! did he though?' said the bishop's wife; 'how very interesting!'

'Isn't it? And Adolphus longs to meet him. He's so fond of everything
that's high-minded and talented, Adolphus is: a little sarcastic perhaps I
don't mind saying so to you; but that's only to inferior sort of people not
talented, you know: some people are stupid, and Adolphus can't bear that.'

 'Indeed they are, my lady. I was dining last week at Mrs. Prijean's, in
Merrion Square; you know Mrs. Prijean?'

'I think I met her at Carton, four years ago.'

'Well, she is very heavy: what do you think, Lady Cashel, she '
'Adolphus can't bear people of that sort, but he'll be delighted with the
bishop: it's so delightful, his having christened him. Adolphus means to
live a good deal here now. Indeed, he and his father have so much in common
that they can't get on very well apart, and I really hope he and the
bishop'll see a good deal of each other;' and the countess left the
bishop's wife and sat herself down by old Mrs. Ellison.

'My dear Mrs. Ellison, I am so delighted to see you once again at Grey
Abbey; it's such ages since you were here!'

'Indeed it is, Lady Cashel, a very long time; but the poor colonel suffers
so much, it's rarely he's fit to be moved; and, indeed, I'm not much better
myself. I was not able to move my left shoulder from a week before
Christmas-day till a few days since!'

'You don't say so! Rheumatism, I suppose?'

'Oh, yes all rheumatism: no one knows what I suffer.'

'And what do you use for it?'

'Oh, there's nothing any use. I know the very nature of rheumatism now,
I've had it so long and it minds nothing at all: there's no preventing it,
and no curing it. It's like a bad husband, Lady Cashel; the best way is to
put up with it.'

'And how is the dear colonel, Mrs. Ellison?'

'Why, he was just able to come here, and that was all; but he was dying to
see Lord Cashel. He thinks the ministers'll be shaken about this business
of O'Connell's; and if so, that there'll be a general election, and then
what'll they do about the county?'

'I'm sure Lord Cashel wanted to see the colonel on that very subject; so
does Adolphus Lord Kilcullen, you know. I never meddle with those things;
but I really think Adolphus is thinking of going into Parliament. You know
he's living here at present: his father's views and his own are so exactly
the same on all those sort of things, that it's quite delightful. He's
taking a deal of interest about the county lately, is Adolphus, and about
Grey Abbey too: he's just the same his father used to be, and that kind of
thing is so pleasant, isn't it, Mrs Ellison?'

Mrs Ellison said it was, and at the same moment groaned, for her shoulder
gave her a twinge.

The subject of these eulogiums, in the meantime, did not make his
appearance till immediately before dinner was announced, and certainly did
not evince very strongly the delight which his mother had assured her
friends he would feel at meeting them, for he paid but very little
attention to any one but Mat Tierney and his cousin Fanny; he shook hands
with all the old gentlemen, bowed to all the old ladies, and nodded at the
young ones. But if he really felt that strong desire, which his mother had
imputed to him, of opening his heart to the bishop and the colonel
respecting things temporal and spiritual, he certainly very successfully
suppressed his anxiety.

He had, during the last two or three days, applied himself to the task of
ingratiating himself with Fanny. He well knew how to suit himself to
different characters, and to make himself agreeable when he pleased; and
Fanny, though she had never much admired her dissipated cousin, certainly
found his conversation a relief after the usual oppressive tedium of Grey
Abbey society.

He had not begun by making love to her, or expressing admiration, or by
doing or saying anything which could at all lead her to suspect his
purpose, or put her on her guard. He had certainly been much more attentive
to her, much more intimate with her, than he usually had been in his flying
visits to Grey Abbey; but then he was now making his first appearance as a
reformed rake; and besides, he was her first cousin, and she therefore felt
no inclination to repel his advances.

He was obliged, in performance of a domestic duty, to walk out to dinner
with one of Lady George's daughters, but he contrived to sit next to
Fanny and, much to his father's satisfaction, talked to her during the
whole ceremony.

'And where have you hidden yourself all the morning, Fanny,' said he, 'that
nobody has seen anything of you since breakfast?'

'Whither have you taken yourself all the day, rather, that you had not a
moment to come and look after us? The Miss O'Joscelyns have been expecting
you to ride with them, walk with them, talk with them, and play la grace
with them. They didn't give up the sticks till it was quite dark, in the
hope of you and Mr Tierney making your appearance.'

'Well, Fanny, don't tell my mother, and I'll tell you the truth: promise
now.'

'Oh, I'm no tell-tale.'

'Well then,' and he whispered into her ear 'I was running away from the
Miss O'Joscelyns.'
'But that won't do at all; don't you know they were asked here for your
especial edification and amusement?'

'Oh, I know they were. So were the bishop, and the colonel, and Lord
George, and their respective wives, and Mr Hill. My dear mamma asked them
all here for my amusement; but, you know, one man may lead a horse to
water a hundred can't make him drink. I cannot, cannot drink of the Miss
O'Joscelyns, and the Bishop of Maryborough.'

'For shame, Adolphus! you ought at any rate to do something to amuse them.'

'Amuse them! My dear Fanny, who ever heard of amusing a bishop? But it's
very easy to find fault; what have you done, yourself, for their
amusement?'

'I didn't run away from them; though, had I done so, there would have been
more excuse for me than for you.'

'So there would, Fanny,' said Kilcullen, feeling that she had alluded to
her brother's death; 'and I'm very, very sorry all these people are here to
bore you at such a time, and doubly sorry that they should have been asked
on my account. They mistake me greatly, here. They know that I've thought
Grey Abbey dull, and have avoided it; and now that I've determined to get
over the feeling, because I think it right to do so, they make it ten times
more unbearable than ever, for my gratification! It's like giving a child
physic mixed in sugar; the sugar's sure to be the nastiest part of the
dose. Indeed I have no dislike to Grey Abbey at present; though I own I
have no taste for the sugar in which my kind mother has tried to conceal
its proper flavour.'

'Well, make the best of it; they'll all be gone in ten days.'

'Ten days! Are they to stay ten days? Will you tell me, Fanny, what was the
object in asking Mat Tierney to meet such a party?'

'To help you to amuse the young ladies.'

'Gracious heavens! Does Lady Cashel really expect Mat Tierney to play la
grace with the Miss O'Joscelyns? Well, the time will come to an end, I
suppose. But in truth I'm more sorry for you than for any one. It was very
ill-judged, their getting such a crowd to bore you at such a time,' and
Lord Kilcullen contrived to give his voice a tone of tender solicitude.

'Kilcullen,' said the earl, across the table, 'you don't hear the bishop.
His lordship is asking you to drink wine with him.'

'I shall be most proud of the honour,' said the son, and bobbed his head at
the bishop across the table.

Fanny was on the point of saying something respecting her brother to Lord
Kilcullen, which would have created a kind of confidence between them, but
the bishop's glass of wine broke it off, and from that time Lord Kilcullen
was forced by his father into a general conversation with his guests.

In the evening there was music and singing. The Miss O'Joscelyns, and Miss
Fitzgeralds, and Mr Hill, performed: even Mat Tierney condescended to amuse
the company by singing the 'Coronation', first begging the bishop to excuse
the peculiar allusions to the 'clargy', contained in one of the verses; and
then Fanny was asked to sing. She had again become silent, dull, and
unhappy, was brooding over her miseries and disappointments, and she
declined. Lord Kilcullen was behind her chair, and when they pressed her,
he whispered to her, 'Don't sing for them, Fanny; it's a shame that they
should tease you at such a time; I wonder how my mother can have been so
thoughtless.'

Fanny persisted in declining to sing and Lord Kilcullen again sat down
beside her. 'Don't trouble yourself about them, Fanny,' said he, 'they're
just fit to sing to each other; it's very good work for them.'

'I should think it very good work, as you call it, for myself, too, another
time; only I'm hardly in singing humour at present, and, therefore, obliged
to you for your assistance and protection.'

'Your most devoted knight as long as this fearful invasion lasts! your
Amadis de Gaul your Bertrand du Guesclin! And no paladin of old ever
attempted to defend a damsel from more formidable foes.'

'Indeed, Adolphus, I don't think them so formidable. Many of them are my
own friends.'

'Is Mrs Ellison your own friend? or Mrs Moore?'

'Not exactly those two, in particular.'

'Who then? Is it Miss Judith O'Joscelyn? or is the Reverend Mr Hill one of
those to whom you give that sweetest of all names?'

'Yes; to both of them. It was only this morning I had a long tête-à-tête

'What, with Mr Hill?'

'No, not with Mr Hill though it wouldn't be the first even with him, but
with Judith O'Joscelyn. I lent her a pattern for worsted work.'

'And does that make her your friend? Do you give your friendship so
easily?'

'You forget that I've known her for years.'

'Well, now, I've not. I've seen her about three times in my life, and
spoken two words to her perhaps twice; and yet I'll describe her character
to you; and if you can say that the description is incorrect, I will permit
you to call her your friend.'

'Well, let's hear the character.'

'It wouldn't be kind in me, though, to laugh at your friend.'

'Oh, she's not so especially and particularly my friend that you need mind
that.'
'Then you'll promise not to be angry?'

'Oh no, I won't be angry.'

'Well, then; she has two passions: they are for worsted and hymn-books. She
has a moral objection to waltzing. Theoretically she disapproves of
flirtations: she encourages correspondence between young ladies; always
crosses her letters, and never finished one for the last ten years without
expressing entire resignation to the will of God as if she couldn't be
resigned without so often saying so. She speaks to her confidential friends
of young men as a very worthless, insignificant race of beings; she is,
however, prepared to take the very first that may be unfortunate enough to
come in her way; she has no ideas of her own, but is quick enough at
borrowing those of other people; she considers herself a profound
theologian; dotes on a converted papist, and looks on a Puseyite as
something one shade blacker than the devil. Now isn't that sufficiently
like for a portrait?'

'It's the portrait of a set, I fear, rather than an individual. I don't
know that it's particularly like Miss O'Joscelyn, except as to the worsted
and hymn-books.'

'What, not as to the waltzing, resignation, and worthless young men? Come,
are they not exactly her traits? Does she waltz?'

'No, she does not.'

'And haven't you heard her express a moral objection to it?'

'Well, I believe I have.'

'Did you ever get a letter from her, or see a letter of hers?'

'I don't remember; yes, I did once, a long time ago.'

'And wasn't she very resigned in it?'

'Well, I declare I believe she was; and it's very proper too; people ought
to be resigned.'

'Oh, of course. And now doesn't she love a convert and hate a Puseyite?'

'All Irish clergyman's daughters do that.'

'Well, Fanny, you can't say but that it was a good portrait; and after
that, will you pretend to say you call Miss O'Joscelyn your friend?'

'Not my very friend of friends; but, as friends go, she's as good as most
others.'

'And who is the friend of friends, Fanny?'

'Come, you're not my father confessor. I'm not to tell you all. If I told
you that, you'd make another portrait.'

'I'm sure I couldn't draw a disparaging picture of anybody you would really
call your friend. But indeed I pity you, living among so many such people.
There can be nobody here who understands you.'

'Oh, I'm not very unintelligible.'

'Much more so than Miss O'Joscelyn. I shouldn't wish to have to draw your
portrait.'

'Pray don't; if it were frightful I should think you uncivil; and if you
made it handsome, I should know you were flattering. Besides, you don't
know enough of me to tell me my character.'

'I think I do; but I'll study it a little more before I put it on the
canvass. Some likenesses are very hard to catch.'

Fanny felt, when she went to bed, that she had spent a pleasanter evening
than she usually did, and that it was a much less nuisance to talk to her
cousin Adolphus than to either his father, mother, or sister; and as she
sat before her fire, while her maid was brushing her hair, she began to
think that she had mistaken his character, and that he couldn't be the
hard, sensual, selfish man for which she had taken him. Her ideas naturally
fell back to Frank and her hove, her difficulties and sorrows; and, before
she went to sleep, she had almost taught herself to think that she might
make Lord Kilcullen the means of bringing Lord Ballindine back to Grey
Abbey.

She had, to be sure, been told that her cousin had spoken ill of Frank;
that it was he who had been foremost in decrying Lord Ballindine's folly
and extravagance; but she had never heard him do so; she had only heard of
it through Lord Cashel; and she quite ceased to believe anything her
guardian might say respecting her discarded lover. At any rate she would
try. Some step she was determined to take about Lord Ballindine; and, if
her cousin refused to act like a cousin and a friend, she would only be
exactly where she was before.




XXXI  THE TWO FRIENDS


The next three days passed slowly and tediously for most of the guests
assembled at Grey Abbey.

Captain Cokely, and a Mr Battersby, came over from Newbridge barracks, but
they did not add much to the general enjoyment of the party, though their
arrival was hailed with delight by some of the young ladies. At any rate
they made the rooms look less forlorn in the evenings, and made it worth
the girls' while to put on their best bibs and tuckers.

'But what's the use of it at all?' said Matilda Fitzgerald to little Letty
O'Joscelyn, when she had spent three-quarters of an hour in adjusting her
curls, and setting her flounces properly, on the evening before the arrival
of the two cavalry officers; 'not a soul to look at us but a crusty old
colonel, a musty old bishop, and a fusty old beau!'

'Who's the old beau?' said Letty.

'Why, that Mr Tierney. I can't conceive how Lady Cashel can have asked us
to meet such a set,' and Matilda descended, pouting, and out of humour.

But on the next day she went through her work much more willingly, if not
more carefully.

'That Captain Cokely's a very nice fellow,' said Matilda; 'the best of that
Newbridge set, out and out.'

'Well now, I really think he's not so nice as Mr Battersby,' said Letty.
'I'm sure he's not so good-looking.'

'Oh, Battersby's only a boy. After all, Letty, I don't know whether I like
officers so much better than other men,' and she twisted her neck round to
get a look at her back in the pier-glass, and gave her dress a little pull
just above her bustle.

'I'm sure I do,' said Letty; 'they've so much more to say for themselves,
and they're so much smarter.'

'Why, yes, they are smarter,' said Matilda; 'and there's nothing on earth
so dowdy as an old black coat, But, then, officers are always going away:
you no sooner get to know one or two of a set, and to feel that one of them
is really a darling fellow, but there, they are off to Jamaica, China,
Hounslow barracks, or somewhere; and then it's all to do over again.'

'Well, I do wish they wouldn't move them about quite so much.'

'But let's go down. I think I'll do now, won't I?' and they descended, to
begin the evening campaign.

'Wasn't Miss Wyndham engaged to some one?' said old Mrs Ellison to Mrs
Moore. 'I'm sure some one told me so.'

'Oh, yes, she was,' said Mrs Moore; 'the affair was settled, and everything
arranged; but the man was very poor, and a gambler Lord Ballindine: he has
the name of a property down in Mayo somewhere; but when she got all her
brother's money, Lord Cashel thought it a pity to sacrifice it so he got
her out of the scrape. A very good thing for the poor girl, for they say
he's a desperate scamp.'

'Well, I declare I think,' said Mrs Ellison, 'she'll not have far to look
for another.'

'What, you think there's something between her and Lord Kilcullen?' said
Mrs Moore.

'It looks like it, at any rate, don't it?' said Mrs Ellison.

'Well, I really think it does,' said Mrs Moore; 'I'm sure I'd be very glad
of it. I know he wants money desperately, and it would be such a capital
thing for the earl.'

'At any rate, the lady does not look a bit unwilling,' said Mrs Ellison. 'I
suppose she's fond of rakish young men. You say Lord Ballindine was of that
set; and I'm sure Lord Kilcullen's the same he has the reputation, at any
rate. They say he and his father never speak, except just in public, to
avoid the show of the thing.'

And the two old ladies set to work to a good dish of scandal.

'Miss Wyndham's an exceedingly fine girl,' said Captain Cokely to Mat
Tierney, as they were playing a game of piquet in the little drawing-room.

'Yes,' said Mat; 'and she's a hundred thousand exceedingly fine charms too,
independently of her fine face.'

'So I hear,' said Cokely; 'but I only believe half of what I hear about
those things.'

'She has more than that; I know it.'

'Has she though? Faith, do you know I think Kilcullen has a mind to keep it
in the family. H's very soft on her, and she's just as sweet to him. I
shouldn't be surprised if he were to marry now, and turn steady.'

'Not at all; there are two reasons against it. In the first place, he's too
much clipped for even Fanny's fortune to be any good to him; and secondly,
she's engaged.'

'What, to Ballindine?' said Cokely.

'Exactly so,' said Mat.
'Ah, my dear fellow, that's all off long since. I heard Kilcullen say so
myself. I'll back Kilcullen to marry her against Ballindine for a hundred
pounds.'

'Done,' said Mat; and the bet was booked.

The same evening, Tierney wrote to Dot Blake, and said in a postscript, 'I
know you care for Ballindine; so do I, but I don't write to him. If he
really wants to secure his turtle-dove, he should see that she doesn't get
bagged in his absence. Kilcullen is here, and I tell you he's a keen
sportsman. They say it's quite up with him in London, and I should be sorry
she were sacrificed: she seems a nice girl.'

Lord Kilcullen had ample opportunities of forwarding his intimacy with
Fanny, and he did not neglect them. To give him his due, he played his
cards as well as his father could wish him. He first of all overcame the
dislike with which she was prepared to regard him; he then interested her
about himself; and, before he had been a week at Grey Abbey, she felt that
she had a sort of cousinly affection for him. He got her to talk with a
degree of interest about himself; and when he could do that, there was no
wonder that Tierney should have fears for his friend's interests. Not that
there was any real occasion for them. Fanny Wyndham was not the girl to be
talked out of, or into, a real passion, by anyone.

'Now, tell me the truth, Fanny,' said Kilcullen, as they were sitting over
the fire together in the library, one dark afternoon, before they went to
dress for dinner; 'hadn't you been taught to look on me as a kind of ogre a
monster of iniquity, who spoke nothing but oaths, and did nothing but sin?'

'Not exactly that: but I won't say I thought you were exactly just what you
ought to be.'

'But didn't you think I was exactly what I ought not to have been? Didn't
you imagine, now, that I habitually sat up all night, gambling, and
drinking buckets of champagne and brandy-and-water? And that I lay in bed
all day, devising iniquity in my dreams? Come now, tell the truth, and
shame the devil; if I am the devil, I know people have made me out to be.'

'Why, really, Adolphus, I never calculated how your days and nights were
spent. But if I am to tell the truth, I fear some of them might have been
passed to better advantage.'

'Which of us, Fanny, mightn't, with truth, say the same of ourselves?'

'Of course, none of us,' said Fanny; 'don't think I'm judging you; you
asked me the question and I suppose you wanted an answer.'

'I did; I wanted a true one for though you may never have given yourself
much trouble to form an opinion about me, I am anxious that you should do
so now. I don't want to trouble you with what is done and past; I don't
want to make it appear that I have not been thoughtless and
imprudent wicked and iniquitous, if you are fond of strong terms; neither
do I want to trouble you with confessing all my improprieties, that I may
regularly receive absolution. But I do wish you to believe that I have done
nothing which should exclude me from your future good opinion; from your
friendship and esteem.'

'I am not of an unforgiving temperament, even had you done anything for me
to forgive: but I am not aware that you have.'

'No; nothing for you to forgive, in the light of an offence to yourself;
but much, perhaps, to prevent your being willing to regard me as a personal
friend, We're not only first cousins, Fanny, but are placed more closely
together than cousins usually are. You have neither father nor mother; now,
also, you have no brother,' and he took her hands in his own as he said so.
'Who should be a brother to you, if I am not? who, at any rate, should you
look on as a friend, if not on me? Nobody could be better, I believe, than
Selina; but she is stiff, and cold unlike you in everything. I should be so
happy if I could be the friend the friend of friends you spoke of the other
evening; if I could fill the place which must be empty near your heart. I
can never be this to you, if you believe that anything in my past life has
been really disgraceful. It is for this reason that I want to know what you
truly think of me. I won't deny that I am anxious you should think well of
me: well, at any rate for the present, and the future, and charitably as
regards the past.'

Fanny had been taken much by surprise by the turn her cousin had given to
the conversation; and was so much affected, that, before he had finished,
she was in tears. She had taken her hand out of his, to put her
handkerchief to her eyes, and as she did not immediately answer, he
continued:

'I shall probably be much here for some time to come such, at least, are my
present plans; and I hope that while I am, we shall become friends: not
such friends, Fanny, as you and Judith O'Joscelyn friends only of
circumstance, who have neither tastes, habits, or feelings in
common friends whose friendship consists in living in the same parish, and
meeting each other once or twice a week; but friends in reality friends in
confidence friends in mutual dependence friends in love friends, dear
Fanny, as cousins situated as we are should be to each other.'

Fanny's heart was very full, for she felt how much, how desperately, she
wanted such a friend as Kilcullen described. How delightful it would be to
have such a friend, and to find him in her own cousin! The whole family,
hitherto, were so cold to her so uncongenial. The earl she absolutely
disliked; she loved her aunt, but it was only because she was her aunt she
couldn't like her; and though she loved Lady Selina, and, to a degree,
admired her, it was like loving a marble figure. There was more true
feeling in what Kilcullen had now said to her, than in. all that had fallen
from the whole family, for the four years she had lived at Grey Abbey, and
she could not therefore but close on the offer of his affection.

'Shall we be such friends, then?' said he; 'or, after all, am I too bad?
Have I too much of the taint of the wicked world to be the friend of so
pure a creature as you?'

'Oh no, Adolphus; I'm sure I never thought so,' said she. 'I never judged
you, and indeed I am not disposed to do so now. I'm too much in want of
kindness to reject yours even were I disposed to do so, which I am not.'

'Then, Fanny, we are to be friends true, loving, trusting friends?'

'Oh, yes!' said Fanny. 'I am really, truly grateful for your affection and
kindness. I know how precious they are, and I will value them accordingly.'

Again Lord Kilcullen took her hand, and pressed it in his; and then he
kissed it, and told her she was his own dear cousin Fanny; and then
recommended her to go and dress, which she did. He sat himself down for a
quarter of an hour, ruminating, and then also went off to dress; but,
during that quarter of an hour, very different ideas passed through his
mind, than such as those who knew him best would have given him credit for.

In the first place, he thought that he really began to feel an affection
for his cousin Fanny, and to speculate whether it were absolutely within
the verge of possibility that he should marry her retrieve his
circumstances treat her well, and live happily for the rest of his life as
a respectable nobleman.

For two or three minutes the illusion remained, till it was banished by
retrospection. It was certainly possible that he should marry her: it was
his full intention to do so: but as to retrieving his circumstances and
treating her well! the first was absolutely impossible the other nearly so;
and as to his living happily at Grey Abbey as a family man, he yawned as he
felt how impossible it would be that he should spend a month in such a way,
let alone a life. But then Fanny Wyndham was so beautiful, so lively, so
affectionate, so exactly what a cousin and a wife ought to be: he could not
bear to think that all his protestations of friendship and love had been
hypocritical; that he could only look upon her as a gudgeon, and himself as
a bigger fish, determined to swallow her! Yet such must be his views
regarding her. He departed to dress, absolutely troubled in his conscience.

And what were Fanny's thoughts about her cousin? She was much surprised and
gratified, but at the same time somewhat flustered and overwhelmed, by the
warmth and novelty of his affection. However, she never for a moment
doubted his truth towards her, or had the slightest suspicion of his real
object.

Her chief thought was whether she could induce him to be a mediator for
her, between Lord Cashel and Lord Ballindine.

During the next two days he spoke to her a good deal about her brother of
whom, by-the-bye, he had really known nothing. He contrived, however, to
praise him as a young man of much spirit and great promise; then he spoke
of her own large fortune, asked her what her wishes were about its
investment, and told her how happy he would be to express those wishes at
once to Lord Cashel, and to see that they were carried out. Once or twice
she had gradually attempted to lead the conversation to Lord Ballindine,
but Kilcullen was too crafty, and had prevented her; and she had not yet
sufficient courage to tell him at once what was so near her heart.

'Fanny,' said Lady Selina, one morning, about a week after the general
arrival of the company at Grey Abbey, and when some of them had taken their
departure, 'I am very glad to see you have recovered your spirits: I know
you have made a great effort, and I appreciate and admire it.'

'Indeed, Selina, I fear you are admiring me too soon. I own I have been
amused this week past, and, to a certain degree, pleased; but I fear you'll
find I shall relapse. There's been no radical reform; my thoughts are all
in the same direction as they were.'

'But the great trial in this world is to behave well and becomingly in
spite of oppressive thoughts: and it always takes a struggle to do that,
and that struggle you've made. I hope it may lead you to feel that you may
be contented and in comfort without having everything which you think
necessary to your happiness. I'm sure I looked forward to this week as one
of unmixed trouble and torment; but I was very wrong to do so. It has given
me a great deal of unmixed satisfaction.'

'I'm very glad of that, Selina, but what was it? I'm sure it could not have
come from poor Mrs Ellison, or the bishop's wife; and you seemed to me to
spend all your time in talking to them. Virtue, they say, is its own
reward: I don't know what other satisfaction you can have had from them.'

'In the first place, it has given me great pleasure to see that you were
able to exert yourself in company, and that the crowd of people did not
annoy you: but I have chiefly been delighted by seeing that you and
Adolphus are such good friends. You must think, Fanny, that I am anxious
about an only brother especially when we have all had so much cause to be
anxious about him; and don't you think it must be a delight to me to find
that he is able to take pleasure in your society? I should be doubly
pleased, doubly delighted, if I could please him myself. But I have not the
vivacity to amuse him.'

'What nonsense, Selina! Don't say that.'

'But it's true, Fanny; I have not; and Grey Abbey has become distasteful to
him because we are all sedate, steady people. Perhaps some would call us
dull, and heavy; and I have grieved that it should be so, though I cannot
alter my nature; but you are so much the contrary there is so much in your
character like his own, before he became fond of the world, that I feel he
can become attached to and fond of you; and I am delighted to see that he
thinks so himself. What do you think of him, now that you have seen more of
him than you ever did before?'

'Indeed,' said Fanny, 'I like him very much.'

'He is very clever, isn't he? He might have been anything if he had given
himself fair play. He seems to have taken greatly to you.'

'Oh yes; we are great friends:' and then Fanny paused ' so great friends,'
she continued, looking somewhat gravely in Lady Selina's face, 'that I mean
to ask the greatest favour of him that I could ask of anyone: one I am sure
I little dreamed I should ever ask of him.'

'What is it, Fanny? Is it a secret?'

'Indeed it is, Selina; but it's a secret I will tell you. I mean to tell
him all I feel about Lord Ballindine, and I mean to ask him to see him for
me. Adolphus has offered to be a brother to me, and I mean to take him at
his word.'

Lady Selina turned very pale, and looked very grave as she replied,

'That is not giving him a brother's work, Fanny. A brother should protect
you from importunity and insult, from injury and wrong; and that, I am
sure, Adolphus would do: but no brother would consent to offer your hand to
a man who had neglected you and been refused, and who, in all probability,
would now reject you with scorn if he has the opportunity or if not that,
will take you for your money's sake. That, Fanny, is not a brother's work;
and it is an embassy which I am sure Adolphus will not undertake. If you
take my advice you will not ask him.'

As Lady Selina finished speaking she walked to the door, as if determined
to hear no reply from her cousin; but, as she was leaving the room, she
fancied that she heard her sobbing, and her heart softened, and she again
turned towards her and said, 'God knows, Fanny, I do not wish to be severe
or ill-natured to you; I would do anything for your comfort and happiness,
but I cannot bear to think that you should' Lady Selina was puzzled for a
word to express her meaning 'that you should forget yourself,' and she
attempted to put her arm round Fanny's waist.

But she was mistaken; Fanny was not sobbing, but was angry; and what Selina
now said about her forgetting herself, did not make her less so.

'No,' she said, withdrawing herself from her cousin's embrace and standing
erect, while her bosom was swelling with indignation: 'I want no affection
from you, Selina, that is accompanied by so much disapprobation. You don't
wish to be severe, only you say that I am likely to forget myself. Forget
myself!' and Fanny threw back her beautiful head, and clenched her little
fists by her side: 'The other day you said "disgrace myself ", and I bore
it calmly then; but I will not any longer bear such imputations. I tell you
plainly, Selina, I will not forget myself, nor will I be forgotten. Nor
will I submit to whatever fate cold, unfeeling people may doom me, merely
because I am a woman and alone. I will not give up Lord Ballindine, if I
have to walk to his door and tell him so. And were I to do so, I should
never think that I had forgotten myself.'

'Listen to me, Fanny,' said Selina.

'Wait a moment,' continued Fanny, 'I have listened enough: it is my turn to
speak now. For one thing I have to thank you: you have dispelled the idea
that I could look for help to anyone in this family. I will not ask your
brother to do anything for me which you think so disgraceful. I will not
subject him to the scorn with which you choose to think my love will be
treated by him who loved me so well. That you should dare to tell me that
he who did so much for my love should now scorn it! Oh, Selina, that I may
live to forget that you said those words!' and Fanny, for a moment, put her
handkerchief to her eyes but it was but for a moment.

'However,' she continued, 'I will now act for myself. As you think I might
forget myself, I tell you I will do it in no clandestine way. I will write
to Lord Ballindine, and I will show my letter to my uncle. The whole house
shall read it if they please. I will tell Lord Ballindine all the truth and
if Lord Cashel turns me from his house, I shall probably find some friend
to receive me, who may still believe that I have not forgotten myself.' And
Fanny Wyndham sailed out of the room.

Lady Selina, when she saw that she was gone, sat down on the sofa and took
her book. She tried to make herself believe that she was going to read; but
it was no use: the tears dimmed her eyes, and she put the book down.

The same evening the countess sent for Selina into her boudoir, and, with a
fidgety mixture of delight and surprise, told her that she had a wonderful
piece of good news to communicate to her.

'I declare, my dear,' she said, 'it's the most delightful thing I've heard
for years and years; and it's just exactly what I had planned myself, only
I never told anybody. Dear me; it makes me so happy!'

'What is it, mamma?

'Your papa has been talking to me since dinner, my love, and he tells me
Adolphus is going to marry Fanny Wyndham.'

'Going to marry whom?' said Lady Selina, almost with a shout.

'Fanny, I say: it's the most delightful match in the world: it's just what
ought to be done. I suppose they won't have the wedding before summer;
though May is a very nice month. Let me see; it only wants three weeks to
May.'

'Mamma, what are you talking about? you're dreaming.'

'Dreaming, my dear? I'm not dreaming at all: it's a fact. Who'd 've thought
of all this happening so soon, out of this party, which gave us so much
trouble! However, I knew your father was right. I said all along that he
was in the right to ask the, people.'

'Mamma,' said Lady Selina, gravely, 'listen to me: calmly now, and
attentively. I don't know what papa has told you; but I tell you Fanny does
not dream of marrying Adolphus. He has never asked her, and if he did she
would never accept him. Fanny is more than ever in love with Lord
Ballindine.'

The countess opened her eyes wide, and looked up into her daughter's face,
but said nothing.

'Tell me, mamma, as nearly as you can recollect, what it is papa has said
to you, that, if possible, we may prevent mischief and misery. Papa
couldn't have said that Fanny had accepted Adolphus?'

'He didn't say exactly that, my dear; but he said that it was his wish they
should be married; that Adolphus was very eager for it, and that Fanny had
received his attentions and admiration with evident pleasure and
satisfaction. And so she has, my dear; you couldn't but have seen that
yourself.'

'Well, mamma, what else did papa say?'

'Why, he said just what I'm telling you: that I wasn't to be surprised if
we were called on to be ready for the wedding at a short notice; or at any
rate to be ready to congratulate Fanny. He certainly didn't say she had
accepted him. But he said he had no doubt about it; and I'm sure, from what
was going on last week, I couldn't have any doubt either. But he told me
not to speak to anyone about it yet; particularly not to Fanny; only, my
dear, I couldn't help, you know, talking it over with you;' and the
countess leaned back in her chair, very much exhausted with the history she
had narrated.

'Now, mamma, listen to me. It is not many hours since Fanny told me she was
unalterably determined to throw herself at Lord Ballindine's feet.'

'Goodness gracious me, how shocking!' said the countess.

'She even said that she would ask Adolphus to be the means of bringing Lord
Ballindine back to Grey Abbey.'

'Lord have mercy!' said the countess.

'I only tell you this, mamma, to show you how impossible it is that papa
should be right.'

'What are we to do, my dear? Oh, dear, there'll be such a piece of work!
What a nasty thing Fanny is. I'm sure she's been making love to Adolphus
all the week!'

'No, mamma, she has not. Don't be unfair to Fanny. If there is anyone in
fault it is Adolphus; but, as you say, what shall we do to prevent further
misunderstanding? I think I had better tell papa the whole.'

And so she did, on the following morning. But she was too late; she did not
do it till after Lord Kilcullen had offered and had been refused.


XXXII  HOW LORD KILCULLEN FARES IN HIS WOOING


About twelve o'clock the same night, Lord Kilcullen and Mat Tierney were
playing billiards, and were just finishing their last game: the bed-candles
were lighted ready for them, and Tierney was on the point of making the
final hazard.

'So you're determined to go to-morrow, Mat?' said Kilcullen.

'Oh, yes, I'll go to-morrow: your mother'll take me for a second Paddy Rea,
else,' said Mat.

'Who the deuce was Paddy Rea?'

'Didn't you ever hear of Paddy Rea? Michael French of Glare Abbey he's dead
now, but he was alive enough at the time I'm telling you of, and kept the
best house in county Clare well, he was coming down on the Limerick coach,
and met a deuced pleasant, good-looking, talkative sort of a fellow a-top
of it. They dined and got a tumbler of punch together at Roscrea; and when
French got down at Bird Hill, he told his acquaintance that if he ever
found himself anywhere near Ennis, he'd be glad to see him at Glare Abbey.
He was a hospitable sort of a fellow, and had got into a kind of way of
saying the same thing to everybody, without meaning anything except to be
civil just as I'd wish a man good morning. Well, French thought no more
about the man, whose name he didn't even know; but about a fortnight
afterwards, a hack car from Ennis made its appearance at Glare Abbey, and
the talkative traveller, and a small portmanteau, had soon found their way
into the hail. French was a good deal annoyed, for he had some fashionables
in the house, but he couldn't turn the man out; so he asked his name, and
introduced Paddy Rea to the company. How long do you think he stayed at
Glare Abbey?'

'Heaven only knows! Three months.'

'Seventeen years!' said Mat. 'They did everything to turn him out, and
couldn't do it. It killed old French; and at last his son pulled the house
down, and Paddy Rea went then, because there wasn't a roof to cover him.
Now I don't want to drive your father to pull down this house, so I'll go
tomorrow.'

'The place is so ugly, that if you could make him do so, it would be an
advantage; but I'm afraid the plan wouldn't succeed, so I won't press you.
But if you go, I shan't remain long. If it was to save my life and theirs,
I can't get up small talk for the rector and his curate.'

'Well, good night,' said Mat; and the two turned off towards their bed-
rooms.

As they passed from the billiard-room through the hall, Lord Cashel
shuffled out of his room, in his slippers and dressing-gown.

'Kilcullen,' said he, with a great deal of unconcerned good humour affected
in his tone, 'just give me one moment I've a word to say to you. Goodnight,
Mr Tierney, goodnight; I'm sorry to hear we're to lose you to-morrow.'

Lord Kilcullen shrugged his shoulders, winked at his friend and then turned
round and followed his father.

'It's only one word, Kilcullen,' said the father, who was afraid of
angering or irritating his son, now that he thought he was in so fair a way
to obtain the heiress and her fortune. 'I'll not detain you half a minute;'
and then he said in a whisper, 'take my advice, Kilcullen, and strike when
the iron's hot.'

'I don't quite understand you, my lord,' said his son, affecting ignorance
of his father's meaning.

'I mean, you can't stand better than you do with Fanny:     you've
certainly played your cards admirably, and she's a charming girl, a very
charming girl, and I long to know that she's your own. Take my advice and
ask her at once.'

'My lord,' said the dutiful son, 'if I'm to carry on this affair, I must he
allowed to do it in my own way. You, I dare say, have more experience than
I can boast, and if you choose to make the proposal yourself to Miss
Wyndham on my behalf, I shall be delighted to leave the matter in your
hands; but in that case, I shall choose to be absent from Grey Abbey. If
you wish me to do it, you must let me do it when I please and how I
please.'

'Oh, certainly, certainly, Kilcullen,' said the earl; 'I only want to point
out that I think you'll gain nothing by delay.'

'Very well, my lord. Good night.' And Lord Kilcullen went to bed, and the
father shuffled back to his study. He had had three different letters that
day from Lord Kilcullen's creditors, all threatening immediate arrest
unless he would make himself responsible for his son's debts. No wonder
that he was in a hurry, poor man!

And Lord Kilcullen, though he had spoken so coolly on the subject, and had
snubbed his father, was equally in a hurry. He also received letters, and
threats, and warnings, and understood, even better than his father did, the
perils which awaited him. He knew that he couldn't remain at Grey Abbey
another week; that in a day or two it wouldn't be safe for him to leave the
house; and that his only chance was at once to obtain the promise of his
cousin's hand, and then betake himself to some place of security, till he
could make her fortune available.

When Fanny came into the breakfast-room next morning, he asked her to walk
with him in the demesne after breakfast. During the whole of the previous
evening she had sat silent and alone, pretending to read, although he had
made two or three efforts to engage her in conversation. She could not,
however, refuse to walk with him, nor could she quite forgive herself for
wishing to do so. She felt that her sudden attachment for him was damped by
what had passed between her and Lady Selina; but she knew, at the same
time, that she was very unreasonable for quarrelling with one cousin for
what another had said. She accepted his invitation, and shortly after
breakfast went upstairs to get ready. It was a fine, bright, April morning,
though the air was cold, and the ground somewhat damp; so she put on her
boa and strong boots, and sallied forth with Lord Kilcullen; not exactly in
a good humour, but still feeling that she could not justly be out of humour
with him. At the same moment, Lady Selina knocked at her father's door,
with the intention of explaining to him how impossible it was that Fanny
should be persuaded to marry her brother. Poor Lord Cashel his life, at
that time, was certainly not a happy one.

The two cousins walked some way, nearly in silence. Fanny felt very little
inclined to talk, and even Kilcullen, with all his knowledge of
womankind with all his assurance, had some difficulty in commencing what he
had to get said and done that morning.

'So Grey Abbey will once more sink into its accustomed dullness,' said he.
'Cokely went, yesterday, and Tierney and the Ellisons go today. Don't you
dread it, Fanny?'

'Oh, I'm used to it: besides, I'm one of the component elements of the
dullness, you know. I'm a portion of the thing itself: it's you that must
feel it.'

'I feel it? I suppose I shall. But, as I told you before, the physic to me
was not nearly so nauseous as the sugar. I'm at any rate glad to get rid of
such sweetmeats as the bishop and Mrs Ellison;' and they were both silent
again for a while.

'But you're not a portion of the heaviness of Grey Abbey, Fanny,' said he,
referring to what she had said. 'You're not an element of its dullness. I
don't say this in flattery I trust nothing so vile as flattery will ever
take place between us; but you know yourself that. your nature is intended
for other things; that you were not born to pass your life in such a house
as this, without society, without excitement, without something to fill
your mind. Fanny, you can't be happy here, at Grey Abbey.'

Happy! thought Fanny to herself. No, indeed, I'm not happy! She didn't say
so, however; and Kilcullen, after a little while, went on speaking.

'I'm sure you can't be comfortable here. You don't feel it, I dare say, so
intolerable as I do; but still you have been out enough, enough in the
world, to feel strongly the everlasting do-nothingness of this horrid
place. I wonder what possesses my father, that he does not go to London for
your sake if for no one else's. It's not just of him to coop you up here.'

'Indeed it is, Adolphus,' said she. 'You mistake my character. I'm not at
all anxious for London parties and gaiety. Stupid as you may think me, I'm
quite as well contented to stay here as I should be to go to London.'

'Do you mean me to believe,' said Kilcullen, with a gentle laugh, 'that you
are contented to live and die in single blessedness at Grey Abbey ?that
your ambition does not soar higher than the interchange of worsted-work
patterns with Miss O'Joscelyn?'

'I did not say so, Adolphus.'

'What is your ambition then? what kind and style of life would you choose
to live? Come, Fanny, I wish I could get you to talk with me about
yourself. I wish I could teach you to believe how anxious I am that your
future life should be happy and contented, and at the same time splendid
and noble, as it should be. I'm sure you must have ambition. I have studied
Lavater well enough to know that such a head and face as yours never
belonged to a mind that could satisfy itself with worsted-work.'

'You are very severe on the poor worsted-work.'

'But am I not in the right?'

'Decidedly not. Lavater, and my head and face, have misled you.'

'Nonsense, Fanny. Do you mean to tell me that you have no aspiration for a
kind of life different from this you are leading? If so, I am much
disappointed in you; much, very much astray in my judgment of your
character.' Then he walked on a few yards, looking on the ground, and said,
'Come, Fanny, I am talking very earnestly to you, and you answer me only in
joke. You don't think me impertinent, do you, to talk about yourself?'

'Impertinent, Adolphus of course I don't.'

'Why won't you talk to me then, in the spirit in which I am talking to you?
If you knew, Fanny, how interested I am about you, how anxious that you
should be happy, how confidently I look forward to the distinguished
position I expect you to fill if you could guess how proud I mean to be of
you, when you are the cynosure of all eyes the admired of all
admirers admired not more for your beauty than your talent if I could make
you believe, Fanny, how much I expect from you, and how fully I trust that,
my expectations will be realised, you would not, at any rate, answer me
lightly.'

'Adolphus,' said Fanny, 'I thought there was to be no flattering between
us?'

'And do you think I would flatter you? Do you think I would stoop to
flatter you? Oh! Fanny, you don't understand me yet; you don't at all
understand, how thoroughly from the heart I'm speaking how much in earnest
I am; and, so far from flattering you, I am quite as anxious to find fault
with you as I am to praise you, could I feel that I had liberty to do so.'

'Pray do,' said Fanny: 'anything but flattery; for a friend never
flatters.'

But Kilcullen had intended to flatter his fair cousin, and he had been
successful. She was gratified and pleased by his warmth of affection. 'Pray
do,' repeated Fanny; 'I have more faults than virtues to be told of, and so
I'm afraid you'll find out, when you know me better.'

'To begin, then,' said Kilcullen, 'are you not wrong but no, Fanny, I will
not torment you now with a catalogue of faults. I did not ask you to come
out with me for that object. You are now in grief for the death of poor
Harry' Fanny blushed as she reflected how much more poignant a sorrow
weighed upon her heart 'and are therefore unable to exert yourself; but, as
soon as you are able when you have recovered from this severe blow, I trust
you will not be content to loiter and dawdle away your existence at Grey
Abbey.'

'Not the whole of it,' said Fanny.

'None of it,' replied her cousin. 'Every month, every day, should have its
purpose. My father has got into a dull, heartless, apathetic mode of life,
which suits my mother and Selina, but which will never suit you. Grey Abbey
is like the Dead Sea, of which the waters are always bitter as well as
stagnant. It makes me miserable, dearest Fanny, to see you stifled in such
a pool. Your beauty, talents, and energies your disposition to enjoy life,
and power of making it enjoyable for others, are all thrown away. Oh,
Fanny, if I could rescue you from this!'

'You are inventing imaginary evils,' said she; 'at any rate they are not
palpable to my eyes.'

'That's it; that's just what I fear,' said the other, 'that time, habit,
and endurance may teach you to think that nothing further is to be looked
for in this world than vegetation at Grey Abbey, or some other place of the
kind, to which you may be transplanted. I want to wake you from such a
torpor; to save you from such ignominy. I wish to restore you to the
world.'

'There's time enough, Adolphus; you'll see me yet the gayest of the gay at
Almack's.'

'Ah! but to please me, Fanny, it must be as one of the leaders, not one of
the led.'

'Oh, that'll be in years to come: in twenty years' time; when I come forth
glorious in a jewelled turban, and yards upon yards of yellow satin fat,
fair, and forty. I've certainly no ambition to be one of the leaders yet.'

Lord Kilcullen walked on silent for a considerable time, during which Fanny
went on talking about London, Almack's, and the miserable life of lady
patronesses, till at last she also became silent, and began thinking of
Lord Ballindine. She had, some little time since, fully made up her mind to
open her heart to Lord Kilcullen about him, and she had as fully determined
not to do so after what Selina had said upon the subject; but now she again
wavered. His manner was so kind and affectionate, his interest in her
future happiness appeared to be so true and unaffected: at any rate he
would not speak harshly or cruelly to her, if she convinced him how
completely her happiness depended on her being reconciled to Lord
Ballindine. She had all but brought herself to the point; she had almost
determined to tell him everything, when he stopped rather abruptly, and
said,

'I also am leaving Grey Abbey again, Fanny.'

'Leaving Grey Abbey?' said Fanny. 'You told me the other day you were going
to live here,'

'So I intended; so I do intend; but still I must leave it for a while. I'm
going about business, and I don't know how long I may he away. I go on
Saturday.'

'I hope, Adolphus, you haven't quarrelled with your father,' said she.

'Oh, no,' said he: 'it is on his advice that I am going. I believe there is
no fear of our quarrelling now. I should rather say I trust there is none.
He not. only approves of my going, but approves of what I am about to do
before I go.'

'And what is that?'

'I had not intended, Fanny, to say what I have to say to you for some time,
for I feel that different circumstances make it premature. But I cannot
bring myself to leave you without doing so;' and again he paused and walked
on a little way in silence 'and yet,' he continued, 'I hardly know how to
utter what I wish to say; or rather what I would wish to have said, were it
not that I dread so much the answer you may make me. Stop, Fanny, stop a
moment; the seat is quite dry; sit down one moment.'

Fanny sat down in a little alcove which. they had reached, considerably
embarrassed and surprised. She had not, however, the most remote idea of
what he was about to say to her. Had any other man in the world, almost,
spoken to her in the same language, she would have expected an offer; but
from the way in which she had always regarded her cousin, both heretofore,
when she hardly knew him, and now, when she was on such affectionate terms
with him, she would as soon have thought of receiving an offer from Lord
Cashel as from his son.

'Fanny,' he said,' I told you before that I have my father's warmest and
most entire approval for what I am now going to do. Should I be successful
in what I ask, he will be delighted; but I have no words to tell you what
my own feelings will be. Fanny, dearest Fanny,' and he sat down close
beside her 'I love you better and how much better, than all the world holds
beside. Dearest, dearest Fanny, will you, can you, return my love?'

'Adolphus,' said Fanny, rising suddenly from her seat, more for the sake of
turning round so as to look at him, than with the object of getting from
him, Adolphus, you are joking with me.'

'No, by heavens then,' said he, following her, and catching her hand; 'no
man in Ireland is this moment more in earnest: no man more anxiously,
painfully in earnest. Oh, Fanny! why should you suppose that I am not so?
How can you think I would joke on such a subject? No: hear me,' he said,
interrupting her, as she prepared to answer him, 'hear me out, and then you
will know how truly I am in earnest.'

'No, not a word further!' almost shrieked Fanny ' Not a word more,
Adolphus not a syllable; at any rate till you have heard me. Oh, you have
made me so miserable!' and Fanny burst into tears.

'I have spoken too suddenly to you, Fanny; I should have given you more
time I should have waited till '

'No, no, no,' said Fanny, 'it is not that but yes; what you say is true:
had you waited but one hour but ten minutes I should have told you that
which would for ever have prevented all this. I should have told you,
Adolphus, how dearly, how unutterably I love another.' And Fanny again sat
down, hid her face in her handkerchief against the corner of the summer-
house, and sobbed and cried as though she were broken-hearted: during which
time Kilcullen stood by, rather perplexed as to what he was to say next,
and beginning to be very doubtful as to his ultimate success.

'Dear Fanny!' he said, 'for both our sakes, pray try to be collected: all
my future happiness is at this moment at stake. I did not bring you here to
listen to what I have told you, without having become too painfully sure
that your hand, your heart, your love, are necessary to my happiness. All
my hopes are now at stake; but I would not, if I could, secure my own
happiness at the expense of yours. Pray believe me, Fanny, when I say that
I love you completely, unalterably, devotedly: it is necessary now for my
own sake that I should say as much as that. Having told you so much of my
own heart, let me hear what you wish to tell me of yours. Oh, that I might
have the most distant gleam of hope, that it would ever return the love
which fills my own!'

'It cannot, Adolphus it never can,' said she, still trying to hide her
tears. 'Oh, why should this bitter misery have been added!' She then rose
quickly from her seat, wiped her eyes, and, pushing back her hair,
continued, 'I will no longer continue to live such a life as I have
done miserable to myself, and the cause of misery to others. Adolphus I
love Lord Ballindine. I love him with, I believe, as true and devoted a
love as woman ever felt for a man. I valued, appreciated, gloried in your
friendship; but I can never return your, love. My heart is wholly, utterly,
given away; and I would not for worlds receive it back, till I learn from
his own mouth that he has ceased to love me.'

'Oh, Fanny! my poor Fanny!' said Kilcullen; 'if such is the case, you are
really to be pitied. If this be true, your condition is nearly as unhappy
as my own.,

'I am unhappy, very unhappy in your love,' said Fanny, drawing herself up
proudly; 'but not unhappy in my own. My misery is that I should be the
cause of trouble and unhappiness to others. I have nothing to regret in my
own choice.'

'You are harsh, Fanny. It may be well that you should be decided, but it
cannot become you also to be unfeeling. I have offered to you all that a
man can offer; my name, my fortune, my life, my heart; though you may
refuse me, you have no right to be offended with me.'

'Oh, Adolphus!' said she, now in her turn offering him her hand: 'pray
forgive me: pray do not be angry. Heaven knows I feel no offence: and how
strongly, how sincerely, I feel the compliment you have offered me. But I
want you to see how vain it would be in me to leave you leave you in any
doubt. I only spoke as I did to show you I could not think twice, when my
heart was given to one whom I so entirely love, respect and approve.' Lord
Kilcullen's face became thoughtful, and his brow grew black: he stood for
some time irresolute what to say or do.

'Let us walk on, Fanny, for this is cold and damp,' he said, at last.

'Let us go back to the house, then.'

'As you like, Fanny. Oh, how painful all this is! how doubly painful to
know that ray own love is hopeless, and that yours is no less so. Did you
not refuse Lord Ballindine?'

'If I did, is it not sufficient that I tell you I love him? If he were gone
past all redemption, you would not have me encourage you while I love
another?'

'I never dreamed of this! What, Fanny, what are your hopes? what is it you
wish or intend? Supposing me, as I wish I were, fathoms deep below the
earth, what would you do? You cannot marry Lord Ballindine.'

'Then I will marry no one,' said Fanny, striving hard to suppress her
tears, and barely succeeding.

'Good heavens!' exclaimed Kilcullen; 'what an infatuation is this!' and
then again he walked on silent a little way. 'Have you told any one of
this, Fanny? do they know of it at Grey Abbey? Come, Fanny, speak to me:
forget, if you will, that I would be your lover: remember me only as your
cousin and your friend, and speak to me openly. Do they know that you have
repented of the refusal you gave Lord Ballindine?'

'They all know that I love him: your father, your mother, and Selina.'

'You don't say my father?'

'Yes,' said Fanny, stopping on the path, and speaking with energy, as she
confronted her cousin. 'Yes, Lord Cashel. He, above all others, knows it. I
have told him so almost on my knees. I have implored him, as a child may
implore her father, to bring back to me the only man I ever loved. I have
besought him not to sacrifice me. Oh! how I have implored him to spare me
the dreadful punishment of my own folly wretchedness rather in rejecting
the man I loved. But he has not listened to me; he will never listen to me,
and I will never ask again. He shall find that I am not a tree or a stone,
to be planted or placed as he chooses. I will not again be subjected to
what I have to-day suffered, I will not I will not ' But Fanny was out of
breath; and could not complete the catalogue of what she would not do.

'And did you intend to tell me all this, had I not spoken to you as I have
done?' said Kilcullen.

'I did,' said she. 'I was on the point of telling you everything: twice I
had intended to do so. I intended to implore you, as you loved me as your
cousin, to use your exertions to reconcile my uncle and Lord Ballindine and
now instead of that '

'You find I love you too well myself?'

'Oh, forget, Adolphus, forget that the words ever passed your lips. You
have not loved me long, and therefore will not continue to love me, when
you know I never can be yours: forget your short-lived love; won't you,
Adolphus?' and she put her clasped hands upon his breast 'forget, let us
both forget that the words were ever spoken. Be still my cousin, my friend,
my brother; and we shall still both be happy.'

Different feelings were disturbing Lord Kilcullen's breast different from
each other, and some of them very different from those which usually found
a place there. He had sought Fanny's hand not only with most sordid, but
also with most dishonest views: he not only intended to marry her for her
fortune, but also to rob her of her money; to defraud her, that he might
enable himself once more to enter the world of pleasure, with the slight
encumbrance of a wretched wife. But, in carrying out his plan, he had
disturbed it by his own weakness: he had absolutely allowed himself to fall
in love with his cousin; and when, as he had just done, he offered her his
hand, he was quite as anxious that she should accept him for her own sake
as for that of her money. He had taught himself to believe that she would
accept him, and many misgivings had haunted him as to the ruined state to
which he should bring her as his wife. But these feelings, though strong
enough to disturb him, were not strong enough to make him pause: he tried
to persuade himself that he could yet make her happy, and hurried on to the
consummation of his hopes. He now felt strongly tempted to act a generous
part; to give her up, and to bring Lord Ballindine back to her feet; to
deserve at any rate well of her, and leave all other things to chance. But
Lord Kilcullen was not accustomed to make such sacrifices: he had never
learned to disregard himself; and again and again he turned it over in his
mind 'how could he get her fortune? was there any way left in which he
might be successful?'

'This is child's play, Fanny,' he said. 'You may reject me: to that I have
nothing further to say, for I am but an indifferent wooer; but you can
never marry Lord Ballindine.'

'Oh, Adolphus, for mercy's sake don't say so!'

'But I do say so, Fanny. God knows, not to wound you, or for any unworthy
purpose, but because it is so. He was your lover, and you sent him away;
you cannot whistle him back as you would a dog.'

Fanny made no answer to this, but walked on towards the house, anxious to
find herself alone in her own room, that she might compose her mind and
think over all that she had heard and said; nor did Lord Kilcullen renew
the conversation till he got to the house. He could not determine what to
do. Under other circumstances it might, he felt, have been wise for him to
wait till time had weakened Fanny's regret for her lost lover; but in his
case this was impracticable; if he waited anywhere it would be in the
Queen's Bench. And yet, he could not but feel that, at present, it was
hopeless for him to push his suit.

They reached the steps together, and as he opened the front door, Fanny
turned round to wish him good morning, as she was hurrying in; but he
stopped her, and said,

'One word more, Fanny, before we part. You must not refuse me; nor must we
part in this way. Step in here; I will not keep you a minute;' and he took
her into a room off the hall 'do not let us be children; Fanny; do not let
us deceive each other, or ourselves: do not let us persist in being
irrational if we ourselves see that we are so;' and he paused for a reply.

'Well, Adolphus?' was all she said.

'If I could avoid it,' continued he, 'I would not hurt your feelings; but
you must see, you must know, that you cannot marry Lord Ballindine.' Fanny,
who was now sitting, bit her lips and clenched her hands, but she said
nothing; 'If this is so if you feel that so far your fate is fixed, are you
mad enough to give yourself up to a vain and wicked passion for wicked it
will be? Will you not rather strive to forget him who has forgotten you?'

'That is not true,' interposed Fanny.

'His conduct, unfortunately, proves that it is too true,' continued
Kilcullen. 'He has forgotten you, and you cannot blame him that he should
do so, now that you have rejected him; but he neglected you even before you
did so. Is it wise, is it decorous, is it maidenly in you, to indulge any
longer in so vain a passion? Think of this, Fanny. As to myself, Heaven
knows with what perfect truth, with what true love, I offered you, this
morning, all that a man can offer: how ardently I hoped for an answer
different from that you have now given me. You cannot give me your heart
now; love cannot, at a moment, be transferred. But think, Fanny, think
whether it is not better for you to accept an offer which your friends will
all approve, and which I trust will never make you unhappy, than to give
yourself up to a lasting regret, to tears, misery, and grief.'

'And would you take my hand without my heart?' said she.

'Not for worlds,' replied the other, 'were I not certain that your heart
would follow your hand. Whoever may be your husband, you will love him. But
ask my mother, talk to her, ask her advice; she at any rate will only tell
you that which must be best for your own happiness. Go to her, Fanny; if
her advice be different from mine, I will not say a word farther to urge my
suit.'

'I will go to no one,' said Fanny, rising. 'I have gone to too many with a
piteous story on my lips. I have no friend, now, in this house. I had still
hoped to find one in you, but that hope is over. I am, of course, proud of
the honour your declaration has conveyed; but I should be wicked indeed if
I did not make you perfectly understand that it is one which I cannot
accept. Whatever may be your views, your ideas, I will never marry unless I
thoroughly love, and feel that I am thoroughly loved by my future husband.
Had you not made this ill-timed declaration had you not even persisted in
repeating it after I had opened my whole heart to you, I could have loved
and cherished you as a brother; under no circumstances could I ever have
accepted you as a husband. Good morning.' And she left him alone, feeling
that he could have but little chance of success, should he again renew the
attempt.

He did not see her again till dinner-time, when she appeared silent and
reserved, but still collected and at her ease; nor did he speak to her at
dinner or during the evening, till the moment the ladies were retiring for
the night. He then came up to her as she was standing alone turning over
some things on a side-table, and said, 'Fanny, I probably leave Grey Abbey
to-morrow. I will say good bye to you tonight.'

'Good bye, Adolphus; may we both be happier when next we meet,' said she.

'My happiness, I fear, is doubtful: but I will not speak of that now. If I
can do anything for yours before I go, I will. Fanny, I will ask my father
to invite Lord Ballindine here. He has been anxious that we should be
married: when I tell him that that is impossible, he may perhaps be induced
to do so.'

'Do that,' said Fanny, 'and you will be a friend to me. Do that, and you
will be more than a brother to me.'

'I will; and in doing so I shall crush every hope that I have had left in
me.'

'Do not say so, Adolphus: do not '

'You'll understand what I mean in a short time. I cannot explain everything
to you now. But this will I do; I will make Lord Cashel understand that we
never can be more to each other than we are now, and I will advise him to
seek a reconciliation with Lord Ballindine. And now, good bye,' and he held
out his hand.

'But I shall see you to-morrow.'

'Probably not; and if you do, it will be but for a moment, when I shall
have other adieux to make.'

'Good bye, then, Adolphus; and may God bless you; and may we yet live to
have many happy days together,' and she shook hands with him, and went to
her room.




XXXIII  LORD KILCULLEN MAKES ANOTHER VISIT TO THE BOOK-ROOM


Lord Cashel's plans were certainly not lucky. It was not that sufficient
care was not used in laying them, nor sufficient caution displayed in
maturing them. He passed his time in care and caution; he spared no pains
in seeing that the whole machinery was right; he was indefatigable in
deliberation, diligent in manoeuvring, constant in attention. But, somehow,
he was unlucky; his schemes were never successful. In the present instance
he was peculiarly unfortunate, for everything went wrong with him. He had
got rid of an obnoxious lover, he had coaxed over his son, he had spent an
immensity of money, he had undergone worlds of trouble and self-
restraint; and then, when he really began to think that his ward's fortune
would compensate him for this, his own family came to him, one after
another, to assure him that he was completely mistaken that it was utterly
impossible that such a thing as a family marriage between the two cousins
could never take place, and indeed, ought not to be thought of.

Lady Selina gave him the first check. On the morning on which Lord
Kilcullen made his offer, she paid her father a solemn visit in his book-
room, and told him exactly what she had before told her mother; assured him
that Fanny could not be induced, at any rate at present, to receive her
cousin as her lover; whispered to him, with unfeigned sorrow and shame,
that Fanny was still madly in love with Lord Ballindine; and begged him to
induce her brother to postpone his offer, at any rate for some months.

'I hate Lord Ballindine's very name,' said the earl, petulant with
irritation.

'We none of us approve of him, papa: we don't think of supposing that he
could now be a fitting husband for Fanny, or that they could possibly ever
be married. Of course it's not to bethought of. But if you would advise
Adolphus not to be premature, he might, in the end, be more successful.'

'Kilcullen has made his own bed and he must lie in it; I won't interfere
between them,' said the angry father.

'But if you were, only to recommend delay,' suggested the daughter; 'a few
months' delay; think how short a time Harry Wyndham has been dead!'

Lord Cashel knew that delay was death in this case, so he pished, and
hummed, and hawed; quite lost the dignity on which he piqued himself, and
ended by declaring that he would not interfere; that they might do as they
liked; that young people would not be guided, and that he would not make
himself unhappy about them. And so, Lady Selina, crestfallen and
disappointed, went away.

Then, Lady Cashel, reflecting on what her daughter had told her, and yet
anxious that the marriage should, if possible, take place at some time or
other, sent Griffiths down to her lord, with a message 'Would his lordship
be kind enough to step up-stairs to her ladyship?' Lord Cashel went up, and
again had all the difficulties of the case opened out before him.

'But you see,' said her ladyship, 'poor Fanny she's become so
unreasonable I don't know what's come to her I'm sure I do everything I can
to make her happy: but I suppose if she don't like to marry, nobody can
make her.'

'Make her? who's talking of making her?' said the earl.

'No, of course not,' continued the countess; 'that's just what Selina says;
no one can make her do anything, she's got so obstinate, of late: but it's
all that horrid Lord Ballindine, and those odious horses. I'm sure I don't
know what business gentlemen have to have horses at all; there's never any
good comes of it. There's Adolphus he's had the good sense to get rid of
his, and yet Fanny's so foolish, she'd sooner have that other horrid
man and I'm sure he's not half so good-looking, nor a quarter so agreeable
as Adolphus.'

All these encomiums on his son, and animadversions on Lord Ballindine, were
not calculated to put the earl into a good humour; he was heartily sick of
the subject; thoroughly repented that he had not allowed his son to ruin
himself in his own way; detested the very name of Lord Ballindine, and felt
no very strong affection for his poor innocent ward. He accordingly made
his wife nearly the same answer he had made his daughter, and left her
anything but comforted by the visit.

It was about eleven o'clock on the same evening, that Lord Kilcullen, after
parting with Fanny, opened the book-room door. He had been quite sincere in
what he had told her. He had made up his mind entirely to give over all
hopes of marrying her himself, and to tell his father that the field was
again open for Lord Ballindine, as far as he was concerned.

There is no doubt that he would not have been noble enough to do this, had
he thought he had himself any chance of being successful; but still there
was something chivalrous in his resolve, something magnanimous in his
determination to do all he could for the happiness of her he really loved,
when everything in his own prospects was gloomy, dark, and desperate. As he
entered his father's room, feeling that it would probably be very long
before he should be closeted with him again, he determined that he would
not quietly bear reproaches, and even felt a source of satisfaction in the
prospect of telling his father that their joint plans were overturned their
schemes completely at an end.

'I'm disturbing you, my lord, I'm afraid,' said the son, walking into the
room, not at all with the manner of one who had any hesitation at causing
the disturbance.

'Who's that?' said the earl 'Adolphus? no yes. That is, I'm just going to
bed; what is it you want?' The earl had been dozing after all the vexations
of the day.

'To tell the truth, my lord, I've a good deal that I wish to say: will it
trouble you to listen to me?'

'Won't to-morrow morning do?'

'I shall leave Grey Abbey early to-morrow, my lord; immediately after
breakfast.'

'Good heavens, Kilcullen! what do you mean? You're not going to run off to
London again?'

'A little farther than that, I'm afraid, will be necessary,' said the son.
'I have offered to Miss Wyndham have been refused and, having finished my
business at Grey Abbey, your lordship will probably think that in leaving
it I shall be acting with discretion.'

'You have offered to Fanny and been refused!'

'Indeed I have; finally and peremptorily refused. Not only that: I have
pledged my word to my cousin that I will never renew my suit.'

The earl sat speechless in his chair so much worse was this catastrophe
even than his expectations. Lord Kilcullen continued.

'I hope, at any rate, you are satisfied with me. I have not only implicitly
obeyed your directions, but I have done everything in my power to
accomplish what you wished. Had my marriage with my cousin been a project
of my own, I could not have done more for its accomplishment. Miss
Wyndham's affections are engaged; and she will never, I am sure, marry one
man while she loves another.'

'Loves another psha!' roared the earl. 'Is this to be the end of it all?
After your promises to me after your engagement! After such an engagement,
sir, you come to me and talk about a girl loving another? Loving another!
Will her loving another pay your debts?'

'Exactly the reverse, my lord,' said the son. 'I fear it will materially
postpone their payment.'

'Well, sir,' said the earl. He did not exactly know how to commence the
thunder of indignation with which he intended to annihilate his son, for
certainly Kilcullen had done the best in his power to complete the bargain.
But still the storm could not be stayed, unreasonable as it might be for
the earl to be tempestuous on the occasion. 'Well, sir,' and he stood up
from his chair, to face his victim, who was still standing and, thrusting
his hands into his trowsers' pockets, frowned awfully 'Well, sir; am I to
be any further favoured with your plans?'

'I have none, my lord,' said Kilcullen; 'I am again ready to listen to
yours.'

'My plans? I have no further plans to offer for you. You are ruined,
utterly ruined: you have done your best to ruin me and your mother; I have
pointed out to you, I arranged for you, the only way in which your affairs
could be redeemed; I made every thing easy for you.'

'No, my lord: you could not make it easy for me to get my cousin's love.'

'Don't contradict me, sir. I say I did. I made every thing straight and
easy for you: and now you come to me with a whining story about a girl's
love! What's her love to me, sir? Where am I to get my thirty thousand
pounds, sir? and my note of hand is passed for as much more, at this time
twelve-month! Where am I to raise that, sir? Do you remember that you have
engaged to repay me these sums? do you remember that, or have such trifles
escaped your recollection?'

'I remember perfectly well, my lord, that if I married my cousin, you were
to repay yourself those sums out of her fortune. But I also remember, and
so must you, that I beforehand warned you that I thought she would refuse
me.'

'Refuse you,' said the earl, with a contortion of his nose and lips
intended to convey unutterable scorn; 'of course she refused you, when you
asked her as a child would ask for an apple, or a cake! What else could you
expect?'

'I hardly think your lordship knows '

'Don't you hardly think? then I do know; and know well too. I know you have
deceived me, grossly deceived me induced me to give you money to incur
debts, with which I never would have burdened myself had I not believed you
were sincere in your promise. But you have deceived me, sir taken me in;
for by heaven it's no better! it's no better than downright swindling and
that from a son to his father! But it's for the last time; not a penny more
do you get from me: you can ruin the property; indeed, I believe you have;
but, for your mother's and sister's sake, I'll keep till I die what little
you have left me.'

Lord Cashel had worked himself up into a perfect frenzy, and was stamping
about the room as he uttered this speech; but, as he came to the end of it,
he threw himself into his chair again, and buried his face in his hands.

Lord Kilcullen was standing with his back resting against the mantel-piece,
with a look of feigned indifference on his face, which he tried hard to
maintain. But his brow became clouded, and he bit his lips when his father
accused him of swindling; and he was just about to break forth into a
torrent of recrimination, when Lord Cashel turned off into a pathetic
strain, and Kilcullen thought it better to leave him there.

'What I'm to do, I don't know; what I am to do, I do not know!' said the
earl, beating the table with one hand, and hiding his face with the other.
'Sixty thousand pounds in one year; and that after so many drains! And
there's only my own life there's only my own life!' and then there was a
pause for four or five minutes, during which Lord Kilcullen took snuff,
poked the fire, and then picked up a newspaper, as though he were going to
read it. This last was too much for the father, and he again roared out,
'Well, sir, what are you standing there for? If you've nothing else to say;
why don't you go? I've done with you you can not get more out of me, I
promise you!'

'I've a good deal to say before I go, my lord,' said Kilcullen. 'I was
waiting till you were disposed to listen to me. I've a good deal to say,
indeed, which you must hear; and I trust, therefore, you will endeavour to
be cool, whatever your opinions may be about my conduct.'

'Cool? no, sir, I will not be cool. You're too cool yourself!'

'Cool enough for both, you think, my lord.'

'Kilcullen,' said the earl, 'you've neither heart nor principle: you have
done your worst to ruin me, and now you come to insult me in my own room.
Say what you want to say, and then leave me.'

'As to insulting language, my lord, I think you need not complain, when you
remember that you have just called me a swindler, because I have been
unable to accomplish your wish and my own, by marrying my cousin. However,
I will let that pass. I have done the best I could to gain that object. I
did more than either of us thought it possible that I should do, when I
consented to attempt it. I offered her my hand, and assured her of my
affection, without falsehood or hypocrisy. My bargain was that I should
offer to her. I have done more than that, for I have loved her. I have,
however, been refused, and in such a manner as to convince me that it would
be useless for me to renew my suit. If your lordship will allow me to
advise you on such a subject, I would suggest that you make no further
objection to Fanny's union with Lord Ballindine. For marry him she
certainly will.'

'What, sir?' again shouted Lord Cashel.

'I trust Fanny will receive no further annoyance on the subject. She has
convinced me that her own mind is thoroughly made up; and she is not the
person to change her mind on such a subject.'

'And haven't you enough on hand in your own troubles, but what you must
lecture me about my ward? Is it for that you have come to torment me at
this hour? Had not you better at once become her guardian yourself, sir,
and manage the matter in your own way?'

'I promised Fanny I would say as much to you. I will not again mention her
name unless you press me to do so.'

'That's very kind,' said the earl.

'And now, about myself. I think your lordship will agree with me that it is
better that I should at once leave Grey Abbey, when I tell you that, if I
remain here, I shall certainly be arrested before the week is over, if I am
found outside the house. I do not wish to have bailiffs knocking at your
lordship's door, and your servants instructed to deny me.'

'Upon my soul, you are too good.'

'At any rate,' said Kilcullen, 'you'll agree with me that this is no place
for me to remain in.'

'You're quite at liberty to go,' said the earl. 'You were never very
ceremonious with regard to me; pray don't begin to be so now. Pray
go tonight if you like. Your mother's heart will be broken, that's all.'
'I trust my mother will be able to copy your lordship's indifference.'

'Indifference! Is sixty thousand pounds in one year, and more than double
within three or four, indifference? I have paid too much to be indifferent.
But it is hopeless to pay more. I have no hope for you; you are ruined, and
I couldn't redeem you even if I would. I could not set you free and tell
you to begin again, even were it wise to do so; and therefore I tell you to
go. And now, good night; I have not another word to say to you,' and the
earl got up as if to leave the room.

'Stop, my lord, you must listen to me,' said Kilcullen.

'Not a word further. I have heard enough;' and he put out the candles on
the book-room table, having lighted a bed candle which he held in his hand.

'Pardon me, my lord,' continued the son, standing just before his father,
so as to prevent his leaving the room; 'pardon me, but you must listen to
what I have to say.'

'Not another word not another word. Leave the door, sir, or I will ring for
the servants to open it.'

'Do so,' said Kilcullen, 'and they also shall hear what I have to say. I am
going to leave you tomorrow, perhaps for ever; and you will not listen to
the last word I wish to speak to you?'

'I'll stay five minutes,' said the earl, taking out his watch, 'and then
I'll go; and if you attempt again to stop me, I'll ring the bell for the
servants.'

'Thank you, my lord, for the five minutes it will be time enough. I purpose
leaving Grey Abbey tomorrow, and I shall probably be in France in three
days' time. When there, I trust I shall cease to trouble you; but I cannot,
indeed I will not go, without funds to last me till I can make some
arrangement. Your lordship must give me five hundred pounds. I have not the
means even of carrying myself from hence to Calais.'

'Not one penny. Not one penny if it were to save you from the gaol to-
morrow! This is too bad!' and the earl again walked to the door, against
which Lord Kilcullen leaned his back.

'By Heaven, sir, I'll raise the house if you think to frighten me by
violence!'

'I'll use no violence, but you must hear the alternative: if you please it,
the whole house shall hear it too. If you persist in refusing the small sum
I now ask '

'I will not give you one penny to save you from gaol. Is that plain?'

'Perfectly plain, and very easy to believe. But you will give more than a
penny; you would even give more than I ask, to save yourself from the
annoyance you will have to undergo.'

'Not on any account will I give you one single farthing.'

'Very well. Then I have only to tell you what I must do. Of course, I shall
remain here. You cannot turn me out of your house, or refuse me a seat at
your table.'

'By Heavens, though, I both can and will!'

'You cannot, my lord. if you think of it, you'll find you cannot, without
much disagreeable trouble. An eldest son would be a very difficult tenant
to eject summarily: and of my own accord I will not go without the money I
ask.'

'By heavens, this exceeds all I ever heard. Would you rob your own father?'

'I will not rob him, but I'll remain in his house. The sheriff's officers,
doubtless, will hang about the doors, and be rather troublesome before the
windows; but I shall not be the first Irish gentleman that has remained at
home upon his keeping. And, like other Irish gentlemen, 1 will do so rather
than fall into the hands of these myrmidons. I have no wish to annoy you; I
shall be most sorry to do so; most sorry to subject my mother to the misery
which must attend the continual attempts which will be made to arrest me;
but I will not put my head into the lion's jaw.'

'This is the return for what I have done for him!' ejaculated the earl, in
his misery.

'Unfortunate reprobate! unfortunate reprobate! that I should be driven to
wish that he was in gaol!'

'Your wishing so won't put me there, my lord. If it would I should not be
weak enough to ask you for this money. Do you mean to comply with my
request?'

'I do not, sir: not a penny shall you have not one farthing more shall you
get from me.'

'Then good night, my lord. I grieve that I should have to undergo a siege
in your lordship's house, more especially as it is likely to be a long one.
In a week's time there will be a 'ne exeat' issued against me, and then it
will be too late for me to think of France.' And so saying, the son retired
to his own room, and left the father to consider what he had better do in
his distress.

Lord Cashel was dreadfully embarrassed. What Lord Kilcullen said was
perfectly true; an eldest son was a most difficult tenant to eject; and
then, the ignominy of having his heir arrested in his own house, or
detained there by bailiffs lurking round the premises! He could not
determine whether it would be more painful to keep his son, or to give him
up. If he did the latter, he would be driven to effect it by a most
disagreeable process. He would have to assist the officers of the law in
their duty, and to authorise them to force the doors locked by his son. The
prospect, either way, was horrid. He would willingly give the five hundred
pounds to be rid of his heir, were it not for his word's sake, or rather
his pride's sake. He had said he would not, and, as he walked up and down
the room he buttoned up his breeches pocket, and tried to resolve that,
come what come might, he would not expedite his son's departure by the
outlay of one shilling.

The candles had been put out, and the gloom of the room was only lightened
by a single bed-room taper, which, as it stood near the door, only served
to render palpable the darkness of the further end of the chamber. For half
an hour Lord Cashel walked to and fro, anxious, wretched, and in doubt,
instead of going to his room. How he wished that Lord Ballindine had
married his ward, and taken her off six months since! all this trouble
would not then have come upon him. And as he thought of the thirty thousand
pounds that he had spent, and the thirty thousand more that he must spend,
he hurried on with such rapidity that in the darkness he struck his shin
violently against some heavy piece of furniture, and, limping back. to the
candlestick, swore through his teeth 'No, not a penny, were it to save him
from perdition! I'll see the sheriff's officer. I'll see the sheriff
himself, and tell him that every door in the house every closet every
cellar, shall be open to him. My house shall enable no one to defy the
law.' And, with this noble resolve, to which, by the bye, the blow on his
shin greatly contributed, Lord Cashel went to bed, and the house was at
rest.

About nine o'clock on the following morning Lord Kilcullen was still in
bed, but awake. His servant had been ordered to bring him hot water, and he
was seriously thinking of getting up, and facing the troubles of the day,
when a very timid knock at the door announced to him that some stranger was
approaching. He adjusted his nightcap, brought the bed-clothes up close to
his neck, and on giving the usual answer to a knock at the door, saw a
large cap introduce itself, the head belonging to which seemed afraid to
follow.

'Who's that?' he called out.

'It's me, my lord,' said the head, gradually following the cap. 'Griffiths,
my lord.'

'Well?'

'Lady Selina, my lord; her ladyship bids me give your lordship her love,
and would you see her ladyship for five minutes before you get up?'

Lord Kilcullen having assented to this proposal, the cap and head retired.
A second knock at the door was soon given, and Lady Selina entered the
room, with a little bit of paper in her hand.

'Good morning, Adolphus,' said the sister.

'Good morning, Selina,' said the brother. 'It must be something very
particular, which brings you here at this hour.'

'It is indeed, something very particular. I have been with papa this
morning, Adolphus: he has told me of the interview between you last night.'

'Well.'

'Oh, Adolphus! he is very angry he's '

'So am I, Selina. I am very angry, too so we're quits. We laid a plan
together, and we both failed, and each blames the other; so you need not
tell me anything further about his anger. Did he send any message to me?'

'He did. He told me I might give you this, if I would undertake that you
left Grey Abbey to-day:' and Lady Selina held up, hut did not give him, the
bit of paper.

'What a dolt he is.'

'Oh, Adolphus!' said Selina, 'don't speak so of your father.'
'So he is: how on earth can you undertake that I shall leave the house?'

'I can ask you to give inc your word that you will do so; and I can take
back the check if you refuse,' said Lady Selina, conceiving it. utterly
impossible that one of her own family could break his word.

'Well, Selina, I'll answer you fairly. If that bit of paper is a cheque for
five hundred pounds, I will leave this place in two hours. If it is not '

'It is,' said Selina. 'It is a cheque for five hundred pounds, and I may
then give it to you?'

'I thought as much,' said Lord Kilcullen; 'I thought he'd alter his mind.
Yes, you may give it me, and tell my father I'll dine in London to-morrow
evening.'

'He says, Adolphus, he'll not see you before you go.'

'Well, there's comfort in that, anyhow.'

'Oh, Adolphus! how can you speak in that manner now? how can you speak in
that wicked, thoughtless, reckless manner?' said his sister.

'Because I'm a wicked, thoughtless, reckless man, I suppose. I didn't mean
to vex you, Selina; but my father is so pompous, so absurd, and so tedious.
In the whole of this affair I have endeavoured to do exactly as he would
have me; and he is more angry with me now, because his plan has failed,
than he ever was before, for any of my past misdoings. But let me get up
now, there's a good girl; for I've no time to lose.'

'Will you see your mother before you go, Adolphus?'

'Why, no; it'll be no use only tormenting her. Tell her something, you
know; anything that won't vex her.'

'But I cannot tell her anything about you that will not vex her.'

'Well, then, say what will vex her least. Tell her tell her. Oh, you know
what to tell her, and I'm sure I don't.'

'And Fanny: will you see her again?'

'No,' said Kilcullen. 'I have bid her good bye. But give her my kindest
love, and tell her that I did what I told her I would do.'

'She told me what took place between you yesterday.'

'Why, Selina, everybody tells you everything! And now, I'll tell you
something. If you care for your cousin's happiness, do not attempt to raise
difficulties between her and Lord Ballindine. And now, I must say good bye
to you. I'll have my breakfast up here, and go directly down to the yard.
Good bye, Selina; when I'm settled I'll write to you, and tell you where I
am.'

'Good bye, Adolphus; God bless you, and enable you yet to retrieve your
course. I'm afraid it is a bad one;' and she stooped down and kissed her
brother.

He was as good as his word. In two hours' time he had left Grey Abbey. He
dined that day in Dublin, the next in London, and the third in Boulogne;
and the sub-sheriff of County Kildare in vain issued half-a-dozen writs for
his capture.




XXXIV  THE DOCTOR MAKES A CLEAN BREAST OF IT


We will now return for a while to Dunmore, and settle the affairs of the
Kellys and Lynches, which we left in rather a precarious state.

Barry's attempt on Doctor Colligan's virtue was very unsuccessful, for Anty
continued to mend under the treatment of that uncouth but safe son of
Galen. As Colligan told her brother, the fever had left her, though for
some time it was doubtful whether she had strength to recover from its
effects. This, however, she did gradually; and, about a fortnight after the
dinner at Dunmore House, the doctor told Mrs Kelly and Martin that his
patient was out of danger.

Martin had for some time made up his mind that Anty was to live for many
years in the character of Mrs Martin, and could not therefore be said to be
much affected by the communication. But if he was not, his mother was. She
had made up her mind that Anty was to die; that she was to pay for the
doctor the wake, and the funeral, and that she would have a hardship and
grievance to boast of, and a subject of self-commendation to enlarge on,
which would have lasted her till her death; and she consequently felt
something like disappointment at being ordered to administer to Anty a
mutton chop and a glass of sherry every day at one o'clock. Not that the
widow was less assiduous, or less attentive to Anty's wants now that she
was convalescent; but she certainly had not so much personal satisfaction,
as when she was able to speak despondingly of her patient to all her
gossips.

'Poor cratur!' she used to say 'it's all up with her now; the Lord be
praised for all his mercies. She's all as one as gone, glory be to God and
the Blessed Virgin. Shure no good ever come of ill-got money  not that she
was iver to blame. Thank the Lord, av' I have a penny saved at all, it was
honestly come by; not that I shall have when this is done and paid for, not
a stifle; (stiver Mrs Kelly probably meant) but what's that!' and she
snapped her fingers to show that the world's gear was all dross in her
estimation. 'She shall be dacently sthretched, though she is a Lynch, and a
Kelly has to pay for it. Whisper, neighbour; in two years' time there'll
not be one penny left on another of all the dirty money Sim Lynch scraped
together out of the gutthers.'

There was a degree of triumph in these lamentations, a tone of self-
satisfied assurance in the truth of her melancholy predictions, which
showed that the widow was not ill at ease with herself. When Anty was
declared out of danger, her joy was expressed with much more moderation.

'Yes, thin,' she said to Father Pat Geoghegan, 'poor thing, she's rallying
a bit. The docthor says maybe she'll not go this time; but he's much in
dread of a re-claps  '

'Relapse, Mrs Kelly, I suppose?'

'Well, relapse, av' you will, Father Pat relapse or reclaps, it's pretty
much the same I'm thinking; for she'd niver get through another bout. God
send we may be well out of the hobble this day twelvemonth. Martin's my own
son, and ain't above industhrying, as his father and mother did afore him,
and I won't say a word agin him; but he's brought more throuble on me with
them Lynches than iver I knew before. What has a lone woman like me, Father
Pat, to do wid sthrangers like them? jist to turn their backs on me when I
ain't no furder use, and to be gitting the hights of insolence and abuse,
as I did from that blagguard Barry. He'd betther keep his toe in his pump
and go asy, or he'll wake to a sore morning yet, some day.'

Doctor Colligan, also, was in trouble from his connection with the Lynches:
not that he had any dissatisfaction at the recovery of his patient, for he
rejoiced at it, both on her account and his own. He had strongly that
feeling of self-applause, which must always be enjoyed by a doctor who
brings a patient safely through a dangerous illness. But Barry's iniquitous
proposal to him weighed heavy on his conscience. It was now a week since it
had been made, and he had spoken of it to no one. He had thought much and
frequently of what he ought to do; whether he should publicly charge Lynch
with the fact; whether he should tell it confidentially to some friend whom
he could trust; or whether by far the easiest alternative, he should keep
it in his own bosom, and avoid the man in future as he would an incarnation
of the devil. It preyed much upon his spirits, for lie lived in fear of
Barry Lynch in fear lest he should determine to have the first word, and,
in his own defence, accuse him (Colligan) of the very iniquity which he had
himself committed. Nothing, the doctor felt, would be too bad or too false
for Barry Lynch; nothing could be more damnable than the proposal he had
made; and yet it would be impossible to convict him, impossible to punish
him. He would, of course, deny the truth of the accusation, and probably
return the charge on his accuser. And yet Colligan felt that he would be
compromising the matter, if he did not mention it to some one; and that he
would outrage his own feelings if he did not express his horror at the
murder which he had been asked to commit.

For one week these feelings quite destroyed poor Colligan's peace of mind;
during the second, he determined to make a clean breast of it; and, on the
first day of the third week, after turning in his mind twenty different
people Martin Kelly young Daly the widow the parish priest the parish
parson  the nearest stipendiary magistrate and a brother doctor in Tuam, he
at last determined on going to Lord Ballindine, as being both a magistrate
and a friend of the Kellys. Doctor Colligan himself was not at all
acquainted with Lord Ballindine: he attended none of the family, who
extensively patronised his rival, and he had never been inside Kelly's
Court house. He felt, therefore, considerable embarrassment at his mission;
but he made up his mind to go, and, manfully setting himself in his antique
rickety gig, started early enough, to catch Lord Ballindine, as he thought,
before he left the house after breakfast.

Lord Ballindine had spent the last week or ten days restlessly enough.
Armstrong, his clerical ambassador, had not yet started on his mission to
Grey Abbey, and innumerable difficulties seemed to arise to prevent his
doing so. First of all, the black cloth was to be purchased, and a tailor,
sufficiently adept for making up the new suit, was to be caught. This was a
work of some time; for though there is in the West of Ireland a very
general complaint of the stagnation of trade, trade itself is never so
stagnant as are the tradesmen, when work, is to be done; and it is useless
for a poor wight to think of getting his coat or his boots, till such time
as absolute want shall have driven the artisan to look for the price of his
job unless some private and underhand influence be used, as was done in the
case of Jerry Blake's new leather breeches.

This cause of delay was, however, not mentioned to Lord Ballindine; but
when it was well got over, and a neighbouring parson procured to preach on
the next Sunday to Mrs O'Kelly and the three policemen who attended
Ballindine Church, Mrs Armstrong broke her thumb with the rolling-pin while
making a beef pudding for the family dinner, and her husband's departure
was again retarded. And then, on the next Sunday, the neighbouring parson
could not leave his own policemen, and the two spinsters, who usually
formed his audience.

All this tormented Lord Ballindine. and he was really thinking of giving up
the idea of sending Mr Armstrong altogether, when he received the following
letter from his friend Dot Blake.

Limmer's Hotel. April, 1847.

Dear Frank,

One cries out, 'what are you at?' the other, 'what are you after?' Every
one is saying what a fool you are! Kilcullen is at Grey Abbey, with the
evident intention of superseding you in possession of Miss W , and, what is
much more to his taste, as it would be to mine, of her fortune. Mr T. has
written to me from Grey Abbey, where he has been staying: he is a good-
hearted fellow, and remembers how warmly you contradicted the report that
your match was broken off. For heaven's sake, follow up your warmth of
denial with some show of positive action, a little less cool than your
present quiescence, or you cannot expect that any amount of love should be
strong enough to prevent your affianced from resenting your conduct. I am
doubly anxious; quite as anxious that Kilcullen, whom I detest, should not
get young Wyndham's money, as I am that you should. He is utterly, utterly
smashed. If he got double the amount of Fanny Wyndham's cash, it could not
keep him above water for more than a year or so; and then she must go down
with him. I am sure the old fool, his father, does not half know the amount
of his son's liabilities, or he could not be heartless enough to consent to
sacrifice the poor girl as she will be sacrificed, if Kilcullen gets her. I
am not usually very anxious about other people's concerns; but I do feel
anxious about this matter. I want to have a respectable house in the
country, in which I can show my face when I grow a little older, and be
allowed to sip my glass of claret, and talk about my horses, in spite of my
iniquitous propensities and I expect to be allowed to do so at Kelly's
Court. But, if you let Miss Wyndham slip through your fingers, you won't
have a house over your head in a few years' time, much less a shelter to
offer a friend. For God's sake, start for Grey Abbey at once. Why, man
alive, the ogre can't eat you!

The whole town is in the devil of a ferment about Brien. Of course you
heard the rumour, last week, of his heels being cracked? Some of the
knowing boys want to get out of the trap they are in; and, despairing of
bringing the horse down in the betting by fair means, got a boy out of
Scott's stables to swear to the fact. I went down at once to Yorkshire, and
published a letter in Bell's Life last Saturday, stating that he is all
right. This you have probably seen. You will be astonished to hear it, but
I believe Lord Tattenham Corner got the report spread. For heaven's sake
don't mention this, particularly not as coining from me. They say that if
Brien does the trick, he will lose more than he has made these three years,
and I believe he will, lie is nominally at 4 to 1; but you can't get 4 to
anything like a figure from a safe party.
For heaven's sake go to Grey Abbey, and at once.

Always faithfully,
W. BLAKE.

This letter naturally increased Lord Ballindine's uneasiness, and he wrote
a note to Mr Armstrong, informing him that he would not trouble him to go
at all, unless he could start the next day. Indeed, that he should then go
himself, if Mr Armstrong did not do so.

This did not suit Mr Armstrong. He had made up his mind to go; he could not
well return the twenty pounds he had received, nor did he wish to forego
the advantage which might arise from the trip. So he told his wife to be
very careful about her thumb, made up his mind to leave the three policemen
for once without spiritual food, and wrote to Lord Ballindine to say that
he would be with him the next morning, immediately after breakfast, on his
road to catch the mail-coach at Ballyglass.

He was as good as his word, or rather better; for he breakfasted at Kelly's
Court, and induced Lord Ballindine to get into his own gig, and drive him
as far as the mail-coach road.

'But you'll be four or five hours too soon,' said Frank; 'the coach doesn't
pass Ballyglass till three.'

'I want to see those cattle of Rutledge's. I'll stay there, and maybe get a
bit of luncheon; it's not a bad thing to be provided for the road.'

'I'll tell you what, though,' said Frank. 'I want to go to Tuam, so you
might as well get the coach there; and if there's time to spare, you can
pay your respects to the bishop.'

It was all the same to Mr Armstrong, and the two therefore started for Tuam
together. They had not, however, got above half way down the avenue, when
they saw another gig coming towards them; and, after sundry speculations as
to whom it might contain, Mr Armstrong pronounced the driver to be 'that
dirty gallipot, Colligan.'

It was Colligan; and, as the two gigs met in the narrow road, the dirty
gallipot took off his hat, and was very sorry to trouble Lord Ballindine,
but had a few words to say to him on very important and pressing business.

Lord Ballindine touched his hat, and intimated that he was ready to listen,
but gave no signs of getting out of his gig.

'My lord,' said Colligan, 'it's particularly important, and if you could,
as a magistrate, spare me five minutes.'

'Oh, certainly, Mr Colligan,' said Frank; 'that is, I'm rather hurried I
may say very much hurried just at present. But still I suppose there's no
objection to Mr Armstrong hearing what you have to say?'

'Why, my lord,' said Colligan, 'I don't know. Your lordship can judge
yourself afterwards; but I'd rather '

'Oh, I'll get down,' said the parson. 'I'll just take a walk among the
trees: I suppose the doctor won't be long?'

'If you wouldn't mind getting into my buggy, and letting me into his
lordship's gig, you could be following us on, Mr Armstrong,' suggested
Colligan.

This suggestion was complied with. The parson and the doctor changed
places; and the latter, awkwardly enough, but with perfect truth, whispered
his tale into Lord Ballindine's ear.

At first, Frank had been annoyed at the interruption; but, as he learned
the cause of it, he gave his full attention to the matter, and only
interrupted the narrator by exclamations of horror and disgust.

When Doctor Colligan had finished, Lord Ballindine insisted on repeating
the whole affair to Mr Armstrong. 'I could not take upon myself,' said he,
'to advise you what to do; much less to tell you what you should do. There
is only one thing clear; you cannot let things rest as they are. Armstrong
is a man of the world, and will know what to do; you cannot object to
talking the matter over with him.'

Colligan consented: and Armstrong, having been summoned, drove the doctor's
buggy up alongside of Lord Ballindine's gig.

'Armstrong,' said Frank, 'I have just heard the most horrid story that ever
came to my ears. That wretch, Barry Lynch, has tried to induce Doctor
Colligan to poison his sister!'

'What!' shouted Armstrong; 'to poison his sister?'

'Gently, Mr Armstrong; pray don't speak so loud, or it'll be all through
the country in no time.'

'Poison his sister!' repeated Armstrong. 'Oh, it'll hang him! There's no
doubt it'll hang him! Of course you'll take the doctor's information?'

'But the doctor hasn't tendered me any information,' said Frank, stopping
his horse, so that Armstrong was able to get close up to his elbow.

'But I presume it is his intention to do so?' said the parson.

'I should choose to have another magistrate present then,' said Frank.
'Really, Doctor Colligan, I think the best thing you can do is to come
before myself and the stipendiary magistrate at Tuam. We shall be sure to
find Brew at home to-day.'

'But, my lord,' said Colligan, 'I really had no intention of doing that. I
have no witnesses. I can prove nothing. Indeed, I can't say he ever asked
me to do the deed: he didn't say anything I could charge him with as a
crime: he only offered me the farm if his sister should die. But I knew
what he meant; there was no mistaking it: I saw it in his eye.'

'And what did you do, Doctor Colligan, at the time?' said the parson.

'I hardly remember,' said the doctor; 'I was so flurried. But I know I
knocked him down, and then I rushed out of the room. I believe I threatened
I'd have him hung.'

'But you did knock him down?'

'Oh, I did. He was sprawling on the ground when I left him.'

'You're quite sure you knocked him down?' repeated the parson.

'The divil a doubt on earth about that!' replied Colligan. 'I tell you,
when I left the room he was on his back among the chairs.'

'And you did not hear a word from him since?'

'Not a word.'

'Then there can't be any mistake about it, my lord,' said Armstrong. 'If he
did not feel that his life was in the doctor's hands, he would not put up
with being knocked down. And I'll tell you what's more if you tax him with
the murder, he'll deny it and defy you; but tax him with having been
knocked down, and he'll swear his foot slipped, or that he'd have done as
much for the doctor if he hadn't run away. And then ask him why the doctor
knocked him down? you'll have him on the hip so.'

'There's something in that,' said Frank; 'but the question is, what is
Doctor Colligan to do? He says he can't swear any information on which a
magistrate could commit him.'


'Unless he does, my lord,' said Armstrong, 'I don't think you should listen
to him at. all; at least, not as a magistrate.'

'Well, Doctor Colligan, what do you say?'

'I don't know what to say, my lord. I came to your lordship for advice,
both as a magistrate and as a friend of the young man who is to marry
Lynch's sister. Of course, if you cannot advise me, I will go away again.'

'You won't come before me and Mr Brew, then?'

'I don't say I won't,' said Colligan; 'but I don't see the use. I'm not
able to prove anything.'
'I'll tell you what, Ballindine,' said the parson; 'only I don't know
whether it mayn't he tampering with justice suppose we were to go to this
hell-hound, you and I together, and, telling him what we know, give him his
option to stand his trial or quit the country? Take my word for it, he'd
go; and that would be the best way to be rid of him. He'd leave his sister
in peace and quiet then, to enjoy her fortune.'

'That's true,' said Frank; 'and it would be a great thing to rid the
country of him. Do you remember the way he rode a-top of that poor bitch of
mine the other day Goneaway, you know; the best bitch in the pack?'

'Indeed I do,' said the parson; 'but for all that, she wasn't the best
bitch in the pack: she hadn't half the nose of Gaylass.'

'But, as I was saying, Armstrong, it would be a great thing to rid the
country of Barry Lynch.'

'Indeed it would.'

'And there'd be nothing then to prevent young Kelly marrying Anty at once.'

'Make him give his consent in writing before you let him go,' said
Armstrong.

'I'll tell you what, Doctor Colligan,' said Frank; 'do you get into your
own gig, and follow us on, and I'll talk the matter over with Mr
Armstrong.'

The doctor again returned to his buggy, and the parson to his own seat, and
Lord Ballindine drove off at a pace which made it difficult enough for
Doctor Colligan to keep him in sight.

'I don't know how far we can trust that apothecary,' said Frank to his
friend.

'He's an honest man, I believe,' said Armstrong, 'though he's a dirty,
drunken blackguard.'

'Maybe he was drunk this evening, at Lynch's?'

'I was wrong to call him a drunkard. I believe he doesn't get drunk, though
he's always drinking. But you may take my word for it, what he's telling
you now is as true as gospel. If he was telling a lie from malice, he'd be
louder, and more urgent about it: you see he's half afraid to speak, as it
is. He would not have come near you at all, only his conscience makes him
afraid to keep the matter to himself. You may take my word for it,
Ballindine, Barry Lynch did propose to him to murder his sister. Indeed, it
doesn't surprise me. He is so utterly worthless.'

'But murder, Armstrong! downright murder; of the worst kind;
studied premeditated. He must have been thinking of it, and planning it,
for days. A man may be worthless, and yet not such a wretch as that would
make him. Can you really think he meant Colligan to murder his sister?'

'I can, and do think so,' said the parson. 'The temptation was great: he
had been waiting for his sister's death; and he could not bring himself to
bear disappointment. I do not think he could do it with his own hand, for
he is a coward; but I can quite believe that he could instigate another
person to do it.'

'Then I'd hang him. I wouldn't raise my hand to save him from the rope!'

'Nor would I: but we can't hang him. We can do nothing to him, if he defies
us; but, if he's well handled, we can drive him from the country.'

The lord and the parson talked the matter over till they reached Dunmore,
and agreed that they would go, with Colligan, to Barry Lynch; tell him of
the charge which was brought against him, and give him his option of
standing his trial, or of leaving the country, under a written promise that
he would never return to it. In this case, he was also to write a note to
Anty, signifying his consent that she should marry Martin Kelly, and also
execute some deed by which all control over the property should be taken
out of his own hands; and that he should agree to receive his income,
whatever it might be, through the hands of an agent.

There were sundry matters connected with the subject, which were rather
difficult of arrangement. In the, first place, Frank was obliged, very
unwillingly, to consent that Mr Armstrong should remain, at any rate one
day longer, in the country. It was, however, at last settled that he should
return that night and sleep at Kelly's Court. Then Lord Ballindine insisted
that they should tell young Kelly what they were about, before they went to
Barry's house, as it would be necessary to consult him as to the
disposition he would wish to have made of the property. Armstrong was
strongly against this measure but it was, at last, decided on; and then
they had to induce Colligan to go with them. He much wished them to manage
the business without him. He had had quite enough of Dunmore House; and, in
spite of the valiant manner in which he had knocked its owner down the last
time he was there, seemed now quite afraid to face him. But Mr Armstrong
informed him that he must go on now, as he had said so much, and at last
frightened him into an unwilling compliance.

The three of them went up into the little parlour of the inn, and summoned
Martin to the conference, and various were the conjectures made by the
family as to the nature of the business which brought three such persons to
the inn together. But the widow settled them all by asserting that 'a Kelly
needn't be afeared, thank God, to see his own landlord in his own house,
nor though he brought an attorney wid him as well as a parson and a
docther.' And so, Martin was sent for, and soon heard the horrid story. Not
long after he had joined them, the four sallied out together, and Meg
remarked that something very bad was going to happen, for the lord never
passed her before without a kind word or a nod; and now he took no more
notice of her than if it had been only Sally herself that met him on the
stairs.




XXXV  MR LYNCH BIDS FAREWELL TO DUNMORE


Poor Martin was dreadfully shocked; and not only shocked, but grieved and
astonished. He had never thought well of his intended brother-in-law, but
he had not judged him so severely as Mr Armstrong had done. He listened to
all Lord Ballindine said to him, and agreed as to the propriety of the
measures he proposed. But there was nothing of elation about him at the
downfall of the man whom he could not but look on as his enemy: indeed, he
was not only subdued and modest in his demeanour, but he appeared so
reserved that he could hardly be got to express any interest in the steps
which were to be taken respecting the property. It was only when Lord
Ballindine pointed out to him that it was his duty to guard Anty's
interests, that he would consent to go to Dunmore House with them, and to
state, when called upon to do so, what measures he would wish to have
adopted with regard to the property.

'Suppose he denies himself to us?' said Frank, as the four walked across
the street together, to the great astonishment of the whole population.

'If he's in the house, I'll go bail we won't go away without seeing him,'
said the parson.  'Will he be at home, Kelly, do you think?'

'Indeed he will, Mr Armstrong,' said Martin; 'he'll be in bed and asleep.
He's never out of bed, I believe, much before one or two in the day. It's a
bad life he's leading since the ould man died.'

'You may say that,' said the doctor 'cursing and drinking; drinking and
cursing; nothing else. You'll find him curse at you dreadful, Mr Armstrong,
I'm afraid.'

'I can bear that, doctor; it's part of my own trade, you know; but I think
we'll find him quiet enough. I think you'll find the difficulty is to make
him speak at all. You'd better be spokesman, my lord, as you're a
magistrate.'

'No, Armstrong, I will not. You're much more able, and more fitting: if
it's necessary for me to act as a magistrate, I'll do so but at first we'll
leave him to you.'

'Very well,' said the parson; 'and I'll do my best. But I'll tell you what
I am afraid of: if we find him in bed we must wait for him, and when the
servant tells him who we are, and mentions the doctor's name along with
yours, my lord, he'll guess what we're come about, and he'll be out of the
window, or into the cellar, and then there'd be no catching him without the
police. We must make our way up into his bed-room.'

'I don't think we could well do that,' said the doctor.

'No, Armstrong,' said Lord Ballindine. 'I don't think we ought to force
ourselves upstairs: we might as well tell all the servants what we'd come
about.'

'And so we must,' said Armstrong, 'if it's necessary. The more determined
we are in fact, the rougher we are with him, the more likely we are to
bring him on his knees. I tell you, you must have no scruples in dealing
with such a fellow; but leave him to me;' and so saying, the parson gave a
thundering rap at the hail door, and in about one minute repeated it, which
brought Biddy running to the door without shoes or stockings, with her hair
streaming behind her head, and, in her hand, the comb with which she had
been disentangling it.

'Is your master at home?' said Armstrong.

'Begorra, he is,' said the girl out of breath. 'That is, he's not up yet,
nor awake, yer honer,' and she held the door in her hand, as though this
answer was final.

'But I want to see him on especial and immediate business,' said the
parson, pushing back the door and the girl together, and walking into the
hall. 'I must see him at once. Mr Lynch will excuse me: we've known each
other a long time.'

'Begorra, I don't know,' said the girl, 'only he's in bed and fast.
Couldn't yer honer call agin about four or five o'clock? That's the time
the masther's most fittest to be talking to the likes of yer honer.'

'These gentlemen could not wait,' said the parson.

'Shure the docther there, and Mr Martin, knows well enough I'm not telling
you a bit of a lie, Misther Armstrong,' said the girl.

'I know you're not, my good girl; I know you're not telling a lie but,
nevertheless, I must see Mr Lynch. Just step up and wake him, and tell him
I'm waiting to say two words to him.'

'Faix, yer honer, he's very bitther intirely, when he's waked this early.
But in course I'll be led by yer honers. I'll say then, that the lord, and
Parson Armstrong, and the docther, and Mr Martin, is waiting to spake two
words to him. Is that it?'

'That'll do as well as anything,' said Armstrong; and then, when the girl
went upstairs, he continued, 'You see she knew us all, and of course will
tell him who we are; but I'll not let him escape, for I'll go up with her,'
and, as the girl slowly opened her master's bedroom door, Mr Armstrong
stood close outside it in the passage.

After considerable efforts, Biddy succeeded in awaking her master
sufficiently to make him understand that Lord Ballindine, and Doctor
Colligan were downstairs, and that Parson Armstrong was just outside the
bedroom door. The poor girl tried hard to communicate her tidings in such a
whisper as would be inaudible to the parson; but this was impossible, for
Barry only swore at her, and asked her 'what the d she meant by jabbering
there in that manner?' When, however, he did comprehend who his visitors
were, and where they were, he gnashed his teeth and clenched his fist at
the poor girl, in sign of his anger against her for having admitted so
unwelcome a party; but he was too frightened to speak.

Mr Armstrong soon put an end to this dumb show, by walking into the
bedroom, when the girl escaped, and he shut the door. Barry sat up in his
bed, rubbed his eyes, and stared at him, but he said nothing.

'Mr Lynch,' said the parson, 'I had better at once explain the
circumstances which have induced me to make so very strange a visit.'

'Confounded strange, I must say! to come up to a man's room in this way,
and him in bed!'
'Doctor Colligan is downstairs '

'D Doctor Colligan! He's at his lies again, I suppose? Much I care for
Doctor Colligan.'

'Doctor Colligan is downstairs,' continued Mr Armstrong, 'and Lord
Ballindine, who, you are aware, is a magistrate. They wish to speak to you,
Mr Lynch, and that at once.'

'I suppose they can wait till a man's dressed?'

'That depends on how long you're dressing, Mr Lynch.'

'Upon my word, this is cool enough, in a man's own house!' said Barry.
'Well, you don't expect me to get up while you're there, I suppose?'

'Indeed I do, Mr Lynch: never mind me; just wash and dress yourself as
though I wasn't here. I'll wait here till we go down together.'

'I'm d d if I do,' said Barry. 'I'll not stir while you remain there!' and
he threw himself back in the bed, and wrapped the bedclothes round him.

'Very well,' said Mr Armstrong; and then going out on to the landing-place,
called out over the banisters 'Doctor Doctor Colligan! tell his lordship Mr
Lynch objects to a private interview: he had better just step down to the
Court-house, and issue his warrant. You might as well tell Constable
Nelligan to be in the way.'

'D n!' exclaimed Barry, sitting bolt upright in his bed. 'Who says I object
to see anybody? Mr Armstrong, what do you go and say that for?' Mr
Armstrong returned into the room. 'It's not true. I only want to have my
bedroom to myself, while I get up.'

'For once in the way, Mr Lynch, you must manage to get up although your
privacy be intruded on. To tell you the plain truth, I will not leave you
till you come downstairs with me, unless it be in the custody of a
policeman. If you will quietly dress and come downstairs with me, I trust
we may be saved the necessity of troubling the police at all.'
Barry, at last, gave way, and, gradually extricating himself from the
bedclothes, put his feet down on the floor, and remained sitting on the
side of his bed. He leaned his head down on his hands, and groaned
inwardly; for he was very sick, and the fumes of last night's punch still
disturbed his brain. His stockings and drawers were on; for Terry, when he
put him to bed, considered it only waste of time to pull them off, for
'shure wouldn't they have jist to go on agin the next morning?'

'Don't be particular, Mr Lynch: never mind washing or shaving till we're
gone. We won't keep you long, I hope.'

'You're very kind, I must say,' said Barry. 'I suppose you won't object to
my having a bottle of soda water?' and he gave a terrible tug at the bell.

'Not at all nor a glass of brandy in it, if you like it.    Indeed, Mr
Lynch, I think that, just at present, it will be the better thing for you.'

Barry got his bottle of soda water, and swallowed about two glasses of
whiskey in it, for brandy was beginning to be scarce with him; and then
commenced his toilet. He took Parson Armstrong's hint, and wasn't very
particular about it. He huddled on his clothes, smoothed his hair with his
brush, and muttering something about it's being their own fault, descended
into the parlour, followed by Mr Armstrong. He made a kind of bow to Lord
Ballindine; took no notice of Martin, but, turning round sharp on the
doctor, said:

'Of all the false ruffians, I ever met, Colligan by heavens, you're the
worst! There's one comfort, no man in Dunmore will believe a word you say.'
He then threw himself back into the easy chair, and said, 'Well,
gentlemen well, my lord here I am. You can't say I'm ashamed to show my
face, though I must say your visit is not made in the genteelest manner.'

'Mr Lynch,' said the parson, 'do you remember the night Doctor Colligan
knocked, you down in this room? In this room, wasn't it, doctor?'

'Yes; in this room,' said the doctor, rather sotto voce.

'Do you remember the circumstance, Mr Lynch?' 'It's a lie!' said Barry.

'No it's not,' said the parson. 'If you forget it, I can call in the
servant to remember so much as that for me; but you'll find it better, Mr
Lynch, to let us finish this business among ourselves. Come, think about
it. I'm sure you remember being knocked down by the doctor.'

'I remember a scrimmage there was between us. I don't care what the girl
says, she didn't see it. Colligan, I suppose, has given her half-a-crown,
and she'd swear anything for that.'

'Well, you remember the night of the scrimmage?'

'I do: Colligan got drunk here one night. He wanted me to give him a farm,
and said cursed queer things about my sister. I hardly know what he said;
but I know I had to turn him out of the house, and there was a scrimmage
between us.'

'I see you're so far prepared, Mr Lynch: now, I'll tell you my version of
the story. Martin Kelly, just see that the door is shut. You endeavoured to
bribe Doctor Colligan to murder your own sister.'

'It's a most infernal lie!' said Barry. 'Where's your evidence? where's
your evidence? What's the good of your all coming here with such a story as
that? Where's your evidence?'

'You'd better be quiet, Mr Lynch, or we'll adjourn at once from here to the
open Court-house.'

'Adjourn when you like; it's all one to me. Who'll believe such a drunken
ruffian as that Colligan, I'd like to know? Such a story as that!'

'My lord,' said Armstrong, 'I'm afraid we must go on with this business at
the  Court-house. Martin, I believe I must trouble you to go down to the
police barrack.' And the whole party, except Barry, rose from their seats.

'What the devil are you going to drag me down to the Court-house for,
gentlemen?' said he. 'I'll give you any satisfaction, but you can't expect
I'll own to such a lie as this about my sister. I suppose my word's as good
as Colligan's, gentlemen? I suppose my character as a Protestant gentleman
stands higher than his a dirty Papist apothecary. He tells one story; I
tell another; only he's got the first word of me, that's all. I suppose,
gentlemen, I'm not to be condemned on the word of such a man as that?'

'I think, Mr Lynch,' said Armstrong, 'if you'll listen to me, you'll save
yourself and us a great deal of trouble. You asked me who my witness was:
my witness is in this house. I would not charge you with so horrid, so
damnable a crime, had I not thoroughly convinced myself you were
guilty now, do hold your tongue, Mr Lynch, or I will have you down to the
Court-house. We all know you are guilty, you know it yourself '

'I'm ' began Barry.

'Stop, Mr Lynch; not one word till I've done; or what I have to say, shall
be said in public. We all know you are guilty, but we probably mayn't be
able to prove it '

'No, I should think not!' shouted Barry.

'We mayn't be able to prove it in such a way as to enable a jury to hang
you, or, upon my word, I wouldn't interfere to prevent it: the law should
have its course. I'd hang you with as little respite as I would a dog.'

Barry grinned horribly at this suggestion, but said nothing, and the parson
continued:

'It is not the want of evidence that stands in the way of so desirable a
proceeding, but that Doctor Colligan, thoroughly disgusted and shocked at
the iniquity of your proposal '

'Oh, go on, Mr Armstrong! go on; I see you are determined to have it all
your own way, but my turn'll come soon.'

'I say that Doctor Colligan interrupted you before you fully committed
yourself.'

'Fully committed myself, indeed! Why, Colligan knows well enough, that when
he got up in such a fluster, there'd not been a word at all said about
Anty.'

'Hadn't there, Mr Lynch? just now you said you turned the doctor out of
your house for speaking about your sister. You're only committing yourself.
I say, therefore, the evidence, though quite strong enough to put you into
the dock as a murderer in intention, might not be sufficient to induce a
jury to find you guilty. But guilty you would be esteemed in. the mind of
every man, woman, and child in this county: guilty of the wilful,
deliberate murder of your own sister.'

'By heavens I'll not stand this!' exclaimed Barry. 'I'll not stand this! I
didn't do it, Mr Armstrong. I didn't do it. He's a liar, Lord Ballindine:
upon my sacred word and honour as a gentleman, he's a liar. Why do you
believe him, when you won't believe me? Ain't I a Protestant, Mr Armstrong,
and ain't you a Protestant clergyman? Don't you know that such men as he
will tell any lie; will do any dirty job? On my sacred word of honour as a
gentleman, Lord Ballindine, he offered to poison Anty, on condition he got
the farm round the house for nothing! He knows it's true, and why should
you believe him sooner than me, Mr Armstrong?'

Barry had got up from his seat, and was walking up and down the room, now
standing opposite Lord Ballindine, and appealing to him, and then doing the
same thing to Mr Armstrong. He was a horrid figure: he had no collar round
his neck, and his handkerchief was put on in such a way as to look like a
hangman's knot: his face was blotched, and red, and greasy, for he had
neither shaved nor washed himself since his last night's debauch; he had
neither waistcoat nor braces on, and his trousers fell on his hips; his
long hair hung over his eyes, which were bleared and bloodshot; he was
suffering dreadfully from terror, and an intense anxiety to shift the guilt
from himself to Doctor Colligan. He was a most pitiable object so wretched,
so unmanned, so low in the scale of creation. Lord Ballindine did pity his
misery, and suggested to Mr Armstrong whether by any possibility there
could be any mistake in the matter whether it was possible Doctor Colligan
could have mistaken Lynch's object? The poor wretch jumped at this loop-
hole, and doubly condemned himself by doing so.

'He did, then,' said Barry; 'he must have done so. As I hope for heaven,
Lord Ballindine, I never had the idea of getting him to to do anything to
Anty. I wouldn't have done it for worlds indeed I wouldn't. There must be
some mistake, indeed there must. He'd been drinking, Mr Armstrong drinking
a good deal that night isn't that true, Doctor Colligan? Come, man, speak
the truth don't go and try and hang a fellow out of mistake! His lordship
sees it's all a mistake, and of course he's the best able to judge of the
lot here; a magistrate, and a nobleman and all. I know you won't see me
wronged, Lord Ballindine, I know you won't. I give you my sacred word of
honour as a gentleman, it all came from mistake when we were both drunk, or
nearly drunk. Come, Doctor Colligan, speak man isn't that the truth? I tell
you, Mr Armstrong, Lord Ballindine's in the right of it. There is some
mistake in all this.'

'As sure as the Lord's in heaven,' said the doctor, now becoming a little
uneasy at the idea that Lord Ballindine should think he had told so strange
a story without proper foundation 'as sure as the Lord's in heaven, he
offered me the farm for a reward, should I manage to prevent his sister's
recovery.'

'What do you think, Mr Armstrong?' said Lord Ballindine.

'Think!' said the parson 'There's no possibility of thinking at all. The
truth becomes clearer every moment. Why, you wretched creature, it's not
ten minutes since you yourself accused Doctor Colligan of offering to
murder your sister! According to your own showing, therefore, there was a
deliberate conversation between you; and your own evasion now would prove
which of you were the murderer, were any additional proof wanted. But it is
not. Barry Lynch, as sure as you now stand in the presence of your Creator,
whose name you so constantly blaspheme, you endeavoured to instigate that
man to murder your own sister.'

'Oh, Lord Ballindine! oh, Lord Ballindine!' shrieked Barry, in his agony,
'don't desert me! pray, pray don't desert me! I didn't do it I never
thought of doing it. We were at school together, weren't we? And you won't
see me put upon this way. You mayn't think much of me in other things, but
you won't believe that a school-fellow of your own ever ever ever ' Barry
couldn't bring himself to use the words with which his sentence should be
finished, and so he flung himself back into his armchair and burst into
tears.

'You appeal to me, Mr Lynch,' said Lord Ballindine, 'and I must say I most
firmly believe you to be guilty. My only doubt is whether you should not at
once be committed for trial at the next assizes.'

'Oh, my G ! ' exclaimed Barry, and for some time he continued blaspheming
most horribly swearing that there was a conspiracy against him accusing Mr
Armstrong, in the most bitter terms, of joining with Doctor Colligan and
Martin Kelly to rob and murder him.

'Now, Mr Lynch,' continued the parson, as soon as the unfortunate man would
listen to him, 'as I before told you, I am in doubt we are all in
doubt whether or not a jury would hang you; and we think that we shall do
more good to the community by getting you out of the way, than by letting
you loose again after a trial which will only serve to let everyone know
how great a wretch there is in the county. We will, therefore, give you
your option either to stand your trial, or to leave the country at once and
for ever.'

'And my property? what's to become of my property'?' said Barry.

'Your property's safe, Mr Lynch; we can't touch that. We're not prescribing
any punishment to you. We fear, indeed we know, you're beyond the reach of
the law, or we shouldn't make the proposal.' Barry breathed freely again as
he heard this avowal. 'But you're not beyond the reach of public opinion of
public execration of general hatred, and of a general curse. For your
sister's sake for the sake of Martin Kelly, who is going to marry the
sister whom you wished to murder, and not for your own sake, you shall be
allowed to leave the country without this public brand being put upon your
name. If you remain, no one shall speak to you but as to a man who would
have murdered his sister: murder shall be everlastingly muttered in your
ears; nor will your going then avail you, for your character shall go with
you, and the very blackguards with whom you delight to assort, shall avoid
you as being too bad even for their society. Go now, Mr Lynch go at
once; leave your sister to happiness which you cannot prevent; and she at
least shall know nothing of your iniquity, and you shall enjoy the proceeds
of your property anywhere you will anywhere, that is, but in Ireland. Do
you agree to this?'

'I'm an innocent man, Mr Armstrong. I am indeed.'

'Very well,' said the parson, 'then we may as well go away, and leave you
to your fate. Come, Lord Ballindine, we can have nothing further to say,'
and they again all rose from their seats.

'Stop, Mr Armstrong; stop,' said Barry.

'Well,' said the parson; for Barry repressed the words which were in his
mouth, when he found that his visitors did stop as he desired them.

'Well, Mr Lynch, what have you further to say.'

'Indeed I am not guilty.' Mr Armstrong put on his hat and rushed to the
door 'but ' continued Barry.

'I will have no "buts," Mr Lynch; will you at once and unconditionally
agree to the terms I have proposed?'

'I don't want to live in the country,' said Barry; 'the country's nothing
to me.'

'You will go then, immediately?' said the parson. 'As soon as I have
arranged about the property, I will,' said Barry.

'That won't do,' said the parson. 'You must go at once, and leave your
property to the care of others. You must leave Dunmore today, for ever.'

'To-day!' shouted Barry.

'Yes, to-day. You can easily get as far as Roscommon. You have your own
horse and car. And, what is more, before you go, you must write to your
sister, telling her that you have made up your mind to leave the country,
and expressing your consent to her marrying whom she pleases.'

'I can't go to-day,' said Barry, sulkily. 'Who's to receive my rents?
who'll send me my money? besides besides. Oh, come that's nonsense. I ain't
going to be turned out in that style.'

'You ain't in earnest, are you, about his going today?' whispered Frank to
the parson.

'I am, and you'll find he'll go, too,' said Armstrong. 'It must be to-
day this very day, Mr Lynch. Martin Kelly will manage for you about the
property.'

'Or you can send for Mr Daly, to meet you at Roscommon,' suggested Martin.

'Thank you for nothing,' said Barry; 'you'd better wait till you're spoken
to. I don't know what business you have here at all.'

'The business that all honest men have to look after all rogues,' said Mr
Armstrong. 'Come, Mr Lynch, you'd better make up your mind to prepare for
your journey.'

'Well, I won't and there's an end of it,' said Barry. 'It's all nonsense.
You can't do anything to me: you said so yourself. I'm not going to be made
a fool of that way I'm not going to give up my property and everything.'

'Don't you know, Mr Lynch,' said the parson, 'that if you are kept in jail
till April next, as will be your fate if you persist. in staying at Dunmore
tonight, your creditors will do much more damage to your property, than
your own immediate absence will do? If Mr Daly is your lawyer, send for
him, as Martin Kelly suggests. I'm not afraid that he will recommend you.
to remain in the country, even should you dare to tell him of the horrid
accusation which is brought against you. But at any rate make up your mind,
for if you do stay in Dunmore tonight it shall be in the Bridewell, and
your next move shall be to Galway.'

Barry sat silent for a while, trying to think. The parson was like an
incubus upon him, which he was totally unable to shake off. He knew neither
how to resist nor how to give way. Misty ideas got into his head of
escaping to his bed-room and blowing his own brains out. Different schemes
of retaliation and revenge flitted before him, but he could decide on
nothing. There he sat, silent, stupidly gazing at nothing, while Lord
Ballindine and Mr Armstrong stood whispering over the fire.

'I'm afraid we're in the wrong: I really think we are,' said Frank.

'We must go through with it now, any way,' said the parson. 'Come, Mr
Lynch, I will give you five minutes more, and then I go;' and he pulled out
his watch, and stood with his back to the fire, looking at it. Lord
Ballindine walked to the window, and Martin Kelly and Doctor Colligan sat
in distant parts of the room, with long faces, silent and solemn, breathing
heavily. How long those five minutes appeared to them, and how short to
Barry! The time was not long enough to enable him to come to any decision:
at the end of the five minutes he was still gazing vacantly before him: he
was still turning over in his brain, one after another, the same crowd of
undigested schemes.

'The time is out, Mr Lynch: will you go?' said the parson.

'I've no money,' hoarsely croaked Barry.

'If that's the only difficulty, we'll raise money for him,' said Frank.

'I'll advance him money,' said Martin.

'Do you mean you've no money at all?' said the parson.

'Don't you hear me say so?' said Barry.

'And you'll go if you get money say ten pounds?' said the parson.

'Ten pounds! I can go nowhere with ten pounds. You know that well enough.'

'I'll give him twenty-five,' said Martin. 'I'm sure his sister'll do that
for him.'
'Say fifty,' said Barry, 'and I'm off at once.'
'I haven't got it,' said Martin.
'No,' said the parson; 'I'll not see you bribed to go: take the twenty-
five that will last you till you make arrangements about your property. We
are not going to pay you for going, Mr Lynch.'

'You seem very anxious about it, any way.'

'I am anxious about it,' rejoined the parson. 'I am anxious to save your
sister from knowing what it was that her brother wished to accomplish.'

Barry scowled at him as though he would like, if possible, to try his hand
at murdering him; but he did not answer him again. Arrangements were at
last made for Barry's departure, and off he went, that very day not to
Roscommon, but to Tuam; and there, at the instigation of Martin, Daly the
attorney took upon himself the division and temporary management of the
property. From thence, with Martin's, or rather with his sister's twenty-
five pounds in his pocket, he started to that Elysium for which he had for
some time so ardently longed, and soon landed at Boulogne, regardless alike
of his sister, his future brother, Lord Ballindine, or Mr Armstrong. The
parson had found it quite impossible to carry out one point on which he had
insisted. He could not induce Barry Lynch to write to his sister: no, not a
line; not a word. Had it been to save him from hanging he could hardly have
induced himself to write those common words, 'dear sister'.

'Oh! you can tell her what you like,' said he. 'It's you're making me go
away at once in this manner. Tell her whatever confounded lies you like;
tell her I'm gone because I didn't choose to stay and see her make a fool
of herself and that's the truth, too. If it wasn't for that I wouldn't move
a step for any of you.'

He went, however, as I have before said, and troubled the people of Dunmore
no longer, nor shall he again trouble us.


'Oh! but Martin, what nonsense!' said the widow, coaxingly to her son, that
night before she went to bed. 'The lord wouldn't be going up there just to
wish him good bye and Parson Armstrong too. What the dickens could they he
at there so long? Come, Martin you're safe with me, you know; tell us
something about it now.'

'Nonsense, mother; I've nothing to tell: Barry Lynch has left the place for
good and all, that's all about it.'

'God bless the back of him, thin; he'd my lave for going long since. But
you might be telling us what made him be starting this way all of a heap.'

'Don't you know, mother, he was head and ears in debt?'

'Don't tell me,' said the widow. 'Parson Armstrong's not a sheriff's
officer, that he should be looking after folks in debt.'

'No, mother, he's not, that I know of; but he don't like, for all that, to
see his tithes walking out of the country.'

'Don't be coming over me that way, Martin. Barry Lynch, nor his father
before him, never held any land in Ballindine parish.'

'Didn't they well thin, you know more than I, mother, so it's no use my
telling you,' and Martin walked of! to bed.

'I'll even you, yet, my lad,' said she, 'close as you are; you see else.
Wait awhile, till the money's wanting, and then let's see who'll know all
about it!' And the widow slapped herself powerfully on that part where her
pocket depended, in sign of the great confidence she had in the strength of
her purse.

'Did I manage that well?' said the parson, as Lord Ballindine drove him
home to Kelly's Court, as soon as the long interview was over. 'If I can do
as well at Grey Abbey, you'll employ me again, I think!'

'Upon my word, then, Armstrong,' said Frank, 'I never was in such hot water
as I have been all this day: and, now it's over, to tell you the truth, I'm
sorry we interfered. We did what we had no possible right to do.'

'Nonsense, man. You don't suppose I'd have dreamed of letting him off, if
the law could have touched him? But it couldn't. No magistrates in the
county could have committed him; for he had done, and, as far as I can
judge, had said, literally nothing. It's true we know what he intended; but
a score of magistrates could have done nothing with him: as it is, we've
got him out of the country: he'll never come back again.'

'What I mean is, we had no business to drive him out of the country with
threats.'

'Oh, Ballindine, that's nonsense. One can keep no common terms with such a
blackguard as that. However, it's done now; and I must say I think it was
well done.'

'There's no doubt of your talent in the matter, Armstrong: upon my soul I
never saw anything so cool. What a wretch what an absolute fiend the fellow
is!'

'Bad enough,' said the parson. 'I've seen bad men before, but I think he's
the worst I ever saw. What'll Mrs O'Kelly say of my coming in this way,
without notice?'

The parson enjoyed his claret at Kelly's Court that evening, after his hard
day's work, and the next morning he started for Grey Abbey.




XXXVI  MR ARMSTRONG VISITS GREY ABBEY ON A DELICATE MISSION


Lord Cashel certainly felt a considerable degree of relief when his
daughter told him that Lord Kilcullen had left the house, and was on his
way to Dublin, though he had been forced to pay so dearly for the
satisfaction, had had to falsify his solemn assurance that he would not
give his son another penny, and to break through his resolution of acting
the Roman father. He consoled himself with the idea that he had been
actuated by affection for his profligate son; but such had not been the
case. Could he have handed him over to the sheriff's officer silently and
secretly, he would have done so; but his pride could not endure the
reflection that all the world should know that bailiffs had forced an entry
into Grey Abbey.

He closely questioned Lady Selina, with regard to all that had passed
between her and her brother.

'Did he say anything?' at last he said 'did he say anything about about
Fanny?'
'Not much, papa; but what he did say, he said with kindness and affection,'
replied her ladyship, glad to repeat anything in favour of her brother.

'Affection pooh!' said the earl. 'He has no affection; no affection for any
one; he has no affection even for me. What did he say about her, Selina?'

'He seemed to wish she should marry Lord Ballindine.'

'She may marry whom she pleases, now,' said the earl. 'I wash my hands of
her. I have done my best to prevent what I thought a disgraceful match for
her '

'It would not have been disgraceful, papa, had she married him six months
ago.'

'A gambler and a roué!' said the earl, forgetting, it is to be supposed,
for the moment, his own son's character. 'She'll marry him now, I suppose,
and repent at her leisure. I'll give myself no further trouble about it.'

The earl thought upon the subject, however, a good deal; and before Mr
Armstrong's arrival he had all but made up his mind that he must again
swallow his word, and ask his ward's lover back to his house. He had at any
rate become assured that if he did not do so, some one else would do it for
him.

Mr Armstrong was, happily, possessed of a considerable stock of self-
confidence, and during his first day's journey, felt no want of it with
regard to the delicate mission with which he was entrusted. But when he had
deposited his carpet-bag at the little hotel at Kilcullen bridge, and found
himself seated on a hack car, and proceeding to Grey Abbey, he began to
feel that he had rather a difficult part to play; and by the time that the
house was in sight, he felt himself completely puzzled as to the manner in
which he should open his negotiation.

He had, however, desired the man to drive to the house, and he could not
well stop the car in the middle of the demesne, to mature his plans; and
when he was at the door he could not stay there without applying for
admission. So he got his card-case in his hand, and rang the bell. After a
due interval, which to the parson did not seem a bit too long, the heavy-
looking, powdered footman appeared, and announced that Lord Cashel was at
home; and, in another minute Mr Armstrong found himself in the book-room.

It was the morning after Lord Kilcullen's departure, and Lord Cashel was
still anything but comfortable. Her ladyship had been bothering him about
the poor boy, as she called her son, now that she learned he was in
distress; and had been beseeching him to increase his allowance. The earl
had not told his wife the extent of their son's pecuniary delinquencies,
and consequently she was greatly dismayed when her husband very solemnly
said,

'My lady, Lord Kilcullen has no longer any allowance from me.'

'Good gracious!' screamed her ladyship; 'no allowance? how is the poor boy
to live?'

'That I really cannot tell. I cannot even guess; but, let him live how he
may, I will not absolutely ruin myself for his sake.'

The interview was not a comfortable one, either to the father or mother.
Lady Cashel cried a great deal, and was very strongly of opinion that her
son would die of cold and starvation: 'How could he get shelter or food,
any more than a common person, if he had no allowance? Mightn't he, at any
rate, come back, and live at Grey Abbey? That wouldn't cost his father
anything.' And then the countess remembered how she had praised her son to
Mrs Ellison, and the bishop's wife; and she cried worse than ever, and was
obliged to be left to Griffiths and her drops.

This happened on the evening of Lord Kilcullen's departure, and on the next
morning her ladyship did not appear at breakfast. She was weak and nervous,
and had her tea in her own sitting-room. There was no one sitting at
breakfast but the earl, Fanny, and Lady Selina, and they were all alike,
stiff, cold, and silent. The earl felt as if he were not at home even in
his own breakfast-parlour; he felt afraid of his ward, as though he were
conscious that she knew how he had intended to injure her: and, as soon as
he had swallowed his eggs, he muttered something which was inaudible to
both the girls, and retreated to his private den.

He had not been there long before the servant brought in our friend's name.
'The Rev. George Armstrong', written on a plain card. The parson had not
put the name of his parish, fearing that the earl, knowing from whence he
came, might guess his business, and decline seeing him. As it was, no
difficulty was made, and the parson soon found himself tête-à-tête with the
earl.

'I have taken the liberty of calling on you, Lord Cashel,' said Mr
Armstrong, having accepted the offer of a chair, 'on a rather delicate
mission.'

The earl bowed, and rubbed his hands, and felt more comfortable than he had
done for the last week. He liked delicate missions coming to him, for he
flattered himself that he knew how to receive them in a delicate manner; he
liked, also, displaying his dignity to strangers, for he felt that
strangers stood rather in awe of him: he also felt, though he did not own
it to himself, that his manner was not so effective with people who had
known him some time.

'I may say, a very delicate mission,' said the parson; 'and one I would not
have undertaken had I not known your lordship's character for candour and
honesty.'

Lord Cashel again bowed and rubbed his hands.

'I am, my lord, a friend of Lord Ballindine; and as such I have taken the
liberty of calling on your lordship.'

'A friend of Lord Ballindine?' said the earl, arching his eyebrows, and
assuming a look of great surprise.

'A very old friend, my lord; the clergyman of his parish, and for many
years an intimate friend of his father. I have known Lord Ballindine since
he was a child.'

'Lord Ballindine is lucky in having such a friend: few young men now, I am
sorry to say, care much for their father's friends. Is there anything, Mr
Armstrong, in which I can assist either you or his lordship?'

'My lord,' said the parson, 'I need not tell you that before I took the
perhaps unwarrantable liberty of troubling you, I was made acquainted with
Lord Ballindine's engagement with your ward, and with the manner in which
that engagement was broken off.'

'And your object is, Mr Armstrong ?'

'My object is to remove, if possible, the unfortunate misunderstanding
between your lordship and my friend.'.

'Misunderstanding, Mr Armstrong? There was no misunderstanding between us.
I really think we perfectly understood each other. Lord Ballindine was
engaged to my ward; his engagement, however, being contingent on his
adoption of a certain line of conduct. This line of conduct his lordship
did not adopt; perhaps, he used a wise discretion; however, I thought not.
I thought the mode of life which he pursued '

'But '

'Pardon me a moment, Mr Armstrong, and I shall have said all which appears
to me to be necessary on the occasion; perhaps more than is necessary; more
probably than I should have allowed myself to say, had not Lord Ballindine
sent as his ambassador the clergyman of his parish and the friend of his
father,' and Lord Cashel again bowed and rubbed his hands. 'I thought, Mr
Armstrong, that your young friend appeared wedded to a style of life quite
incompatible with his income with his own income as a single man, and the
income which he would have possessed had he married my ward. I thought that
their marriage would only lead to poverty and distress, and I felt that I
was only doing my duty to my ward in expressing this opinion to her. I
found that she was herself of the same opinion; that she feared a union
with Lord Ballindine would not ensure happiness either to him or to
herself. His habits were too evidently those of extravagance, and hers had
not been such as to render a life of privation anything but a life of
misery.'

'I had thought '

'One moment more, Mr Armstrong, and I shall have done. After mature
consideration, Miss Wyndham commissioned me to express her sentiments and I
must say they fully coincided with my own to Lord Ballindine, and to
explain to him, that she found herself obliged to to to retrace the steps
which she had taken in the matter. I did this in a manner as little painful
to Lord Ballindine as I was able. It is difficult, Mr Armstrong, to make a
disagreeable communication palatable; it is very difficult to persuade a
young man who is in love, to give up the object of his idolatry; but I
trust Lord Ballindine will do me the justice to own that, on the occasion
alluded to, I said nothing unnecessarily harsh nothing calculated to harass
his feelings. I appreciate and esteem Lord Ballindine's good qualities, and
I much regretted that prudence forbad me to sanction the near alliance he
was anxious to do me the honour of making with me.'
Lord Cashel finished his harangue, and felt once more on good terms with
himself. He by no means intended offering any further vehement resistance
to his ward's marriage. He was, indeed, rejoiced to have an opportunity of
giving way decently. But he could not resist the temptation of explaining
his conduct, and making a speech.

'My lord,' said the parson, 'what you tell me is only a repetition of what
I heard from my young friend.'

'I am glad to hear it. I trust, then, I may have the pleasure of feeling
that Lord Ballindine attributes to me no personal unkindness?'

'Not in the least, Lord Cashel; very far from it. Though Lord Ballindine
may not be may not hitherto have been, free from the follies of his age, he
has had quite sense enough to appreciate your lordship's conduct.'

'I endeavoured, at any rate, that it should be such as to render me liable
to no just imputation of fickleness or cruelty.'

'No one would for a moment accuse your lordship of either. It is my
knowledge of your lordship's character in this particular which has induced
me to undertake the task of begging you to reconsider the subject. Lord
Ballindine has, you are aware, sold his race-horses.'

'I had heard so, Mr Armstrong; though, perhaps, not on good authority.'

'He has; and is now living among his own tenantry and friends at Kelly's
Court. He is passionately, devotedly attached to your ward, Lord Cashel;
and with a young man's vanity he still thinks that she may not be quite
indifferent to him.'

'It was at her own instance, Mr Armstrong, that his suit was rejected.'

'I am well aware of that, my lord. But ladies, you know, do sometimes
mistake their own feelings. Miss Wyndham must have been attached to my
friend, or she would not have received him as her lover. Will you, my lord,
allow me to see Miss Wyndham? If she still expresses indifference to Lord
Ballindine, I will assure her that she shall be no further persecuted by
his suit. If such be not the case, surely prudence need not further
interfere to prevent a marriage desired by both the persons most concerned.
Lord Ballindine is not now a spendthrift, whatever he may formerly have
been; and Miss Wyndham's princely fortune, though it alone would never have
induced my friend to seek her hand, will make the match all that it should
be. You will not object, my lord, to my seeing Miss Wyndham?'

'Mr Armstrong really you must be aware such a request is rather unusual.'

'So are the circumstances,' replied the parson. 'They also are unusual. I
do not doubt Miss Wyndham's wisdom in rejecting Lord Ballindine, when, as
you say, he appeared to be wedded to a life of extravagance. I have no
doubt she put a violent restraint on her own feelings; exercised, in fact,
a self-denial which shows a very high tone of character, and should elicit
nothing but admiration; but circumstances are much altered.'

Lord Cashel continued to raise objections to the parson's request, though
it was, throughout the interview, his intention to accede to it. At last,
he gave up the point, with much grace, and in such a manner as he thought
should entitle him to the eternal gratitude of his ward, Lord Ballindine,
and the parson. He consequently rang the bell, and desired the servant to
give his compliments to Miss Wyndham and tell her that the Rev. Mr
Armstrong wished to see her, alone, upon business of importance.

Mr Armstrong felt that his success was much greater than he had had any
reason to expect, from Lord Ballindine's description of his last visit at
Grey Abbey. He had, in fact, overcome the only difficulty. If Miss Wyndham
really disliked his friend, and objected to the marriage, Mr Armstrong was
well aware that he had only to return, and tell his friend so in the best
way he could. If, however, she still had a true regard for him, if she were
the Fanny Wyndham Ballindine had described her to be, if she had ever
really been devoted to him, if she had at all a wish in her heart to see
him again at her feet, the parson felt that he would have good news to send
back to Kelly's Court; and that he would have done the lovers a service
which they never could forget.

'At any rate, Mr Armstrong,' said Lord Cashel, as the parson was bowing
himself backwards out of the room, 'you will join our family circle while
you are in the neighbourhood. Whatever may be the success of your
mission and I assure you I hope it may be such as will be gratifying to
you, I am happy to make the acquaintance of any friend of Lord
Ballindine's, when Lord Ballindine chooses his friends so well.' (This was
meant as a slap at Dot Blake.) 'You will give me leave to send down to the
town for your luggage.' Mr Armstrong made no objection to this proposal,
and the luggage was sent for.

The powder-haired servant again took him in tow, and ushered him out of the
book-room, across the hall through the billiard-room, and into the library;
gave him a chair, and then brought him a newspaper, giving him to
understand that Miss Wyndham would soon be with him.

The parson took the paper in his hands, but he did not trouble himself much
with the contents of it. What was he to say to Miss Wyndham? how was he to
commence? He had never gone love-making for another in his life; and now,
at his advanced age, it really did come rather strange to him. And then he
began to think whether she were short or tall, dark or fair, stout or
slender. It certainly was very odd, but, in all their conversations on the
subject, Lord Ballindine had never given him any description of his
inamorata. Mr Armstrong, however, had not much time to make up his mind on
any of these points, for the door opened, and Miss Wyndham entered.

She was dressed in black, for she was, of course, still in mourning for her
brother; but, in spite of her sable habiliments, she startled the parson by
the brilliance of her beauty. There was a quiet dignity of demeanour
natural to Fanny Wyndham; a well-balanced pose, and a grace of motion,
which saved her from ever looking awkward or confused. She never appeared
to lose her self-possession. Though never arrogant, she seemed always to
know what was due to herself. No insignificant puppy could ever have
attempted to flirt with her.
When summoned by the servant to meet a strange clergyman alone in the
library, at the request of Lord Cashel, she felt that his visit must have
some reference to her lover; indeed, her thoughts for the last few days had
run on little else. She had made up her mind to talk to her cousin about
him; then, her cousin had matured that determination by making love to her
himself: then, she had talked to him of Lord Ballindine, and he had
promised to talk to his father on the same subject; and she had since been
endeavouring to bring herself to make one other last appeal to her uncle's
feelings. Her mind was therefore, full of Lord Ballindine, when she walked
into the library. But her face was no tell-tale; her gait and demeanour
were as dignified as though she had no anxious love within her heart no one
grand desire, to disturb the even current of her blood. She bowed her
beautiful head to Mr Armstrong as she walked into the room, and, sitting
down herself, begged him to take a chair.

The parson had by no means made up his mind as to what he was to say to the
young lady, so he shut his eyes, and rushed at once into the middle of his
subject. 'Miss Wyndham,' he said, 'I have come a long way to call on you,
at the request of a friend of yours a very dear and old friend of mine at
the request of Lord Ballindine.'

Fanny's countenance became deeply suffused at her lover's name, but the
parson did not observe it; indeed he hardly ventured to look in her face.
She merely said, in a voice which seemed to him to be anything but
promising, 'Well, sir?' The truth was, she did not know what to say. Had
she dared, she would have fallen on her knees before her lover's friend,
and sworn to him how well she loved him.

'When Lord Ballindine was last at Grey Abbey, Miss Wyndham, he had not the
honour of an interview with you.'

'No, sir,' said Fanny. Her voice, look, and manner were still sedate and
courtly; her heart, however, was beating so violently that she hardly knew
what she said.

'Circumstances, I believe, prevented it,' said the parson. 'My friend,
however, received, through Lord Cashel, a message from you,
which which which has been very fatal to his happiness.'

Fanny tried to say something, but she was not able.

'The very decided tone in which your uncle then spoke to him, has made Lord
Ballindine feel that any further visit to Grey Abbey on his own part would
be an intrusion.'

'I never ' said Fanny, 'I never '

'You never authorised so harsh a message, you would say. It is not the
harshness of the language, but the certainty of the fact, that has
destroyed my friend's happiness. If such were to be the case if it were
absolutely necessary that the engagement between you and Lord Ballindine
should be broken off, the more decided the manner in which it were done,
the better. Lord Ballindine now wishes I am a bad messenger in such a case
as this, Miss Wyndham: it is, perhaps, better to tell you at once a plain
tale. Frank has desired me to tell you that he loves you well and truly;
that he cannot believe you are indifferent to him; that your vows, to him
so precious, are still ringing in his ears; that he is, as far as his heart
is concerned, unchanged; and he has commissioned me to ascertain from
yourself, whether you have really changed your mind since he last had the
pleasure of seeing you.' The parson waited a moment for an answer, and then
added, 'Lord Ballindine by no means wishes to persecute you on the subject;
nor would I do so, if he did wish it. You have only to tell me that you do
not intend to renew your acquaintance with Lord Ballindine, and I will
leave Grey Abbey.' Fanny still remained silent. 'Say the one word "go",
Miss Wyndham, and you need not pain yourself by any further speech. I will
at once be gone.'

Fanny strove hard to keep her composure, and to make some fitting reply to
Mr Armstrong, but she was unable. Her heart was too full; she was too
happy. She had, openly, and in spite of rebuke, avowed her love to her
uncle, her aunt, to Lady Selina, and her cousin. But she could not bring
herself to confess it to Mr Armstrong. At last she said:

'I am much obliged to you for your kindness, Mr Armstrong. Perhaps I owe it
to Lord Ballindine to to . . . I will ask my uncle, sir, to write to him.'

'I shall write to Lord Ballindine this evening, Miss Wyndham; will you
intrust me with no message? I came from him, to see you, with no other
purpose. I must give him some news: I must tell him I have seen you. May I
tell him not to despair?'

'Tell him tell him ' said Fanny, and she paused to make up her mind as to
the words of her message, 'tell him to come himself.' And, hurrying from
the room, she left the parson alone, to meditate on the singular success of
his mission. He stood for about half an hour, thinking over what had
occurred, and rejoicing greatly in his mind that he had undertaken the
business. 'What fools men are about women!' he said at last, to himself.
'They know their nature so well when they are thinking and speaking of them
with reference to others; but as soon as a man is in love with one himself,
he is cowed! He thinks the nature of one woman is different from that of
all others, and he is afraid to act on his general knowledge. Well; I might
as well write to him! for, thank God, I can send him good news ' and he
rang the bell, and asked if his bag had come. It had, and was in his bed-
room. 'Could the servant get him pen, ink, and paper?' The servant did so;
and, within two hours of his entering the doors of Grey Abbey, he was
informing his friend of the success of his mission.




XXXVII  VENI; VIDI; VICI


The two following letters for Lord Ballindine were sent off, in the Grey
Abbey post-bag, on the evening of the day on which Mr Armstrong had arrived
there. They were from Mr Armstrong and Lord Cashel. That from the former
was first opened.


Grey Abbey, April, 1844

Dear Frank,

You will own I have not lost much time. I left Kelly's Court the day before
yesterday and I am already able to send you good news. I have seen Lord
Cashel, and have found him anything but uncourteous. I have also seen Miss
Wyndham and though she said but little to that little was just what you
would have wished her to say. She bade me tell you to come yourself. In
obedience to her commands, I do hereby require you to pack yourself up, and
proceed forthwith to Grey Abbey. His lordship has signified to me that it
is his intention, in his own and Lady Cashel's name, to request the renewed
pleasure of an immediate, and, he hopes, a prolonged visit from your
lordship. You will not, my dear Frank, I am sure, be such a fool as to
allow your dislike to such an empty butter-firkin as this earl, to stand in
the way of your love or your fortune. You can't expect Miss Wyndham to go
to you, so pocket your resentment like a sensible fellow, and accept Lord
Cashel's invitation as though there had been no difference between you.

I have also received an invite, and intend staying here a day or two. I
can't say that, judging from the master of the house, I think that a
prolonged sojourn would be very agreeable. I have, as yet, seen none of the
ladies, except my embryo Lady Ballindine.

I think I have done my business a little in the veni vidi vici style. What
has effected the change in Lord Cashel's views, I need not trouble myself
to guess. You will soon learn all about it from Miss Wyndham.

I will not, in a letter, express my admiration, &c., &c., &c. But I will
proclaim in Connaught, on my return, that so worthy a bride was never yet
brought down to the far west. Lord Cashel will, of course, have some pet
bishop or dean to marry you; but, after what has passed, I shall certainly
demand the privilege of christening the heir.

Believe me, dear Frank,

Your affectionate friend,

GEORGE ARMSTRONG.


Lord Cashel's letter was as follows. It cost his lordship three hours to
compose, and was twice copied. I trust, therefore, it is a fair specimen of
what a nobleman ought to write on such an occasion.


Grey Abbey, April, 1844.

My dear lord,

Circumstances, to which I rejoice that I need not now more particularly
allude, made your last visit at my house a disagreeable one to both of us.
The necessity under which I then laboured, of communicating to your
lordship a decision which was likely to be inimical to your happiness, but
to form which my duty imperatively directed me, was a source of most
serious inquietude to my mind. I now rejoice that that decision was so
painful to you has been so lastingly painful; as I trust I may measure your
gratification at a renewal of your connection with my family, by the
acuteness of the sufferings which an interruption of that connexion has
occasioned you.

I have, I can assure you, my lord, received much pleasure from the visit of
your very estimable friend, the Reverend Mr Armstrong; and it is no slight
addition to my gratification on this occasion, to find your most intimate
friendship so well bestowed. I have had much unreserved conversation to-day
with Mr Armstrong, and I am led by him to believe that I may be able to
induce you to give Lady Cashel and myself the pleasure of your company at
Grey Abbey. We shall be truly delighted to see your lordship, and we
sincerely hope that the attractions of Grey Abbey may be such as to induce
you to prolong your visit for some time.

Perhaps it might be unnecessary for me now more explicitly to allude to my
ward; but still, I cannot but think that a short but candid explanation of
the line of conduct I have thought it my duty to adopt, may prevent any
disagreeable feeling between us, should you, as I sincerely trust you will,
do us the pleasure of joining our family circle. I must own, my dear lord,
that, a few months since, I feared you were wedded to the expensive
pleasures of the turf. Your acceptance of the office of Steward at the
Curragh meetings confirmed the reports which reached me from various
quarters. My ward's fortune was then not very considerable; and, actuated
by an uncle's affection for his niece as well as a guardian's caution for
his ward, I conceived it my duty to ascertain whether a withdrawal from the
engagement in contemplation between Miss Wyndham and yourself would be
detrimental to her happiness. I found that my ward's views agreed with my
own. She thought her own fortune insufficient, seeing that your habits were
then expensive: and, perhaps, not truly knowing the intensity of her own
affection, she coincided in my views. You are acquainted with the result.
These causes have operated in inducing me to hope that I may still welcome
you by the hand as my dear niece's husband. Her fortune is very greatly
increased; your character is--I will not say altered is now fixed and
established. And, lastly and chiefly, I find I blush, my lord, to tell a
lady's secret that my ward's happiness still depends on you.

I am sure, my dear lord, I need not say more. We shall be delighted to see
you at your earliest convenience. We wish that you could have come to us
before your friend left, but I regret to learn from him that his parochial
duties preclude the possibility of his staying with us beyond Thursday.

I shall anxiously wait for your reply. In the meantime I beg to assure you,
with the joint kind remembrances of all our party, that I am,

Most faithfully yours,

CASHEL.


Mr Armstrong descended to the drawing-room, before dinner, looking most
respectable, with a stiff white tie and the new suit expressly prepared for
the occasion. He was introduced to Lady Cashel and Lady Selina as a valued
friend of Lord Ballindine, and was received, by the former at least, in a
most flattering manner. Lady Selina had hardly reconciled herself to the
return of Lord Ballindine. It was from no envy at her cousin's happiness;
she was really too high-minded, and too falsely proud, also, to envy
anyone. But it was the harsh conviction of her mind, that no duties should
be disregarded, and that all duties were disagreeable: she was always
opposed to the doing of anything which appeared to be the especial wish of
the person consulting her; because it would be agreeable, she judged that
it would be wrong. She was most sincerely anxious for her poor dependents,
but she tormented them most cruelly. When Biddy Finn wished to marry, Lady
Selina told her it was her duty to put a restraint on her inclinations; and
ultimately prevented her, though there was no objection on earth to Tony
Mara; and when the widow Cullen wanted to open a little shop for soap and
candles, having eight pounds ten shillings left to stock it, after the wake
and funeral were over, Lady Selina told the widow it was her duty to
restrain her inclination, and she did so; and the eight pounds ten
shillings drifted away in quarters of tea, and most probably, half noggins
of whiskey.

In the same way, she could not bring herself to think that Fanny was doing
right, in following the bent of her dearest wishes-in marrying this man she
loved so truly. She was weak; she was giving way to temptation; she was
going back from her word; she was, she said, giving up her claim to that
high standard of feminine character, which it should be the proudest boast
of a woman to maintain.

It was in vain that her mother argued the point with her in her own way.
'But why shouldn't she marry him, my dear,' said the countess, 'when they
love each other and now there's plenty of money and all that; and your papa
thinks it's all right? I declare I can't see the harm of it.'

'I don't say there's harm, mother,' said Lady Selina; 'not absolute harm;
but there's weakness. She had ceased to esteem Lord Ballindine.'

'Ah, but, my dear, she very soon began to esteem him again. Poor dear! she
didn't know how well she loved him.'

'She ought to have known, mamma to have known well, before she rejected
him; but, having rejected him, no power on earth should have induced her to
name him, or even to think of him again. She should have been dead to him;
and he should have been the same as dead to her.'

'Well, I don't know,' said the countess; 'but I'm sure I shall be delighted
to see anybody happy in the house again, and I always liked Lord Ballindine
myself. There was never any trouble about his dinners or anything.'

And Lady Cashel was delighted. The grief she had felt at the abrupt
termination of all her hopes with regard to her son had been too much for
her; she had been unable even to mind her worsted-work, and Griffiths had
failed to comfort her; but from the moment that her husband had told her,
with many hems and haws, that Mr Armstrong had arrived to repeat Lord
Ballindine's proposal, and that he had come to consult her about again
asking his lordship to Grey Abbey, she became happy and light-hearted; and,
before Griffiths had left her for the night, she had commenced her
consultations as to the preparations for the wedding.




XXXVIII  WAIT TILL I TELL YOU


There was no one at dinner that first evening, but Mr Armstrong, and the
family circle; and the parson certainly felt it dull enough. Fanny,
naturally, was rather silent; Lady Selina did not talk a great deal; the
countess reiterated, twenty times, the pleasure she had in seeing him at
Grey Abbey, and asked one or two questions as to the quantity of flannel it
took to make petticoats for the old women in his parish; but, to make up
the rest, Lord Cashel talked incessantly. He wished to show every attention
to his guest, and he crammed him with ecclesiastical conversation, till Mr
Armstrong felt that, poor as he was, and much as his family wanted the sun
of lordly favour, he would not give up his little living down in Connaught,
where, at any rate, he could do as he pleased, to be domestic chaplain to
Lord Cashel, with a salary of a thousand a-year.

The next morning was worse, and the whole of the long day was insufferable,
lie endeavoured to escape from his noble friend into the demesne, where he
might have explored the fox coverts, and ascertained something of the
sporting capabilities of the country; but Lord Cashel would not leave him
alone for an instant; and he had not only to endure the earl's tediousness,
but also had to assume a demeanour which was not at all congenial to his
feelings. Lord Cashel would talk Church and ultra-Protestantism to him, and
descanted on the abominations of the National system, and the glories of
Sunday-schools. Now, Mr Armstrong had no leaning to popery, and had nothing
to say against Sunday schools; but he had not one in his own parish, in
which, by the bye, he was the father of all the Protestant children to be
found there without the slightest slur upon his reputation be it said. Lord
Cashel totally mistook his character, and Mr Armstrong did not know how to
set him right; and at five o'clock he went to dress, more tired than he
ever had been after hunting all day, and then riding home twelve miles on a
wet, dark night, with a lame horse.

To do honour to her guest Lady Cashel asked Mr O'Joscelyn, the rector,
together with his wife and daughters, to dine there on the second day; and
Mr Armstrong, though somewhat afraid of brother clergymen, was delighted to
hear that they were coming. Anything was better than another tête-à-tête
with the ponderous earl. There were no other neighbours near enough to Grey
Abbey to be asked on so short a notice; but the rector, his wife, and their
daughters, entered the dining-room punctually at half-past six.

The character and feelings of Mr O'Joscelyn were exactly those which the
earl had attributed to Mr Armstrong. He had been an Orangeman, and was a
most ultra and even furious Protestant. He was, by principle, a charitable
man to his neighbours; but he hated popery, and he carried the feeling to
such a length, that he almost hated Papists. He had not, generally
speaking, a bad opinion of human nature; but he would not have considered
his life or property safe in the hands of any Roman Catholic. He pitied the
ignorance of the heathen, the credulity of the Mahommedan, the desolateness
of the Jew, even the infidelity of the atheist; but he execrated, abhorred,
and abominated the Church of Rome. 'Anathema Maranatha; get thee from me,
thou child of Satan go out into utter darkness, thou worker of
iniquity into everlasting lakes of fiery brimstone, thou doer of the
devil's work thou false prophet thou ravenous wolf!' Such was the language
of his soul, at the sight of a priest; such would have been the language of
his tongue, had not, as he thought, evil legislators given a licence to
falsehood in his unhappy country, and rendered it impossible for a true
Churchman openly to declare the whole truth.

But though Mr O'Joscelyn did not absolutely give utterance to such
imprecations as these against the wolves who, as he thought, destroyed the
lambs of his flock or rather, turned his sheep into foxes yet he by no
means concealed his opinion, or hid his light under a bushel. He spent his
life an eager, anxious, hard-working life, in denouncing the scarlet woman
of Babylon and all her abominations; and he did so in season and out of
season: in town and in country; in public and in private; from his own
pulpit, and at other people's tables; in highways and byways; both to
friends who only partly agreed with him, and to strangers, who did not
agree with him at all. He totally disregarded the feelings of his auditors;
he would make use of the same language to persons who might in all
probability be Romanists, as he did to those whom he knew to be
Protestants. He was a most zealous and conscientious, but a most indiscreet
servant of his Master, he made many enemies, but few converts. He rarely
convinced his opponents, but often disgusted his own party. He had been a
constant speaker at public meetings; an orator at the Rotunda, and, on one
occasion, at Exeter Hall. But even his own friends, the ultra Protestants,
found that he did the cause more harm than good, and his public exhibitions
had been as much as possible discouraged. Apart from his fanatical
enthusiasm, he was a good man, of pure life, and simple habits; and
rejoiced exceedingly, that, in the midst of the laxity in religious
opinions which so generally disfigured the age, his wife and his children
were equally eager and equally zealous with himself in the service of their
Great Master.

A beneficed clergyman from the most benighted, that is, most Papistical
portion of Connaught, would be sure, thought Mr O'Joscelyn, to have a
fellow-feeling with him; to sympathise with his wailings, and to have
similar woes to communicate.

'How many Protestants have you?' said he to Mr Armstrong, in the drawing-
room, a few minutes after they had been introduced to each other. 'I had
two hundred and seventy in the parish on New Year's day; and since that
we've had two births, and a very proper Church of England police-serjeant
has been sent here, in place of a horrid Papist. We've a great gain in
Serjeant Woody, my lord.'

'In one way we certainly have, Mr O'Joscelyn,' said the earl. ' I wish all
the police force were Protestants; I think they would be much more
effective. But Serjeant Carroll was a very good man; you know he was
removed from hence on his promotion.'

'I know he was, my lord just to please the priests just because he was a
Papist. Do you think there was a single thing done, or a word said at Petty
Sessions, but what Father Flannery knew all about it? Yes, every word. When
did the police ever take any of Father Flannery's own people?'

'Didn't Serjeant Carroll take that horrible man Leary, that robbed the old
widow that lived under the bridge?' said the countess.

'True, my lady, he did,' said Mr O'Joscelyn; 'but you'll find, if you
inquire, that Leary hadn't paid the priest his dues, nor yet his brother.
How a Protestant government can reconcile it to their conscience how they
can sleep at night, after pandering to the priests as they daily do, I
cannot conceive. How many Protestants did you say you have, Mr Armstrong?'

'We're not very strong down in the West, Mr O'Joscelyn,' said the other
parson. 'There are usually two or three in the Kelly's Court pew. The
vicarage pew musters pretty well, for Mrs Armstrong and five of the
children are always there. Then there are usually two policemen, and the
clerk; though, by the bye, he doesn't belong to the parish. I borrowed him
from Claremorris.'

Mr O'Joscelyn gave a look of horror and astonishment.

'I can, however, make a boast, which perhaps you cannot, Mr Joscelyn: all
my parishioners are usually to be seen in church, and if one is absent I'm
able to miss him.'

'It must paralyse your efforts, preaching to such a congregation,' said the
other.
'Do not disparage my congregation,' said Mr Armstrong, laughing; 'they are
friendly and neighbourly, if not important in point of numbers; and, if I
wanted to fill my church, the Roman Catholics think so well of me, that
they'd flock in crowds there if I asked them; and the priest would show
them the way for any special occasion, I mean; if the bishop came to see
me, or anything of that kind.'

Mr O'Joscelyn was struck dumb; and, indeed, he would have had no time to
answer if the power of speech had been left to him, for the servant
announced dinner.

The conversation was a little more general during dinner-time, but after
dinner the parish clergyman returned to another branch of his favourite
subject. Perhaps, he thought that Mr Armstrong was himself not very
orthodox; or, perhaps, that it was useless to enlarge on the abominations
of Babylon to a Protestant peer and a Protestant parson; but, on this
occasion, he occupied himself with the temporal iniquities of the Roman
Catholics. The trial of O'Connell and his fellow-prisoners had come to an
end, and he and they, with one exception, had just. commenced their period
of imprisonment. The one exception was a clergyman, who had been acquitted.
He had in some way been connected with Mr O'Joscelyn's parish; and, as tile
parish priest and most of his flock were hot Repealers, there was a good
deal of excitement on tile occasion,- rejoicings at the priest's acquittal,
and howlings, yellings, and murmurings at the condemnation of the others.

'We've fallen on frightful days, Mr Armstrong,' said Mr O'Joscelyn:
'frightful, lawless, dangerous days.'

'We must take them as we find them, Mr O'Joscelyn.'

'Doubtless, Mr Armstrong, doubtless; and I acknowledge His infinite wisdom,
who, for His own purposes, now allows sedition to rear her head unchecked,
and falsehood to sit in the high places. They are indeed dangerous days,
when the sympathy of government is always with the evil doers, and the
religion of the state is deserted by the crown.'

'Why, God bless me! Mr O'Joscelyn! the queen hasn't turned Papist, and the
Repealers are all in prison, or soon will he there.'

'I don't mean the queen. I believe she is very good. I believe she is a
sincere Protestant, God bless her;' and Mr O'Joscelyn, in his loyalty,
drank a glass of port wine; 'but I mean her advisers. They do not dare
protect the Protestant faith: they do not dare secure the tranquillity of
the country.'

'Are not O'Connell and the whole set under conviction at this moment? I'm
no politician myself, but the only question seems to be, whether they
haven't gone a step too far?'

'Why did they let that priest escape them?' said Mr O'Joscelyn.

'I suppose he was not guilty;' said Mr Armstrong; 'at any rate, you had a
staunch Protestant jury.'

'I tell you the priests are at the head of it all. O'Connell would be
nothing without them; he is only their creature. The truth is, the
government did not dare to frame an indictment that would really lead to
the punishment of a priest. The government is truckling to the false
hierarchy of Rome. Look at Oxford a Jesuitical seminary, devoted to the
secret propagation of Romish falsehood. Go into the churches of England,
and watch their bowings, their genuflexions, their crosses and their
candles; see the demeanour of their apostate clergy; look into their
private oratories; see their red-lettered prayer-books, their crucifixes,
and images; and then, can you doubt that the most dreadful of all
prophecies is about to be accomplished?'

'But I have not been into their closets, Mr O'Joscelyn, nor yet into their
churches lately, and therefore I have riot seen these things; nor have I
seen anybody who has. Have you seen crucifixes in the rooms of Church of
England clergymen? or candles on the altar-steps of English churches?'

'God forbid that I should willingly go where such things are to be seen;
but of the fearful fact there is, unfortunately, no doubt. And then, as to
the state of the country, we have nothing round us but anarchy and misrule:
my life, Mr Armstrong, has not been safe any day this week past.'

'Good Heaven, Mr O'Joscelyn your life not safe! I thought you were as quiet
here, in Kildare, as we are in Mayo.'

'Wait till I tell you, Mr Armstrong: you know this priest, whom they have
let loose to utter more sedition? He was coadjutor to the priest in this
parish.'

'Was he? The people are not attacking you, I suppose, because he's let
loose?'

'Wait till I tell you. No; the people are mad because O'Connell and his
myrmidons are to be locked up; and, mingled with their fury on this head
are their insane rejoicings at the escape of this priest. They are,
therefore or were, till Saturday last, howling for joy and for grief at the
same time. Oh! such horrid howls, Mr Armstrong. I declare, Mr Armstrong, I
have trembled for my children this week past.'

The earl, who well knew Mr O'Joscelyn, and the nature of his grievances,
had heard all these atrocities before; and, not being very excited by their
interest, had continued sipping his claret in silence till he began to
doze; and, by the time the worthy parson had got to the climax of his
misery, the nobleman was fast asleep.

'You don't mean that the people made any attack on the parsonage?' said Mr
Armstrong.

'Wait till I tell you, Mr Armstrong,' replied the other. 'On Thursday
morning last they all heard that O'Connell was a convicted felon.'

'Conspirator, I believe? Mr O'Joscelyn.'

'Conspiracy is felony, Mr Armstrong and that their priest had been let
loose. It was soon evident that no work was to be done that day. They
assembled about the roads in groups; at the chapel-door; at Priest
Flannery's house; at the teetotal reading-room as they call it, where the
people drink cordial made of whiskey, and disturb the neighbourhood with
cracked horns; and we heard that a public demonstration was to be made.'

'Was it a demonstration of joy or of grief?'

'Both, Mr Armstrong! it was mixed. They were to shout and dance for joy
about Father Tyrrel; and howl and curse for grief about O'Connell; and they
did shout and howl with a vengeance. All Thursday, you would have thought
that a legion of devils had been let loose into Kilcullen.'

'But did they commit any personal outrages, Mr O'Joscelyn?'

'Wait till I tell you. I soon saw how the case was going to be, and I
determined to be prepared. I armed myself, Mr Armstrong; and so did Mrs
O'Joscelyn. Mrs O'Joscelyn is a most determined woman a woman of great
spirit; we were resolved to protect our daughters and our infants from ill-
usage, as long as God should leave us the power to do so. We both armed
ourselves with pistols, and I can assure you that, as far as ammunition
goes, we were prepared to give them a hot reception.'

'Dear me! This must have been very unpleasant to Mrs O'Joscelyn.'

'Oh, she's a woman of great nerve, Mr Armstrong. Mary is a woman of very
great nerve. I can assure you we shall never forget that Thursday night.
About seven in the evening it got darkish, but the horrid yells of the wild
creatures had never ceased for one half-hour; and, a little after seven,
twenty different bonfires illuminated the parish. There were bonfires on
every side of us: huge masses of blazing turf were to be seen scattered
through the whole country.'

'Did they burn any thing except the turf, Mr O'Joscelyn?'

'Wait till I tell you, Mr Armstrong. I shall never forget that night; we
neither of us once lay down; no, not for a moment. About eight, the
children were put to bed; but with their clothes and shoes on, for there
was no knowing at what moment and in how sudden a way the poor innocents
might be called up. My daughters behaved admirably; they remained quite
quiet in the drawing-room till about eleven, when we had evening worship,
and then they retired to rest. Their mother, however, insisted that they
should not take off their petticoats or stockings. At about one, we went to
the hall-door: it was then bright moonlight but the flames of the
surrounding turf overpowered the moon. The whole horizon was one glare of
light.'

'But were not the police about, Mr O'Joscelyn?'

'Oh, they were about, to be sure, poor men; but what could they do? The
government now licenses every outrage.'

'But what did the people do? said Mr Armstrong.

'Wait till I tell you. They remained up all night; and so did we, you may
be sure. Mary did not rise from her chair once that night without a pistol
in her hand. We heard the sounds of their voices continually, close to the
parsonage gate; we could see them in the road, from the windows crowds of
them men, women and children; and still they continued shouting. The next
morning they were a little more quiet, but still the parish was disturbed:
nobody was at work, and men and women stood collected together in the
roads. But as soon as it was dusk, the shoutings and the bonfires began
again; and again did I and Mrs O'Joscelyn prepare for a night of anxious
watching. We sat up all Friday night, Mr Armstrong.'

'With the pistols again?'

'Indeed we did; and lucky for us that we did so. Had they not known that we
were prepared, I am convinced the house would have been attacked. Our
daughters sat with us this night, and we were so far used to the state of
disturbance, that we were able to have a little supper.'

'You must have wanted that, I think.'

'Indeed we did. About four in the morning, I dropped asleep on the sofa;
but Mary never closed her eyes.'

'Did they come into the garden at all, or near the house?'

'No, they did not. And I am very thankful they refrained from doing so, for
I determined to act promptly, Mr Armstrong, and so was Mary that is, Mrs
O'Joscelyn. We were both determined to fire, if we found our premises
invaded. Thank God the miscreants did not come within the gate.'

'You did not suffer much, then, except the anxiety, Mr O'Joscelyn?'

'God was very merciful, and protected us; but who can feel safe, living in
such times, and among such a people? And it all springs from Rome; the
scarlet woman is now in her full power, and in her full deformity. She was
smitten down for a while, but has now risen again. For a while the right
foot of truth was on her neck; for a while she lay prostrated before the
strength of those, who by God's grace, had prevailed against her. But the
latter prophecies which had been revealed to us, are now about to be
accomplished. It is well for those who comprehend the signs of the coming
time.'

'Suppose we join the ladies,' said the earl, awakened by the sudden lull in
Mr O'Joscelyn's voice. 'But won't you take a glass of Madeira first, Mr
Armstrong?'

Mr Armstrong took his glass of Madeira, and then went to the ladies; and
the next morning, left Grey Abbey, for his own parish. Well; thought he to
himself, as he was driven through the park, in the earl's gig, I'm very
glad I came here, for Frank's sake. I've smoothed his way to matrimony and
a fortune. But I don't know anything which would induce me to stay a week
at Grey Abbey. The earl is bad nearly unbearable; but the parson! I'd
sooner by half be a Roman myself, than think so badly of my neighbours as
he does. Many a time since has he told in Connaught, how Mr O'Joscelyn. and
Mary, his wife, sat up two nights running, armed to the teeth, to protect
themselves from the noisy Repealers of Kilcullen.

Mr Armstrong arrived safely at his parsonage, and the next morning he rode
over to Kelly's Court. But Lord Ballindine was not there. He had started
for Grey Abbey almost immediately on receiving the two letters which we
have given, and he and his friend had passed each other on the road.




XXXIX  IT NEVER RAINS BUT IT POURS


When Frank had read his two letters from Grey Abbey, he was in such a state
of excitement as to be unable properly to decide what he would immediately
do. His first idea was to gallop to Tuam, as fast as his best horse would
carry him; to take four horses there, and not to stop one moment till he
found himself at Grey Abbey: but a little consideration showed him that
this would not do. He would not find horses ready for him on the road; he
must take some clothes with him; and it would be only becoming in him to
give the earl some notice oh his approach. So he at last made up his mind
to postpone his departure for a few hours.

He was, however, too much overcome with joy to be able to do anything
rationally. His anger against the earl totally evaporated; indeed, he only
thought of him now as a man who had a house in which he could meet his
love. He rushed into the drawing-room, where his mother and sisters were
sitting, and, with the two letters open in his hand, proclaimed his
intention of leaving home that day.

'Goodness gracious, Frank! and where are you going?' said Mrs O'Kelly.

'To Grey Abbey.'

'No!' said Augusta, jumping up from her chair.

'I am so glad!' shouted Sophy, throwing down her portion of the worsted-
work sofa.

'You have made up your difference, then, with Miss Wyndham?' said the
anxious mother. 'I am so glad! My own dear, good, sensible Frank!'

'I never had any difference with Fanny,' said he. 'I was not able to
explain all about it, nor can I now: it was a crotchet of the earl's only
some nonsense; however, I'm off now I can't wait a day, for I mean to write
to say I shall be at Grey Abbey the day after to-morrow, and I must go by
Dublin. I shall be off in a couple of hours; so, for Heaven's sake, Sophy,
look sharp and put up my things.'

The girls both bustled out of the room, and Frank was following them, but
his mother called him back. 'When is it to be, Frank? Come tell me
something about it. I never asked any questions when I thought the subject
was a painful one.'

'God bless you, mother, you never did. But I can tell you nothing only the
stupid old earl has begged me to go there at once. Fanny must settle the
time herself: there'll be settlements, and lawyer's work.'

'That's true, my love. A hundred thousand pounds in ready cash does want
looking after. But look here, my dear; Fanny is of age, isn't she?'

'She is, mother.'

'Well now, Frank, take my advice; they'll want to tie up her money in all
manner of ways, so as to make it of the least possible use to you, or to
her either. They always do; they're never contented unless they lock up a
girl's money, so that neither she nor her husband can spend the principal
or the interest. Don't let them do it, Frank. Of course she will be led by
you, let them settle whatever is fair on her; but don't let them bother the
money so that you can't pay off the debts. It'll be a grand thing, Frank,
to redeem the property.'

Frank hemmed and hawed, and said he'd consult his lawyer in Dublin before
the settlements were signed; but declared that he was not going to marry
Fanny Wyndham for her money.

'That's all very well, Frank,' said the mother; 'but you know you could not
marry her without the money, and mind, it's now or never. Think what a
thing it would be to have the property unencumbered!'

The son hurried away to throw himself at the feet of his mistress, and the
mother remained in her drawing-room, thinking with delight on the renovated
grandeur of the family, and of the decided lead which the O'Kellys would
again be able to take in Connaught.

Fanny's joy was quite equal to that of her lover, but it was not shown
quite so openly. Her aunt congratulated her most warmly; kissed her twenty
times; called her her own dear, darling niece, and promised her to love her
husband, and to make him a purse if she could get Griffiths to teach her
that new stitch; it looked so easy she was sure she could learn it, and it
wouldn't tease her eyes. Lady Selina also wished her joy; but she did it
very coldly, though very sensibly.

'Believe me, my dear Fanny, I am glad you should have the wish of your
heart. There were obstacles to your union with Lord Ballindine, which
appeared to be insurmountable, and I therefore attempted to wean you from
your love. I hope he will prove worthy of that love, and that you may never
have cause to repent of your devotion to him. You are going greatly to
increase your cares and troubles; may God give you strength to bear them,
and wisdom to turn them to advantage!'

The earl made a very long speech to her, in which there were but few
pauses, and not one full stop. Fanny was not now inclined to quarrel with
him; and he quite satisfied himself that his conduct, throughout, towards
his ward, had been dignified, prudent, consistent, and disinterested.

These speeches and congratulations all occurred during the period of Mr
Armstrong's visit, and Fanny heard nothing more about her lover, till the
third morning after that gentleman's departure; the earl announced then, on
entering the breakfast-room, that he had that morning received a
communication from Lord Ballindine, and that his lordship intended reaching
Grey Abbey that day in time for dinner.

Fanny felt herself blush, but she said nothing; Lady Selina regretted that
he had had a very wet day yesterday, and hoped he would have a fine day to-
day; and Lady Cashel was overcome at the reflection that she had no one to
meet him at dinner, and that she had not yet suited herself with a cook.

'Dear me,' exclaimed her ladyship; 'I wish we'd got this letter yesterday;
no one knows now, beforehand, when people are coming. I'm sure it usen't to
be so. I shall be so glad to see Lord Ballindine; you know, Fanny, he was
always a great favourite of mine. Do you think, Selina, the O'Joscelyns
would mind coming again without any notice? I'm sure I don't know I would
not for the world treat Lord Ballindine shabbily; but what can I do, my
dear?'

'I think, my lady, we may dispense with any ceremony now, with Lord
Ballindine,' said the earl. 'He will, I am sure, be delighted to be
received merely as one of the family. You need not mind asking the
O'Joscelyns to-day.'

'Do you think not? Well, that's a great comfort: besides, Lord Ballindine
never was particular. But still, Fanny, had I known he was coming so soon,
I would have had Murray down from Dublin again at once, for Mrs Richards is
not a good cook.'

During the remainder of the morning, Fanny was certainly very happy; but
she was very uneasy. She hardly knew how to meet Lord Ballindine. She felt
that she had treated him badly, though she had never ceased to love him
dearly; and she also thought she owed him much for his constancy. It was so
good of him to send his friend to her and one to whom her uncle could not
refuse admission; and then she thought she had treated Mr Armstrong
haughtily and unkindly. She had never thanked him for all the trouble he
had taken; she had never told him how very happy he had made her; but she
would do so at some future time, when he should be an honoured and a valued
guest in her own and her husband's house.

But how should she receive her lover? Would they allow her to be alone with
him, if only for a moment, at their first meeting? Oh! How she longed for a
confidante! but she could not make a confidante of her cousin. Twice she
went down to the drawing-room, with the intention of talking of her love;
but Lady Selina looked so rigid, and spoke so rigidly, that she could not
do it. She said such common-place things, and spoke of Lord Ballindine
exactly as she would of any other visitor who might have been coming to the
house. She did not confine herself to his eating and drinking, as her
mother did; but she said, he'd find the house very dull, she was
afraid especially as the shooting was all over, and the hunting very nearly
so; that he would, however, probably he a good deal at the Curragh races.

Fanny knew that her cousin did not mean to be unkind; but there was no
sympathy in her: she could not talk to her of the only subject which
occupied her thoughts; so she retreated to her own room, and endeavoured to
compose herself. As the afternoon drew on, she began to wish that he was
not coming till to-morrow. She became very anxious; she must see him,
somewhere, before she dressed for dinner; and she would not, could not,
bring herself to go down into the drawing-room, and shake hands with him,
when he came, before her uncle, her aunt, and her cousin.

She was still pondering on the subject, when, about four o'clock in the
afternoon, she got a message from her aunt, desiring her to go to her in
her boudoir.

'That'll do, Griffiths,' said the countess, as Fanny entered her room; 'you
can come up when I ring. Sit down, Fanny; sit down, my dear. I was thinking
Lord Ballindine will soon be here.'

'I suppose he will, aunt. In his letter to Lord Cashel, he said he'd be
here before dinner.'
'I'm sure he'll be here soon. Dear me; I'm so glad it's all made up between
you. I'm sure, Fanny, I hope, and think, and believe, you'll be very, very
happy.'

'Dear aunt' and Fanny kissed Lady Cashel. A word of kindness to her then
seemed invaluable.

'It was so very proper in Lord Ballindine to give up his horses, and all
that sort of thing,' said the countess; 'I'm sure I always said he'd turn
out just what he should be; and he is so good-tempered. I suppose, dear,
you'll go abroad the first thing?'

'I haven't thought of that yet, aunt,' said Fanny, trying to smile.

'Oh, of course you will; you'll go to the Rhine, and Switzerland, and Como,
and Rome, and those sort of places. It'll be very nice: we went there your
uncle and I and it was delightful; only I used to be very tired. It wasn't
then we went to Rome though. I remember now it was after Adolphus was born.
Poor Adolphus!' and her ladyship sighed, as her thoughts went back to the
miseries of her eldest born. 'But I'll tell you why I sent for you, my
dear: you know, I must go downstairs to receive Lord Ballindine, and tell
him how glad I am that he's come back; and I'm sure I am very glad that
he's coming; and your uncle will be there. But I was thinking you'd perhaps
sooner see him first alone. You'll be a little flurried, my dear that's
natural; so, if you like, you can remain up here, my dear, in my room,
quiet and comfortable, by yourself; and Griffiths shall show Lord
Ballindine upstairs, as soon as he leaves the drawing-room.'

'How very, very kind of you, dear aunt!' said Fanny, relieved from her most
dreadful difficulty. And so it was arranged. Lady Cashel went down into the
drawing-room to await her guest, and Fanny brought her book into her aunt's
boudoir, and pretended she would read till Lord Ballindine disturbed her.

I need hardly say that she did not read much. She sat there over her aunt's
fire, waiting to catch the sound of the wheels on the gravel at the front
door. At one moment she would think that he was never coming the time
appeared to be so long; and then again, when she heard any sound which
might be that of his approach, she would again wish to have a few minutes
more to herself.

At length, however, she certainly did hear him. There was the quick rattle
of the chaise over the gravel, becoming quicker and quicker, till the
vehicle stopped with that kind of plunge which is made by no other animal
than a post-horse, and by him only at his arrival at the end of a stage.
Then the steps were let down with a crash she would not go to the window,
or she might have seen him; she longed to do so, but it appeared so
undignified. She sat quite still in her chair; but she heard his quick step
at the hail door; she was sure she could have sworn to his step and then
she heard the untying of cords, and pulling down of luggage.

Lord Ballindine was again in the house, and the dearest wish of her heart
was accomplished. She felt that she was trembling. She had not yet made up
her mind how she would receive him what she would first say to him and
certainly she had no time to do so now. She got up, and looked in her
aunt's pier-glass. It was more a movement of instinct than one of
premeditation; but she thought she had never seen herself look so
wretchedly. She had, however, but little time, either for regret or
improvement on that score, for there were footsteps in the corridor. He
couldn't have stayed a moment to speak to anyone downstairs however, there
he certainly was; she heard Griffiths' voice in the passage, 'This way, my
lord in my lady's boudoir;' and then the door opened, and in a moment she
was in her lover's arms.

'My own Fanny! once more my own!'

'Oh, Frank! dear Frank!'

Lord Ballindine was only ten minutes late in coming down to dinner, and
Miss Wyndham not about half an hour, which should be considered as showing
great moderation on her part. For, of course, Frank kept her talking a
great deal longer than he should have done; and then she not only had to
dress, but to go through many processes with her eyes, to obliterate the
trace of tears. She was, however, successful, for she looked very beautiful
when she came down, and so dignified, so composed, so quiet in her
happiness, and yet so very happy in her quietness. Fanny was anything but a
hypocrite; she had hardly a taint of hypocrisy in her composition, but her
looks seldom betrayed her feelings. There was a majesty of beauty about
her, a look of serenity in her demeanour, which in public made her appear
superior to all emotion.

Frank seemed to be much less at his ease. He attempted to chat easily with
the countess, and to listen pleasantly to the would-be witticisms of the
earl; but he was not comfortable, he did not amalgamate well with the
family; had there been a larger party, he could have talked all dinner-time
to his love; but, as it was, he hardly spoke a word to her during the
ceremony, and indeed, but few during the evening. He did sit next to her on
the sofa, to be sure, and watched the lace she was working; but he could
not talk unreservedly to her, when old Lady Cashel was sitting close to him
on the other side, and Lady Selina on a chair immediately opposite. And
then, it is impossible to talk to one's mistress, in an ordinary voice, on
ordinary subjects, when one has not seen her for some months. A lover is
never so badly off as in a family party: a tête-à-tête, or a large
assembly, are what suit him best: he is equally at his ease in either; but
he is completely out of his element in a family party. After all, Lady
Cashel was right; it would have been much better to have asked the
O'Joscelyns.

The next morning, Frank underwent a desperate interview in the book-room.
His head was dizzy before Lord Cashel had finished half of what he had to
say. He commenced by pointing out with what perfect uprightness and wisdom
he had himself acted with regard to his ward; and Lord Ballindine did not
care to be at the trouble of contradicting him. He then went to the subject
of settlements, and money matters: professed that he had most unbounded
confidence in his young friend's liberality, integrity, and good feeling;
that he would be glad to listen, and, he had no doubt, to accede to any
proposals made by him: that he was quite sure Lord Ballindine would make no
proposal which was not liberal, fair, and most proper; and he said a great
deal more of the kind, and then himself proposed to arrange his ward's
fortune in such a way as to put it quite beyond her future husband's
control. On this subject, however, Frank rather nonplussed the earl by
proposing nothing, and agreeing to nothing; but simply saying that he would
leave the whole matter in the hands of the lawyers.

'Quite right, my lord, quite right,' said Lord Cashel, 'my men of business,
Green and Grogram, will manage all that. They know all about Fanny's
property; they can draw out the settlements, and Grogram can bring them
here, and we can execute them: that'll be the simplest way.'

'I'll write to Mr Cummings, then, and tell him to wait on Messrs. Green and
Grogram. Cummings is a very proper man: he was recommended to me by
Guinness.'

'Oh, ah yes; your attorney, you mean?' said the earl. 'Why, yes, that will
be quite proper, too. Of course Mr Cummings will see the necessity of
absolutely securing Miss Wyndham's fortune.'

Nothing further, however, was said between them on the subject; and the
settlements, whatever was their purport, were drawn out without any visible
interference on the part of Lord Ballindine. But Mr Grogram, the attorney,
on his first visit to Grey Abbey on the subject. had no difficulty in
learning that Miss Wyndham was determined to have a will of her own in the
disposition of her own money.

Fanny told her lover the whole episode of Lord Kilcullen's offer to her;
but she told it in such a way as to redound rather to her cousin's credit
than otherwise. She had learned to love him as a cousin amid a friend, and
his ill-timed proposal to her had not destroyed the feeling. A woman can
rarely be really offended at the expression of love, unless it be from some
one unfitted to match with her, either in rank or age. Besides, Fanny
thought that Lord Kilcullen had behaved generously to her when she so
violently repudiated his love: she believed that it had been sincere; she
had not even to herself accused him of meanness or treachery; and she spoke
of him as one to be pitied, liked, and regarded; not as one to be execrated
and avoided.
And then she confessed to Frank all her fears respecting himself; how her
heart would have broken, had he taken her own rash word as final, and so
deserted her. She told him that she had never ceased to love him, for a
day; not even on that day when, in her foolish spleen, she had told her
uncle she was willing to break off the match; she owned to him all her
troubles, all her doubts; how she had made up her mind to write to him, but
had not dared to do so, lest his answer should be such as would kill her at
once. And then she prayed to be forgiven for her falseness; for having
consented, even for a moment, to forget the solemn vows she had so often
repeated to him.

Frank stopped her again and again in her sweet confessions, and swore the
blame was only his. He anathematised himself, his horses, and his friends,
for having caused a moment's uneasiness to her; but she insisted on
receiving his forgiveness, and he was obliged to say that he forgave her.
With all his follies, and all his weakness, Lord Ballindine was not of an
unforgiving temperament: he was too happy to be angry with any one, now. He
forgave even Lord Cashel; and, had he seen Lord Kilcullen, he would have
been willing to give him his hand as to a brother.

Frank spent two or three delightful weeks, basking in the sunshine of
Fanny's love, and Lord Cashel's favour. Nothing could be more obsequiously
civil than the earl's demeanour, now that the matter was decided. Every
thing was to be done just as Lord Ballindine liked; his taste was to be
consulted in every thing; the earl even proposed different, visits to the
Curragh; asked after the whereabouts of Fin M'Coul and Brien Boru; and
condescended pleasantly to inquire whether Dot Blake was prospering as
usual with his favourite amusement.

At length, the day was fixed for the marriage. It was to be in the
pleasant, sweet-smelling, grateful month of May the end of May; and Lord
and Lady Ballindine were then to start for a summer tour, as the countess
had proposed, to see the Rhine, and Switzerland, and Rome, and those sort
of places. And now, invitations were sent, far and wide, to relatives and
friends. Lord Cashel had determined that the wedding should be a great
concern. The ruin of his son was to be forgotten in the marriage of his
niece. The bishop of Maryborough was to come and marry them; the Ellisons
were to come again, and the Fitzgeralds: a Duchess was secured, though
duchesses are scarce in Ireland; and great exertions were made to get at a
royal Prince, who was commanding the forces in the west. But the royal
Prince did not see why he should put himself to so much trouble, and he
therefore sent to say that he was very sorry, but the peculiar features of
the time made it quite impossible for him to leave his command, even on so
great a temptation; and a paragraph consequently found its way into the
papers, very laudatory of his Royal Highness's military energy and
attention. Mrs O'Kelly and her daughters received a very warm invitation,
which they were delighted to accept. Sophy and Augusta were in the seventh
heaven of happiness, for they were to form a portion of the fair bevy of
bridesmaids appointed to attend Fanny Wyndham to the altar. Frank rather
pished and poohed at all these preparations of grandeur; he felt that when
the ceremony took place he would look like the ornamental calf in the
middle of it; but, on the whole, he bore his martyrdom patiently. Four
spanking bays, and a new chariot ordered from Hutton's, on the occasion,
would soon carry him away from the worst part of it.

Lord Cashel was in the midst of his glory: he had got an occupation and he
delighted in it. Lady Selina performed her portion of the work with
exemplary patience and attention. She wrote all the orders to the
tradesmen, and all the invitations; she even condescended to give advice to
Fanny about her dress; and to Griffiths, about the arrangement of the rooms
and tables. But poor Lady Cashel worked the hardest of all her troubles had
no end. Had she known what she was about to encounter, when she undertook
the task of superintending the arrangements for her niece's wedding, she
would never have attempted it: she would never have entered into
negotiations with that treacherous Murray that man cook in Dublin but have
allowed Mrs Richards to have done her best or her worst in her own simple
way, in spite of the Duchess and the Bishop, and the hopes of a royal
Prince indulged in by Lord Cashel. She did not dare to say as much to her
husband, but she confessed to Griffiths that she was delighted when she
heard His Royal Highness would not come. She was sure his coming would not
make dear Fanny a bit happier, and she really would not have known what to
do with him after the married people were gone.

Frank received two letters from Dot Blake during his stay at Grey Abbey. In
the former he warmly congratulated him on his approaching nuptials, and
strongly commended him on his success in having arranged matters. 'You
never could have forgiven yourself,' he said, 'had you allowed Miss
Wyndham's splendid fortune to slip through your hands. I knew you were not
the man to make a vain boast of a girl's love, and I was therefore sure
that you might rely on her affection. I only feared you might let the
matter go too far. You know I strongly advised you not to marry twenty
thousand pounds. I am as strongly of opinion that you would be a fool to
neglect to marry six times as much. You see I still confine myself to the
money part of the business, as though the lady herself were of no value. I
don't think so, however; only I know you never would have lived happily
without an easy fortune.' And then he spoke of Brien Boru, and informed
Lord Ballindine that that now celebrated nag was at the head of the list of
the Derby horses; that it was all but impossible to get any odds against
him at all that the whole betting world were talking of nothing else; that
three conspiracies had been detected, the object of which was to make him
safe that is, to make him very unsafe to his friends; that Scott's foreman
had been offered two thousand to dose him; and that Scott himself slept in
the stable with him every night, to prevent anything like false play.

The second letter was written by Dot, at Epsom, on the 4th of May, thirty
minutes after the great race had been run. It was very short; and shall
therefore be given entire.


Epsom, Derby Day,

Race just over.

God bless you, my dear boy Brien has done the trick, and done it well!
Butler rode him beautifully, but he did not want any riding; he's the
kindest beast ever had a saddle on. The stakes are close on four thousand
pounds: your share will do well to pay the posters, &c., for yourself and
my lady, on your wedding trip. I win well very well; but I doubt the
settling. We shall have awful faces at the corner next week. You'll
probably have heard all about it by express before you get this.

In greatest haste, yours,

W. BLAKE.


The next week, the following paragraph appeared in 'Bell's Life in London.'


'It never rains but it pours. It appears pretty certain, now, that Brien
Boru is not the property of the gentleman in whose name he has run; but
that he is owned by a certain noble lord, well known on the Irish turf, who
has lately, however, been devoting his time to pursuits more pleasant and
more profitable than the cares of the stable pleasant and profitable as it
doubtless must be to win the best race of the year. The pick-up on the
Derby is about four thousand pounds, and Brien Boru is certainly the best
horse of his year. But Lord Ballindine's matrimonial pick-up is, we are
told, a clear quarter of a million; and those who are good judges declare
that no more beautiful woman than the future Lady Ballindine will have
graced the English Court for many a long year. His lordship, on the whole,
is not doing badly.'

Lord Cashel, also, congratulated Frank on his success on the turf, in spite
of the very decided opinion he had expressed on the subject, when he was
endeavouring to throw him on one side.

'My dear Ballindine,' he said, 'I wish you joy with all my heart: a most
magnificent animal, I'm told, is Brien, and still partly your own property,
you say. Well; it's a great triumph to beat those English lads on their own
ground, isn't it? And thorough Irish blood, too! thorough Irish blood! He
has the "Paddy Whack" strain in him, through the dam the very best blood in
Ireland. You know, my mare "Dignity", that won the Oaks in '29, was by
"Chanticleer", out of "Floribel", by "Paddy Whack." You say you mean to
give up the turf, and you know I've done so, too. But, if you ever do
change your mind-should you ever run horses again take my advice, and stick
to the "Paddy Whack" strain. There's no beating the real "Paddy Whack"
blood.'

On the 21st of May, 1844, Lord Ballindine and Fanny Wyndham were married.
The bishop 'turned 'em off iligant,' as a wag said in the servants' hall.
There was a long account of the affair in the 'Morning Post' of the day;
there were eight bridesmaids, all of whom, it was afterwards remarked, were
themselves married within two years of the time; an omen which was presumed
to promise much continued happiness to Lord and Lady Ballindine, and all
belonging to them.

Murray, the man cook, did come down from Dublin, just in time; but he
behaved very badly. He got quite drunk on the morning of the wedding. He,
however, gave Richards an opportunity of immortalising herself. She
behaved, on the trying occasion, so well, that she is now confirmed in her
situation; and Lady Cashel has solemnly declared that she will never again,
on any account, be persuaded to allow a man cook to enter the house.

Lady Selina she would not officiate as one of the bridesmaids is still
unmarried; but her temper is not thereby soured, nor her life embittered.
She is active, energetic, and good as ever: and, as ever, cold, hard,
harsh, and dignified. Lord Kilcullen has hardly been heard of since his
departure from Grey Abbey. It is known that he is living at Baden, but no
one knows on what. His father never mentions his name; his mother sometimes
talks of 'poor Adolphus;' but if he were dead and buried he could not give
less trouble to the people of Grey Abbey.

No change has occurred, or is likely to take place, in the earl himself nor
is any desirable. How could he change for the better? How could he bear his
honours with more dignity, or grace his high position with more decorum?
Every year since the marriage of his niece, he has sent Lord and Lady
Ballindine an invitation to Grey Abbey; but there has always been some
insuperable impediment to the visit. A child had just been born, or was
just going to be born; or Mrs O'Kelly was ill; or one of the Miss O'Kellys
was going to be married. It was very unfortunate, but Lord and Lady
Ballindine were never able to get as far as Grey Abbey.

Great improvements have been effected at Kelly's Court. Old buildings have
been pulled down, and additions built up; a great many thousand young trees
have been planted, and some miles of new roads and walks constructed. The
place has quite an altered appearance; and, though Connaught is still
Connaught, and County Mayo is the poorest part of it, Lady Ballindine does
not find Kelly's Court unbearable. She has three children already, and
doubtless will have many more. Her nursery, therefore, prevents her from
being tormented by the weariness of the far west.

Lord Ballindine himself is very happy. He still has the hounds, and
maintains, in the three counties round him, the sporting pre-eminence,
which has for so many years belonged to his family. But he has no race-
horses. His friend, Dot, purchased the lot of them out and out, soon after
the famous Derby; and a very good bargain, for himself, he is said to have
made. He is still intimate with Lord Ballindine, and always spends a
fortnight with him at Kelly's Court during the hunting-season.

Sophy O'Kelly married a Blake, and Augusta married a Dillon ; and, as they
both live within ten miles of Kelly's Court. and their husbands are related
to all the Blakes and all the Dillons; and as Ballindine himself is the
head of all the Kellys, there is a rather strong clan of them. About five-
and-twenty cousins muster together in red coats and top-boots, every
Tuesday and Friday during the hunting-season. It would hardly be wise, in
that country, to quarrel with a Kelly, a Dillon, or a Blake.




XL  CONCLUSION


We must now return to Dunmore, and say a few parting words of the Kellys
and Anty Lynch; and then our task will be finished.

It will be remembered that that demon of Dunmore, Barry Lynch, has been
made to vanish: like Lord Kilcullen, he has gone abroad ; he has settled
himself at an hotel at Boulogne, and is determined to enjoy himself.
Arrangements have been made about the property, certainly not very
satisfactory to Barry, because they are such as make it necessary for him
to pay his own debts; but they still leave him sufficient to allow of his
indulging in every vice congenial to his taste; and, if he doesn't get
fleeced by cleverer rogues than himself which, however, will probably be
the case he will have quite enough to last him till lie has drunk himself
to death.

After his departure, there was nothing to delay Anty's marriage, but tier
own rather slow recovery. She has no other relatives to ask, no other
friends to consult. Now that Barry was gone she was entirely her own
mistress, and was quite willing to give up her dominion over herself to
Martin Kelly. She had, however, been greatly shaken; not, by illness only,
but by fear also her fears of Barry and for Barry. She still dreamed while
asleep, and thought while awake, of that horrid night when lie crept up to
her room and swore that he would murder her. This, and what she had
suffered since, had greatly weakened her, and it was some time before
Doctor Colligan would pronounce her convalescent. At last, however, the
difficulties were overcome; all arrangements were completed. Anty was well;
the property was settled; Martin was impatient; and the day was fixed.

There was no bishop, no duchess, no man-cook, at the wedding-party given on
the occasion by Mrs Kelly; nevertheless, it was, in its way, quite as grand
an affair as that given by the countess. The widow opened her heart, and
opened her house. Her great enemy, Barry Lynch, was gone clean beaten out
of the field thoroughly vanquished; as far as Ireland was concerned,
annihilated; and therefore, any one else in the three counties was welcome
to share her hospitality. Oh, the excess of delight the widow experienced
in speaking of Barry to one of her gossips, as the 'poor misfortunate
crature!' Daly, the attorney, was especially invited, and he came. Moylan
also was asked, but he stayed away. Doctor Colligan was there, in great
feather; had it not been for him, there would probably have been no wedding
at all. It would have been a great thing if Lord Ballindine could have been
got to grace the party, though only for ten minutes; but he was at that
time in Switzerland with his own bride, so he could not possibly do so.

'Well, ma'am,' said Mrs Costelloe, the grocer's wife, from Tuam, an old
friend of the widow, who had got into a corner with her to have a little
chat, and drink half-a-pint of porter before the ceremony 'and I'm shure I
wish you joy of the marriage. Faux, I'm tould it's nigh to five hundred a-
year, Miss Anty has, may God bless and incrase it! Well, Martin has his own
luck; but he desarves it, he desarves it.'

'I don't know so much about luck thin, Mrs Costelloe,' said the widow, who
still professed to think that her son gave quite as much as he got, in
marrying Amity Lynch; 'I don't know so much about luck: Martin was very
well as he was; his poor father didn't have him that way that he need be
looking to a wife for mains, the Lord be praised.'

'And that's thrue, too, Mrs Kelly,' said the other; 'but Miss Anty's
fortune ain't a bad step to a young man, neither. Why, there won't be a
young gintleman within tin no, not within forty miles, more respectable
than Martin Kelly; that is, regarding mains.'

'And you needn't stop there, Ma'am, neither; you may say the very same
regarding characther, too  and family, too, glory be to the Virgin. I'd
like to know where some of their ancesthers wor, when the Kellys of ould
wor ruling the whole counthry?'

'Thrue for you, my dear; I'd like to know, indeed: there's nothing, afther
all, like blood, and a good characther. But is it thrue, Mrs Kelly, that
Martin will live up in the big house yonder?'

'Where should a man live thin, Mrs Costelloe, when he gets married, but
jist in his own house? Why for should he not live there?'

'That's thrue agin, to be shure: but yet, only to think Martin living in
ould Sim Lynch's big house! I wondther what ould Sim would say, hisself, av
he could only come back and see it!'

'I'll tell you what he'd say thin, av he tould the thruth; he'd say there
was an honest man living there, which wor niver the case as long as any of
his own breed was in it barring Anty, I main; she's honest and thrue, the
Lord be good to her, the poor thing. But the porter's not to your liking,
Mrs Costelloe you're not tasting it at all this morning.'

No one could have been more humble and meek than was Anty herself, in the
midst of her happiness. She had no idea of taking on herself the airs of a
fine lady, or the importance of an heiress; she had no wish to be thought a
lady; she had no wish for other friends than those of her husband, and his
family. She had never heard of her brother's last horrible proposal to
Doctor Colligan, and of the manner in which his consent to her marriage had
been obtained; nor did Martin intend that she should hear it. She had
merely been told that her brother had found that it was for his advantage
to leave the neighbourhood altogether; that he had given up all claim to
the house; and that his income was to be sent to him by a person appointed
in the neighbourhood to receive it. Anty, however, before signing her own
settlement, was particularly careful that nothing should be done, injurious
to her brother's interest, and that no unfair advantage should be taken of
his absence.

Martin, too, was quiet enough on the occasion. It was arranged that he and
his wife, and at any rate one of his sisters, should live at Dunmore House;
and that he should keep in his own hands the farm near Dunmore, which old
Sim had held, as well as his own farm at Toneroe. But, to tell the truth,
Martin felt rather ashamed of his grandeur. He would much have preferred
building a nice snug little house of his own, on the land he held under
Lord Ballindine; but he was told that he would be a fool to build a house
on another man's ground, when he had a very good one ready built on his
own. He gave way to such good advice, but he did not feel at all happy at
the idea; and, when going up to the house, always felt an inclination to
shirk in at the back-way.

But, though neither the widow nor Martin triumphed aloud at their worldly
prosperity, the two girls made up for their quiescence. They were full of
nothing else; their brother's fine house Anty's great fortune; their
wealth, prosperity, and future station and happiness, gave them subjects of
delightful conversation among their friends. Meg. moreover, boasted that it
was all her own doing; that it was she who had made up the match; that Mart
in would never have thought of it but for her nor Anty either, for the
matter of that.

'And will your mother be staying down at the shop always, the same as
iver?' said Matilda Nolan, the daughter of the innkeeper at Tuam.

''Deed she says so, then,' said Jane, in a tone of disappointment.; for her
mother's pertinacity in adhering to the counter was, at present, the one
misery of her life.

'And which of you will be staying here along with her, dears?' said
Matilda. 'She'll be wanting one of you to be with her, any ways.'

'Oh, turn about, I suppose,' said Jane.

'She'll not. get much of my company, any way,' said Meg. 'I've had enough
of the nasty place, and now Martin has a dacent house to put over our
heads, and mainly through my mains I may say, I don't see why I'm to be
mewing myself up in such a hole as this. There's room for her up in Dunmore
House, and wilcome, too; let her come up there. Av she mains to demain
herself by sticking down here, she may stay by herself for me.'

'But you'll take your turn, Meg?' said Jane.

'It'll he a very little turn, then,' said Meg; 'I'm sick of the nasty ould
place; fancy coming down here, Matilda, to the tobacco and sugar, after
living up there a month or so, with everything nice and comfortable! And
it's only mother's whims, for she don't want the shop. Anty begged and
prayed of her for to come and live at Dunmore House for good and all; but
no; she says she'll never live in any one's house that isn't her own.'

'I'm not so, any way,' said Jane; 'I'd be glad enough to live in another
person's house av I liked it.'
'I'll go bail you would, my dear,' said Matilda; 'willing enough especially
John Dolan's.'

'Oh! av I iver live in that it'll be partly my own, you know; and may-be a
girl might do worse.'

'That's thrue, dear,' said Matilda; 'but John Dolan's not so soft as to
take any girl just as she stands. What does your mother say about the money
part of the business?

And so the two friends put their heads together, to arrange another
wedding, if possible.

Martin and Anty did not go to visit Switzerland, or Rome, as soon as they
were married; but they took a bathing-lodge at Renvill, near Galway, and
with much difficulty, persuaded Mrs Kelly to allow both her daughters to
accompany them. And very merry they all were. Anty soon became a different
creature from what she ever had been: she learned to be happy and gay; to
laugh and enjoy the sunshine of the world. She had always been kind to
others, and now she had round her those who were kind amid affectionate to
tier. Her manner of life was completely changed: indeed, life itself was an
altered thing to her. It was so new to her to have friends; to he loved; to
be one of a family who regarded amid looked up to her. She hardly knew
herself in her new happiness.

They returned to Dunmore in the early autumn, and took up their residence
at Sim Lynch's big house, as had been arranged. Martin was very shy about
it: it was long before he talked about it as his house, or his ground, or
his farm; and it was long before he could find himself quite at home in his
own parlour.

Many attempts were made to induce the widow to give up the inn, and shift
her quarters to the big house, but in vain. She declared that, ould as she
was, she wouldn't think of making herself throublesome to young folks; who,
maybe, afther a bit, would a dail sooner have her room than her company:
that she had always been misthress, and mostly masther too, in her own
house, glory be to God; and that she meant to be so still; and that, poor
as the place was, she meant to call it her own. She didn't think herself at
all fit company for people who lived in grand houses, and had their own
demesnes, and gardens, and the rest of it; she had always lived where money
was to be made, and she didn't see the sense of going, in her old age, to a
place where the only work would be how to spend it. Some folks would find
it was a dail asier to scatther it than it wor to put it together. All this
she said and a great deal more, which had her character not been known,
would have led people to believe that her son was a spendthrift, and that
he and Anty were commencing life in an expensive way, and without means.
But then, the widow Kelly was known, and her speeches were only taken at
their value.

She so far relaxed, however, that she spent every Sunday at the house; on
which occasions she invariably dressed herself with all the grandeur she
was able to display, and passed the whole afternoon sitting on a sofa, with
her hands before her, trying to look as became a lady enjoying herself in a
fine drawing-room. Her Sundays were certainly not the comfort to her, which
they had been when spent at the inn; but they made her enjoy, with a keener
relish, the feeling of perfect sovereignty when she returned to her own
domains.

I have nothing further to tell of Mr and Mrs Kelly. I believe Doctor
Colligan has been once called in on an interesting occasion, if not twice;
so it is likely that Dunmore House will not be left without an heir.

I have also learned, on inquiry, that Margaret and Jane Kelly have both
arranged their own affairs to their own satisfaction.





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE KELLYS AND THE O'KELLYS ***

This file should be named kelly10.txt or kelly10.zip
Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, kelly11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, kelly10a.txt

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our Web sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03

Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

eBooks Year Month

    1  1971 July
   10  1991 January
  100  1994 January
 1000  1997 August
 1500  1998 October
 2000  1999 December
 2500  2000 December
 3000  2001 November
 4000  2001 October/November
 6000  2002 December*
 9000  2003 November*
10000  2004 January*


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information online at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*