THE KELLYS AND THE O'KELLYS

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

Contents

 I. The Trial II. The Two Heiresses III. Morrison's Hotel IV. The Dunmore Inn V. A Loving Brother VI. The Escape VII. Mr Barry Lynch Makes a Morning Call VIII. Mr Martin Kelly Returns to Dunmore IX. Mr Daly, the Attorney X. Dot Blake's Advice XI. The Earl of Cashel XII. Fanny Wyndham XIII. Father and Son XIV. The Countess XV. Handicap Lodge XVI. Brien Boru XVII. Martin Kelly's Courtship XVIII. An Attorney's Office in Connaught XIX. Mr Daly Visits the Dunmore Inn XX. Very Liberal XXI. Lord Ballindine at Home XXII. The Hunt XXIII. Dr Colligan XXIV. Anty Lynch's Bed-Side; Scene the First XXV. Anty Lynch's Bed-Side; Scene the Second XXVI. Love's Ambassador XXVII. Mr Lynch's Last Resource XXVIII. Fanny Wyndham Rebels XXIX. The Countess of Cashell in Trouble XXX. Lord Kilcullen Obeys His Father XXXI. The Two Friends XXXII. How Lord Kilcullen Fares in His Wooing XXXIII. Lord Kilcullen Makes Another Visit to the Book-Room XXXIV. The Doctor Makes a Clean Breast of It XXXV. Mr Lynch Bids Farewell to Dunmore XXXVI. Mr Armstrong Visits Grey Abbey on a Delicate Mission XXXVII. Veni; Vidi; ViciXXXVIII. Wait Till I Tell You XXXIX. It Never Rains but It Pours XL. Conclusion

I. THE TRIAL

During the first two months of the year 1844, the greatest possibleexcitement existed in Dublin respecting the State Trials, in whichMr O'Connell, [1] his son, the Editors of three different repealnewspapers, Tom Steele, the Rev. Mr Tierney--a priest who had takena somewhat prominent part in the Repeal Movement--and Mr Ray, theSecretary to the Repeal Association, were indicted for conspiracy. Those who only read of the proceedings in papers, which gave them asa mere portion of the news of the day, or learned what was going onin Dublin by chance conversation, can have no idea of the absorbinginterest which the whole affair created in Ireland, but more especiallyin the metropolis. Every one felt strongly, on one side or on theother. Every one had brought the matter home to his own bosom, andlooked to the result of the trial with individual interest andsuspense. 

 [FOOTNOTE 1: The historical events described here form a backdrop to the novel. Daniel O'Connell (1775-1847) came from a wealthy Irish Catholic family. He was educated in the law, which he practiced most successfully, and developed a passion for religious and political liberty. In 1823, together with Lalor Sheil and Thomas Wyse, he organized the Catholic Association, whose major goal was Catholic emancipation. This was achieved by act of parliament the following year. O'Connell served in parliament in the 1830's and was active in the passage of bills emancipating the Jews and outlawing slavery. In 1840 he formed the Repeal Association, whose goal was repeal of the 1800 Act of Union which joined Ireland to Great Britain. In 1842, after serving a year as Lord Mayor of Dublin, O'Connell challenged the British government by announcing that he intended to achieve repeal within a year. Though he openly opposed violence, Prime Minister Peel's government considered him a threat and arrested O'Connell and his associates in 1843 on trumped-up charges of conspiracy, sedition, and unlawfule assembly. They were tried in 1844, and all but one were convicted, although the conviction was later overturned in the House of Lords. O'Connell did serve some time in jail and was considered a martyr to the cause of Irish independence. ]

Even at this short interval Irishmen can now see how completely theyput judgment aside, and allowed feeling and passion to predominate inthe matter. Many of the hottest protestants, of the staunchest foesto O'Connell, now believe that his absolute imprisonment was not tobe desired, and that whether he were acquitted or convicted, theGovernment would have sufficiently shown, by instituting his trial, itsdetermination to put down proceedings of which they did not approve. Onthe other hand, that class of men who then styled themselves Repealersare now aware that the continued imprisonment of their leader--thepersecution, as they believed it to be, of "the Liberator" [2]--wouldhave been the one thing most certain to have sustained his influence, and to have given fresh force to their agitation. Nothing ever sostrengthened the love of the Irish for, and the obedience of the Irishto O'Connell, as his imprisonment; nothing ever so weakened his powerover them as his unexpected enfranchisement [3]. The country shoutedfor joy when he was set free, and expended all its enthusiasm in theeffort. 

 [FOOTNOTE 2: The Irish often referred to Daniel O'Connell as "the liberator. "]

 [FOOTNOTE 3: enfranchisement--being set free. This is a political observation by Trollope. ]

At the time, however, to which I am now referring, each party felt themost intense interest in the struggle, and the most eager desire forsuccess. Every Repealer, and every Anti-Repealer in Dublin felt thatit was a contest, in which he himself was, to a certain extent, individually engaged. All the tactics of the opposed armies, down tothe minutest legal details, were eagerly and passionately canvassed inevery 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 fraudulentomission of certain names from the lists of jurors; while those on theother were capable of proving the legality of choosing the jury fromthe names which were given, and stated most positively that theomissions were accidental. 

"The traversers" [4] were in everybody's mouth--a term heretoforeconfined to law courts, and lawyers' rooms. The Attorney-General, the Commander-in-Chief of the Government forces, was most virulentlyassailed; every legal step which he took was scrutinised and abused;every measure which he used was base enough of itself to hand down hisname to everlasting infamy. Such were the tenets of the Repealers. AndO'Connell and his counsel, their base artifices, falsehoods, delays, and unprofessional proceedings, were declared by the Saxon party to beequally abominable. 

 [FOOTNOTE 4: traversers--Trollope repeatedly refers to the defendants as "traversers. " The term probably comes from the legal term "to traverse, " which is to deny the charges against one in a common law proceeding. Thus, the traversers would have been those who pled innocent. ]

The whole Irish bar seemed, for the time, to have laid aside thehabitual _sang froid_ [5] and indifference of lawyers, and to haveemployed their hearts as well as their heads on behalf of the differentparties by whom they were engaged. The very jurors themselves for atime became famous or infamous, according to the opinions of thoseby whom their position was discussed. Their names and additions werepublished and republished; they were declared to be men who would standby their country and do their duty without fear or favour--so said theProtestants. By the Roman Catholics, they were looked on as perjurorsdetermined to stick to the Government with blind indifference to theiroaths. Their names are now, for the most part, forgotten, though solittle time has elapsed since they appeared so frequently before thepublic. 

 [FOOTNOTE 5: sang froid--(French) coolness in a trying situation, lack of excitability]

Every day's proceedings gave rise to new hopes and fears. The evidencerested chiefly on the reports of certain short-hand writers, who hadbeen employed to attend Repeal meetings, and their examinations andcross-examinations were read, re-read, and scanned with the minutestcare. 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 theday were standing an examination, and were candidates for some highhonour, which each was striving to secure. 

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

The press round the Four Courts [6], every morning before the doorswere open, was very great: and except by the favoured few who were ableto obtain seats, it was only with extreme difficulty and perseverance, that an entrance into the body of the Court could be obtained. 

 [FOOTNOTE 6: The Four Courts was a landmark courthouse in Dublin named for the four divisions of the Irish judicial system: Common Pleas, Chancery, Exchequer, and King's Bench. ]

It was on the eleventh morning of the proceedings, on the day on whichthe 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 ofthe Court, were still waiting there, with what patience was left tothem, after having been pressed and jostled for so long a time. RichardLalor Sheil, however, was to address the jury on behalf of Mr JohnO'Connell--and every one in Dublin knew that that was a treat not tobe lost. The two young men, too, were violent Repealers. The elder ofthem was a three-year-old denizen of Dublin, who knew the names ofthe contributors to the "Nation", who had constantly listened to theindignation and enthusiasm of O'Connell, Smith O'Brien, and O'NeillDaunt, in their addresses from the rostrum of the Conciliation Hall[7]; who had drank much porter at Jude's, who had eaten many oystersat Burton Bindon's, who had seen and contributed to many rows in theAbbey Street Theatre; who, during his life in Dublin, had done manythings which he ought not to have done, and had probably made asmany omissions of things which it had behoved him to do. He had thatknowledge of the persons of his fellow-citizens, which appears to be somuch more general in Dublin than in any other large town; he could tellyou the name and trade of every one he met in the streets, and was ajudge of the character and talents of all whose employments partook, inany degree, of a public nature. His name was Kelly; and, as his callingwas that of an attorney's clerk, his knowledge of character would bepeculiarly valuable in the scene at which he and his companion were soanxious to be present. 

 [FOOTNOTE 7: Conciliation Hall, Dublin, was built in 1843 as a meeting place for O'Connell's Repeal Association. ]

The younger of the two brothers, for such they were, was a somewhatdifferent character. Though perhaps a more enthusiastic Repealerthan his brother, he was not so well versed in the details of Repealtactics, or in the strength and weakness of the Repeal ranks. He was ayoung farmer, of the better class, from the County Mayo, where he heldthree or four hundred wretchedly bad acres under Lord Ballindine, andone or two other small farms, under different landlords. He was agood-looking young fellow, about twenty-five years of age, with thatmixture of cunning and frankness in his bright eye, which is so commonamong those of his class in Ireland, but more especially so inConnaught. 

The mother of these two young men kept an inn in the small town ofDunmore, and though from the appearance of the place, one would beled to suppose that there could not be in Dunmore much of that kindof traffic which innkeepers love, Mrs Kelly was accounted a warm, comfortable woman. Her husband had left her for a better world someten years since, with six children; and the widow, instead of makingcontinual use, as her chief support, of that common wail of being apoor, lone woman, had put her shoulders to the wheel, and had earnedcomfortably, by sheer industry, that which so many of her class, whensimilarly 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 agauger [8] in the north of Ireland. Her second son was the attorney'sclerk; and the farm had descended to Martin, the younger, whom we haveleft 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 moreof the circumstances of his family are narrated. 

 [FOOTNOTE 8: gauger--a British revenue officer often engaged in the collection of duties on distilled spirits. ]

Mrs Kelly had, after her husband's death, added a small grocer'sestablishment to her inn. People wondered where she had found the meansof supplying her shop: some said that old Mick Kelly must have hadmoney when he died, though it was odd how a man who drank so much couldever have kept a shilling by him. Others remarked how easy it was toget credit in these days, and expressed a hope that the wholesaledealer in Pill Lane might be none the worse. However this might be, the widow Kelly kept her station firmly and constantly behind hercounter, wore her weeds and her warm, black, stuff dress decently andbecomingly, 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 worldon their own shoulders. Martin still lived with his mother, though hisfarm lay four miles distant, on the road to Ballindine, and in anothercounty--for Dunmore is in County Galway, and the lands of Toneroe, asMartin's farm was called, were in the County Mayo. One of her threedaughters had lately been married to a shop-keeper in Tuam, and rumoursaid that he had got £500 with her; and Pat Daly was not the man tohave taken a wife for nothing. The other two girls, Meg and Jane, stillremained under their mother's wing, and though it was to be presumedthat they would soon fly abroad, with the same comfortable plumagewhich had enabled their sister to find so warm a nest, they wereobliged, 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 preferredthe indulgence of their throats to the blessing of Father Mathew. 

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

Kate, the other servant, was a red-legged lass, who washed thepotatoes, 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 positiveexception. Poor Kate was very ugly. Her hair had that appearance ofhaving been dressed by the turkey-cock, which is sometimes presented bythe heads of young women in her situation; her mouth extended nearlyfrom ear to ear; her neck and throat, which were always nearly bare, presented no feminine charms to view; and her short coarse petticoatshowed her red legs nearly to the knee; for, except on Sundays, sheknew not the use of shoes and stockings. But though Kate was ungainlyand ugly, she was useful, and grateful--very fond of the whole family, and particularly attached to the two young ladies, in whose behalf shedoubtless performed many a service, acceptable enough to them, but ofwhich, had she known of them, the widow would have been but littlelikely to approve. 

Such was Mrs. Kelly's household at the time that her son Martin leftConnaught to pay a short visit to the metropolis, during the period ofO'Connell's trial. But, although Martin was a staunch Repealer, and hadgone as far as Galway, and Athlone, to be present at the Monster RepealMeetings which had been held there, it was not political anxiety alonewhich led him to Dublin. His landlord; the young Lord Ballindine, wasthere; and, though Martin could not exactly be said to act as hislordship's agent--for Lord Ballindine had, unfortunately, a legalagent, with whose services his pecuniary embarrassments did notallow him to dispense--he was a kind of confidential tenant, andhis attendance had been requested. Martin, moreover, had a somewhatimportant piece of business of his own in hand, which he expected wouldtend greatly to his own advantage; and, although he had fully made uphis mind to carry it out if possible, he wanted, in conducting it, alittle of his brother's legal advice, and, above all, his landlord'ssanction. 

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

All particulars respecting Martin's intended--the amount of herfortune--her birth and parentage--her age and attractions--shall, in due time, be made known; or rather, perhaps, be suffered to makethemselves known. In the mean time we will return to the two brothers, who are still anxiously waiting to effect an entrance into the augustpresence 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 propermeans of getting correct information as to the amount of the lady'swealth, --her power to dispose of it by her own deed, --and certain otherparticulars always interesting to gentlemen who seek money and love atthe same time. John did not quite approve of the plan; there might havebeen a shade of envy at his brother's good fortune; there might besome doubt as to his brother's power of carrying the affair throughsuccessfully; but, though he had not encouraged him, he gave him theinformation he wanted, and was as willing to talk over the matter asMartin could desire. 

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

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

"And what'd be the good of his opening them yet, " answered John, "whena bigger man than himself an't there? Dan and the other boys isn't init yet, and sure all the twelve judges couldn't get on a peg withoutthem. "

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

"Faix and that's what he's not, Martin; no more than yourself, nor solikely, may-be. He's the traverser, as I told you before, and that'snot being a prisoner. If he were a prisoner, how did he manage to tellus 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 ownfree will and pleasure he'd come here to listen to all the lies themthundhering Saxon ruffians choose to say about him. "

"And why not? Why wouldn't he come here and vindicate himself? When youhear Sheil by and by, you'll see then whether they think themselveslikely to be prisoners! No--no; they never will be, av' there's a ghostof a conscience left in one of them Protesthant raps, that they'vepicked so carefully out of all Dublin to make jurors of. They can'tconvict 'em! I heard Ford, the night before last, offer four to onethat they didn't find the lot guilty; and he knows what he's about, andisn'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 adifference between them and the downright murdhering Tory set. Poor Tomdoesn't throuble the Church much; but you'll be all for Protesthantsnow, Martin, when you've your new brother-in-law. Barry used to be oneof 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 Catholicas ever breathed, and so was her mother before her; and when she's MrsKelly, as I mane to make her, Master Barry may shell out the cash andgo to heaven his own way for me. "

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

"Niver mind Sim, John! he's dead and gone; and av' he niver did a gooddeed before, he did one when he didn't lave all his cash to thatprecious 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. Idon't mane to squall, for one. I don't see why I need, with £400 a-yearin my pocket, and a good wife to the fore. "

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

"Av' it's not asking too much, might I throuble you, sir, to setanywhere else but on my shouldher?" This was addressed to a very fatcitizen, who was wheezing behind Martin, and who, to escape suffocationin the crowd, was endeavouring to raise himself on his neighbour'sshoulders. "And why the less said the better?--I wish yourself maynever have a worse. "

"I wish I mayn't, Martin, as far as the cash goes; and a man like memight 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 thatgets 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 herown people have always made nothing of her; that's what has madeeverybody else do the same. "

"Why, Martin, I know she's ten years older than Barry, and Barry'solder 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 the right side. But it's the wrong side withyou, Martin!"

"Well, John, now, by virtue of your oath, as you chaps say, wouldn'tyou marry a woman twice her age, av' she'd half the money?--Begad youwould, 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 wasover! 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--Iwouldn'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'tthink 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 Meglet slip something. The girls and Anty are thick as thiefs since oldSim died; though they couldn't be at the house much since Barry camehome, 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 forit. 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 acivil look for Anty, when she sees her. "

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

"'Deed then, John, and that's what I don't know. May-be I'll build upthe 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, beforeyou began to build it up!"

"May-be I'd build a new house, out and out. Av' I got three new lifesin the laise, I'd do that; and the lord wouldn't be refusing me, av' Iasked him. "

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

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

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

"And why not?"

"Why not! Don't you know Barry thinks himself one of the raal gentrynow? Any ways, he wishes others to think so. Why, he'd even himselfto Lord Ballindine av' he could! Didn't old Sim send him to the sameEnglish 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 bebrother-in-law to the son of the woman that keeps the little grocer'sshop in the village?--Not he! He'll soon be out of Dunmore when hehears what his sister's afther doing, and you'll have Dunmore House toyourselves then, av' you like it. "

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

"They'd not screech that way for the judges, my boy. It's thetraversers--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 haveas 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' theyare traversers now, they didn't dare but let them go in at the samedoor as the judges themselves. "

"Hurrah, Dan! More power to you! Three cheers for the traversers, andRepale 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 toyou, Sheil--sure you're a Right Honourable Repaler now, in spite ofGreenwich Hospital and the Board of Trade! More power, Gavan Duffy;you're the boy that'll settle 'em at last! Three cheers more for theLord Mayor, God bless him! Well, yer reverence, Mr Tierney!--nevermind, they could come to no good when they'd be parsecuting the likesof you! Bravo, Tom--Hurrah for Tom Steele!"

Such, and such like, were the exclamations which greeted thetraversers, and their _cortège_, as they drew up to the front of theFour Courts. Dan O'Connell was in the Lord Mayor's state carriage, accompanied by that high official; and came up to stand his trial forconspiracy and sedition, in just such a manner as he might be presumedto proceed to take the chair at some popular municipal assembly; andthis was just the thing qualified to please those who were on his ownside, 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 somuch as of the existing authorities of the law, which was wellqualified to have this double effect. 

And now the outer doors of the Court were opened, and the crowd--atleast as many as were able to effect an entrance--rushed in. Martinand John Kelly were among those nearest to the door, and, in reward oftheir long patience, got sufficiently into the body of the Court to bein a position to see, when standing on tiptoe, the noses of three ofthe 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, orinfluence enough to assume that they had so, that it was impossibleto obtain a more favourable situation. But this of itself was a greatdeal--quite sufficient to justify Martin in detailing to his Connaughtfriends every particular of the whole trial. They would probablybe able to hear everything; they could positively see three of thejudges, and if those two big policemen, with high hats, could by anypossibility be got to remove themselves, it was very probable thatthey would be able to see Sheil's back, when he stood up. 

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

"That's Ford--that's Gartlan--that's Peirce Mahony, " he exclaimed, asthe different attorneys for the traversers, furiously busy with theirhuge 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 ofall Dublin, and not one Catholic! As if that could be fair!" And thenhe named the different judges. "Look at that big-headed, pig-facedfellow on the right--that's Pennefather! He's the blackest sheep of thelot--and the head of them! He's a thoroughbred Tory, and as fit to be ajudge as I am to be a general. That queer little fellow, with the longchin, he's Burton--he's a hundred if he's a day--he was fifty when hewas called, seventy when they benched him, and I'm sure he's a judgethirty years! But he's the sharpest chap of the whole twelve, and noend of a boy afther the girls. If you only saw him walking in hisrobes--I'm sure he's not three feet high! That next, with the skinnyneck, he's Crampton--he's one of Father Mathews lads, an out and outteetotaller, and he looks it; he's a desperate cross fellow, sometimes!The other one, you can't see, he's Perrin. There, he's leaningover--you can just catch the side of his face--he's Perrin. It's he'llacquit 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 hisfront, who enforced his commands for silence, with a backward shove ofhis wooden truncheon, which came with rather unnecessary violenceagainst the pit of John's stomach. 

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

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

His speech was certainly brilliant, effective, and eloquent; but itsatisfied none that heard him, though it pleased all. It was neithera defence of the general conduct and politics of the party, such asO'Connell himself attempted in his own case, nor did it contain a chainof legal arguments to prove that John O'Connell, individually, hadnot been guilty of conspiracy, such as others of the counsel employedsubsequently in favour of their own clients. 

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

This spirit of turning the Court into a political debating arenaextended to all present. In spite of the vast efforts made by themall, only one of the barristers employed has added much to his legalreputation by the occasion. Imputations were made, such as I presumewere never before uttered by one lawyer against another in a court oflaw. 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 fourjudges with hardly a reprimand. If any seditious speech was ever madeby O'Connell, that which he made in his defence was especially so, andhe was, without check, allowed to use his position as a traverser atthe bar, as a rostrum from which to fulminate more thoroughly andpublicly than ever, those doctrines for uttering which he was thenbeing tried; and, to crown it all, even the silent dignity of thebench was forgotten, and the lawyers pleading against the Crown wereunhappily alluded to by the Chief Justice as the "gentlemen on the_other_ side. "

Martin and John patiently and enduringly remained standing the wholeday, 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 LordBallindine. 

As they walked along the quays they both discussed the proceedings ofthe day, and both expressed themselves positively certain of the resultof the trial, and of the complete triumph of O'Connell and his party. To these pleasant certainties Martin added his conviction, that Repealmust soon follow so decided a victory, and that the hopes of Irelandwould be realised before the close of 1844. John was neither sosanguine nor so enthusiastic; it was the battle, rather than the thingbattled 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 haveno usurping Government to abuse, no Saxon Parliament to upbraid, noEnglish laws to ridicule, and no Established Church to curse. 

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

Discussing these important measures, they reached the Dublin brother'slodgings, and Martin turned in to wash his face and hands, and put onclean 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, wastwenty-four years of age when he came into possession of the Ballindineproperty, and succeeded to an Irish peerage as the third viscount; andhe is now twenty-six, at this time of O'Connell's trial. The head ofthe family had for many years back been styled "The O'Kelly", and hadenjoyed much more local influence under that denomination than theirdescendants had possessed, since they had obtained a more substantialthough not a more respected title. The O'Kellys had possessed largetracts of not very good land, chiefly in County Roscommon, but partlyin Mayo and Galway. Their property had extended from Dunmore nearly toRoscommon, and again on the other side to Castlerea and Ballyhaunis. But this had been in their palmy days, long, long ago. When thegovernment, in consideration of past services, in the year 1800, converted "the O'Kelly" into Viscount Ballindine, the family propertyconsisted of the greater portion of the land lying between the villagesof Dunmore and Ballindine. Their old residence, which the peer stillkept up, was called Kelly's Court, and is situated in that corner ofCounty Roscommnon which runs up between Mayo and Galway. 

The first lord lived long enough to regret his change of title, and tolament the increased expenditure with which he had thought it necessaryto accompany his more elevated rank. His son succeeded, and showed inhis character much more of the new-fangled viscount than of the ancientO'Kelly. His whole long life was passed in hovering about the EnglishCourt. From the time of his father's death, he never once put his footin Ireland. He had been appointed, at different times from his youthupwards, Page, Gentleman in Waiting, Usher of the Black Rod, DeputyGroom of the Stole, Chief Equerry to the Princess Royal, (whichappointment only lasted till the princess was five years old), LordGold Stick, Keeper of the Royal Robes; till, at last, he had culminatedfor ten halcyon years in a Lord of the Bedchamber. In the latterportion of his life he had grown too old for this, and it was reportedat Ballindine, Dunmore, and Kelly's Court, --with how much truth I don'tknow, --that, since her Majesty's accession, he had been joined withthe spinster sister of a Scotch Marquis, and an antiquated EnglishCountess, in the custody of the laces belonging to the Queen Dowager. 

This nobleman, publicly useful as his life had no doubt been, had donelittle 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 thriftlessextravagance that he thus destroyed a property which, with care, andwithout extortion, would have doubled its value in the thirty-fiveyears during which it was in his hands; but he had been afraid to cometo 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 hisproperty, and look after his interests; and Simeon had managed it wellin that manner most conducive to the prosperity of the person he lovedbest in the world; and that was himself. When large tracts of land fellout of lease, Sim had represented that tenants could not be found--thatthe land was not worth cultivating--that the country was in a statewhich prevented the possibility of letting; and, ultimately put himselfinto possession, with a lease for ever, at a rent varying from half acrown to five shillings an acre. 

The courtier lord had one son, of whom he made a soldier, but who neverrose to a higher rank than that of Captain. About a dozen years beforethe date of my story, the Honourable Captain O'Kelly, after numerousquarrels with the Right Honourable Lord of the Bedchamber, had, atlast, come to some family settlement with him; and, having obtainedthe power of managing the property himself, came over to live at hispaternal residence of Kelly's Court. 

A very sorry kind of Court he found it, --neglected, dirty, and out ofrepair. One of the first retainers whom he met was Jack Kelly, thefamily fool. Jack was not such a fool as those who, of yore, werevalued appendages to noble English establishments. He resembled them innothing but his occasional wit. He was a dirty, barefooted, unshorn, ragged ruffian, who ate potatoes in the kitchen of the Court, and hadnever done a day's work in his life. Such as he was, however, he waspresented 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 butSim Lynch's, now. I and the lord are both Sim's fools now. Not but I'mthe first of the two, for I'd never be fool enough to give away all myland, av' my father'd been wise enough to lave me any. "

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

Kelly's Court was restored to such respectability as could ever belongto so ugly a place. It was a large red stone mansion, standing ina demesne of very poor ground, ungifted by nature with any beauty, and but little assisted by cultivation or improvement. A belt ofbald-looking firs ran round the demesne inside the dilapidated wall;but this was hardly sufficient to relieve the barren aspect of thelocality. Fine trees there were none, and the race of O'Kellys hadnever been great gardeners. 

Captain O'Kelly was a man of more practical sense, or of bettereducation, than most of his family, and he did do a good deal tohumanise the place. He planted, tilled, manured, and improved; heimported rose-trees and strawberry-plants, and civilised Kelly's Courta little. But his reign was not long. He died about five years after hehad begun his career as a country gentleman, leaving a widow and twodaughters in Ireland; a son at school at Eton; and an expensivelawsuit, with numerous ramifications, all unsettled. 

Francis, the son, went to Eton and Oxford, was presented at Court byhis grandfather, and came hack to Ireland at twenty-two, to idle awayhis time till the old lord should die. Till this occurred, he couldneither call himself the master of the place, nor touch the rents. Inthe meantime, the lawsuits were dropped, both parties having seriouslyinjured their resources, without either of them obtaining any benefit. Barry Lynch was recalled from his English education, where he had notshown off to any great credit; and both he and his father were obligedto sit down prepared to make the best show they could on eight hundredpounds a-year, and to wage an underhand internecine war with theO'Kellys. 

Simeon and his son, however, did not live altogether alone. AnastasiaLynch was Barry's sister, and older than him by about ten years. Theirmother had been a Roman Catholic, whereas Sim was a Protestant; and, inconsequence, the daughter had been brought up in the mother's, and theson in the father's religion. When this mother died, Simeon, no doubtout of respect to the memory of the departed, tried hard to induce hisdaughter to prove her religious zeal, and enter a nunnery; but this, Anty, though in most things a docile creature, absolutely refused todo. Her father advised, implored, and threatened; but in vain; and thepoor 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 diminishedproperty with such a fortune as would make her on that groundacceptable to any respectable suitor. 

Poor Anty led a miserable life, associating neither with superiorsnor inferiors, and her own position was not sufficiently declared toenable her to have any equals. She was slighted by her father and theservants, and bullied by her brother; and was only just enabled, byhumble, unpresuming disposition, to carry on her tedious life from yearto year without grumbling. 

In the meantime, the _ci-devant_ [9] Black Rod, Gold Stick, RoyalEquerry, and Lord of the Bedchamber, was called away from his robes andhis finery, to give an account of the manner in which he had renouncedthe pomps and vanities of this wicked world; and Frank became LordBallindine, with, as I have before said, an honourable mother, twosisters, a large red house, and a thousand a-year. He was not at alla man after the pattern of his grandfather, but he appeared as littlelikely to redeem the old family acres. He seemed to be a reviving chipof the old block of the O'Kellys. During the two years he had beenliving at Kelly's Court as Frank O'Kelly, he had won the hearts of allthe tenants--of all those who would have been tenants if the propertyhad not been sold, and who still looked up to him as their "raal youngmasther"--and of the whole country round. The "thrue dhrop of the ouldblood", was in his veins; and, whatever faults he might have, he wasn'tlikely to waste his time and his cash with furs, laces, and hangings. 

 [FOOTNOTE 9: ci-devant--(French) former, previous]

This was a great comfort to the neighbourhood, which had learnedheartily to despise the name of Lord Ballindine; and Frank wasencouraged in shooting, hunting, racing--in preparing to be a thoroughIrish gentleman, and in determining to make good the prophecies of hisfriends, that he would be, at last, one more "raal O'Kelly to brightenthe counthry. "

And if he could have continued to be Frank O'Kelly, or even "theO'Kelly", he would probably have done well enough, for he was fond ofhis mother and sisters, and he might have continued to hunt, shoot, andfarm on his remaining property without further encroaching on it. Butthe 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 asthe old man was buried, he bought a pack of harriers, and despatcheda couple of race-horses to the skilful hands of old Jack Igoe, theCurragh 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 hedyed 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 eyelike a hawk, round, bright, and bold; a mouth and chin almost too wellformed for a man; and that kind of broad forehead which conveys ratherthe idea of a generous, kind, open-hearted disposition, than of a deepmind or a commanding intellect. 

Frank was a very handsome fellow, and he knew it; and when he commencedso many ill-authorised expenses immediately on his grandfather's death, he consoled himself with the idea, that with his person and rank, hewould soon be able, by some happy matrimonial speculation, to make upfor 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 hedetermined upon looking out for great wealth; and on disregarding otherqualifications in his bride, so that he obtained that in sufficientquantity. He absolutely fell in love with Fanny Wyndham, though hertwenty thousand pounds was felt by him to be hardly enough to excusehim in doing so, --certainly not enough to make his doing so anaccomplishment of his prudential resolutions. What would twentythousand pounds do towards clearing the O'Kelly property, andestablishing himself in a manner and style fitting for a LordBallindine! However, he did propose to her, was accepted, and thematch, after many difficulties, was acceded to by the lady's guardian, the Earl of Cashel. It was stipulated, however, that the marriageshould not take place till the lady was of age; and at the time ofthe bargain, she wanted twelve months of that period of universaldiscretion. Lord Cashel had added, in his prosy, sensible, aristocraticlecture on the subject to Lord Ballindine, that he trusted that, duringthe interval, considering their united limited income, his lordshipwould see the wisdom of giving up his hounds, or at any rate ofwithdrawing from the turf. 

Frank pooh-poohed at the hounds, said that horses cost nothing inConnaught, and dogs less, and that he could not well do there withoutthem; but promised to turn in his mind what Lord Cashel had saidabout the turf; and, at last, went so far as to say that when a goodopportunity offered of backing out, he would part with Finn M'Coul andGranuell--as the two nags at Igoe's were patriotically denominated. 

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

Lord Cashel felt that he could not interfere, further than by remarkingthat it appeared his young friend was determined to leave the turf withéclat; and Fanny Wyndham could only be silent and reserved for oneevening. This occurred about four months before the commencement of mytale, and about five before the period fixed for the marriage; but, atthe time at which Lord Ballindine will be introduced in person to thereader, he had certainly made no improvement in his manner of goingon. He had, during this period, received from Lord Cashel a letterintimating to him that his lordship thought some further postponementadvisable; that it was as well not to fix any day; and that, thoughhis lordship would always be welcome at Grey Abbey, when his personalattendance was not required at the Curragh, it was better that nocorrespondence by letter should at present be carried on between himand Miss Wyndham; and that Miss Wyndham herself perfectly agreed in thepropriety 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 stayingat his friend's mansion, during the period of his attendance at therace-course; but since Lord Cashel had shown an entire absence ofinterest in the doings of Finn M'Coul, and Fanny had ceased to askafter Granuell's cough, he had discontinued doing so, and had spentmuch of his time at his friend Walter Blake's residence at the Curragh. Now, Handicap Lodge offered much more dangerous quarters for him thandid Grey Abbey. 

In the meantime, his friends in Connaught were delighted at theprospect of his bringing home a bride. Fanny's twenty thousand weremagnified to fifty, and the capabilities even of fifty were greatlyexaggerated; besides, the connection was so good a one, so exactlythe thing for the O'Kellys! Lord Cashel was one of the first residentnoblemen in Ireland, a representative peer, a wealthy man, andpossessed of great influence; not unlikely to be a cabinet minister ifthe Whigs came in, and able to shower down into Connaught a degree ofpatronage, such as had never yet warmed that poor unfriended region. And Fanny Wyndham was not only his lordship's ward, but his favouriteniece also! The match was, in every way, a good one, and greatlypleasing to all the Kellys, whether with an O or without, for "shurethey were all the one family. "

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

These quarrels had got to the ears of the neighbours, and it was beingcalculated 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 blowfell 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 powerof breaking it; but in vain. It was properly attested, though drawn upin the old man's own hand-writing; and his sister, whom he looked uponbut as little better than a head main-servant, had not only an equalright to all the property, but was equally mistress of the house, themoney at the bank, the wine in the cellar, and the very horses in thestable. 

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

He made many overtures to her as to the division of the property; but, easy and humble as Anty was, she was careful enough to put her name tonothing that could injure her rights. They had divided the money at thebanker's, and she had once rather startled Barry by asking him for hismoiety towards paying the butcher's bill; and his dismay was completedshortly afterwards by being informed, by a steady old gentlemanin Dunmore, whom he did not like a bit too well, that he had beenappointed by Miss Lynch to manage her business and receive her rents. 

As soon as it could be decently done, after his father's burial, Barrytook himself off to Dublin, to consult his friends there as to what heshould 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 shepreferred Dunmore. He then talked of selling the house, and to this sheagreed. He next tried to borrow money for the payment of his debts; onwhich she referred him to the steady old man. Though apparently docileand obedient, she would not put herself in his hands, nor would heragent allow him to take any unfair advantage of her. 

Whilst this was going on, our friend Martin Kelly had set his eye uponthe prize, and, by means of his sister's intimacy with Anty, and hisown good looks, had succeeded in obtaining from her half a promise tobecome his wife. Anty had but little innate respect for gentry; and, though she feared her brother's displeasure, she felt no degradation atthe idea of uniting herself to a man in Martin Kelly's rank. She couldnot, however, be brought to tell her brother openly, and declare herdetermination; and Martin had, at length, come to the conclusion thathe must carry her off, before delay and unforeseen changes might eitheralter her mind, or enable her brother to entice her out of the country. 

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

Both Martin and Lord Ballindine (and they were related in some distantdegree, at least so always said the Kellys, and I never knew that theO'Kellys denied it)--both the young men were, at the time, anxious toget married, and both with the same somewhat mercenary views; and Ihave fatigued the reader with the long history of past affairs, inorder to imbue him, if possible, with some interest in the ways andmeans 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, LordBallindine and his friend, Walter Blake, were lounging on differentsofas in a room at Morrison's Hotel, before they went up to dress fordinner. Walter Blake was an effeminate-looking, slight-made man, aboutthirty or thirty-three years of age; good looking, and gentlemanlike, but presenting quite a contrast in his appearance to his friend LordBallindine. He had a cold quiet grey eye, and a thin lip; and, thoughhe was in reality a much cleverer, he was a much less engaging man. YetBlake could be very amusing; but he rather laughed at people than withthem, and when there were more than two in company, he would usuallybe found making a butt of one. Nevertheless, his society was greatlysought after. On matters connected with racing, his word wasinfallible. He rode boldly, and always rode good horses; and, thoughhe was anything but rich, he managed to keep up a comfortable snuggeryat the Curragh, and to drink the very best claret that Dublin couldprocure. 

Walter Blake was a finished gambler, and thus it was, that with aboutsix hundred a year, he managed to live on equal terms with the richestaround him. His father, Laurence Blake of Castleblakeney, in CountyGalway, was a very embarrassed man, of good property, strictlyentailed, and, when Walter came of age, he and his father, who couldnever be happy in the same house, though possessing in most thingssimilar tastes, had made such a disposition of the estate, as gave thefather a clear though narrowed income, and enabled the son at once tostart into the world, without waiting for his father's death; though, by so doing, he greatly lessened the property which he must otherwisehave inherited. 

Blake was a thorough gambler, and knew well how to make the most of thenumerous chances which the turf afforded him. He had a large stud ofhorses, to the training and working of which he attended almost asclosely as the person whom he paid for doing so. But it was in thebetting-ring that he was most formidable. It was said, in KildareStreet, that no one at Tattersall's could beat him at a book. He hadlatterly been trying a wider field than the Curragh supplied him andhad, 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 sportingtree. 

He was commonly called "Dot Blake", in consequence of his having toldone of his friends that the cause of his, the friend's, losing so muchmoney 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 thenecessary calculations. For a short time after giving this piece offriendly caution, he had been nick-named, "Dot and carry on"; but thatwas too long to last, and he had now for some years been known to everysporting man in Ireland as "Dot" Blake. 

This man was at present Lord Ballindine's most intimate friend, and hecould hardly have selected a more dangerous one. They were now goingdown together to Handicap Lodge, though there was nothing to be done inthe way of racing for months to come. Yet Blake knew his business toowell to suppose that his presence was necessary only when the horseswere running; and he easily persuaded his friend that it was equallyimportant that he should go and see that it was all right with theDerby 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 mannamed Kelly wished to see Lord Ballindine. 

"Show him up, " said Frank. "A tenant of mine, Dot; one of therespectable few of that cattle, indeed, almost the only one that I'vegot; 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 respectablefellows, 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 asmuch bother about it, as the fellows in the next street who have yourtitle-deeds. When I want lawyer's business done, I go to a lawyer; andwhen I want to borrow money, I go to my own man of business; he makesit his business to find money, and he daren't rob me more than isdecent, fitting, and customary, because he has a character to lose. "

"Those fellows at Guinness's make such a fuss about everything; and Idon't put my nose into that little back room, but what every word Isay, 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'llmake money by being afraid of your agent; or your wife's guardian, ifshe is to be your wife. "

"Afraid, man? I'm as much afraid of Lord Cashel as you are. I don'tthink I've shown myself much afraid; but I don't choose to make him myguardian, 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'vethe 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'tmean to close his doors against you, what business has he to inquirewhere you came from? I suppose he doesn't like me a bit too well; butyou're not weak enough to be afraid to say that you've been at HandicapLodge?"

"The truth is, Dot, I don't think I'll go to Grey Abbey at all, tillFanny's of age. She only wants a month of it now; and then I can meetLord 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 hasset that old fellow so strong against horses. He won the Oaks twicehimself, and that not so very long ago; and his own son, Kilcullen, isdeeper a good deal on the turf than I am, and, by a long chalk lesslikely to pull through, as I take it. But here's the Connaught man onthe stairs, --I could swear to Galway by the tread of his foot!"--andMartin 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'spromotion. Peter Mahon, that was the agent at Castleblakeney, is nowthe biggest rogue alive in Connaught. "

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

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

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

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

"And why should you be sorry I'd speak against him? There's not morefriendship, I suppose, between you and Barry Lynch now, than there usedto be?"

"Why, not exactly frindship, my lord; but I've my rasons why I'd wishyou 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 anyof them an injury, except when I thrashed Barry at Eton, for callinghimself 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 onthe head; but, as it was dark, his blushes couldn't be seen. So, afterdangling 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 doworse. "

"Body and soul, man!" exclaimed the other, jumping from his recumbentposition on the sofa, "You don't mean to tell me you're going to marryAnty Lynch?"

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

"Object, man!--How the devil can I object? Why, she's six hundred ayear, 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 theworld!"

"Not much unless the last gale [10] to your lordship and we never paythat till next May. "

 [FOOTNOTE 10: gale--rent payment. Gale day was the day on which rent was due. ]

"And so you're going to marry Anty Lynch!" again repeated Frank, asthough 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 comeoff--and how you and Barry mean to hit it off together when you'rebrothers. 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 likeToneroe. 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. Ididn't say I was going to marry her--at laist, not for certain;--I onlysaid I might do worse. "

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

"Why, I don't know. I'll tell your lordship just how it is. You knowwhen 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 againimmediately, 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 andto chouse her out of the money. "

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

"Ah, my lord! that was just before sthrangers; besides, it's no usecalling one's own people bad names. Not that he belongs to me yet, andmay-be never will. But, between you and I, he is a rogue, and hisfather's son every inch of him. "

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

"Well, my lord, I'll tell you. You know there was always a kind offrindship between Anty and the girls at home, and they set her up togoing to old Moylan--he that receives the rents on young Barron'sproperty, away at Strype. Moylan's uncle to Flaherty, that marriedmother's sister. Well, she went to him--he's a kind of office atDunmore, my lord. "

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

"May-be 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. Youknow 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 Barrywas out, he went and took an inventhory to the house, and made outeverything square and right, and you may be sure Barry'd have toget 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 ofquestions--whether I knew Anty Lynch? whether we didn't used to begreat friends? and a lot more. I never minded him much; for though Iand Anty used to speak, and she'd dhrank tay on the sly with us two orthree times before her father's death, I'd never thought much abouther. "

"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 theother hand, I wouldn't marry her now for all her money, av' I didn'tmane to trate her well. Well, my lord, after beating about the bush fora long time, the ould thief popped it out, and told me that he thoughtAnty'd be all the betther for a husband; and that, av' I was wantinga wife, he b'lieved I might suit myself now. Well, I thought of ita little, and tould him I'd take the hint. The next day he comes tome again, all the way down to Toneroe, where I was walking the biggrass-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, ' saysI; 'and, as I mane to be her husband, I won't see her wronged neither. ''Ah! but, ' says he, 'I mane that I must see her property properlysettled. ' '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 ofthem 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 warto marry her. '--'Oh, I've made up my mind about that, Mr. Moylan, ' saysI. 'Well, av' it should come to pass that you do marry her--of courseyou'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 beenough for you to have a warm roof over your head, and a leg of muttonon the table every day, and no work to do for it?' and so, my lord, itcame out that the money was to be settled on herself, and that he wasto be her agent. "

"Well, Martin, after that, I think you needn't go to Sim Lynch, orBarry, for the biggest rogues in Connaught--to be settling the poorgirl's money between you that way!"

"Well, but listen, my lord. I gave in to the ould man; that is, I madeno objection to his schame. But I was determined, av' I ever did marryAnty Lynch, that I would be agent and owner too, myself, as long as Ilived; though in course it was but right that they should settle it sothat 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, theould fool might perhaps spoil the game; and I knew av' Anty married meat 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 soonfind his best game'd be to go asy. "

"Upon my soul, Martin, I think you seem to have been the sharpest rogueof 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 goodcompany. But let me hear how on earth you ever got face enough to go upand ask Anty Lynch to marry you. "

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

"He was another honest man, just now!"

"Only among sthrangers, my lord. I b'lieve he's a far-off cousin ofyour 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 Lordforgive me! but my first thoughts was how I'd like to pull down BarryLynch; and my second that I'd not demane myself by marrying the sistherof such an out-and-out ruffian, and that it wouldn't become me to liveon the money that'd been got by chating your lordship's grandfather. "

"My lordship's grandfather ought to have looked after that himself. Ifthose 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 wasrather shy about it at first; but the girls helped me. They put it intoher head, I think, before I mentioned it at all. However, by degrees, Iasked her plump, whether she'd any mind to be Mrs. Kelly? and, thoughshe didn't say 'yes, ' she didn't say 'no. '"

"But how the devil, man, did you manage to get at her? I'm told Barrywatches 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 downto mother's shop now and again. Or, for the matter of that, but what Icould make my way up to the house. "

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

"Ah, my lord! but there's the rub. She is afraid of Barry; and thoughshe 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 thereis in him for anybody to be fond of. He and his father led her thedivil's own life mewed up there, because she wouldn't be a nun. Butstill is both fond and afraid of him; and, though I don't think she'llmarry anybody else--at laist not yet awhile, I don't think she'll everget 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 yourlordship's advice and sanction, like. "

"Sanction! Why I shouldn't think you'd want anybody's sanction formarrying a wife with four hundred a-year. But, if that's anything toyou, 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 yourown first feeling. I'd be glad of it, if it were only for the rise itwould take out of my schoolfellow, Barry. Not but that I think you're adeal too good to be his brother-in-law. And you know, Kelly, or oughtto 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 sayingis. "

"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 ofSundays. "

"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 ofher, 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 aweazel, and I'm afeard he smells something in the wind. There's thatblackguard Moylan, too, he'd be telling Barry--and would, when he cameto find things weren't to be settled as he intended. "

"Then you must carry her off, and marry her up here, or in Galway ordown 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? Ithink you're quite right; and what's more, I think you ought to loseno 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 withher! 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, andI wouldn't like it to be thought in the counthry, I'd taken her at adisadvantage. It's thrue enough in one way, I'm marrying her for themoney; that is, in course, I wouldn't marry her without it. And I touldher, out open, before her face, and before the girls, that, av' she'dten times as much, I wouldn't marry her unless I was to be masther, aslong as I lived, of everything in my own house, like another man; and Ithink she liked me the betther for it. But, for all that, I wouldn'tlike to catch her up without having something fair done by theproperty. "

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

"That's thrue, my lord. But I wouldn't like the bad name I'd getthrough the counthry av' I whisked her off without letting her settleanything. They'd be saying I robbed her, whether I did or no: and whena thing's once said, it's difficult to unsay it. The like of me, mylord, can't do things like you noblemen and gentry. Besides, mother'dnever forgive me. They think, down there, that poor Anty's simplelike; tho' she's cute enough, av' they knew her. I wouldn't, for allthe money, wish it should be said that Martin Kelly ran off with afool, and robbed her. Barry 'd be making her out a dale more simplethan she is; and, altogether, my lord, I wouldn't like it. "

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

"Why, I was thinking, my lord, av' I could get some lawyer here to drawup a deed, just settling all Anty's property on herself when I die, andon her children, av' she has any, --so that I couldn't spend it youknow; she could sign it, and so could I, before we started; and thenI'd feel she'd been traited as well as tho' she'd all the friends inConnaught to her back. "

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

"But I'd look so quare, my lord, walking into a sthranger's room andexplaining what I wanted--all about the running away and everything. Tobe sure there's my brother John's people; they're attorneys; but it'sabout robberies, and hanging, and such things they're most engaged; andI was thinking, av' your lordship wouldn't think it too much throubleto give me a line to your own people; or, may-be, you'd say a word tothem 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, to-morrow, to MrBlake's lawyers--that's my friend that was sitting here--and I've nodoubt we'll get the matter settled. The Guinnesses, you know, do all mybusiness, and they're not lawyers. "

"Long life to your lordship, and that's just like yourself! I knewyou'd stick by me. And shall I call on you to-morrow, my lord? and atwhat time?"

"Wait! here's Mr Blake. I'll ask him, and you might as well meet methere. Grey and Forrest's 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 supposeI'm _de trop_ then. Only mind, dinner's ordered for half past six, andit's that now, and you're not dressed yet!"

"You're not _de trop_, and I was just wanting you. We're all friendshere, Kelly, you know; and you needn't mind my telling Mr Blake. Here'sthis fellow going to elope with an heiress from Connaught, and hewants a decently honest lawyer first. "

"I should have thought, " said Blake, "that an indecently dishonestclergyman would have suited him better under those circumstances. "

"May-be 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, Ithink Forrest would serve his turn. "

"I've always found Mr Forrest ready to do anything in the way of hisprofession--for money. "

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

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

"Well, he'd see me to-morrow, wouldn't he?" said Lord Ballindine. 

"Of course he would. But mind, we're to be off early. We ought to be atthe 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 shouldmeet him there at that hour; and Kelly took his leave, much relieved onthe subject nearest his heart. 

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

"Indeed I've not, then. "

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

"And so he will, and it'll be a great temptation to me to know where Ican get it so easily. But he was telling me all about this woman beforeI thought of my own concerns--and I didn't like to be talking to him ofwhat I wanted myself, when he'd been asking a favour of me. It would betoo 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 thebest system to go by. I never do, or ask, _a favour_; that is, forwhatever I do, I expect a return; and for whatever I get, I intend tomake one. "

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

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

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

"There's many reasons for that. In the first place, I haven't anestate; in the second, I haven't a mother; in the third, I haven't apack 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 mymother, she has her own jointure; as for the hounds, they eat my ownpotatoes; and as for the title, I don't support it. But I haven't yourluck, 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 enoughtill that happy accident occurs. But, as far as luck goes, you've hadmore 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'snecessary to my style of living, you spend yours on what's notnecessary. What the deuce have the fellows in Mayo and Roscommon donefor 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 theseason? I suppose you don't keep the horses and men for nothing, if youdo the dogs; and I much doubt whether they're not the dearest part ofthe bargain. "

"Of course they cost something; but it's the only thing I can do forthe country; and there were always hounds at Kelly's Court till mygrandfather got the property, and they looked upon him as no betterthan an old woman, because he gave them up. Besides, I suppose I shallbe living at Kelly's Court soon, altogether, and I could never get onthen without hounds. It's bad enough, as it is. "

"I haven't a doubt in the world it's bad enough. I know whatCastleblakeney is. But I doubt your living there. I've no doubt you'lltry; that is, if you _do_ marry Miss Wyndham; but she'll be sick ofit 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, forthirty or forty years, as far as Ireland's concerned. You'll never dofor 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 decentnobleman with such a fortune as Lord Cashel's. But your game, if youlived on your own property, would be a very difficult one, and one forwhich you've neither tact nor temper. "

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

"My dear Lord Ballindine; all poor men are curses, to themselves orsome one else. "

"A poor absentee's the worst of all. He leaves nothing behind, and canleave nothing. He wants all he has for himself; and, if he doesn't givehis neighbours the profit which must arise somewhere, from his ownconsumption, he can give nothing. A rich man can afford to leave threeor 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 notinflict it on a poor devil waiting for his dinner. At present, giveyour profit to Morrison, and come and consume some mock-turtle; andI'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 fordinner. By the time that he had eaten his soup, and drank a glass ofwine, he had got rid of the fit of blue devils which the thoughtsof his poverty had brought on, and he spent the rest of the eveningcomfortably enough, listening to his friend's comical version ofShell's speech; receiving instruction from that great master of the artas to the manner in which he should treat his Derby colt, and beingflattered into the belief that he would be a prominent favourite forthat great race. 

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

Blake was soon busy with his little betting-book, and Lord Ballindinefollowed his example. Brien Boru was, before long, in great demand. Blake took fifty to one, and then talked the horse up till he ended bygiving twenty-five. He was soon ranked the first of the Irish lot; andthe success of the Hibernians had made them very sanguine of late. LordBallindine found himself the centre of a little sporting circle, asbeing 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 clubhe was again nearly forgetting Kelly's Court and Miss Wyndham, hadaltogether got rid of his patriotic notions as to the propriety ofliving on his own estate, had determined forthwith to send Brien Boruover to Scott's English stables; and then, went to bed, and dreamedthat he was a winner of the Derby, and was preparing for the glories ofNewmarket with five or six thousand pounds in his pocket. 

Martin Kelly dined with his brother at Jude's, and spent his eveningequally unreasonably; at least, it may be supposed so from the factthat at one o'clock in the morning he was to be seen standing on one ofthe tables at Burton Bindon's oyster-house, with a pewter pot, full ofporter, in his hand, and insisting that every one in the room shoulddrink the health of Anty Lynch, whom, on that occasion, he swore to bethe 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 theeffect of preventing the accomplishment of his design. 

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

That afternoon Lord Ballindine left Dublin, with his friend, to makeinstant arrangements for the exportation of Brien Boru; and, at twoo'clock the next day, Martin left, by the boat, for Ballinaslie, havingevinced his patriotism by paying a year's subscription in advance tothe "Nation" newspaper, and with his mind fully made up to bring Antyaway 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 verymuch inebriated indeed. However young she might have been once, she wasnever pretty; but, in all Ireland, there was not a more single-hearted, simple-minded 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 ownvalue, and unelated by her newly acquired wealth. 

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

So she had remained at home, and had inured herself to bear withoutgrumbling, or thinking that she had cause for grumbling, the petulanceof her father, and the more cruel harshness and ill-humour of herbrother. In all the family schemes of aggrandisement she had been setaside, and Barry had been intended by the father as the scion on whomall the family honours were to fall. His education had been expensive, his allowance liberal, and his whims permitted; while Anty was neverbetter dressed than a decent English servant, and had been taughtnothing save the lessons she had learnt from her mother, who died whenshe was but thirteen. 

Mrs Lynch had died before the commencement of Sim's palmy days. Theyhad seen no company in her time, --for they were then only risingpeople; and, since that, the great friends to whom Sim, in his wealth, had attached himself, and with whom alone he intended that Barryshould associate, were all of the masculine gender. He gave bachelordinner-parties to hard-drinking young men, for whom Anty was wellcontented to cook; and when they--as they often, from the effect oftheir potations, were perforce obliged to do--stayed the night atDunmore House, Anty never showed herself in the breakfast parlour, but boiled the eggs, made the tea, and took her own breakfast in thekitchen. 

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 wasvery generally given out that she was not so wise as her neighbours;and the father and brother took no pains to deny the rumour. Theinhabitants of the village knew better; the Lynches were very generallydisliked, and the shameful way "Miss Anty was trated, " was oftendiscussed in the little shops; and many of the townspeople were readyto 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 diedbefore destroying it, as he doubtless would have done, when his passionwas over. 

Great was the surprise of every one concerned, and of many who werenot at all concerned, when it was ascertained that Anty Lynch was anheiress, and that she was now possessed of four hundred poundsa-year in her own right; but the passion of her brother, it wouldbe impossible to describe. He soon, however, found that it was tooliterally true, and that no direct means were at hand, by which hecould deprive his sister of her patrimony. The lawyer, when he informedAnty of her fortune and present station, made her understand that shehad an equal right with her brother in everything in the house; andthough, at first, she tacitly acquiesced in his management, she was notat all simple enough to be ignorant of the rights of possession, orweak enough to relinquish them. 

Barry soon made up his mind that, as she had and must have theproperty, all he could now do was to take care that it should revert tohim 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 hesoon changed his conduct, and endeavoured to flatter her into docilityat one moment, and to frighten her into obedience in the next. 

He soon received another blow which was also a severe one. Moylan, theold man who proposed the match to Martin, called on him, and showed himthat Anty had appointed him her agent, and had executed the necessarylegal documents for the purpose. Upon this subject he argued for along time with his sister, --pointing out to her that the old man wouldsurely rob her--offering to act as her agent himself--recommendingothers as more honest and fitting--and, lastly, telling her that shewas 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 itmay appear, she even loved him. She begged him not to quarrel withher, --promised to do everything to oblige him, and answered his wrathwith gentleness; but it was of no avail. Barry knew that her agent wasa plotter--that he would plot against his influence--though he littleguessed then what would be the first step Moylan would take, or howlikely it would be, if really acted on, to lead to his sister's comfortand happiness. After this, Barry passed two months of great misery andvexation. He could not make up his mind what to do, or what final stepsto take, either about the property, his sister, or himself. At first, he thought of frightening Moylan and his sister, by pretending thathe would prove Anty to be of weak mind, and not fit to manage her ownaffairs, and that he would indict the old man for conspiracy; but hefelt 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 sisterto the dogs, or any one who might choose to rob her, and go and liveabroad. Then he thought, if his sister should die, what a pity it wouldbe, he should lose it all, and how he should blame himself, if she wereto die soon after having married some low adventurer; and he reflected;how probable such a thing would be--how likely that such a man wouldsoon 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, andruminating on it, and determining that it was the only event whichcould set him right. His own debts would swallow up half his presentproperty; and how could he bring himself to live on the pitifulremainder, when that stupid idiot, as he called her to himself, hadthree times more than she could possibly want? Morning after morning, he walked about the small grounds round the house, with his hat overhis eyes, and his hands tossing about the money in his pockets, thinking of this, --cursing his father, and longing--almost praying forhis sister's death. Then he would have his horse, and flog the poorbeast along the roads without going anywhere, or having any object inview, 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 ofhis ever possessing it. He began to imagine all the circumstances whichmight lead to her death; he thought of all the ways in which personssituated as she was, might, and often did, die. He reflected, withoutknowing that he was doing so, on the probability of robbers breakinginto the house, if she were left alone in it, and of their murderingher; he thought of silly women setting their own clothes on fire--oftheir falling out of window--drowning themselves--of their perishingin a hundred possible but improbable ways. It was after he had beendrinking a while, that these ideas became most vivid before his eyes, and seemed like golden dreams, the accomplishment of which he couldhardly wish for. And, at last, as the fumes of the spirit gave himcourage, other and more horrible images would rise to his imagination, and the drops of sweat would stand on his brow as he would inventschemes by which, were he so inclined, he could accelerate, withoutdetection, the event for which he so ardently longed. With suchthoughts would he turn into bed; and though in the morning he would tryto dispel the ideas in which he had indulged overnight, they still lefttheir impression on his mind;--they added bitterness to his hatred--andmade him look on himself as a man injured by his father and sister, andthink that he owed it to himself to redress his injuries by someextraordinary means. 

It was whilst Barry Lynch was giving way to such thoughts as these, andvainly endeavouring to make up his mind as to what he would do, thatMartin made his offer to Anty. To tell the truth, it was Martin'ssister Meg who had made the first overture; and, as Anty had notrejected it with any great disdain, but had rather shown a dispositionto talk about it as a thing just possible, Martin had repeated it inperson, and had reiterated it, till Anty had at last taught herself tolook upon it as a likely and desirable circumstance. Martin had behavedopenly and honourably with regard to the money part of the business;telling his contemplated bride that it was, of course, her fortunewhich had first induced him to think of her; but adding, that he wouldalso value her and love her for herself, if she would allow him. Hedescribed to her the sort of settlement he should propose, and ended byrecommending an early day for the wedding. 

Anty had sense enough to be pleased at his straightforward and honestmanner; and, though she did not say much to himself, she said a greatdeal 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 describedto Lord Ballindine. Anty wanted to wait till her brother should go outof the country, and Martin was afraid that he would not go; and thingswere in this state when he started for Dublin. 

The village of Dunmore has nothing about it which can especiallyrecommend it to the reader. It has none of those beauties of naturewhich have taught Irishmen to consider their country as the "firstflower of the earth, and first gem of the sea". It is a dirty, raggedlittle town, standing in a very poor part of the country, with nothingabout it to induce the traveller to go out of his beaten track. It ison no high road, and is blessed with no adventitious circumstances toadd to its prosperity. 

It was once the property of the O'Kellys; but, in those times thelanded proprietors thought but little of the towns; and now it isparcelled out among different owners, some of whom would think it follyto throw away a penny on the place, and others of whom have not a pennyto throw away. It consists of a big street, two little streets, and afew very little lanes. There is a Court-house, where the barrister sitstwice a year; a Barrack, once inhabited by soldiers, but now given upto the police; a large slated chapel, not quite finished; a few shopsfor soft goods; half a dozen shebeen-houses [11], ruined by FatherMathew; 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, builtjust at the edge of the town, on the road to Roscommon, which isdignified with the name of Dunmore House. The people of most influencein the village were Mrs. Kelly of the inn, and her two sworn friends, the parish priest and his curate. The former, Father Geoghegan, livedabout three miles out of Dunmore, near Toneroe; and his curate, FatherPat Connel, inhabited one of the small houses in the place, very littlebetter in appearance than those which offered accommodation totravellers and trampers. 

 [FOOTNOTE 11: shebeen-houses--unlicensed drinking houses, where un-taxed ("moonshine") liquor was often served]

Such was, and is, the town of Dunmore in the county of Galway; and Imust beg the reader to presume himself to be present there with me onthe 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 inthe shop, which occupied the most important part of the ground-floorof the inn. It was a long, scrambling, ugly-looking house. Next to theshop, and opening out of it, was a large drinking-room, furnished withnarrow benches and rickety tables; and here the more humble of Mrs. Kelly's guests regaled themselves. On the other side of this, was thehall, or passage of the house; and, next to that again, a large, dingy, dark kitchen, over which Sally reigned with her teapot dynasty, and inwhich were always congregated a parcel of ragged old men, boys, andnoisy women, pretending to be busy, but usually doing but little good, and attracted by the warmth of the big fire, and the hopes of somescraps of food and drink. 

"For the widow Kelly--God bless her! was a thrue Christhian, and didn'tbegrudge the poor--more power to her--like some upstarts who might liveto be in want yet, glory be to the Almighty!"

The difference of the English and Irish character is nowhere moreplainly discerned than in their respective kitchens. With the former, this apartment is probably the cleanest, and certainly the mostorderly, in the house. It is rarely intruded into by those unconnected, in some way, with its business. Everything it contains is underthe vigilant eye of its chief occupant, who would imagine it quiteimpossible to carry on her business, whether of an humble orimportant nature, if her apparatus was subjected to the hands of theunauthorised. An Irish kitchen is devoted to hospitality in every senseof the word. Its doors are open to almost all loungers and idlers; andthe chances are that Billy Bawn, the cripple, or Judy Molloy, the deafold hag, are more likely to know where to find the required utensilthan the cook herself. It is usually a temple dedicated to the goddessof disorder; and, too often joined with her, is the potent deity ofdirt. It is not that things are out of their place, for they have noplace. It isn't that the floor is not scoured, for you cannot scour drymud into anything but wet mud. It isn't that the chairs and tables lookfilthy, for there are none. It isn't that the pots, and plates, andpans 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 ortwo unearthly-looking recesses, a heap of potatoes in the corner, apile of turf against the wall, two pigs and a dog under the singledresser, three or four chickens on the window-sill, an old cockmoaning on the top of a rickety press, and a crowd of ragged garments, squatting, standing, kneeling, and crouching, round the fire, fromwhich issues a babel of strange tongues, not one word of which is atfirst intelligible to ears unaccustomed to such eloquence. 

And yet, out of these unfathomable, unintelligible dens, proceed in duetime dinners, of which the appearance of them gives no promise. Such akitchen was Mrs. Kelly's; and yet, it was well known and attested bythose who had often tried the experiment, that a man need think it nomisfortune to have to get his dinner, his punch, and his bed, at thewidow's. 

Above stairs were two sitting-rooms and a colony of bed-rooms, occupiedindiscriminately by the family, or by such customers as might requirethem. If you came back to dine at the inn, after a day's shooting onthe bogs, you would probably find Miss Jane's work-box on the table, orMiss Meg's album on the sofa; and, when a little accustomed to sojournat such places, you would feel no surprise at discovering theirdresses 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 yourdressing-table. 

On the morning in question, the widow and her daughters were engagedin the shop, putting up pen'norths of sugar, cutting bits of tobacco, tying bundles of dip candles, attending to chance customers, andpreparing for the more busy hours of the day. It was evident thatsomething had occurred at the inn, which had ruffled the even tenor ofits way. The widow was peculiarly gloomy. Though fond of her children, she was an autocrat in her house, and accustomed, as autocrats usuallyare, to scold a good deal; and now she was using her tongue prettyfreely. It wasn't the girls, however, she was rating, for they couldanswer for themselves;--and did, when they thought it necessary. Butnow, they were demure, conscious, and quiet. Mrs. Kelly was denouncingone of the reputed sins of the province to which she belonged, anddescribing the horrors of "schaming. "

"Them underhand ways, " she declared, "niver come to no good. Av' it'sthrue what Father Connel's afther telling me, there'll harum come ofit before it's done and over. Schaming, schaming, and schaming foriver! The back of my hand to such doings! I wish the tongue had beenout of Moylan's mouth, the ould rogue, before he put the thing in hishead. Av' he wanted the young woman, and she was willing, why nottake her in a dacent way, and have done with it. I'm sure she's ouldenough. But what does he want with a wife like her?--making innimiesfor himself. I suppose he'll be sitting up for a gentleman now--badcess 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 aturn of work. I hate such huggery muggery work up in a corner. It'shalf your own doing; and a nice piece of work it'll be, when he's gotan ould wife and a dozen lawsuits!--when he finds his farm gone, andhis pockets empty; for it'll be a dale asier for him to be getting thewife than the money--when he's got every body's abuse, and nothingelse, by his bargain!"

It was very apparent that Martin's secret had not been well kept, andthat the fact of his intended marriage with Anty Lynch was soon likelyto be known to all Dunmore. The truth was, that Moylan had begun tothink himself overreached in the matter--to be afraid that, by the verymeasure he had himself proposed, he would lose all share in the greatprize he had put in Martin's way, and that he should himself be themeans of excluding his own finger from the pie. It appeared to him thatif he allowed this, his own folly would only be equalled by the youngman's ingratitude; and he determined therefore, if possible, to preventthe match. Whereupon he told the matter as a secret, to those whom heknew would set it moving. In a very short space of time it reached theears of Father Connel; and he lost none in stepping down to learn thetruth of so important a piece of luck to one of his parishioners, andto 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'tbe true; and it was only after his departure that she succeeded inextracting the truth from her daughters. 

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

Crone after crone, and cripple after cripple, hurried into the shop, tocongratulate the angry widow on "masther Martin's luck; and warn't heworthy 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 grinnedher 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 thingenough for Anty Lynch, with all her money, to get a husband at all outof the Kellys, for the divil a know any one knowed in the counthrywhere the Lynchs come from; but every one knowed who the Kellyswor--and Martin wasn't that far from the lord himself. "

There was great commotion, during the whole day, at the inn. Some saidMartin had gone to town to buy furniture; others, that he had done soto 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, andhave 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 notdisposed to receive the information with much satisfaction, and thiswas Barry Lynch, the proposed bride's amiable brother. The mediumthrough which he first heard it was not one likely to add to his goodhumour. Jacky, the fool, had for many years been attached to theKelly's Court family; that is to say, he had attached himself to it, bygetting his food in the kitchen, and calling himself the lord's fool. But, latterly, he had quarrelled with Kelly's Court, and had insistedon 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 throughthe street, and being continually found at the house-door when he wentout. Jack's attendance was certainly dictated by affection rather thanany mercenary views, for he never got a scrap out of the Dunmore Housekitchen, or a halfpenny from his new patron. But still, he was Barry'sfool; 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 Jackyto-day. You'll not forget your own fool, Mr. Barry?"

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

"Shure your honour, Mr. Barry, isn't this the time then to open yerhonour's hand, when Miss Anty, God bless her, is afther making sich agreat 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 agreat thing for Miss Anty, to be sib to a lord? Shure yer honour'd notbe refusing me this blessed day. "

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

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

Barry was frightened in earnest, now. It struck him at once that Jackcouldn't have made the story out of his own head; and the idea thatthere was any truth in it, nearly knocked him off his horse. He rodeon, however, trying to appear to be regardless of what had been said tohim; 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 happento him, this would be about the worst. He had often thought, withdread, of his sister's marrying, and of his thus being forced to divideeverything--all his spoil, with some confounded stranger. But for herto marry a shopkeeper's son, in the very village in which he lived, wasmore than he could bear. He could never hold up his head in the countyagain. And then, he thought of his debts, and tried to calculatewhether he might get over to France without paying them, and be able tocarry his share of the property with him; and so he went on, pursuinghis wretched, uneasy, solitary ride, sometimes sauntering along at asnail's pace, and then again spurring the poor brute, and endeavouringto bring his mind to some settled plan. But, whenever he did so, theidea of his sister's death was the only one which seemed to presenteither comfort or happiness. 

He made up his mind, at last, to put a bold face on the matter; to findout 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 todeceive him, --to frighten her and the whole party of the Kellys out ofwhat he considered a damnable conspiracy to rob him of his father'sproperty, He got off his horse, and stalked into the house. On inquiry, he foundthat Anty was in her own room. He was sorry she was not out; for, totell the truth, he was rather anxious to put off the meeting, as hedid not feel himself quite up to the mark, and was ashamed of seemingafraid of her. He went into the stable, and abused the groom; into thekitchen, and swore at the maid; and then into the garden. It was anasty, cold, February day, and he walked up and down the damp muddywalks till he was too tired and cold to walk longer, and then turnedinto the parlour, and remained with his back to the fire, till the mancame in to lay the cloth, thinking on the one subject that occupied allhis mind--occasionally grinding his teeth, and heaping curses on hisfather and sister, who, together, had inflicted such grievous, suchunexpected injuries upon him. 

If, at this moment, there was a soul in all Ireland over whom Satan hadfull dominion--if there was a breast unoccupied by one good thought--ifthere was a heart wishing, a brain conceiving, and organs ready toexecute all that was evil, from the worst motives, they were to befound in that miserable creature, as he stood there urging himself onto hate those whom he should have loved--cursing those who were nearestto him--fearing her, whom he had ill-treated all his life--and strivingto pluck up courage to take such measures as might entirely quellher. Money was to him the only source of gratification. He had lookedforward, when a boy, to his manhood, as a period when he might indulge, unrestrained, in pleasures which money would buy; and, when a man, tohis father's death, as a time when those means would be at his fullcommand. He had neither ambition, nor affection, in his nature; hisfather had taught him nothing but the excellence of money, and, havingfully 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 couldnot 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 hissolitary meal. He did not eat much, but he gulped down three or fourglasses of wine; and, immediately on having done so, he desired theservant, with a curse, to bring him hot water and sugar, and not tokeep 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, hethreatened to turn him out of the house at once, if he was not quickerin 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 toscald his throat; and when that was done he again rang the bell, anddesired 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 courageduring the interview, and made up his mind that nothing should daunthim from preventing the marriage, in one way or another. When Antyopened the door, he was again standing with his back to the fire, hishands in his pockets, the flaps of his coat hanging over his arms, hisshoulders against the mantel-piece, and his foot on the chair on whichhe had been sitting. His face was red, and his eyes were somewhatblood-shot; he had always a surly look, though, from his black hair, and large bushy whiskers, many people would have called him goodlooking; but now there was a scowl in his restless eyes, whichfrightened Anty when she saw it; and the thick drops of perspirationon 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 hearjust 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, whichhe banged open; finding no victim outside on whom to exercise hiswrath--"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 thefireplace, and Barry remained for a minute, thinking how he'd open thecampaign. At last he began:

"Anty, look you here, now. What scheme have you got in yourhead?--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 Antyblushed. It would evidently be easy enough to make the poor girl tellher own secret. 

"Well, go on--at laist--"

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

"It's evident you're going to do something you're ashamed of, whenyou're afraid to sit still, and answer a common question. But you mustanswer me. I'm your brother, and have a right to know. What's thisyou're going to do?' He didn't like to ask her at once whether she wasgoing to get married. It might not be true, and then he would only beputting the idea into her head. 'Well, --why don't you answer me? Whatis 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'regoing 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 andweak-headed to manage it yourself; and I mean, as your guardian, to putit into the hands of those that shall manage it for you. I'm not goingto see you robbed and duped, and myself destroyed by such fellows asMoylan, 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 withfear--for Barry's face was very red, and full of fierce anger, and hisrough words frightened her. 

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

"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 callyours. Tell me, at once, will you--is it true, that you've promised tomarry him?"

Anty replied nothing, but continued sobbing violently. 

"Cease your nonsense, you blubbering fool! A precious creature youare 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 toher as she sat upon the sofa. "Are you going to answer me or not?" hecontinued, stamping on the floor. 

"I'll not stop here--and be trated this way--Barry--I'm sure--I do allI--I can for you--and you're always--bullying me because father dividedthe property. " And Anty continued sobbing more violently than ever. "Iwon'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 thelock, and put the key in his pocket; and then he caught her arm, as sheattempted 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 thinkyou're to marry whom you please, without even telling me of it? Whatd'you think the world would say of me, if I were to let such an idiotas you be caught up by the first sharper that tried to rob you of yourmoney? Now, look here, " and he sat down beside her, and laid his handviolently 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 thecross, that you'll never marry without my consent; and you'll give methat 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 sheshouldn'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, thatthe servants had not heard, or had not heeded his sister, he determinedto carry on his game, now that he had 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 gagyou. It's a great deal I'm asking, indeed--that, when I'm your onlyguardian, my advice should be asked for before you throw away yourmoney on a low ruffian. You're more fit for a mad-house than to be anyman's wife; and, by Heaven, that's where I'll put you, if you don'tgive me the promise I ask! Will you swear you'll marry no one withoutmy leave?"

Poor Anty shook with fear as she sate, with her eyes fixed on herbrother's face. He was nearly drunk now, and she felt that he wasso, --and he looked so hot and so fierce--so red and cruel, that shewas all but paralysed. Nevertheless, she mustered strength to say, "Let me go, now, Barry, and, to-morrow, I'll tell youeverything--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 frightedme. "

"You're likely to be more frighted yet, as you call it! And be trampingalong 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 thelove 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 haveyou there in the morning--as an idiot as you are, if you won't make thepromise I'm telling you!"

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

Barry was quite drunk now. Had he not been so, even he would hardlyhave done what he then did. As she endeavoured to rush by him, heraised his fist, and struck her on the face, with all his force. Theblow fell upon her hands, as they were crossed over her face; but theforce 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 tohimself, "the d----l seize her! What am I to do now?" and he succeededin dragging her on to the sofa. 

The man-servant and the cook although up to this point, they hadconsidered it would be ill manners to interrupt the brother and sisterin their family interview, were nevertheless at the door; and thoughthey could see nothing, and did not succeed in hearing much, were notthe less fully aware that the conversation was of a somewhat stormynature on the part of the brother. When they heard the noise whichfollowed the blow, though not exactly knowing what had happened, theybecame frightened, and began to think something terrible was beingdone. 

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

"What 'ud he do to me thin, av' he'd strick a woman, and she his ownflesh and blood! He'll not murdher her--but, faix, he's afther doingsomething now! Knock, Biddy, knock, I say, and screech out that you'reafther 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 thedoor, and, as she did so, Terry sneaked away to the kitchen. 

Barry had just succeeded in raising his sister to the sofa as he heardthe 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; inGod's name, spake thin. Ah! Mr. Barry, thin, shure she'd spake av' shewere able. "

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

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

She soon came to herself, and, excepting that her head was bruisedin the fall, was not much hurt. The blow, falling on her hands, hadneither cut nor marked her; but she was for a long time so flurriedthat she did not know where she was, and, in answer to all Biddy'stender inquiries as to the cause of her fall, and anathemas as to themaster's bad temper, merely said that "she'd get to bed, for her headached so, she didn't know where she was. "

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

After wandering about round the house and through the grounds, forabove an hour, Barry returned, half sobered, to the room; but, in hispresent state of mind, he could not go to bed sober. He ordered morehot water, and again sat down alone to drink, and drown the remorse hewas beginning to feel for what he had done--or rather, not remorse, butthe 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 thepresent, was in drink. There he sat, for a long time, with his eyesfixed on the turf, till it was all burnt out, trying to get freshcourage from the spirits he swallowed, and swearing to himself that hewould not be beat by a woman. 

About one o'clock he seized one of the candles, and staggered up tobed. As he passed his sister's door, he opened it and went in. She wasfast asleep; her shoes were off, and the bed-clothes were thrown overher, but she was not undressed. He slowly shut the door, and stood, forsome moments, looking at her; then, walking to the bed, he took hershoulder, and shook it as gently as his drunkenness would let him. Thisdid not wake her, so he put the candle down on the table, close besidethe bed, and, steadying himself against the bedstead, he shook heragain and again. "Anty", he whispered, "Anty"; and, at last, she openedher eyes. Directly she saw his face, she closed them again, and buriedher 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 athick, harsh, hurried, drunken voice, "Anty--d'ye hear? If you marrythat man, I'll have your life!" and then, leaving the candle behindhim, 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 cruelbrother. For a long time she lay, trembling and anxious; fearing sheknew not what, and trying to compose herself--trying to make herselfthink that she had no present cause for fear; but in vain. If she hearda noise, she thought it was her brother's footstep, and when the housewas perfectly silent and still, she feared the very silence itself. Atlast, she crept out of bed, and, taking the candle left by her brother, which had now burned down to the socket, stepped softly down thestairs, to the place where the two maid-servants slept, and, havingawakened them, she made Biddy return with her and keep her company forthe remainder of the night. She did not quite tell the good-naturedgirl all that had passed; she did not own that her brother hadthreatened to send her to a madhouse, or that he had sworn to have herlife; but she said enough to show that he had shamefully ill-treatedher, and to convince Biddy that wherever her mistress might find ahome, it would be very unadvisable that she and Barry should continueto 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 immediateexecution the counsels she had given during the night. As she passedthe head of the stairs, she heard the loud snore of Barry, in hisdrunken slumber; and, wishing that he might sleep as sound for ever andever, 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'sa 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 betelling 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 cotchedher another night in his dhrunkenness. We must git her out before hesleeps hisself right. But hurry now, I'll be telling you all when I'mback again. "

The two crept off to the back door together, and, Judy having openedit, Biddy sallied out, on her important and good-natured mission. Itwas still dark, though the morning was beginning to break, as shestood, panting, at the front door of the inn. She tried to get in atthe back, but the yard gates were fastened; and Jack, the ostler, didnot seem to be about yet. So she gave a timid, modest knock, with theiron knocker, on the front door. A pause, and then a second knock, alittle louder; another pause, and then a third; and then, as no onecame, she remembered the importance of her message, and gave such a rapas a man might do, who badly wanted a glass of hot drink aftertravelling the whole night. 

The servants had good or hardy consciences, for they slept soundly; butthe widow Kelly, in her little bed-room behind the shop, well knew thesound of that knocker, and, hurrying on her slippers and her gown, shegot 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 toyerself, 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 DoctorColligan, 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 goodenough 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 hercuriosity was stronger than her charity; they both, however, no doubthad 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, hadbeen quite indifferent; and the careful widow again bolted the door, and followed the woman into certainly the warmest place in Dunmore, forthe 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, Ithink, and I heard more of her then than I wished. "

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

"Oh, Misthress Kelly, ma'am, there's been disperate doings last nightup at the house. We were all hearing, in the morn yesterday, as howMiss Anty and Mr Martin, God bless him!--were to make a match ofit, --as why wouldn't they, ma'am? for wouldn't Mr Martin make her atidy, dacent, good husband?"

"Well, well, Biddy--don't mind Mr Martin; he'll be betther without awife for one while, and he needn't be quarrelling for one when he wantsher. What ails Miss Anty?"

"Shure I'm telling you, ma'am; howsomever, whether its thrue or noabout 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 astunder; and Terry says he dhrunk the whole of a bottle of wine, andthen he called for the sperrits, and swilled away at them till he wasnigh dhrunk. Well, wid that, ma'am, he sent for Miss Anty, and themoment 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 theblessed Mary and the cross, that she'll niver dhrame of marrying noone. "

"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'tlike to be laving Miss Anty alone wid him, and nobody nigh, so I andTerry betook ourselves nigh the door, and, partly heard what wasgoing on; that's the thruth on it, Mrs Kelly; and, afther a dale oframpaging and scolding, may I niver see glory av' he didn't up wid hisclenched fist, strik her in the face, and knock her down--all for oneas '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 Iheerd it, plain enough. I heerd the poor cratur fall for dead amongstthe tables and chairs--I did, Mrs Kelly--and I heerd the big blow smashagin her poor head, and down she wint--why wouldn't she? and he, theborn ruffian, her own brother, the big blackguard, stricking at her widall 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 knockedagin 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 inthe kitchen: and wid that he come to the door, and unlocks it as bouldas brass, and rushes out into the garden, saying as how Miss Anty warafther fainting. Well, in course I goes in to her, where he had draggedher upon the sofa, and, thrue enough, she war faint indeed. "

"And, did she tell you, Biddy, that her own brother had trated her thatway?"

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

"Don't be cursing, Biddy. "

"No, ma'am; only he must be cursed, sooner or later. Well, when shecomed to herself, she begged av' me to help her to bed, and she went upto her room, and laid herself down, and I thought to myself that at anyrate it was all over for that night. When she war gone, the mastherhe soon come back into the house, and begun calling for the sperritsagain, like mad; and Terry said that when he tuk the biling wather intothe room, Mr Barry war just like the divil--as he's painted, only forhis ears. After that Terry wint to bed; and I and Judy weren't longafther him, for we didn't care to be sitting up alone wid him, and hemad 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, wida candle in her hand, and begged me, for dear life, to come up into herroom 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 ruffianmust come up into her bed-room and swear the most dreadfullest thingsto her you iver heerd, Mrs Kelly. The words he war afther using, andthe things he said, war most horrid; and Miss Anty wouldn't for herdear life, nor for all the money in Dunmore, stop another night, noranother day in the house wid him. "

"But, is she much hurt, Biddy?"

"Oh! her head's cut, dreadful, where she fell, ma'am: and he shuck thevery 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 iswishing 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 shewouldn't for anything be staying in the house with Mr Barry; and as shedidn't seem to be knowing where she'd be going, and av' she be raallygoing 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 worI that said it, and she didn't unsay it; so, wid that, I thought I'dcome down here the first thing, and av' you, Mrs Kelly, wor thinking itright, 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 therewould be between her and her brother; and there might be more plaguethan profit in that. But then, again, she was not at all so indifferentas she had appeared to be, to her favourite son's marrying fourhundred a-year. She was angry at his thinking of such a thing withoutconsulting her; she feared the legal difficulties he must encounter;and she didn't like the thoughts of its being said that her son hadmarried 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-temperedtractable young woman, of the right religion, and would not make a badwife; and, on reconsideration, Mrs Kelly thought the thing wasn't to besneezed at. Then, again, she hated Barry, and, having a high spirit, felt indignant that he should think of preventing her son from marryinghis sister, if the two of them chose to do it; and she knew she'd beable, and willing enough, too, to tell him a bit of her mind, if thereshould be occasion. And lastly, and most powerfully of all, the woman'sfeeling came in to overcome her prudential scruples, and to open herheart and her house to a poor, kindly, innocent creature, ill-treatedas Anty Lynch had been. She was making up her mind what to do, anddetermining to give battle royal to Barry and all his satellites, onbehalf of Anty, when Biddy interrupted her by saying, --

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

"No, Biddy;--for a wondher, you're right, this morning. Mr Barry won'tbe stirring yet?"

"Divil a stir, ma'am! The dhrunkenness won't be off him yet this longwhile. 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 agood girl. I'll go and get on my shoes and stockings, and my cloak, andbonnet. I must go up wid you myself, and ask yer misthress down, as sheshould be asked. They'll be telling lies on her 'av she don't lave thehouse dacently, as she ought. "

"More power to you thin, Mrs Kelly, this blessed morning, for a kindgood woman as you are, God bless you!" whimpered forth Biddy, who, nowthat she had obtained her request, began to cry, and to stuff thecorner of her petticoat into her eyes. 

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

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

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

They were soon in the house, for Judy was up to let them in; and thoughshe stared when she saw Mrs Kelly, she merely curtsied, and saidnothing. 

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

Anty was still asleep, but it did not take much to rouse her; and shetrembled in her bed, when, on her asking what was the matter, Mrs Kellypopped her bonnet inside the door, and said, "It's only me, my dear. Mrs Kelly, you know, from the inn, " and thenshe very cautiously insinuated the rest of her body into the room, asthough she thought that Barry was asleep under the bed, and she wasafraid of treading on one of his stray fingers. "It's only me, mydear. Biddy's been down to me, like a good girl; and I tell youwhat--this is no place for you, just at present, Miss Anty; not tillsuch time as things is settled a little. So I'm thinking you'd bettherbe 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, andwe'll make you snug enough between us, never fear. "

"Do, Miss Anty, dear do, darling, " added Biddy. "It'll be a dalebetther 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 agreat idea of carrying on the war on her own premises, but who feltseriously afraid of Barry now that she was in his house, "don't besaying such things, to frighthen her. But you'll be asier there thanhere, " she continued, to Anty; "and there's nothin like having thingsasy. So, get up alanna [12], and we'll have you warm and snug down there inno time. "

 [FOOTNOTE 12: alanna--my child]

Anty did not want much persuading. She was soon induced to get up anddress herself, to put on her cloak and bonnet, and hurry off with thewidow, before the people of Dunmore should be up to look at her goingthrough the town to the inn; while Biddy was left to pack up suchthings as were necessary for her mistress' use, and enjoined to hurrydown with them to the inn as quick as she could; for, as the widowsaid, "there war no use in letting every idle bosthoon [13] in theplace see her crossing with a lot of baggage, and set them all askingthe where and the why and the wherefore; though, for the matther ofthat, they'd all hear it soon enough. "

 [FOOTNOTE 13: bosthoon--a worthless fellow]

To tell the truth, Mrs Kelly's courage waned from the moment of herleaving her own door, and it did not return till she felt herselfwithin 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 wasdoing; for there were idlers about, and she felt ashamed of carryingoff the young heiress. But these feelings vanished the moment she hadcrossed her own sill. When she had once got Anty home, it was allright. The widow Kelly seldom went out into the world; she seldom wentanywhere except to mass; and, when out, she was a very modest andretiring old lady; but she could face the devil, if necessary, acrossher 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 mettogether at the lawyer's, when the deeds were prepared which youngKelly's genuine honesty made him think necessary before he eloped withold Sim Lynch's heiress. He would have been rather surprised to hear, at that moment, that his mother had been before him, and carried offhis bride elect to the inn!

Anty was soon domesticated. The widow, very properly, wouldn't let herfriends, Meg and Jane, ask her any questions at present. Sally hadmade, on the occasion, a pot of tea sufficient to supply the morningwants of half a regiment, and had fully determined that it should notbe wasted. The Kelly girls were both up, and ready to do anything fortheir friend; so they got her to take a little of Sally's specific, andput her into a warm bed to sleep, quiet and secure from anyinterruption. 

While her guest was sleeping, the widow made up her mind that her bestand safest course, for the present, would be, as she expressed it toher daughter, Meg, "to keep her toe in her pump, and say nothing tonobody. "

"Anty can just stay quiet and asy, " she continued, "till we see whatMaster Barry manes to be afther; he'll find it difficult enough to moveher out of this, I'm thinking, and I doubt his trying. As to moneymatthers, I'll neither meddle nor make, nor will you, mind; so listento that, girls; and as to Moylan, he's a dacent quiet poor man--butit's bad thrusting any one. Av' he's her agent, however, I s'pose he'lllook afther the estate; only, Barry'll be smashing the things up thereat the house yonder in his anger and dhrunken fits, and it's a pitythe poor girl's property should go to rack. But he's such a borndivil, she's lucky to be out of his clutches alive; though, thank theAlmighty, that put a good roof over the lone widow this day, he can'tclutch her here. Wouldn't I like to see him come to the door and ax forher! And he can't smash the acres, nor the money they say Mulhollandhas, 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--outof 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, andAnty too. And Martin'll be here soon--I wondher what good Dublin'lldo him?--They might have the Repale without him, I suppose?--And whenhe'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 tobe afeared of, and she undher this roof! I s'pose Martin ain't foolenough to care for what such a fellow as Barry Lynch can do or say--andhe 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 adale betther off as he is, for he's wanting nothing, and he's his ownindusthry--and, maybe, a handful of money besides. But, as for beingafeard--I niver heard yet that a Kelly need be afeard of a Lynch inDunmore. "

In this manner did Mrs Kelly express the various thoughts that ranthrough her head, as she considered Anty's affairs; and if we couldanalyse the good lady's mind, we should probably find that the resultof her reflections was a pleasing assurance that she could exercisethe Christian virtues of charity and hospitality towards Anty, and, atthe same time, secure her son's wishes and welfare, without subjectingher own name to any obloquy, or putting herself to any loss orinconvenience. She determined to put no questions to Anty, nor even toallude to her brother, unless spoken to on the subject; but, at thesame time, she stoutly resolved to come to no terms with Barry, andto defy him to the utmost, should he attempt to invade her in her ownterritories. 

After a sound sleep Anty got up, much strengthened and refreshed, andfound 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 theslightest inclination that way; and, though she at first was afraid totalk about her brother, and was even, from kindly feeling, unwillingto do so, the luxury of such an opportunity of unrestrained confidenceovercame her; and, before the three had been sitting together for acouple of hours, she had described the whole interview, as well as thelast drunken midnight visit of Barry's to her own bed-room, which, toher imagination, was the most horrible of all the horrors of the night. 

Poor Anty. She cried vehemently that morning--more in sorrow for herbrother, than in remembrance of her own fears, as she told her friendshow he had threatened to shut her up in a mad-house, and then to murderher, unless she promised him not to marry; and when she described howbrutally he had struck her, and how, afterwards, he had crept to herroom, 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 thatshe should die, if she thought of Martin Kelly as her husband, shetrembled as though she was in an ague fit. 

The girls said all they could to comfort her, and they succeeded ina great degree; but they could not bring her to talk of Martin. Sheshuddered whenever his name was mentioned, and they began to fearthat Barry's threat would have the intended effect, and frighten herfrom the match. However, they kindly talked of other things--of howimpossible it was that she should go back to Dunmore House, and howcomfortable and snug they would make her at the inn, till she gota home for herself; of what she should do, and of all their littlehousehold plans together; till Anty, when she could forget herbrother's threats for a time, seemed to be more comfortable and happythan 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. Invain were Sally and Kate commissioned to bring them down. If, on someurgent behest, one of them darted down to mix a dandy of punch, orweigh a pound of sugar, when the widow was imperatively employedelsewhere, she was upstairs again, before her mother could look abouther; and, at last, Mrs Kelly was obliged to content herself with thereflection that girls would be girls, and that it was "nathural andright they shouldn't wish to lave Anty alone the first morning, and shesthrange 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 hersister, having dined, should come down and relieve guard. She had onlyjust ensconced herself behind the counter, when who should walk intothe shop but Barry Lynch. 

Had Meg seen an ogre, or the enemy of all mankind himself, she couldnot, at the moment, have been more frightened; and she stood staring athim, as if the sudden loss of the power of motion alone prevented herfrom running away. 

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

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

VII. MR BARRY LYNCH MAKES A MORNING CALL

It was noon before Barry first opened his eyes, and discovered thereality of the headache which the night's miserable and solitarydebauch had entailed on him. For, in spite of the oft-repeatedassurance that there is not a headache in a hogshead of it, whiskeypunch will sicken one, as well as more expensive and more fashionablepotent drinks. Barry was very sick when he first awoke; and verymiserable, too; for vague recollections of what he had done, anddoubtful fears of what he might have done, crowded on him. A drunkenman always feels more anxiety about what he has not done in hisdrunkenness, than about what he has; and so it was with Barry. Heremembered having used rough language with his sister, but he could notremember how far he had gone. He remembered striking her, and he knewthat the servant had come in; but he could not remember how, or withwhat he had struck her, or whether he had done so more than once, orwhether she had been much hurt. He could not even think whether he hadseen her since or not; he remembered being in the garden after she hadfallen, and drinking again after that, but nothing further. Surely, hecould 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 hadhappened, the servants would have taken care that he should have heardenough about it ere now. Then he began to think what o'clock it couldbe, and that it must be late, for his watch was run down; the generalfate of drunkards, who are doomed to utter ignorance of the hour atwhich they wake to the consciousness of their miserable disgrace. Hefeared to ring the bell for the servant; he was afraid to ask theparticulars of last night's work; so he turned on his pillow, and triedto sleep again. But in vain. If he closed his eyes, Anty was beforethem, and he was dreaming, half awake, that he was trying to stifleher, and that she was escaping, to tell all the world of his brutalityand cruelty. This happened over and over again; for when he dozed butfor a minute, the same thing re-occurred, as vividly as before, andmade even his waking consciousness preferable to the visions of hisdisturbed slumbers. So, at last, he roused himself, and endeavoured tothink what he should do. 

Whilst he was sitting up in his bed, and reflecting that he mustundress himself before he could dress himself--for he had tumbled intobed 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 dependenton 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 tenwhen I tuk in the last hot wather, and I didn't see yer honer aftherthat. "

"Well; tell Miss Anty to make me a cup of tea, and do you bring it uphere. " This was a feeler. If anything was the matter with Anty, Terrywould be sure to tell him now; but he only said, "Yis, yer honer, " andretreated. 

Barry now comforted himself with the reflection that there was no greatharm done, and that though, certainly, there had been some row betweenhim and Anty, it would probably blow over; and then, also, he began toreflect that, perhaps, what he had said and done, would frighten herout 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 herselfentitled 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 thenight; and the other girl had endeavoured to enjoy the same luxury, forshe had been found once or twice during the morning, ensconced in thekitchen, under Sally's wing; but Mrs Kelly had hunted her back, to goand wait on her master, giving her to understand that she would notreceive the whole household. 

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

"Divil a tell for me thin, --shure, he may find it out hisself, widoutmy telling him. "

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

"And ain't she betther there, nor being murthered up here? He'd bekilling 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 upwith the likes of Martin Kelly?"

"May be so; but wouldn't she be a dale happier with Martin than up herewid 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 herconfusion, had taken away the keys in her pocket, and there was no teato 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-roomdoor, was angrily asked by his thirsty master why the tea didn'tappear? The truth was now obliged to come out, or at any rate, part ofit: so Terry answered, that Miss Anty was out, and had the keys withher. 

Miss Anty was so rarely out, that Barry instantly trembled again. Hadshe gone to a magistrate, to swear against him? Had she run away fromhim? 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'sdown 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 themorning and fetched her away; and Judy swore "that not a know sheknowed how it had come about, or what had induced the widow to come, orMiss Anty to go, or anything about it; only, for shure, Miss Anty wasdown there, snug enough, with Miss Jane and Miss Meg; and the widdywar in her tantrums, and wouldn't let ony dacent person inside thehouse-door--barring Biddy. And that wor all she knowed av' she wor onthe book. "

The secret was now out. Anty had left him, and put herself under theprotection of Martin Kelly's mother; had absolutely defied him, afterall his threats of the preceding night. What should he do now! All hishatred for her returned again, all his anxious wishes that she might besomehow removed from his path, as an obnoxious stumbling-block. A fewminutes ago, he was afraid he had murdered her, and he now almostwished that he had done so. He finished dressing himself, and thensat down in the parlour, which had been the scene of his last night'sbrutality, to concoct fresh schemes for the persecution of his sister. 

In the meantime, Terry rushed down to the inn, demanding the keys, andgiving Mrs Kelly a fearful history of his master's anger. This she verywisely refrained from retailing, but, having procured the keys, gavethem to the messenger, merely informing him, that "thanks to God's kindprotection, 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 thebreakfast up in silence, and his master asked no more questions. Hewas very sick and pale, and could eat nothing; but he drank a quantityof tea, and a couple of glasses of brandy-and-water, and then hefelt better, and again began to think what measures he should take, what scheme he could concoct, for stopping this horrid marriage, andmaking his sister obedient to his wishes. "Confound her, " he said, almost aloud, as he thought, with bitter vexation of spirit, of herunincumbered moiety of the property, "confound them all!" grinding histeeth, and meaning by the "all" to include with Anty his father, andevery 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 legalexpedient by which he could set it aside. And then, as he thought ofthe shameful persecution of which he was the victim, he kicked thefender with impotent violence, and, as the noise of the falling fireirons added to his passion, he reiterated his kicks till theunoffending piece of furniture was smashed; and then with manlyindignation he turned away to the window. 

But breaking the furniture, though it was what the widow predicted ofhim, wouldn't in any way mend matters, or assist him in getting out ofhis 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 MartinKelly's brother-in-law; he couldn't endure the thoughts of dividing theproperty with such "a low-born huxtering blackguard", as he called himover and over again. He couldn't stay there, to be beaten by him in thecourse of legal proceedings, or to give him up amicable possession ofwhat ought to have been--what should have been his--what he lookedupon as his own. He came back, and sat down again over the fire, contemplating the debris of the fender, and turning all these miserablecircumstances over in his mind. After remaining there till fiveo'clock, and having fortified himself with sundry glasses of wine, heformed his resolution. He would make one struggle more; he would firstgo down to the widow, and claim his sister, as a poor simple youngwoman, inveigled away from her natural guardian; and, if this wereunsuccessful, as he felt pretty sure it would be, he would takeproceedings 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 someattorney to put him in the way of doing it, and to undertake the workfor him. His late father's attorney had been a fool, in not breakingthe will, or at any rate trying it, and he would go to Daly. YoungDaly, he knew, was a sharp fellow, and wanted practice, and this wouldjust suit him. And then, if at last he found that nothing could be doneby this means, if his sister and the property _must_ go from him, hewould compromise the matter with the bridegroom, he would meet him halfway, and, raising what money he could on his share of the estate, giveleg bail to his creditors, and go to some place abroad, where tidingsof Dunmore would never reach him. What did it matter what people said?he should never hear it. He would make over the whole property toKelly, on getting a good life income out of it. Martin was a prudentfellow, and would jump at such a plan. As he thought of this, heeven began to wish that it was done; he pictured to himself the easypleasures, the card-tables, the billiard-rooms, and cafés of someCalais or Boulogne; pleasures which he had never known, but which hadbeen so glowingly described to him; and he got almost cheerful again ashe felt that, in any way, there might be bright days yet in store forhim. 

He would, however, still make the last effort for the whole stake. Itwould be time enough to give in, and make the best of a _pis aller_[14], when he was forced to do so. If beaten, he would make use ofMartin Kelly; but he would first try if he couldn't prove him to be aswindling adventurer, and his sister to be an idiot. 

 [FOOTNOTE 14: pis aller--(French) last resort]

Much satisfied at having come to this salutary resolution, he took uphis hat, and set out for the widow's, in order to put into operationthe first part of the scheme. He rather wished it over, as he knew thatMrs 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 lookedat himself in his glass, to see that his appearance was sufficientlyhaughty and indignant, and, as he flattered himself, like that of agentleman singularly out of his element in such a village as Dunmore;and then, having ordered his dinner to be ready on his return, heproceeded on his voyage for the recovery of his dear sister. 

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

"Oh, mother!" said Meg, rushing into the room where her mother, andJane, 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 nearyou. Shure, he'll niver be afther coming upstairs, will he, Meg?"

Anty, who had begun to feel quite happy in her new quarters, and amongher kind friends, turned pale, and dropped her knife and fork. "What'llI do, Mrs Kelly?" she said, as she saw the old lady complacently getup. "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'llgo to him, or any one else that sends to me in a dacent manner. May-beit'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 properhome of your own; and Barry Lynch has more in him than I think, av' hemakes me alter my mind. Set down quiet, Meg, and get your dinner. " Andthe widow got up, and proceeded to the shop. 

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

"Your humble sarvant, Mr Lynch, " said the widow, entering the shop andimmediately taking up a position of strength in her accustomed placebehind the counter. "Were you wanting me, this evening?" and shetook up the knife with which she cut penn'orths of tobacco for hercustomers, and hitting the counter with its wooden handle looked ashard 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 thismorning, 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 verymoment;" and she rapped the counter again, and looked her foe in theface. 

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

"Indeed she ain't thin, for she's the two girls ating wid her, andmyself too, barring that I'm just come down at your bidding. No; we'renot 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, andthat you intend to prevent my seeing her? You'd better take care whatyou'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, oryou'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 abit of my mind--she'll want my care, I'm thinking, while you're in thecounthry. "

"I've not come here to listen to impertinence, Mrs Kelly, and I willnot do so. In fact, it is very unwillingly that I came into this houseat 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 veryunwillingly, I say, that I have come here at all; but my sister, whois, unfortunately, not able to judge for herself, is here. How she camehere I don't pretend to say--"

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

"I'm saying nothing about how she came here, but here she is, poorcreature!"

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

"Here she is, I say, and I consider it my duty to look after her. Youcannot but be aware, Mrs Kelly, that this is not a fit place for MissLynch. You must be aware that a road-side public-house, however decent, or a village shop, however respectable, is not the proper place for mysister; and, though I may not yet be legally her guardian, I am herbrother, 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 seethe folly--not to speak of the danger, of preventing me from seeing mysister. "

"That's your say, Misther Lynch; and now, listen to mine. Av' MissAnty 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 putinside this, unless you're intending to force your way, and I don'tthink 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'sby fair manes, --I don't think I'll be axing any one to help me out ofit. So, good bye t' ye, av' you've no further commands, for I didn'tyet well finish the bit I was ating. "

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

"Indeed I do; unless she was wishing it, as well as yourself; and nomistake. "

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

"All blathershin, Masther Barry, " said the uncourteous widow, droppingthe 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 fatherdidn't think she wanted one, when he made his will, you needn't botheryourself about it, now she's no one to plaze only herself. And as forbrother, Masther Barry, why didn't you think of that before you struckher, like a brute, as you are--before you got dhrunk, like a baste, andthen threatened to murdher her? Why didn't you think about brother andsisther before you thried to rob the poor _wake_ crature, as you callher; 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'sbeing a brother and a guardian, is it, Masther Barry? Talk to me ofdanger, you ruffian, " continued the widow, with her back now thoroughlyup; "you'd betther look to yourself, or I know who'll be in mostdanger. 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 magisthratesbefore 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 yourselfvery asy, she shall. Danger, indeed! a robber and ruffian like you, totalk of danger to me--and his _dear_ sisther, too, and aftimer tryinghis best, last night, to murdher her!"

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

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

"Lies!" screamed the widow; "av' you say lies to me agin, in thishouse, I'll smash the bones of ye myself, with the broom-handle. Lies, indeed! and from you, Barry Lynch, the biggest liar in allConnaught--not to talk of robber and ruffian! You'd betther takeyourself out of that, fair and asy, while you're let. You'll findyou'll have the worst of it, av' you come rampaging here wid me, myman;" and she turned round to the listening crowd for sympathy, whichthose 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 itis, " said a virago, who seemed well able, like the widow herself, totake her own part. 

"Who iver knew any good of a Lynch--barring Miss Anty herself?" argueda 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 indiscourse. 

"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 pleasedto have her son's name mentioned in the affair--"it's no business ofhis, one way or another; he ain't in Dunmore, nor yet nigh it. MissAnty 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 liketo change it; so that's the long and short of it, Barry Lynch. So youmay go and get dhrunk agin as soon as you plaze, and bate and bangTerry Rooney, or Judy Smith; only I think either on 'em's more thana match for you. "

"Then I tell you, Mrs Kelly, " replied Barry, who was hardly able toget in a word, "that you'll hear more about it. Steps are now beingtaken to prove Miss Lynch a lunatic, as every one here knows sheunfortunately is; and, as sure as you stand there, you'll have toanswer for detaining her; and you're much mistaken if you think you'llget 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 iswanting to schame money out of a Lynch. "

"I've nothing more to say, since you insist on keeping possession ofmy sister, " and Barry turned to the door. "But you'll be indicted forconspiracy, 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'sfinal peal of thunder. 

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

The widow, on the other hand, seemed to feel that she had acquittedherself well, and that she had taken the orphan's part, like a woman, a Christian, and a mother; and merely saying, with a kind of inwardchuckle, "Come to me, indeed, with his roguery! he's got the wrong pigby the ear!" she walked off, to join the more timid trio upstairs, oneof 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 herdescription of Barry's insolence, and of the dreadfully abusive thingshe had said to her--how he had given her the lie, and called her out ofher name. She did not, however, seem to be aware that she had, herself, said a word which was more than necessarily violent; and assured Antyover and over again, that, out of respect to her feelings, and becausethe man was, after all, her brother, she had refrained from doing andsaying what she would have done and said, had she been treated insuch a manner by anybody else. She seemed, however, in spite of theill-treatment which she had undergone, to be in a serene and happystate of mind. She shook Anty's two hands in hers, and told her to makeherself "snug and asy where she was, like a dear girl, and to fretfor nothing, for no one could hurt or harum her, and she undher MaryKelly's roof. " Then she wiped her face in her apron, set to at herdinner; and even went so far as to drink a glass of porter, a thing shehadn'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 thewidow had had the best of it, and he also felt that every one inDunmore was against him. It was however only what he had expected, andcalculated upon; and what should he care for the Dunmore people? Theywouldn't rise up and kill him, nor would they be likely even to injurehim. Let them hate on, he would follow his own plan. As he came nearthe house gate, there was sitting, as usual, Jacky, the fool. 

"Well, yer honer, Masther Barry, " said Jacky, "don't forget your poorfool 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 doingthat. So yer honer's been down to the widdy's? That's well; it's afine thing to see you on good terms, since you're soon like to be sosib. Well, there an't no betther fellow, from this to Galway, thanMartin 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 customarybut inaudible curses, and turned into the house. 

He immediately took pen, ink, and paper, and, writing the followingnote dispatched it to Tuam, by Terry, mounted for the occasion, anddirected on no account to return without an answer. If Mr Daly wasn'tat home, he was to wait for his return; that is, if he was expectedhome 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 to-morrow. 

 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 theperson for whom it was intended, and in two more he had brought back ananswer, saying that Mr Daly would be at Dunmore House to dinner on thefollowing day. And Terry, on his journey there and back, did not forgetto 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 soonas he had completed his legal business, --namely, his instructions forthe settlement of Anty Lynch's property, respecting which he and LordBallindine had been together to the lawyer's in Clare Street, --hestarted for home, by the Ballinasloe canal-boat, and reached thatfamous depôt of the fleecy tribe without adventure. I will not attemptto describe the tedium of that horrid voyage, for it has been oftendescribed before; and to Martin, who was in no ways fastidious, itwas not so unendurable as it must always be to those who have beenaccustomed to more rapid movement. Nor yet will I attempt to put onrecord the miserable resources of those, who, doomed to a twenty hours'sojourn in one of these floating prisons, vainly endeavour to occupyor amuse their minds. But I will advise any, who from ill-contrivedarrangements, or unforeseen misfortune, [15] may find themselves onboard the Ballinasloe canal-boat, to entertain no such vain dream. The _vis inertiæ_ [16] of patient endurance, is the only weapon of anyuse in attempting to overcome the lengthened ennui of this most tedioustransit. Reading is out of the question. I have tried it myself, andseen others try it, but in vain. The sense of the motion, almostimperceptible, but still perceptible; the noises above you; the smellsaround you; the diversified crowd, of which you are a part; at onemoment the heat this crowd creates; at the next, the draught whicha window just opened behind your ears lets in on you; the fumes ofpunch; the snores of the man under the table; the noisy anger of hisneighbour, who reviles the attendant sylph; the would-be witticisms ofa third, who makes continual amorous overtures to the same overtaskeddamsel, notwithstanding the publicity of his situation; the loudcomplaints of the old lady near the door, who cannot obtain thegratuitous kindness of a glass of water; and the baby-soothinglullabies of the young one, who is suckling her infant under yourelbow. These things alike prevent one from reading, sleeping, orthinking. All one can do is to wait till the long night gradually wearsitself away, and reflect that, Time and the hour run through the longest day [17]. 

 [FOOTNOTE 15: Of course it will be remembered that this was written before railways in Ireland had been constructed. (original footnote by Trollope)]

 [FOOTNOTE 16: vis inertiae--(Latin) the power of inertia]

 [FOOTNOTE 17: _Macbeth_, Act I, Sc. 3: "Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. "]

I hardly know why a journey in one of these boats should be much moreintolerable than travelling either outside or inside a coach; for, either in or on the coach, one has less room for motion, and lessopportunity of employment. I believe the misery of the canal-boatchiefly consists in a pre-conceived and erroneous idea of itscapabilities. One prepares oneself for occupation--an attempt is madeto achieve actual comfort--and both end in disappointment; the limbsbecome weary with endeavouring to fix themselves in a position ofrepose, and the mind is fatigued more by the search after, than thewant of, occupation. 

Martin, however, made no complaints, and felt no misery. He made greatplay at the eternal half-boiled leg of mutton, floating in a bloody seaof grease and gravy, which always comes on the table three hours afterthe departure from Porto Bello. He, and others equally gifted withthe _dura ilia messorum_ [18], swallowed huge collops [19] of the rawanimal, and vast heaps of yellow turnips, till the pity with which astranger would at first be inclined to contemplate the consumer of suchunsavoury food, is transferred to the victim who has to provide themeal at two shillings a head. Neither love nor drink--and Martin had, on the previous day, been much troubled with both--had affected hisappetite; and he ate out his money with the true persevering prudenceof a Connaught man, who firmly determines not to be done. 

 [FOOTNOTE 18: dura ilia messorum--(Latin) the strong intestines of reapers--a quotation from Horace's _Epodes_ III. Trollope was an accomplished Latin scholar and later wrote a _Life of Cicero_. His books are full of quotations from many Roman writers. ]

 [FOOTNOTE 19: collops--portions of food or slices of meat]

He was equally diligent at breakfast; and, at last, reachedBallinasloe, at ten o'clock the morning after he had left Dublin, in aflourishing condition. From thence he travelled, by Bianconi's car, asfar as Tuam, and when there he went at once to the hotel, to get a hackcar 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, wasinformed, by the disinterested ostler, that the horse then beingharnessed, was to take Mr Daly, the attorney, to Tuam, [20] and thatprobably that gentleman would not object to join him, Martin, in theconveyance. Martin, thinking it preferable to pay fourpence rather thansixpence a mile for his jaunt, acquiesced in this arrangement, and, ashe had a sort of speaking acquaintance with Mr Daly, whom he rightlyimagined would not despise the economy which actuated himself, he hadhis carpet-bag put into the well of the car, and, placing himself onit, he proceeded to the attorney's door. 

 [FOOTNOTE 20: The text says "Tuam, " but the destination is really Dunmore. ]

He soon made the necessary explanation to Mr Daly, who made noobjection to the proposal; and he also throwing a somewhat diminutivecarpet-bag into the same well, placed himself alongside of our friend, and they proceeded on their journey, with the most amicable feelingstowards each other. 

They little guessed, either the one or the other, as they commencedtalking on the now all-absorbing subject of the great trial, that theywere going to Dunmore for the express object--though not with theexpressed purpose, of opposing each other--that Daly was to be employedto suggest any legal means for robbing Martin of a wife, and Antyof her property; and that Martin was going home with the fixeddetermination of effecting a wedding, to prevent which his companionwas, in consideration of liberal payment, to use all his ingenuity andenergy. 

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

"No, indeed, then, " replied Daly; "I have a client there now--a thing Inever 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 oneof the right sort, that can feed as well as fee a lawyer. I've got mydinner, and bed tonight, whatever else I may get. "

"There's not many of that sort in Dunmore thin; any way, there weren'twhen 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'sin 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, Ishouldn't, you may be sure. But a man that's just come to his propertyalways wants a lawyer; and many a one, besides Barry Lynch, ain'tsatisfied without two. "

"Well, any way, I wish you joy of your new client. I'm not over fond ofhim myself, I'll own; but then there were always rasons why he and Ishouldn't pull well together. Barry's always been a dale too high forme, since he was at school with the young lord. Well, good evening, MrDaly. Never mind time car coming down the street, as you're at yourfriend's gate, " and Martin took his bag on his arm, and walked down tothe 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 beknown as a clever, though not over-scrupulous practitioner, he felt apresentiment that it must have some reference to Anty and himself, andthis made him rather uncomfortable. Could Barry have heard of hisengagement? 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 beeven with the schamer, yet; only she's so asy frightened!--Av' she'dthe laist pluck in life, it's little I'd care for Moylan or Barryeither. "

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

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

"It's you should have the news thin, " said one, "and you just fromDublin. "

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

"Stop a moment, Martin, " said Meg; "don't be in a hurry; there's someone 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! Isthere people in both the rooms? Come, girls, av' ye've anything totell, why don't you out wid it and have done? I suppose I can go intothe 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 broughther 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 hernow, 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, orsuitor as he might perhaps be more confidently called, proceeded tovisit her. If he wished her to believe that his first impulse, onhearing of her being in the house, had been to throw himself at herfeet, it would have been well that this conversation should have beencarried on out of her hearing. But Anty was not an exigent mistress, and was perfectly contented that as much of her recent history aspossible should be explained before Martin presented himself. 

Martin went slowly upstairs, and paused a moment at the door, as if hewas a little afraid of commencing the interview; he looked round to hissisters, and made a sign to them to come in with him, and then, quicklypushing open the unfastened door, walked briskly up to Anty and shookhands with her. 

"I hope you're very well, Anty, " said he; "seeing you here is what Ididn'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 welltogether. It was yesterday you came here?"

"Yesterday morning. I was so glad to come! I don't know what they'dbeen saying to Barry; but the night before last he got drinking, andthen 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, withthe feeling so natural to a woman, she was half afraid that Martinwould fancy she had run after him, and she therefore thought it as wellto tell him that it was only a temporary measure. Poor Anty! At themoment she said so, she trembled at the very idea of putting herselfagain in her brother's power. 

"Frinds, indeed!" said Meg; "how can you iver be frinds with the likeof him? What nonsense you talk, Anty! Why, Martin, he was like tomurdher 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 swarethat 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 dhrunkwhen 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, " repliedMeg, who, of all the family was the most anxious to push her brother'ssuit; and who, though really fond of her friend, thought the presentopportunity a great deal too good to be thrown away, and could not bearthe idea of Anty's even thinking of being reconciled to her brother. "Won't he be always dhrunk now?" she continued; "and ain't we allfrinds here? and why shouldn't you let me tell Martin all? Aftherall's said and done, isn't he the best frind you've got?"--Here Antyblushed very red, and to tell the truth, so did Martin too--"well so heis, and unless you tell him what's happened, how's he to know what toadvise; and, to tell the truth, wouldn't you sooner do what he saysthan any one else?"

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

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

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

Martin looked rather stupid all this time, but he plucked up courageand 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 thereagain, now you're once here. But did he railly sthrike you in arnest?"

"He did, and knocked her down, " said Jane. 

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

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

A considerable time passed before Martin returned to the meal thethree young women had provided for him, during which he was in closeconsultation with the widow. In the first place, she began upbraidinghim for his folly in wishing to marry an old maid for her money; shethen taxed him with villany, for trying to cheat Anty out of herproperty; and when he defended himself from that charge by telling herwhat he had done about the settlement, she asked him how much he had topay the rogue of a lawyer for that "gander's job". She then proceededto point out all the difficulties which lay in the way of a marriagebetween him, Martin, and her, Anty; and showed how mad it was foreither of them to think about it. From that, she got into a narrativeof Barry's conduct, and Anty's sufferings, neither of which lostanything in the telling; and having by this time gossiped herselfinto a good humour, she proceeded to show how, through her means andassistance, the marriage might take place if he was still bent uponit. She eschewed all running away, and would hear of no clandestineproceedings. They should be married in the face of day, as theKellys ought, with all their friends round them. "They'd have nohuggery-muggery work, up in a corner; not they indeed! why shouldthey?--for fear of Barry Lynch?--who cared for a dhrunken blackguardlike that?--not she indeed! who ever heard of a Kelly being afraid of aLynch?--They'd ax him to come and see his sister married, and av' hedidn't like it, he might do the other thing. "

And so, the widow got quite eloquent on the glories of the wedding, andthe enormities of her son's future brother-in-law, who had, she assuredMartin, come down and abused her horribly, in her own shop, before allthe town, because she allowed Anty to stay in the house. She thenproceeded to the consequences of the marriage, and expressed her hopethat when Martin got all that ready money he would "do something forhis 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'sown future mode of life, suggesting a "small snug cottage on the farm, just big enough for them two, and, may-be, 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 whoknow'd whether that born villain, Barry, mightn't yet get sich a houltof the money, that there'd be no getting it out of his fist?" and shethen depicted, in most pathetic language, what would be the misery ofherself and all the Kellys if Martin, flushed with his prosperity, wereto give up the farm at Toneroe, and afterwards find that he had beenrobbed of his expected property, and that he had no support for himselfand his young bride. 

On this subject Martin considerably comforted her by assuring her thathe had no thoughts of abandoning Toneroe, although he did not go so faras to acquiesce in the very small cottage; and he moreover expressedhis thorough confidence that he would neither be led himself, nor leadAnty, into the imprudence of a marriage, until he had well satisfiedhimself 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 thenthey parted, she to her shop, and he to his dinner: not however, beforehe had promised her to give up all ideas of a clandestine marriage, andto permit himself to be united to his wife in the face of day, asbecame a Kelly. 

The evening passed over quietly and snugly at the inn. Martin had notmuch difficulty in persuading his three companions to take a glassof punch each out of his tumbler, and less in getting them to take asecond, 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 littlesofa opposite the fire, it is more than probable that he got his armround her waist--a comfortable position, which seemed in no way toshock 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 wasshown into the drawing-room, where he met Barry Lynch. The two youngmen were acquainted, though not intimate with each other, and theybowed, and then shook hands; and Barry told the attorney that he waswelcome to Dunmore House, and the attorney made another bow, rubbed hishands before the fire and said it was a very cold evening; and Barrysaid it was 'nation cold for that time of the year; which, consideringthat they were now in the middle of February, showed that Barry wasrather abroad, and didn't exactly know what to say. He remained forabout a minute, silent before the fire, and then asked Daly if he'dlike to see his room; and, the attorney acquiescing, he led him up toit, 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 attorneyhad absolutely come, his employer felt himself unable to explain thebusiness before dinner. "These fellows are so confoundedly sharp--Ishall never be up to him till I get a tumbler of punch on board, " saidhe to himself, comforting himself with the reflection; "besides, I'mnever well able for anything till I get a little warmed. We'll getalong 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 makeknown his villanous schemes respecting his sister till he was halfdrunk; and, in order the earlier to bring about this necessary and nowdaily consummation, he sneaked downstairs and took a solitary glass ofbrandy to fortify himself for entertaining the attorney. 

The dinner was dull enough; for, of course, as long as the man was inthe room there was no talking on business, and, in his present frame ofmind Barry was not likely to be an agreeable companion. The attorneyate his dinner as if it was a part of the fee, received in payment ofthe 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 hismaster's affairs to be very far absent when matters of importance werelikely to be discussed. 

"And now, Mr Daly, " said Lynch, "we can be snug here, withoutinterruption, for an hour or two. You'll find that whiskey old andgood, I think; but, if you prefer wine, that port on the table camefrom Barton's, in Sackville Street. "

"Thank ye; if I take anything, it'll be a glass of punch. But as we'vebusiness to talk of, may-be 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'sshouldn'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, MrDaly?"

"Well then, Mr Lynch, I didn't exactly know him; but living so nearhim, and he having so much business in the county, and myself havinga 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 thesugar from you, Mr Lynch; I believe I might as well mix a drop, as thenight's cold. "

"That's right. I thought you weren't the fellow to sit with an emptyglass before you. But, as I was saying before, the old boy was a queerhand; that is, latterly--for the last year or so. Of course you knowall about his will?"

"Faith then, not much. I heard he left a will, dividing the propertybetween you and Miss Lynch. "

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

"Why, I could hardly answer that, you know, as I never heard thecircumstances; but I was given to understand that Blake consultedMcMahon; and that McMahon wouldn't take up the case, as there wasnothing he could put before the Chancellor. Mind I'm only repeatingwhat people said in Tuam, and about there. Of course, I couldn't thinkof advising till I knew the particulars. Was it on this subject, MrLynch, you were good enough to send for me?"

"Not at all, Mr Daly. I look upon that as done and gone; bad luck toBlake and McMahon, both. The truth is, between you and me, Daly--Idon't mind telling you; as I hope now you will become my man ofbusiness, and it's only fair you should know all about it--the truthis, Blake was more interested on the other side, and he was determinedthe case shouldn't go before the Chancellor. But, when my father signedthat will, it was just after one of those fits he had lately; thatcould be proved, and he didn't know what he was doing, from Adam! Hedidn't know what was in the will, nor, that he was signing a will atall; so help me, he didn't. However, that's over. It wasn't to talkabout that that I sent for you; only, sorrow seize the rogue that madethe old man rob me! It wasn't Anty herself, poor creature; she knewnothing 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 sucha dodge as that!"

"Well, Mr Lynch, of course I know nothing of the absolute facts; butfrom what I hear, I think it's as well to let the will alone. TheChancellor won't put a will aside in a hurry; it's always a difficultjob--would cost an immense sum of money, which should, any way, comeout of the property; and, after all, the chances are ten to one you'dbe beat. "

"Perhaps you're right, now; though I'm sure, had the matter beenproperly taken up at first--had you seen the whole case at the firststart, 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 youdon't drink your punch!--and it's dry work talking, without wettingone'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 foryou?"

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

"I didn't know the amount; but I believe she has half whatever thereis. "

"Exactly: half the land, half the cash, half the house, halfeverything, except the debts! and those were contracted in my name, andI 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 entireproperty? If you can really prove that the debts were incurred for yourfather's benefit, I should think you might do that. But has your sisterrefused to pay the half? They can't be heavy. Won't Miss Lynch agree topay the half herself?"

This last lie of Barry's--for, to give the devil his due, old Simhadn't owed one penny for the last twenty years--was only a brightinvention of the moment, thrown off by our injured hero to aggravatethe hardships of his case; but he was determined to make the most ofit. 

"Not heavy?--faith, they _are_ heavy, and d----d heavy too, MrDaly!--what'll take two hundred a-year out of my miserable share of theproperty; divil a less. Oh! there's never any knowing how a man'll cutup till he's gone. "

"That's true; but how could your father owe such a sum as that, and noone 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, werefighting about the leases we held under the old Lord; and then, the oldman wanted ready money, and borrowed it in Dublin; and, some yearssince--that is, about three years ago, --sooner than see any of theproperty sold, I took up the debt myself. You know, it was all as goodas my own then; and now, confound it! I must pay the whole out of themiserable thing that's left me under this infernal will. But it wasn'teven about that I sent for you; only, I must explain exactly howmatters are, before I come to the real point. "

"But your father's name must be joined with yours in the debt; and, ifso, you can come upon the entire property for the payment. There's nodifficulty 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 goodtalking of that. Well, you see, Anty that's my sister, has thisproperty all in her own hands. But you don't drink your punch, " andBarry mixed his third tumbler. 

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

"Never mind the claims!" answered Barry, who began to fear that hehad pushed his little invention a thought too far. "I tell you, Imust stand to them; you don't suppose I'd ask her to pay a penny as afavour? 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 gotthis money, and--You know, don't you, Mr Daly, poor Anty's not justlike other people?"

"No, " said Mr Daly--"I didn't. I can't say I know much about MissLynch. 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, poorcreature. Indeed, there was no necessity for people to know much aboutit, for she never gave any trouble; and, to tell the truth, as long asshe 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, havequite 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, poorthing, and quite unable to judge for herself, in money-matters, andsuch like; and, though she might have done very well, poor thing, and passed without notice, if she'd been left quiet, as was alwaysintended, I'm afraid now, unless she's well managed, she'd end herlife in the Ballinasloe Asylum. "

The attorney made no answer to this, although Barry paused, to allowhim to do so. Daly was too sharp, and knew his employer's charactertoo well to believe all he said, and he now began to fancy that he sawwhat the affectionate brother was after. "Well, Daly, " continued Barry, after a minute's pause; "after the old man died, we went on quietenough for some time. I was up in Dublin mostly, about that confoundedloan, 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 manamong 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 thesake of the family, I couldn't let it go on. Then, poor creature, she'dbe 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 bethen?"

Daly couldn't help thinking that, in all probability, his kind hostwould not be long in following the property; but he did not say so. Hemerely asked the name of the "blackguard" whom Miss Anty meant tomarry?

"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 wordabout it; and I couldn't make out what had put it into her head, till Iheard that this old rogue was a kind of cousin to some people livinghere, named Kelly. "

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

"The very same! confound her, for an impertinent scheming old hag, asshe is. Well; that's the house that Anty was always going to; drinkingtea with the daughters, and walking with the son--an infernal youngfarmer, 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 choosemy poor sister--only one remove from an idiot, and hardly that--to becarried off from her mother's house, and married to such a fellow asthat. Why, it's all the same infernal plot; it's the same people thatgot 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 theyhave got the will drawn?"

"I tell you, they _did_ do it!" answered Barry, whose courage was nowsomewhat raised by the whiskey. "That's neither here nor there, butthey did it; and, when the old fool was dead, they got this Moylanmade Anty's agent: and then, the hag of a mother comes up here, beforedaylight, and bribes the servant, and carries her off down to herfilthy 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 herbed. "

"But she couldn't have taken your sister away, unless she had wished togo. "

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

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

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

"If she _was_ an idiot! But I think you'll find your sister has senseenough to marry whom she pleases. "

"I tell you she _is_ an idiot; not raving, mind; but everybody knowsshe 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 totry--that is, unless there were plenty more who could swear positivelythat she was out of her mind. Would the servants swear that? Could youyourself, 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 whichyou wouldn't like; and your motives would be--would be--" seen throughat once, the attorney was on the point of saying, but he stoppedhimself, and finished by the words "called in question". 

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

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

"To be sure she is. "

"And she is engaged to this young man?"

"She is. "

"Why, then, she might be married to him to-morrow, for anything youknow. "

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

"If they told you so to-day, 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'resitting here!" and Barry jumped up, as if to rush out, and prevent theimmediate 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 andfind them, you couldn't prevent their being married, if such were theirwish, and they had a priest ready to do it. Take my advice; remainquiet where you are, and let's talk the matter over. As for taking outa commission 'de lunatico', as we call it, you'll find you couldn't doit. Miss Lynch may be a little weak or so in the upper story, but she'snot a lunatic; and you couldn't make her so, if you had half Dunmoreto back you, because she'd be brought before the Commissioners herself, and that, you know, would soon settle the question. But you might stillprevent 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, andwas sure the thing was off, for a month or so, let me alone, then, forbringing her to reason!"

As Daly watched his comrade's reddening face, and saw the maliciousgleam 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, eventhough he was a sharp attorney, at the idea of assisting such a cruelbrute in his cruelty; and, for a moment, he had determined to throw upthe matter. Barry was so unprincipled, and so wickedly malicious inhis want of principle, that he disgusted even Daly. But, on secondthoughts, the lawyer remembered that if he didn't do the job, anotherwould; and, quieting his not very violent qualms of conscience with theidea that, though employed by the brother, he might also, to a certainextent, protect the sister, he proceeded to give his advice as to thecourse which would be most likely to keep the property out of the handsof the Kellys. 

He explained to Barry that, as Anty had left her own home in companywith Martin's mother, and as she now was a guest at the widow's, it wasunlikely that any immediate clandestine marriage should be resortedto; that their most likely course would be to brazen the matter out, and have the wedding solemnised without any secrecy, and without anyespecial notice to him, Barry. That, on the next morning, a legalnotice should be prepared in Tuam, and served on the widow, informingher that it was his intention to indict her for conspiracy, in enticingaway from her own home his sister Anty, for the purpose of obtainingpossession of her property, she being of weak mind, and not ableproperly to manage her own affairs; that a copy of this notice shouldalso be sent to Martin, warning him that he would be included in theindictment if he took any proceedings with regard to Miss Lynch; andthat a further copy should, if possible, be put into the hands of MissLynch herself. 

"You may be sure that'll frighten them, " continued Daly; "and then, youknow, when we see what sort of fight they make, we'll be able to judgewhether we ought to go on and prosecute or not. I think the widow'll bevery shy of meddling, when she finds you're in earnest. And you see, MrLynch, " he went on, dropping his voice, "if you _do_ go into court, asI 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 sisterfrom marrying a man so much younger than herself, and so much inferiorin station and fortune; you won't seem to gain anything by it, andthat's everything with a jury; and then, you know, if it comes out thatMiss Lynch's mind is rather touched, it's an additional reason why youshould protect her from intriguing and interested schemers. Don't yousee?"

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

Towards the latter end of the evening, he became even moreconfidential, and showed the cloven foot, if possible, moreundisguisedly than he had hitherto done. He spoke of the impossibilityof allowing four hundred a year to be carried off from him, andsuggested to Daly that his sister would soon drop off, --that therewould then be a nice thing left, and that he, Daly, should have theagency, and if he pleased, the use of Dunmore House. As for himself, hehad no idea of mewing himself up in such a hole as that; but, before hewent, 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 asthat off on his sister, by way of an agent!"

To all this, Daly paid but little attention, for he saw that his hostwas drunk. But when Moylan's name was mentioned, he began to think thatit 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 tounderstand any deep-laid plans. So the two retired to their beds, Barrydetermined, 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 toTuam early in the morning, have the notices prepared and served, andcome back in the evening to dine and sleep, and have, if possible, aninterview with Mr Moylan. As he undressed, he reflected that, duringhis short professional career, he had been thrown into the society ofmany unmitigated rogues of every description; but that his new friend, Barry Lynch, though he might not equal them in energy of villany andcourage to do serious evil, beat them all hollow in selfishness, andutter brutal want of feeling, conscience, and principle. 

X. DOT BLAKE'S ADVICE

In hour or two after Martin Kelly had left Porto Bello in theBallinasloe fly-boat, our other hero, Lord Ballindine, and his friendDot Blake, started from Morrison's hotel, with post horses, forHandicap Lodge; and, as they travelled in Blake's very comfortablebarouche, they reached their destination in time for a late dinner, without either adventure or discomfort. Here they remained for somedays, fully occupied with the education of their horses, the attentionnecessary to the engagements for which they were to run, and with theirbetting-books. 

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

It was not so, however, with Dot Blake. The turf, to him, was not anexpensive pleasure, but a very serious business, and one which, to givehim his due, he well understood. He himself, regulated the work, bothof his horses and his men, and saw that both did what was allotted tothem. He took very good care that he was never charged a guinea, wherea guinea was not necessary; and that he got a guinea's worth for everyguinea he laid out. In fact, he trained his own horses, and was thusable to assure himself that his interests were never made subservientto those of others who kept horses in the same stables. Dot was in hisglory, and in his element on the Curragh, and he was never quite happyanywhere else. 

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

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

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

He had been at Handicap Lodge about a fortnight, and was beginning tofeel anything but happy. His horse was to go over in another week, money was not plentiful with him, and tradesmen were becoming obdurateand persevering. His host, Blake, was not a soothing or a comfortablefriend, under these circumstances: he gave him a good deal of practicaladvice, 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 manof pleasure; and, though they were, or thought themselves friends, theydid 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, namedTierney. Mr or, as he was commonly called, Mat Tierney, was a bachelor, about sixty years of age, who usually inhabited a lodge near theCurragh; and who kept a horse or two on the turf, more for the sake ofthe standing which it gave him in the society he liked best, than fromany intense love of the sport. He was a fat, jolly fellow, alwayslaughing, and usually in a good humour; he was very fond of what heconsidered the world; and the world, at least that part of it whichknew him, returned the compliment. 

"Well, my lord, " said he, after a few minutes of got-up enthusiasmrespecting 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 ridof a first-rate lady. You're very lucky, no doubt, in both; but I thinkfortune has stood to you most, in the latter. "

Lord Ballindine was petrified: he did not know what to reply. He wasaware that his engagement with Miss Wyndham was so public that Tierneycould allude to no other lady; but he could not conceive how any onecould have heard that his intended marriage was broken off--at any ratehow he could have heard it spoken of so publicly, as to induce him tomention it in that sort of way, to himself. His first impulse was to bevery indignant; but he felt that no one would dream of quarrelling withMat Tierney; so he said, as soon as he was able to collect his thoughtssufficiently, "I was not aware of the second piece of luck, Mr Tierney. Pray who isthe lady?"

"Why, Miss Wyndham, " said Mat, himself a little astonished at LordBallindine's tone. 

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

"My dear lord, " said the other, surprised and grieved, "I beg tenthousand pardons, if I have unintentionally said anything, which youfeel to be either. But, surely, if I am not wrong in asking, the matchbetween 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, andLord Cashel's son, I could not but think the report authentic. "

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

"As you seem somewhat surprised, " continued Mat, seeing that LordBallindine remained silent, and apparently at a loss for what he oughtto say, "perhaps I ought to tell you, that Lord Kilcullen mentionedit last night very publicly--at a dinner-party, as an absolute fact. Indeed, from his manner, I thought he wished it to be generally madeknown. I presumed, therefore, that it had been mutually agreed betweenyou, that the event was not to come off--that the match was not tobe run; and, with my peculiar views, you know, on the subject ofmatrimony, I thought it a fair point for congratulation. If LordKilcullen had misled me, I heartily beg to apologise; and at the sametime, by giving you my authority, to show you that I could not intendanything impertinent. If it suits you, you are quite at liberty to tellLord Kilcullen all I have told you; and, if you wish me to contradictthe report, which I must own I have spread, I will do so. "

Frank felt that he could not be angry with Mat Tierney; he thereforethanked him for his open explanation, and, merely muttering somethingabout private affairs not being worthy of public interest, rode offtowards Handicap Lodge. 

It appeared very plain to him that the Grey Abbey family must havediscarded him--that Fanny Wyndham, Lord and Lady Cashel, and the wholeset, 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--howeven Lord Cashel could have reconciled it to himself to do so, withoutthe 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 manysweet hours talking of the impossibility of their ever forgetting, deserting, or even slighting each other; she, who had been so entirelydevoted to him--so much more than engaged to him--could she have lenther 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 manymen do, I should not be surprised; but after all that has passedbetween us--after all her vows, and all her--" and then Lord Ballindinestruck his horse with his heel, and made a cut at the air with hiswhip, as he remembered certain passages more binding even thanpromises, warmer even than vows, which seemed to make him as miserablenow as they had made him happy at the time of their occurrence. "Iwould not believe it, " he continued, meditating, "if twenty Kilcullenssaid it, or if fifty Mat Tierneys swore to it!" and then he rode ontowards the lodge, in a state of mind for which I am quite unable toaccount, if his disbelief in Fanny Wyndham's constancy was really asstrong as he had declared it to be. And, as he rode, many unusualthoughts--for, hitherto, Frank had not been a very deep-thinkingman--crowded his mind, as to the baseness, falsehood, and iniquity ofthe human race, especially of rich cautious old peers who had beautifulwards in their power. 

By the time he had reached the lodge, he had determined that he mustnow do something, and that, as he was quite unable to come to anysatisfactory conclusion on his own unassisted judgment, he must consultBlake, who, by the bye, was nearly as sick of Fanny Wyndham as he wouldhave 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 ofone of the stables, with a cigar in his mouth. 

"Well, Frank, how does Brien go to-day? Not that he'll ever be thething till he gets to the other side of the water. They'll never beable to bring a horse out as he should be, on the Curragh, till they'veregular trained gallops. The slightest frost in spring, or sun insummer, and the ground's so hard, you might as well gallop your horsedown the pavement of Grafton Street. "

"Confound the horse, " answered Frank; "come here, Dot, a minute. I wantto 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 hadnever been foaled. "

"And why so? What crotchet have you got in your head now? Somethingwrong 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 haddeclared, at a large dinner-party, yesterday, that the match between meand his cousin was finally broken off. "

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

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

"There's no doubt as to what you'd better do; the question is whatyou'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 reportsto be the truth; return Miss Wyndham the lock of hair you have in yourdesk, and next your heart, or wherever you keep it; write her a prettynote, and conclude by saying that the 'Adriatic's free to wedanother'. That's what I should do. "

"It's very odd, Blake, that you won't speak seriously to a man for amoment. You've as much heart in you as one of your own horses. I wishI'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 becontented--for race-horses are usually considered to have a good deal;as for my cursed lodge, I can assure you I have endeavoured, and, ifyou will allow me, I will still endeavour, to make it as agreeable toyou as I am able; and as to my speaking seriously, upon my word, Inever spoke more so. You asked me what I thought you had better do--andI began by telling you there would be a great difference between thatand what you'd rather do. "

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

"Firstly, to prevent her breaking off with you--though I fear there'shardly time for that; and secondly, in consequence--as the newspaperssay, 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 Iknow that there would be great incompatibility between you, as LordBallindine, 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 aswell on fifteen hundred a year as any country gentleman in Ireland. It's only the interference of Lord Cashel that makes me determinednot to pull in till I am married. If he had let me have my own way, Ishouldn't, by this time, have had a horse in the world, except one ortwo hunters or so, down in the country. "

"Well, Frank, if you're determined to get yourself married, I'll giveyou the best advice in my power as to the means of doing it. Isn't thatwhat 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 LordBallindine. 

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't think you are: I don't think there's the least chance ofKilcullen insulting you; he has too much worldly wisdom. But to comeback to Miss Wyndham: if you really mean to marry her, and if, as Ibelieve, she is really fond of you, Lord Cashel and all the familycan't prevent it. She is probably angry that you have not been overthere; 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 quarrelledwith you; and hence Kilcullen's report. "

"And what shall I do now?"

"Nothing to-day, but eat your dinner, and drink your wine. Ride overto-morrow, see Lord Cashel, and tell him--but do it quite coolly, ifyou can--exactly what you have heard, and how you have heard it, andbeg him to assure Lord Kilcullen that he is mistaken in his notion thatthe match is off; and beg also that the report may not be repeated. Dothis; and do it as if you were Lord Cashel's equal, not as if you werehis son, or his servant. If you are collected and steady with him forten minutes, you'll soon find that he will become bothered andunsteady. "

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

"Then do you drop out yours like prussic acid, and you'll beat him athis own game. Those are all externals, my dear fellow. When a man knowshe has nothing within his head to trust to, --when he has neither sensenor genius, he puts on a wig, ties up his neck in a white choker, sitsin a big chair, and frightens the world with his silence. Remember, ifyou 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 yourpeace 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 ofthe morning's work. But don't ask to see her as a favour. When you'vedone with the lord (and don't let your conference be very long)--whenyou'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, ifyou're cool, he'll be bothered, and he won't know how to refuse; and ifhe 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, ifhe presses you--and he won't if you play your game well--tell him thatyou're quite aware your income won't allow you to keep up anestablishment 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 thosequestions unless he sees you shiver and shake like a half-whippedschool-boy. "

After a great deal of confabulation, in which Dot Blake often repeatedhis opinion of Lord Ballindine's folly in not rejoicing at anopportunity of breaking off the match, it was determined that Frankshould ride over the next morning, and do exactly what his friendproposed. If, however, one might judge from his apparent dread of theinterview with Lord Cashel, there was but little chance of hisconducting it with the coolness or assurance insisted on by Dot. Theprobability 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'mbeginning to think the symptoms are strong, and you'll hardly get outof 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 twodozen; but as to the living happy, that's more problematical. What doyou mean to eat and drink?"

"Eggs--potatoes and bacon--buttermilk, and potheen [21]. It's odd if Ican't get plenty of them in Mayo, if I've nothing better. "

 [FOOTNOTE 21: pootheen--illegal (untaxed) whiskey, "moonshine"]

"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'renot the man to live, with a family, on a small income, and what thed----l you'll do I don't know. You'll fortify Kelly's Court--that'll bethe 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 enterpriseswith success. "

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

"The limit to your expectations was only in your own modesty; theless you had a right--in the common parlance--to expect, the moreyou wanted, and the more you ought to have looked for. Say that MissWyndham's fortune clears a thousand a year of your property, you wouldnever be able to get along on what you'd have. No; I'll tell you whatyou'll do. You'll shut up Kelly's Court, raise the rents, take amoderate house in London; and Lord Cashel, when his party are in, willget you made a court stick of, and you'll lead just such a life as yourgrandfather. If it's not very glorious, at any rate it's a usefulkind of life. I hope Miss Wyndham will like it. You'll have to christenyour children Ernest and Albert, and that sort of thing; that's theworst 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 standout 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 portermyself, 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, notexcepting yourself, to put up with that kind of thing. Whatever I mayhave to live on, I shall live in my own country, and on my ownproperty. "

"Very well; if you won't be a gold stick, there's the otheralternative: fortify Kelly's Court, and prepare for the sheriff'sofficers. Of the two, there's certainly more fun in it; and you can goout with the harriers on a Sunday afternoon, and live like a 'ra'alO'Kelly of the ould times';--only the punch'll kill you in about tenyears. "

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

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

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

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

To this Lord Ballindine consented, and they adjourned to thebilliard-room; but, before they commenced playing, Blake declared thatif the names of Lord Cashel or Miss Wyndham were mentioned again thatevening, he should retreat to his own room, and spend the hours byhimself; so, for the rest of that day, Lord Ballindine was again drivenback upon Brien Boru and the Derby for conversation, as Dot was tooclose about his own stable to talk much of his own horses and theirperformances, 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 forGrey Abbey, on horseback, dressed with something more than ordinarycare, and with a considerable palpitation about his heart. He hardlyknew, himself, what or whom he feared, but he knew that he was afraidof something. He had a cold, sinking sensation within him, and he feltabsolutely certain that he should be signally defeated in his presentmission. He had plenty of what is usually called courage; had hisfriend recommended him instantly to call out Lord Kilcullen and shoothim, and afterwards any number of other young men who might express athought in opposition to his claim on Miss Wyndham's hand, he wouldhave set about it with the greatest readiness and aptitude; but he knewhe could not baffle the appalling solemnity of Lord Cashel, in his ownstudy. Frank was not so very weak a man as he would appear to be whenin the society of Blake. He unfortunately allowed Blake to think forhim in many things, and he found a convenience in having some one totell him what to do; but he was, in most respects, a better, and insome, even a wiser man than his friend. He often felt that the kind oflife he was leading--contracting debts which he could not pay, andspending his time in pursuits which were not really congenial to him, was unsatisfactory and discreditable: and it was this very feeling, andthe inability to defend that which he knew to be wrong and foolish, which made him so certain that he would not be able successfully topersist in his claim to Miss Wyndham's hand in opposition to the triteand well-weighed objections, which he knew her guardian would putforward. He consoled himself, however, with thinking that, at any rate, they could not prevent his seeing her; and he was quite sanguine as toher forgiveness, if he but got a fair opportunity of asking it. Andwhen that was obtained, why should the care for any one? Fanny would beof age, and her own mistress, in a few days, and all the solemn earlsin England, and Ireland too, could not then prevent her marrying whomand when she liked. 

He thought a great deal on all his friend had said to his futurepoverty; but then, his ideas and Blake's were very different aboutlife. Blake's idea of happiness was, the concentrating of every thinginto a focus for his own enjoyment; whereas he, Frank, had only hadrecourse to dissipation and extravagance, because he had nothing tomake home pleasant to him. If he once had Fanny Wyndham installed asLady Ballindine, at Kelly's Court, he was sure he could do his duty asa country gentleman, and live on his income, be it what it might, notonly without grumbling, but without wishing for anything more. Hewas fond of his country, his name, and his countrymen: he was fullyconvinced of his folly in buying race-horses, and in allowing himselfto be dragged on the turf: he would sell Brien Boru, and the other twoIrish chieftains, for what they would fetch, and show Fanny and herguardian that he was in earnest in his intention of reforming. Blakemight laugh at him if he liked; but he would not stay to be laughedat. He felt that Handicap Lodge was no place for him; and besides, whyshould he bear Dot's disagreeable sarcasms? It was not the part of areal friend to say such cutting things as he continually did. Afterall, Lord Cashel would be a safer friend, or, at any rate, adviser;and, instead of trying to defeat him by coolness or insolence, he wouldat once tell him of all his intentions, explain to him exactly howmatters stood, and prove his good resolutions by offering to takewhatever steps the earl might recommend about the horses. This finaldetermination made him easier in this mind, and, as he entered thegates of Grey Abbey Park, he was tolerably comfortable, trusting to hisown good resolutions, and the effect which he felt certain theexpression of them must have on Lord Cashel. 

Grey Abbey is one of the largest but by no means one of the mostpicturesque demesnes in Ireland. It is situated in the county ofKildare, about two miles from the little town of Kilcullen, in aflat, uninteresting, and not very fertile country. The park itself isextensive and tolerably well wooded, but it wants water and undulation, and is deficient of any object of attraction, except that of size andnot very magnificent timber. I suppose, years ago, there was an Abbeyhere, or near the spot, but there is now no vestige of it remaining. Ina corner of the demesne there are standing the remains of one of thosestrong, square, ugly castles, which, two centuries since, were the realhabitations of the landed proprietors of the country, and many of whichhave been inhabited even to a much later date. They now afford thestrongest record of the apparently miserable state of life which eventhe favoured of the land then endured, and of the numberless domesticcomforts which years and skill have given us, apt as we are to lookback 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 ofantiquity at Grey Abbey; and yet the ancient family of the Greys havelived there for centuries. The first of them who possessed property inIreland, obtained in the reign of Henry II, grants of immense tracts ofland, stretching through Wicklow, Kildare, and the Queen's and King'sCounties; and, although his descendants have been unable to retain, through the various successive convulsions which have taken place inthe interior of Ireland since that time, anything like an eighth ofwhat the family once pretended to claim, the Earl of Cashel, theirpresent representative, has enough left to enable him to considerhimself a very great man. 

The present mansion, built on the site of that in which the family hadlived till about seventy years since, is, like the grounds, large, commodious, and uninteresting. It is built of stone, which appears asif it had been plastered over, is three stories high, and the windowsare all of the same size, and at regular intervals. The body of thehouse looks like a huge, square, Dutch old lady, and the two wingsmight be taken for her two equally fat, square, Dutch daughters. Inside, the furniture is good, strong, and plain. There are plenty ofdrawing-rooms, sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, and offices; a small galleryof very indifferent paintings, and a kitchen, with an excellentkitchen-range, and patent boilers of every shape. 

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

There is a bed there, in which the Regent slept when in Ireland, and aroom which was tenanted by Lord Normanby, when Lord Lieutenant. Thereis, 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 Frederickthe Great. These are the lions of the place, and the gratificationexperienced by those who see them is, no doubt, great; but I doubt ifit equals the annoyance and misery to which they are subjected in beingobliged to pass one unopened door--that of the private room of LadySelina, 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 becomeinvested, in the eyes of the visitors, with no ordinary mystery. Many apetitionary whisper is addressed to the housekeeper on the subject, butin vain; and, consequently, the public too often leave Grey Abbeydissatisfied. 

As Lord Ballindine rode through the gates, and up the long approachto the house, he was so satisfied of the wisdom of his own finalresolution, and of the successful termination of his embassy under suchcircumstances, that he felt relieved of the uncomfortable sensation offear 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 wasalone in the book-room--the odious room he hated so much--that he beganagain to feel a little misgiving. However, there was nothing leftfor him now, so he gave up his horse to the groom, and followed thesober-faced servant into the book-room. 

Lord Cashel was a man about sixty-three, with considerable externaldignity of appearance, though without any personal advantage, either inface, figure, or manner. He had been an earl, with a large income, forthirty years; and in that time he had learned to look collected, evenwhen his ideas were confused; to keep his eye steady, and to make a fewwords go a long way. He had never been intemperate, and was, therefore, strong and hale for his years, --he had not done many glaringly foolishthings, and, therefore, had a character for wisdom and judgment. He hadrun away with no man's wife, and, since his marriage, had seduced noman's daughter; he was, therefore, considered a moral man. He was notso deeply in debt as to have his affairs known to every one; and hencewas thought prudent. And, as he lived in his own house, with his ownwife, paid his servants and labourers their wages regularly, and noddedin church for two hours every Sunday, he was thought a good man. Suchwere his virtues; and by these negative qualities--this _vis inertiæ_, he had acquired, and maintained, a considerable influence in thecountry. 

When Lord Ballindine's name was announced, he slowly rose, and, justtouching 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. Thisincluded the countess and Lady Selina, as well as Fanny, and was, therefore, not a particular question; but, having hoped this, and theearl remaining silent, he got confused, turned red, hummed and haweda little, sat down, and then, endeavouring to drown his confusion involubility, began talking quickly about his anxiety to make finalarrangements concerning matters, which, of course, he had most deeplyat heart; and, at last, ran himself fairly aground, from not knowingwhether, under the present circumstances, he ought to speak of hisaffianced to her guardian as "Fanny", or "Miss Wyndham". 

When he had quite done, and was dead silent, and had pausedsufficiently long to assure the earl that he was going to say nothingfurther just at present, the great man commenced his answer. 

"This is a painful subject, my lord--most peculiarly painful at thepresent time; but, surely, after all that has passed--but especiallyafter what has _not_ passed"--Lord Cashel thought this was a deadhit--"you cannot consider your engagement with Miss Wyndham to be stillin force?"

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

This was not very dignified in poor Frank, and to tell the truth, hewas completely bothered. Lord Cashel looked so more than ordinarilyglum; had he been going to put on a black cap and pass sentence ofdeath, or disinherit his eldest son, he could not have looked morestern or more important. Frank's lack of dignity added to his, and madehim feel immeasurably superior to any little difficulty which anotherperson might have felt in making the communication he was going tomake. He was really quite in a solemn good humour. Lord Ballindine'sconfusion 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 tohint--and I own I was taking a liberty, a fruitless liberty, in doingso--that I thought your remaining on the turf was hardly prudent. But I can assure you, with all kindly feeling--with no approach toanimosity--that I will not offend in a similar way again. I hear, by mere rumour, that you have extended your operations to the otherkingdom. 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 oppositedirection. With regard to Miss Wyndham, I must express--and I reallyhad thought it was unnecessary to do so, though it was certainly myintention, as it was Miss Wyndham's wish, that I should have writtento you formally on the subject--but your own conduct--excuse me, LordBallindine--your own evident indifference, and continued, I fear I mustcall it, dissipation--and your, as I considered, unfortunate selectionof acquaintance, combined with the necessary diminution of thatattachment which I presume Miss Wyndham once felt for you--necessary, inasmuch as it was, as far as I understand, never of a sufficientlyardent nature to outlive the slights--indeed, my lord, I don't wish tooffend you, or hurt your feelings--but, I must say, the slights whichit encountered--. " Here the earl felt that his sentence was a littleconfused, but the viscount looked more so; and, therefore, not atall abashed by the want of a finish to his original proposition, hecontinued glibly enough:

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

"Occurrence? No, Lord Cashel; I did not hear of any especialoccurrence. "

There had been a peculiarly solemn air about Lord Cashel during thewhole of the interview, which deepened into quite funereal gloom as heasked the last question; but he was so uniformly solemn, that this hadnot struck Lord Ballindine. Besides, an appearance of solemnity agreedso well with Lord Cashel's cast of features and tone of voice, that avisage more lengthened, and a speech somewhat slower than usual, servedonly to show him off as so much the more clearly identified by his owncharacteristics. Thus a man who always wears a green coat does notbecome remarkable by a new green coat; he is only so much the more thanever, the man in the green coat. 

Lord Ballindine, therefore, answered the question without theappearance of that surprise which Lord Cashel expected he would feel, if he had really not yet heard of the occurrence about to be related tohim. The earl, therefore, made up his mind, as indeed he had nearlydone before, that Frank knew well what was going to be told him, thoughit 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. Hewas determined, however, though he could not speak out plainly, to letFrank see that he was not deceived by his hypocrisy, and that he, LordCashel, was well aware, not only that the event about to be told hadbeen known at Handicap Lodge, but that the viscount's present visit toGrey Abbey had arisen out of that knowledge. 

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

"I am much surprised that you should not have heard of it. Thedistressing news reached Grey Abbey yesterday, and must have been wellknown in different circles in Dublin yesterday morning. Considering thegreat intercourse between Dublin and the Curragh, I wonder you can havebeen left so long in ignorance of a circumstance so likely to be widelydiscussed, and which at one time might have so strongly affected yourown interests. " Lord Cashel again paused, and looked hard at Frank. Heflattered himself that he was reading his thoughts; but he looked as ifhe had detected a spot on the other's collar, and wanted to see whetherit was ink or soot. 

Lord Ballindine was, however, confounded. When the earl spoke of"a circumstance so likely to be widely discussed", Mat Tierney'sconversation recurred to him, and Lord Kilcullen's public declarationthat Fanny Wyndham's match was off. --It was certainly odd for LordCashel 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 besurprised that an event of so much importance, of so painful a nature, and, doubtless, already so publicly known, should not before this havereached the ears of one to whom, I presume, Miss Wyndham's name was notalways wholly indifferent. But, as you have not heard it, my lord, Iwill communicate it to you, " and again he paused, as though expectinganother assurance of Lord Ballindine's ignorance. 

"Why, my lord, " said Frank, "I did hear a rumour, which surprised mevery much, but I could not suppose it to be true. To tell the truth, itwas very much in consequence of what I heard that I came to Grey Abbeyto-day. "

It was now Lord Cashel's turn to be confounded. First, to deny that hehad heard anything about it--and then immediately to own that he hadheard it, and had been induced to renew his visits to Grey Abbey inconsequence! 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 tohim. 

Fanny Wyndham's father had held a governorship, or some goldenappointment in the golden days of India, and consequently had diedrich. He left eighty thousand pounds to his son, who was younger thanFanny, and twenty to his daughter. His son had lately been put into theGuards, 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 thousandpounds, he would be too glad to be allowed to remain the acceptedadmirer of a hundred thousand. 

"I thought you must have heard it, my lord, " resumed the senior, assoon as he had collected his shreds of dignity, which Frank's openavowal 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--excuseme 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, tointrude upon her sorrow. "

Frank was completely bothered. He thought that if she were sosorrowful, if she grieved so deeply at the match being broken off, thatwas just the reason why he should see her. After all, it was ratherflattering to himself to hear of her sorrows; dear Fanny! was she sogrieved 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 tobe told that the engagement between me and Miss Wyndham is off, withouthearing any reason from herself. I'll make any sacrifice you please, orshe requires; I'm sure she was attached to me, and she cannot haveovercome that affection so soon. "

"I have already said that we require--Miss Wyndham requires--nosacrifice from you. The time for sacrifice is past; and I do not thinkher 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, Ifear 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 appreciateyour delicacy in asking to do so at the present moment. "

There was something very hard in this. The match was to be broken offwithout any notice to him; and when he requested, at any rate, to hearthis 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 puthis back up. 

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

"My advice to my ward will be, not to write to you; at any rate for thepresent. I presume, my lord, you cannot doubt my word that Miss Wyndhamchooses to be released from an engagement, which I must say your ownconduct renders it highly inexpedient for her to keep. "

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

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

"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 companionpossessed any real knowledge of human nature, he would at once haveseen 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 alreadyheard it; and, unless my ears deceived me, you explained that hisdemise was the immediate cause of your present visit. I cannot, however, go so far as to say that I think you have exercised a sounddiscretion in the matter. In expressing such an opinion, however, I amfar from wishing to utter anything which may be irritating or offensiveto 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 tellher this, with my kindest--best compliments. "

This termination was very cold--but so was Lord Cashel's face. Hislordship had also risen from his chair; and Frank saw it was intendedthat 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 sawthat he must go; so he rose and putting out his hand which Lord Casheljust touched, he said, "Good bye, my lord. I trust, after a few months are gone by, you maysee reason to alter the opinion you have expressed respecting yourward. Should I not hear from you before then, I shall again do myselfthe honour of calling at Grey Abbey; but I will write to Miss Wyndhambefore I do so. "

Lord Cashel had the honour of wishing Lord Ballindine a very goodmorning, 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 hisstudy door, and that there was a six foot servitor to open any otherdoor 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 andher discarded lover. 

He was very well satisfied with himself, and with his own judgment andfirmness in the late conversation. It was very evident that Frank hadheard of Harry Wyndham's death, and of Fanny's great accession ofwealth; that he had immediately determined that the heiress was nolonger to be neglected, and that he ought to strike while the iron washot: hence his visit to Grey Abbey. His pretended ignorance of theyoung man's death, when he found he could not see Miss Wyndham, was aruse; 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 immediatelyafter news of so distressing a nature had reached Miss Wyndham! Howvery impolitic, thought Lord Cashel, to show such a hurry to takepossession of the fortune!--How completely he had destroyed his owngame. And then, other thoughts passed through his mind. His ward hadnow one hundred thousand pounds clear, which was, certainly, a greatdeal of ready money. Lord Cashel had no younger sons; but his heir, Lord Kilcullen, was an expensive man, and owed, he did not exactlyknow, and was always afraid to ask, how much. He must marry soon, or hewould be sure to go to the devil. He had been living with actresses andopera-dancers quite long enough for his own respectability; and, if heever intended to be such a pattern to the country as his father, it wasnow time for him to settle down. And Lord Cashel bethought himself thatif he could persuade his son to marry Fanny Wyndham and pay his debtswith her fortune--(surely he couldn't owe more than a hundred thousandpounds?)--he would be able to give them a very handsome allowance tolive on. 

To do Lord Cashel justice, we must say that he had fully determinedthat 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 Fannyherself, feeling slighted and neglected--knowing how near to her herlover was, and that nevertheless he never came to see her--hearinghis name constantly mentioned in connection merely with horses andjockeys--had been induced to express her acquiescence in her guardian'sviews, and to throw poor Frank overboard. In all this the earl had beenactuated by no mercenary views, as far as his own immediate family wasconcerned. He had truly and justly thought that Lord Ballindine, withhis limited fortune and dissipated habits, was a bad match for hisward; and he had, consequently, done his best to break the engagement. There could, therefore, he thought, be nothing unfair in his takingadvantage of the prudence which he had exercised on her behalf. Hedid not know, when he was persuading her to renounce Lord Ballindine, that, at that moment, her young, rich, and only brother, was lyingat the point of death. He had not done it for his own sake, or LordKilcullen's; there could, therefore, be nothing unjust or ungenerous intheir turning to their own account the two losses, that of her loverand her brother, which had fallen on Miss Wyndham at the same time. Ifhe, as her guardian, would have been wrong to allow Lord Ballindine tosquander her twenty thousands, he would be so much the more wrong tolet him make ducks and drakes of five times as much. In this manner hequieted his conscience as to his premeditated absorption of his ward'sfortune. It was true that Lord Kilcullen was a heartless roué, whereasLord Ballindine was only a thoughtless rake; but then, Lord Kilcullenwould be an earl, and a peer of parliament, and Lord Ballindine wasonly an Irish viscount. It was true that, in spite of her presentanger, 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? Nota twentieth part of them! And, above all, Lord Kilcullen's vices werefiltered through the cleansing medium of his father's partiality, andLord Ballindine's faults were magnified by the cautious scruples ofFanny's guardian. 

The old man settled, therefore, in his own mind, that Fanny should behis dear daughter, and the only difficulty he expected to encounter waswith his hopeful son. It did not occur to him that Fanny might object, or that she could be other than pleased with the arrangement. Hedetermined, however, to wait a little before the tidings of her futuredestiny should be conveyed to her, although no time was to be lost intalking over the matter with Lord Kilcullen. In the meantime, it wouldbe necessary for him to tell Fanny of Lord Ballindine's visit; andthe wily peer was glad to think that she could not but be furtherdisgusted at the hurry which her former lover had shown to renew hisprotestations of affection, as soon as the tidings of her wealth hadreached him. However, he would say nothing on that head: he wouldmerely 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, andstrengthening his resolution; and then he stalked and strutted into thedrawing-room, where the ladies were sitting, to make his communicationto Miss Wyndham. 

Miss Wyndham, and her cousin, Lady Selina Grey, the only unmarrieddaughter left on the earl's hands, were together. Lady Selina was notin her _première jeunesse_ [22], 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 inhim, was, to a certain degree, real in her. She had a most exaggeratedconception 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 aroom before other women, she fancied herself better than them, andentitled to be thought better. She was plain, red-haired, and in noways attractive; but she had refused the offer of a respectable countrygentleman, because he was only a country gentleman, and then flatteredherself that she owned the continuance of her maiden condition to herhigh station, which made her a fit match only for the most exaltedmagnates of the land. But she was true, industrious, and charitable;she worked hard to bring her acquirements to that pitch which sheconsidered necessary to render her fit for her position; she trulyloved her family, and tried hard to love her neighbours, in which shemight have succeeded but for the immeasurable height from which shelooked down on them. She listened, complacently, to all those seriouscautions against pride, which her religion taught her, and consideredthat she was obeying its warnings, when she spoke condescendingly tothose around her. She thought that condescension was humility, and thather self-exaltation was not pride, but a proper feeling of her own andher family's dignity. 

 [FOOTNOTE 22: première jeunesse--(French) prime of youth]

Fanny Wyndham was a very different creature. She, too, was proud, buther pride was of another, if not of a less innocent cast; she was proudof her own position; but it was as Fanny Wyndham, not as Lord Cashel'sniece, or anybody's daughter. She had been brought out in thefashionable world, and liked, and was liked by, it; but she felt thatshe owed the character which three years had given her, to herself, andnot to those around her. She stood as high as Lady Selina, though onvery different grounds. Any undue familiarity would have been quite asimpossible with one as with the other. Lady Selina chilled intruders toa distance; Fanny Wyndham's light burned with so warm a flame, thatbutterflies were afraid to trust their wings within its reach. She wasneither so well read, nor so thoughtful on what she did read, as herfriend; but she could turn what she learned to more account, for thebenefit of others. The one, in fact, could please, and the other couldnot. 

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 haddark-brown hair, which was never curled, but worn in plain braids, fastened at the back of her head, together with the long rich foldswhich were collected there under a simple comb. Her forehead was high, and beautifully formed, and when she spoke, showed the animation of hercharacter. Her eyes were full and round, of a hazel colour, bright andsoft when she was pleased, but full of pride and displeasure when hertemper was ruffled, or her dignity offended. Her nose was slightly_retroussé_ [23], 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 chinwas very lovely: it was this which encouraged her to comb back thatluxuriant hair, and which gave the greatest charm to her face. Hermouth was large, too large for a beauty, and therefore she was not aregular beauty; but, were she talking to you, and willing to pleaseyou, you could hardly wish it to be less. I cannot describe the shadeof her complexion, but it was rich and glowing; and, though she was nota brunette, I believe that in painting her portrait, an artist wouldhave mixed more brown than other colours. 

 [FOOTNOTE 23: retroussé--(French) turned-up]

At the time of which I am now speaking, she was sitting, or ratherlying, on a sofa, with her face turned towards her cousin, but her eyesfixed on vacancy. As might have been expected, she was thinking of herbrother, and his sudden death; but other subjects crowded with thatinto her mind, and another figure shared with him her thoughts. She hadbeen induced to give her guardian an unqualified permission to reject, in her name, any further intercourse with Frank; and though she haddoubtless been induced to do so by the distressing consciousness thatshe had been slighted by him, she had cheated herself into the beliefthat prudence had induced her to do so. She felt that she was notfitted to be a poor man's wife, and that Lord Ballindine was as illsuited for matrimonial poverty. She had, therefore, induced herself togive him up; may-be she was afraid that if she delayed doing so, shemight herself be given up. Now, however, the case was altered; thoughshe sincerely grieved for her brother, she could not but recollect thedifference which his death made in her own position; she was now agreat heiress, and, were she to marry Lord Ballindine, if she didnot make him a rich man, she would, at any rate, free him from allembarrassment. 

Besides, could she give him up now? now that she was rich? He wouldfirst hear of her brother's death and her wealth, and then wouldimmediately be told that she had resolved to reject him. Could she bearthat she should be subjected to the construction which would fairly beput upon her conduct, if she acted in this manner? And then, again, shefelt that she loved him; and she did love him, more dearly than shewas herself aware. She began to repent of her easy submission to herguardian's advice, and to think how she could best unsay what she hadalready said. She had lost her brother; could she afford also to loseher lover? She had had none she could really love but those two. Andthe tears again came to her eyes, and Lady Selina saw her, for thetwentieth 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-workframe. She had talked a great deal of sound sense to Fanny thatmorning, 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 nouse your attempting your embroidery, for your mind would still wanderto him that is no more. You should read; indeed you should. Do go onwith 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, morethan about the work. "

"But you should try, Fanny, --the very attempt would be work to yourmind: besides, you would be doing your duty. Could all your tears bringhim back to you? Can all your sorrow again restore him to his friends?No! and you have great consolation, Fanny, in reflecting that yourremembrance of your brother is mixed with no alloy. He had not livedto be contaminated by the heartless vices of that portion of theworld into which he would probably have been thrown; he had notbecome dissipated--extravagant--and sensual. This should be a greatconsolation to you. "

It might be thought that Lady Selina was making sarcastic allusionsto her own brother and to Fanny's lover; but she meant nothing of thekind. Her remarks were intended to be sensible, true, and consolatory;and they at any rate did no harm, for Fanny was thinking of somethingelse 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 somewhatsoftened by a lachrymose air, which, in respect to his ward's grief, heput on as he turned the handle of the door; and he walked somewhat moregently than usual into the room. 

"Well, Fanny, how are you now?" he said, as he crept up to her. "Youshouldn't brood over these sad thoughts. Your poor brother has gone toa better world; we shall always think of him as one who had felt nosorrow, and been guilty of but few faults. He died before he had wastedhis fortune and health, as he might have done:--this will always be aconsolation. "

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

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

"Perhaps I'm wrong, Fanny, to speak to you on other subjects so soonafter 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, toexert yourself to think of other things; besides it will be a comfortto you to know that I have already done, what I am sure you stronglywished to have executed at once. "

It was not necessary for the guardian to say anything further to inducehis ward to listen. She knew that he was going to speak about LordBallindine, 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 oughtto hear, it will be no trouble to me. "

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

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

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

Lord Cashel paused for some mark of approbation. Fanny saw that she wasexpected to speak, and, therefore, asked whether Lord Ballindine wasstill in the house. She listened tremulously for his answer; for shefelt that if her lover were to be rejected, he had a right, after whathad passed between them, to expect that she should, in person, expressher resolution to him. And yet, if she had to see him now, could shereject him? could she tell him that all the vows that had been madebetween them were to be as nothing? No! she could only fall on hisshoulder, and weep in his arms. But Lord Cashel had managed better thanthat. 

"No, Fanny; neither he nor I, at the present moment, could expectyou--could reasonably expect you, to subject yourself to anything sopainful as an interview must now have been. Lord Ballindine has leftthe 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 messagefor me?"

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

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

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

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

Fanny still did not understand the earl. The idea of her lover comingafter her money immediately on her obtaining possession of it, neverentered her mind; she thought of her wealth as far as it might haveaffected him, but did not dream of its altering his conduct towardsher. 

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

Lord Cashel did not say anything more on this head; he was fullyconvinced that Lord Ballindine only looked on the young man's death asa windfall which he might turn to his own advantage; but he thought itwould be 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 toyou in the matter. Lord Ballindine has shown himself so very imprudent, so very unfit, in every way, for the honour you once intended him, thatno other line of conduct was open to you than that which you havewisely pursued. "

This treading on the fallen was too much for Fanny. "I have no righteither 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 he notask to see me?"

"Surely, Fanny, you would not, at the present moment, have wished tosee him!"

"Oh, no; it is a great relief, under all the circumstances, nothaving to do so. But was he contented? I should be glad that he weresatisfied--that he shouldn't think I had treated him harshly, orrudely. Did he appear as if he wished to see me again?"

"Why, he certainly did ask for a last interview--which, anticipatingyour wishes, I have refused. "

"But was he satisfied? Did he appear to think that he had been badlytreated?"

"Rejected lovers, " answered the earl with a stately smile, "seldomexpress much satisfaction with the terms of their rejection; but Icannot say that Lord Ballindine testified any strong emotion. " He rosefrom 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 LordBallindine 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'stime to leave his horses, and his friend Mr Blake, either to see hisintended wife, or to pay Lady Cashel the usual courtesy of a morningvisit. " He then opened the door, and, again closing it, added--"Ithink, however, Fanny, that what has now passed between us will secureyou from any further annoyance from him. "

Lord Cashel, in this last speech, had greatly overshot his mark; hisobject had been to make the separation between his ward and her loverpermanent; and, hitherto, he had successfully appealed to her pride andher judgment. Fanny had felt Lord Cashel to be right, when he told herthat she was neglected, and that Frank was dissipated, and in debt. Sheknew she should be unhappy as the wife of a poor nobleman, and she feltthat it would break her proud heart to be jilted herself. She had, therefore, though unwillingly, still entirely agreed with her, guardianas to the expediency of breaking off, the match; and, had Lord Cashelbeen judicious, he might have confirmed her in this resolution; but hislast thunderbolt, which had been intended to crush Lord Ballindine, hadcompletely recoiled upon himself. Fanny now instantly understood theallusion, 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 theindignation expressed in Fanny's eyes; but she was indignant; sheknew Frank well enough to be sure that he had come to Grey Abbey thatmorning with no such base motives as those ascribed to him. He mighthave heard of Harry's death, and come there to express his sorrow, andoffer that consolation which she felt she could accept from him soonerthan from any living creature:--or, he might have been ignorant of italtogether; but that he should come there to press his suit because herbrother was dead--immediately after his death--was not only impossible;but the person who could say it was possible, must be false and untrueto her. Her uncle could not have believed it himself: he had baselypretended to believe it, that he might widen the breach which he hadmade. 

Fanny was alone, in the drawing-room--for her cousin had left it assoon as her father began to talk about Lord Ballindine, and she satthere glowering through her tears for a long time. Had Lord Ballindinebeen able to know all her thoughts at this moment, he would have feltlittle 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 showngreat tact in discovering Frank's mercenary schemes, and in laying themopen before Fanny; and that she had firmly and finally made up her mindto have nothing more to do with him. He had not long been re-seated inhis customary chair in the book-room, before he began to feel a certaindegree of horror at the young lord's baseness, and to think howworthily he had executed his duty as a guardian, in saving Miss Wyndhamfrom so sordid a suitor. From thinking of his duties as a guardian, hismind, not unnaturally, recurred to those which were incumbent on himas a father, and here nothing disturbed his serenity. It is true that, from an appreciation of the lustre which would reflect back uponhimself from allowing his son to become a decidedly fashionable youngman, he had encouraged him in extravagance, dissipation, and heartlessworldliness; 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 payhis son's debts with his ward's fortune, and, at the same time, tiehim down to some degree of propriety and decorum, by a wife. LordKilcullen, when about to marry, would be obliged to cashier hisopera-dancers and their expensive crews; and, though he might not leavethe turf altogether, when married he would gradually be drawn out ofturf society, and would doubtless become a good steady family nobleman, like his father. Why, he--Lord Cashel himself--wise, prudent, andrespectable 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, andsmiled grimly; for the memory of his juvenile vices was pleasant tohim. 

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

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

Down he came, to the great delight of his mother, who thought himby far the finest young man of the day, though he usually slighted, snubbed, and ridiculed her--and of his sister, who always hailed withdignified joy the return of the eldest scion of her proud family to theancestral roof. The earl was also glad to find that no previousengagement detained him; that is, that he so far sacrificed hisown comfort as to leave Tattersall's and the _Figuranti_ of theOpera-House, to come all the way to Grey Abbey, in the county ofKildare. But, though the earl was glad to see his son, he was still alittle consternated: the business interview could not be postponed, as it was not to be supposed that Lord Kilcullen would stay long atGrey Abbey during the London season; and the father had yet hardlysufficiently crammed himself for the occasion. Besides, the pressurefrom without must have been very strong to have produced so immediate acompliance 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 hischair during breakfast. It was rather a sombre meal, for Fanny had byno means recovered her spirits, nor did she appear to be in the way todo so. The countess tried to chat a little to her son, but he hardlyanswered her; and Lady Selina, though she was often profound, was neveramusing. Lord Cashel made sundry attempts at general conversation, butas often failed. It was, at last, however, over; and the fatherrequested the son to come with him into the book-room. 

When the fire was poked, and the chairs were drawn together over therug, there were no further preliminaries which could be decentlyintroduced, 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 wellperhaps to settle our business at once. You would, however, greatlyoblige your mother, and I'm sure I need not add, myself, if you couldmake your arrangements so as to stay with us till after Easter. Wecould then return together. "

"Till after Easter, my lord! I should be in the Hue and Cry before thattime, if I was so long absent from my accustomed haunts. Besides Ishould only put out your own arrangements, or rather, those of LadyCashel. 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 thestate of my affairs at present renders it advisable that the familyshould remain at Grey Abbey this season. I shall attend myparliamentary duties alone. "

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

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

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

"His death will make a great difference, as far as Fanny isconcerned--eh?"

"Indeed it will: her fortune now is considerable;--a deuced prettything, remembering that it's all ready money, and that she can touch itthe moment she's of age. She's entirely off with Ballindine, isn'tshe?"

"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 himher money, nevertheless. She's not the girl to give over a man, ifshe's really fond of him. "

"But, my dear Kilcullen, she has authorised me to give him a finalanswer, and I have done so. After that, you know, it would be quiteimpossible for her to--to--"

"You'll see;--she'll marry Lord Ballindine. Had Harry lived, it mighthave been different; but now she's got all her brother's money, she'llthink it a point of honour to marry her poor lover. Besides, herstaying this year in the country will be in his favour: she'll see noone here--and she'll want something to think of. I understand he hasaltogether thrown himself into Blake's hands--the keenest fellow inIreland, with as much mercy as a foxhound. He's a positive fool, isBallindine. "

"I'm afraid he is--I'm afraid he is. And you may be sure I'm too fondof 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 forher. "

"Ah!--but the thing is to put the plan into _her_ head. I'd be sorryto hear of a fine girl like Fanny Wyndham breaking her heart in ahalf-ruined barrack in Connaught, without money to pay a schoolmasterto teach her children to spell. But I've too many troubles of my ownto think of just at present, to care much about hers;" and the son andheir got up, and stood with his back to the fire, and put his armsunder his coat-laps. "Upon my soul, my lord, I never was so hard up inmy 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 hadnearly double your allowance; and, before that, I paid every farthingyou owed. Within the last five years, you've had nearly forty thousandpounds! Supposing you'd had younger brothers, Lord Kilcullen--supposingthat I had had six or eight sons instead of only one; what would youhave done? How then would you have paid your debts?"

"Fate having exempted me and your lordship from so severe a curse, Ihave never turned my mind to reflect what I might have done under suchan infliction. "

"Or, supposing I had chosen, myself, to indulge in those expensivehabits, which would have absorbed my income, and left me unable to domore for you, than many other noblemen in my position do for theirsons--do you ever reflect how impossible it would then have been for meto have helped you out of your difficulties?"

"I feel as truly grateful for your self-denial in this respect, as I doin that of my non-begotten brethren. "

Lord Cashel saw that he was laughed at, and he looked angry; but he didnot want to quarrel with his son, so he continued:

"Jervis writes me word that it is absolutely necessary that thirtythousand pounds should be paid for you at once; or, that your remainingin London--or, in fact, in the country at all, is quite out of thequestion. "

"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, thatI don't often have the satisfaction of seeing much of it at the rightside of my banker's book. "

"Thirty thousand pounds! And will that sum set you completely free inthe world?"

"I am sorry to say it will not--nor nearly. "

"Then, Lord Kilcullen, " said the earl, with most severe, but still mostcourteous dignity, "may I trouble you to be good enough to tell mewhat, at the present moment, you do owe?"

"I'm afraid I could not do so with any accuracy; but it is more thandouble the sum you have named. "

"Do you mean, that you have no schedule of your debts?--no means ofacquainting me with the amount? How can you expect that I can assistyou, when you think it too much trouble to make yourself thoroughlyacquainted with the state of your own affairs?"

"A list could certainly be made out, if I had any prospect of beingable to settle the amount. If your lordship can undertake to do so atonce, 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 knowexactly to whom all the items were owing. "

This effrontery was too much, and Lord Cashel was very near to losinghis temper. 

"Upon my honour, Kilcullen, you're cool, very cool. You come upon meto pay, Heaven knows how many thousands--more money, I know, than I'mable to raise; and you condescendingly tell me that you will troubleyourself so far as to let me know how much money I am to give you--butthat I am not to know what is done with it! No; if I am to pay yourdebts again, I will do it through Jervis. "

"Pray remember, " replied Lord Kilcullen, not at all disturbed from hisequanimity, "that I have not proposed that you should pay my debtswithout knowing where the money went; and also that I have not yetasked you to pay them at all. "

"Who, then, do you expect will pay them? I can assure you I should beglad 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 resourcebut the Jews. I should regret to put the property into their hands;especially as, hitherto, I have not raised money on post obits [24]. "

 [FOOTNOTE 24: post obit--a loan that need not be repaid until the death of a specified individual, usually someone from whom the borrower expected to inherit enough to repay the loan]

"At any rate, I'm glad of that, " said the father, willing to admit anyexcuse for returning to his good humour. "That would be ruin; and Ihope that anything short of that may be--may be--may be done somethingwith. "

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 aproposal for paying off his son's debts. "But now, Kilcullen, tell mefairly, in round figures, what do you think you owe?--as near as youcan 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 topay such claims as have already been made upon him as your agent, andsuch other debts as I may have sent in to him: and if you will givemyself thirty thousand, to pay such debts as I do not choose to havepaid by an agent, I will undertake to have everything settled. "

"Eighty thousand pounds in four years! Why, Kilcullen, what have youdone with it?--where has it gone? You have five thousand a-year, nohouse to keep up, no property to support, no tenants to satisfy, norates to pay--five thousand a-year for your own personal expenses--and, in four years, you have got eighty thousand in debt! The propertynever 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. Agreat deal of it is scattered rather widely--so widely that it would bedifficult now to trace it. But, my lord, it has gone. I won't deny thatthe greater portion of it has been lost at play, or on the turf. Itrust I may, in future, be more fortunate and more cautious. "

"I trust so. I trust so, indeed. Eighty thousand pounds! And do youthink 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 beanother question whether you are willing. "

"I am not--I am not able, " said the libelled father. "As you know wellenough, the incumbrances on the property take more than a quarter of myincome. "

"There can, nevertheless, be no doubt of your being able to have themoney, and that at once, if you chose to go into the market for it. Ihave no doubt but that Mr Jervis could get it for you at once at fiveper cent. "

"Four thousand a-year gone for ever from the property!--and whatsecurity am I to have that the same sacrifice will not be againincurred, 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, inyour own resolution. I trust, however, that I have some experience toprevent my again falling into so disagreeable a predicament. I think Ihave heard your Lordship say that you incurred some unnecessaryexpenses yourself in London, before your marriage!"

"I wish, Kilcullen, that you had never exceeded your income more thanI did mine. But it is no use talking any further on this subject. Icannot, 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 todo so. "

"Then what the devil's the use of talking about it so long?" said thedutiful son, hastily jumping up from the chair in which he had againsat down. "Did you bring me down to Grey Abbey merely to tell me thatyou knew of my difficulties, and that you could do nothing to assistme?"

"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, andlisten to me, I'll tell you what I propose. I did not send for youhere without intending to point out to you some method of extricatingyourself from your present pecuniary embarrassment; and, if you haveany wish to give up your course, of--I must say, reckless profusion, and commence that upright and distinguished career, which I still hopeto see you take, you will, I think, own that my plan is both a saferand a more expedient one than that which you have proposed. It is quitetime for you now to abandon the expensive follies of youth; and, "--LordCashel was getting into a delightfully dignified tone, and felt himselfprepared for a good burst of common-place eloquence; but his son lookedimpatient, and as he could not take such liberty with him as he couldwith Lord Ballindine, he came to the point at once, and ended abruptlyby 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 anywoman but a woman with a large fortune, that would follow as a matterof consequence. "

"Your lordship proposes the fortune not as the first object of myaffection, but merely as a corollary. But, perhaps, it will be as wellthat you should finish your proposition, before I make any remarks onthe subject. " And Lord Kilcullen, sat down, with a well-feigned look oflistless indifference. 

"Well, Kilcullen, I have latterly been thinking much about you, and sohas your poor mother. She is very uneasy that you should still--stillbe unmarried; and Jervis has written to me very strongly. You see itis quite necessary that something should be done--or we shall both beruined. Now, if I did raise this sum--and I really could not do it--Idon't think I could manage it, just at present; but, even if I did, itwould 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, andyou 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 waswhen at your age, and I was much happier after I was married, so I knowit. Now, you see, your cousin has a hundred thousand pounds; in factsomething more than that. "

"What?--Fanny! Poor Ballindine! So that's the way with him is it! WhenI was contradicting the rumour of his marriage with Fanny, I littlethought that I was to be his rival! At any rate, I shall have to shoothim 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 subjectwhich, I presume, cannot but interest you. "

"Indeed, my lord, I'm all attention; and I do intend to talk sensiblywhen 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 ofthe match being an imprudent one; but it won't speak so leniently ofyou if you expel him, as soon as your ward becomes an heiress, to makeway for your own son. "

"You know that I'm not thinking of doing so. I've long seen that LordBallindine would not make a fitting husband for Fanny--long beforeHarry 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 shebecome if she married Lord Ballindine?"

"Oh, you are quite right! Go on. I wonder it never occurred to herbefore to set her cap at me. "

"Now do be serious. I wonder how you can joke on such a subject, withall your debts. I'm sure I feel them heavy enough, if you don't. Yousee Lord Ballindine was refused--I may say he was refused--before weheard about that poor boy's unfortunate death. It was the very morningwe heard of it, three or four hours before the messenger came, thatFanny had expressed her resolution to declare it off, and commissionedme to tell him so. And, therefore, of course, the two things can't havethe 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 thegirl who had a brother; but he can have no possible concern with FannyWyndham, the heiress, who has no brother. "

"How can you be so unfeeling?--but you may pay your debts in your ownway. You won't ever listen to what I have to say! I should have thoughtthat, as your father, I might have considered myself entitled to morerespect from you. "

"Indeed, my lord, I'm all respect and attention, and I won't say onemore word till you've finished. "

"Well--you must see, there can be no objection on the score of LordBallindine?"

"Oh, none at all. "

"And then, where could Fanny wish for a better match than yourself? itwould 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 wouldbe 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 presentincome--five thousand a year--settled on her, in the shape of jointure;and I'm sure that would be treating her handsomely. The interest of herfortune 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 besomething 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 assolemn, 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 bepaid immediately, and considerable delay must occur before I could evenoffer to Miss Wyndham; and, in the next place, were I to do so, I amsure she would refuse me. "

"Why; there must be some delay, of course. But I suppose, if I passedmy word, through Jervis, for so much of the debts as are immediate, that a settlement might be made whereby they might stand over fortwelve months, with interest, of course. As to refusing you, it's notat 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 thegirl to take a man because he's a good match for her. "

"Perhaps not. But then, you know, you understand women so well, andwould have such opportunities; you would be sure to make yourselfagreeable to her, with very little effort on your part. "

"Yes, poor thing--she would be delivered over, ready bound, into thelion'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 agreeto your proposition: but I must saddle it with conditions. I have nodoubt 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 yourmaking yourself responsible for it, and I would undertake to indemnifyyou. But the thirty thousand pounds I must have at once. I must returnto London, with the power of raising it there, without delay. This, also, I would repay you out of Fanny's fortune. I would then undertaketo use my best endeavours to effect a union with your ward. But I mostpositively 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, andunless you will agree to double my income as soon as I am married. "

To both these propositions the earl, at first, refused to accede; buthis son was firm. Then, Lord Cashel agreed to put him in immediatepossession of the sum of money he required, but would not hear ofincreasing his income. They argued, discussed, and quarrelled over thematter, for a long time; till, at last, the anxious father, in hispassion, told his son that he might go his own way, and that he wouldtake no further trouble to help so unconscionable a child. LordKilcullen rejoined by threatening immediately to throw the whole of theproperty, which was entailed on himself, into the hands of the Jews. 

Long they argued and bargained, till each was surprised at theobstinacy of the other. They ended, however, by splitting thedifference, and it was agreed, that Lord Cashel was at once to handover 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 wasforthcoming; and that the income of the newly married pair was to beseven thousand five hundred a-year. 

"At least, " thought Lord Kilcullen to himself, as he good-humouredlyshook hands with his father at the termination of the interview--"Ihave not done so badly, for those infernal dogs will be silenced, and Ishall get the money. I could not have gone back without that. I can goon with the marriage, or not, as I may choose, hereafter. It won't be abad speculation, however. "

To do Lord Cashel justice, he did not intend cheating his son, nor didhe suspect his son of an intention to cheat him. But the generation wasdeteriorating. 

XIV. THE COUNTESS

It was delightful to see on what good terms the earl and his son metthat evening at dinner. The latter even went so far as to be decentlycivil to his mother, and was quite attentive to Fanny. She, however, did not seem to appreciate the compliment. It was now a fortnight sinceshe had heard of her brother's death, and during the whole of that timeshe had been silent, unhappy, and fretful. Not a word more had beensaid to her about Lord Ballindine, nor had she, as yet, spoken abouthim to any one; but she had been thinking about little else, and hadascertained, --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 thatsuch was the case; she could not think how she had ever been inducedto sanction, by her name, such an unwarrantable proceeding as theunceremonious 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 ofage, they should not correspond. As she thought the matter over inher own room, long hour after hour, she became angry with herself forhaving been talked into a feeling of anger for him. What right had sheto be angry because he kept horses? She could not expect him to puthimself into Lord Cashel's leading-strings. Indeed, she thought shewould have liked him less if he had done so. And now, to reject himjust when circumstances put it in her power to enable her to freehim from his embarrassments, and live a manner becoming his station!What must Frank think of her?--For he could not but suppose that herrejection had been caused by her unexpected inheritance. 

In the course of the fortnight, she made up her mind that all LordCashel had said to Lord Ballindine should be unsaid;--but who was to doit? It would be a most unpleasant task to perform; and one which, shewas aware, her guardian would be most unwilling to undertake. She fullyresolved that she would do it herself, if she could find no fittingambassador to undertake the task, though that would be a step to whichshe would fain not be driven. At one time, she absolutely thought ofasking her cousin, Kilcullen, about it:--this was just before hisleaving 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 didknow: 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 onecould talk to Selina on any subject more immediately interesting than aRoman Emperor, or a pattern for worsted-work. Fanny felt that she wouldnot be equal, herself, to going boldly to Lord Cashel, and desiring himto inform Lord Ballindine that he had been mistaken in the view he hadtaken of his ward's wishes: no--that was impossible; such a proceedingwould probably bring on a fit of apoplexy. 

There was no one else to whom she could apply, but her aunt. LadyCashel was a very good-natured old woman, who slept the greatestportion of her time, and knitted through the rest of her existence. Shedid not take a prominent part in any of the important doings of GreyAbbey; and, though Lord Cashel constantly referred to her, for hethought it respectable to do so, no one regarded her much. Fanny felt, however, that she would neither scold her, ridicule her, nor refuse tolisten: to Lady Cashel, therefore, at last, she went for assistance. 

Her ladyship always passed the morning, after breakfast, in aroom adjoining her own bed-room, in which she daily held deepdebate 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 herladyship, only somewhat of a more active temperament; and they weremost stedfast friends. It was such a comfort to Lady Cashel to havesome 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 easychair, with the knitting-apparatus in her lap, and Griffiths was seatedat the table, pulling about threads, and keeping her ladyship awake bysmall talk. 

"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you, aunt, " said Fanny, "but I wanted tospeak 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'vedone, "--and the countess lugged up a whole heap of miscellaneousworsted from a basket just under her arm--"and I must finish it bylady-day [25], or I shan't get the other done, I don't know when. Butstill, I've plenty of time to attend to you. "

 [FOOTNOTE 25: lady-day--Annunciation Day, March 25]

"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 whenMiss 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 ofLady 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 shehad had to tell her tale out loud, merely to the empty easy chair, itwould have been a dreadful undertaking. 

"Well, Fanny, what can I do for you? I'm sure you look very nice inyour bombazine; and it's very nicely made up. Who was it made it foryou?"

"I got it down from Dublin, aunt; from Foley's. "

"Oh, I remember; so you told me. Griffiths has a niece makes thosethings up very well; but then she lives at Namptwich, and one couldn'tsend to England for it. I had such a quantity of mourning by me, Ididn'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 tohelp 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 Igrieved about him more than I can tell. "

"No, aunt: he's gone now, and time is the only cure for that grief. Iknow 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 allthat--I thought that was all settled. You know, he would keep thosehorrid horses, and all that kind of thing; and what more could you dothan just let Lord Cashel settle it?"

"Yes, but aunt--you see, I had engaged myself to Lord Ballindine, and Idon't think--in fact--oh, aunt! I did not wish to break my word to LordBallindine, and I am very very sorry for what has been done, " and Fannywas again in tears. 

"But, my dear Fanny, " said the countess, so far excited as to commencerising from her seat--the attempt, however, was abandoned, whenshe felt the ill effects of the labour to which she was exposingherself--"but, my dear Fanny--what would you have? It's done, now, youknow; and, really, it's for the best. "

"Oh, but, dear aunt, I must get somebody to see him. I've been thinkingabout it ever since he was here with my uncle. I wouldn't let him thinkthat I broke it all off, merely because--because of poor Harry'smoney, " 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 thinkof me?--what must he think of me, to throw him off so cruelly, soharshly, 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, Itell you, it will end in your being engaged to him again. You know it'soff now. Come, my dear; don't think so much about it: I'm sure LordCashel wouldn't do anything cruel or harsh. "

"Oh, I must see him again, whatever comes of it;" and then she pausedfor a considerable time, during which the bewildered old lady wasthinking what she could do to relieve her sensitive niece. "Dear, dearaunt, I don't want to deceive you!" and Fanny, springing up, knelt ather aunt's feet, and looked up into her face. "I do love him--I alwaysloved him, and I cannot, cannot quarrel with him. " And then she burstout crying vehemently, hiding her face in the countess's lap. 

Lady Cashel was quite overwhelmed. Fanny was usually so much morecollected than herself, that her present prostration, both offeeling and body, was dreadful to see. Suppose she was to go intohysterics--there they would be alone, and Lady Cashel felt that she hadnot 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 frightenme. Well, I'm sure I'll do anything for you. Perhaps he wouldn't mindcoming back again, --he always was very good-natured. I'm sure I alwaysliked 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 marryyou; 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 angrybecause I thought Frank didn't come here as he might have done, Iconsented that my uncle should break off the match: besides, then, youknow, we should have had so little between us. But I didn't know thenhow well I loved him. Indeed, indeed, aunt, I cannot bring my heart toquarrel with him; and I am quite, _quite_ sure he would never wish toquarrel with me. Will you go to my uncle--tell him that I've changed mymind; tell him that I was a foolish girl, and did not know my mind. Buttell him I _must_ be friends with Frank again. "

"Well, of course I'll do what you wish me, --indeed, I would do anythingfor you, Fanny, as if you were one of my own; but really, I don'tknow--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 goto him--do, now, dear aunt--and tell him--not from me, but fromyourself--how very, very much I--that is, how very very--but you willknow what to say; only Frank must, _must_ come back again. "

"Well, Fanny, dear, I'll go to Lord Cashel; or, perhaps, he wouldn'tmind coming here. Ring the bell for me, dear. But I'm sure he'll bevery angry. I'd just write a line and ask Lord Ballindine to come anddine here, and let him settle it all himself, only I don't think LordCashel would like it. "

Griffiths answered the summons, and was despatched to the book-roomto tell his lordship that her ladyship would be greatly obliged ifhe would step upstairs to her for a minute or two; and, as soon asGriffiths was gone on her errand, Fanny fled to her own apartment, leaving her aunt in a very bewildered and pitiable state of mind: andthere she waited, with palpitating heart and weeping eyes, the effectsof the interview. 

She was dreadfully nervous, for she felt certain that she would besummoned before her uncle. Hitherto, she alone, in all the house, hadheld him in no kind of awe; indeed, her respect for her uncle had notbeen 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 havetaken her aunt to explain what she had to say. At last, however, sheheard footsteps in the corridor, and Griffiths knocked at the door. Heraunt would be obliged by her stepping into her room. She tried not tolook disconcerted, and asked if Lord Cashel were still there. She wastold that he was; and she felt that she had to muster up all hercourage 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. Shewas sitting upright, with her hands on her two knees, and she lookedperplexed, distressed, and unhappy. Lord Cashel was standing with hisback to the fire-place, and Fanny had never seen his face look soblack. He really seemed, for the time, to have given over acting, tohave 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 thissensitiveness; you really must. I've spoken to your uncle, and it'squite impossible, and very unwise; and, indeed, it can't be done atall. In fact, Lord Ballindine isn't, by any means, the sort of person Isupposed. "

Fanny knit her brows a little at this, and felt somewhat less humblethan she did before. She knew she should get indignant if her uncleabused her lover, and that, if she did, her courage would rise inproportion. Her aunt continued--

"Your uncle's very kind about it, and says he can, of course, forgiveyour feeling a little out of sorts just at present; and, I'm sure, socan I, and I'm sure I'd do anything to make you happy; but as formaking it all up with Lord Ballindine again, indeed it cannot bethought of, Fanny; and so your uncle will tell you. "

And then Lord Cashel opened his oracular mouth, for the purpose ofdoing 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 onthe sofa. "I think I understood you rightly, when you desired me, lessthan a month ago, to inform Lord Ballindine that circumstances--thatis, 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 mostunwillingly. "

"Had I not your authority for desiring him--I won't say to discontinuehis visits, for that he had long done--but to give up his pretensionsto 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 doneso--now that I have fully explained to him what you taught me tobelieve were your wishes on the subject, will you tell me--for I reallythink your aunt must have misunderstood you--what it is that you wishme to do?"

"Why, uncle, you pointed out--and it was very true then, that myfortune was not sufficient to enable Lord Ballindine to keep up hisrank. 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 LordBallindine, because I am so much richer than I was when he--when heproposed 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 havetreated Lord Ballindine badly?"

"It's not only that--" And then she paused for a few moments, andadded, "I thought I could have parted with him, when you made mebelieve that I ought to do so, but I find I cannot. "

"You mean that you love him?" and the earl looked very black at hisniece. He intended to frighten her out of her resolution, but shequietly answered, "Yes, uncle, I do. "

"And you want me to tell him so, after having banished him from myhouse?"

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 therest myself. "

"But, Fanny, dear, " said the countess, "your uncle couldn't do it: youknow, he told him to go away before. Besides, I really don't think he'dcome; he's so taken up with those horrid horses, and that Mr Blake, whois worse than any of 'em. Really, Fanny, Kilcullen says that he and MrBlake are quite notorious. "

"I think, aunt, Lord Kilcullen might be satisfied with looking afterhimself. If it depended on him, he never had a kind word to say forLord Ballindine. "

"But you know, Fanny, " continued the aunt, "he knows everybody; and ifhe 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 lasthit about Kilcullen had been very unfortunate; so he determined to putan end to all Fanny's yearnings after her lover with a strong hand, andsaid, "If you mean, Fanny, after what has passed, that I should go to LordBallindine, and give him to understand that he is again welcome toGrey Abbey, I must at once tell you that it is absolutely--absolutelyimpossible. If I had no personal objection to the young man on anyprudential score, the very fact of my having already, at your request, desired his absence from my house, would be sufficient to render itimpossible. I owe too much to my own dignity, and am too anxious foryour reputation, to think of doing such a thing. But when I alsoremember that Lord Ballindine is a reckless, dissipated gambler--Imuch fear, with no fixed principle, I should consider any step towardsrenewing the acquaintance between you a most wicked and unpardonableproceeding. "

When Fanny heard her lover designated as a reckless gambler, she lostall 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 whatyou have said. I know him too well to believe such things of him, and Iwill not submit to hear him abused. "

"Oh, Fanny, my dear!" said the frightened countess; "don't speak inthat way. Surely, your uncle means to act for your own happiness; anddon't you know Lord Ballindine has those horrid horses?"

"If I don't mind his horses, aunt, no one else need; but he's nogambler, and he's not dissipated--I'm sure not half so much so as LordKilcullen. "

"In that, Fanny, you're mistaken, " said the earl; "but I don't wish todiscuss 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 thenacted most prudently, and I trust it will not be long before you are ofthe same opinion yourself, " and Lord Cashel moved to the door as thoughhe had accomplished his part in the interview. 

"Stop one moment, uncle, " said Fanny, striving hard to be calm, andhardly succeeding. "I did not ask my aunt to speak to you on thissubject, till I had turned it over and over in my mind, and resolvedthat I would not make myself and another miserable for ever, because Ihad been foolish enough not to know my mind. You best know whether youcan ask Lord Ballindine to Grey Abbey or not; but I am determined, ifI cannot see him here, that I will see him somewhere else, " and sheturned towards the door, and then, thinking of her aunt, she turnedback and kissed her, and immediately left the room. 

The countess looked up at her husband, quite dumbfounded, and he seemedrather distressed himself. However, he muttered something about herbeing a hot-headed simpleton and soon thinking better about it, andthen betook himself to his private retreat, to hold sweet converse withhis own thoughts--having first rung the bell for Griffiths, to pick upthe scattered threads of her mistress's knitting. 

Lord Cashel certainly did not like the look of things. There was adetermination in Fanny's eye, as she made her parting speech, whichupset him rather, and which threw considerable difficulties in the wayof Lord Kilcullen's wooing. To be sure, time would do a great deal: butthen, there wasn't so much time to spare. He had already taken steps toborrow the thirty thousand pounds, and had, indeed, empowered his sonto receive it: he had also pledged himself for the other fifty; andthen, after all, that perverse fool of a girl would insist on being inlove with that scapegrace, Lord Ballindine! This, however, might wearaway, and he would take very good care that she should hear of hismisdoings. It would be very odd if, after all, his plans were to bedestroyed, and his arrangements disconcerted by his own ward, andniece--especially when he designed so great a match for her!

He could not, however, make himself quite comfortable, though he hadgreat confidence in his own diplomatic resources. 

XV. HANDICAP LODGE

Lord Ballindine left Grey Abbey, and rode homewards, towards HandicapLodge, in a melancholy and speculative mood. His first thoughts wereall of Harry Wyndham. Frank, as the accepted suitor of his sister, hadknown him well and intimately, and had liked him much; and the pooryoung fellow had been much attached to him. He was greatly shocked tohear of his death. It was not yet a month since he had seen him shiningin all the new-blown splendour of his cavalry regimentals, and LordBallindine was unfeignedly grieved to think how short a time the ladhad lived to enjoy them. His thoughts, then, naturally turned tohis own position, and the declaration which Lord Cashel had made tohim respecting himself. Could it be absolutely true that Fanny haddetermined to give him up altogether?--After all her willing vows, andassurances of unalterable affection, could she be so cold as to contentherself with sending him a formal message, by her uncle, that shedid not wish to see him again? Frank argued with himself that it wasimpossible; he was sure he knew her too well. But still, Lord Cashelwould hardly tell him a downright lie, and he had distinctly statedthat the rejection came from Miss Wyndham herself. 

Then, he began to feel indignant, and spurred his horse, and rode alittle faster, and made a few resolutions as to upholding his owndignity. He would run after neither Lord Cashel nor his niece; he wouldnot even ask her to change her mind, since she had been able to bringherself to such a determination as that expressed to him. But he wouldinsist on seeing her; she could not refuse that to him, after what hadpassed 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 longas she was grieving for her brother. Poor Harry!--she loved him sodearly! Perhaps, after all, his sudden rejection was, in some manner, occasioned by this sad event, and would be revoked as her sorrow grewless with time. And then, for the first time, the idea shot across hismind, of the wealth Fanny must inherit by her brother's death. 

It certainly had a considerable effect on him, for he breathed slowawhile, and was some little time before he could entirely realise theconception that Fanny was now the undoubted owner of a large fortune. "That is it, " thought he to himself, at last; "that sordid earlconsiders that he can now be sure of a higher match for his niece, andFanny has allowed herself to be persuaded out of her engagement: shehas allowed herself to be talked into the belief that it was her dutyto 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 soservile and so mean? Fanny Wyndham, who cared so little for the prosyadmonitions of her uncle, a few months since, can she have altered herdisposition so completely? Can the possession of her brother's moneyhave made so vile a change in her character? Could she be the sameFanny who had so entirely belonged to him, who had certainly loved himtruly once? Perish her money! 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 himselfdeserted and betrayed by her, because circumstances had given her theprobable power of making a better match!"

Such were Lord Ballindine's thoughts; and he flattered himself withthe reflection that he was a most cruelly used, affectionate, anddisinterested lover. He did not, at the moment, remember that it wasFanny's twenty thousand pounds which had first attracted his notice;and that he had for a considerable time wavered, before he made up hismind to part with himself at so low a price. It was not to be expectedthat 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 themaster-spirit of that classic spot came upon him, and he began tobethink himself that it would be somewhat foolish of him to give up thegame just at present. He reflected that a hundred thousand pounds wouldwork a wondrous change and improvement at Kelly's Court--and that, ifhe was before prepared to marry Fanny Wyndham in opposition to thewishes of her guardian, he should now be doubly determined to do so, even though all Grey Abbey had resolved to the contrary. The last ideain his mind, as he got off his horse at his friend's door was, as towhat Dot Blake would think, and say, of the tidings he brought homewith him?

It was dark when he reached Handicap Lodge, and, having first askedwhether Mr Blake was in, and heard that he was dressing for dinner, hewent to perform the same operation himself. When he came down, full ofhis budget, and quite ready, as usual, to apply to Dot for advice, hewas 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-partyof four, and the long protracted rubber of shorts which would followit, when his mind was so full of other concerns! However, it was not tobe avoided. 

The guests were, the fat, good-humoured, ready-witted Mat Tierney, anda little Connaught member of Parliament, named Morris, who wore a wig, played a very good rubber of whist, and knew a good deal about sellinghunters. He was not very bright, but he told one or two good stories ofhis own adventures in the world, which he repeated oftener than wasapproved of by his intimate friends; and he drank his wine plentifullyand discreetly--for, if he didn't get a game of cards after consuming acertain quantum, he invariably went to sleep. 

There was something in the manner in which the three greeted him, onentering the room, which showed him that they had been speaking of himand 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 goodmorning's work of it?"

Frank looked rather distressed: before he could answer, however, MatTierney said, "Well, Ballindine, upon my soul I congratulate you sincerely, though, of course, you've seen nothing at Grey Abbey but tears and cambrichandkerchiefs. I'm very glad, now, that what Kilcullen told me wasn'ttrue. He left Dublin for London yesterday, and I suppose he won't hearof his cousin's death before he gets there. "

"Upon my honour, Lord Ballindine, " said the horse-dealing member, "youare 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'saccession of fortune; but they had not heard that she had rejected herlover, 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 pleasantlysituated in having to hear their congratulations and listen totheir jokes, while he himself felt that the rumour which he had soemphatically denied to Mat Tierney, only two days since, had turned outto be true. 

Not one of the party made the slightest reference to the poor brotherfrom whom Fanny's new fortune had come, except as the lucky means ofconveying it to her. There was no regret even pretended for his earlydeath, no sympathy expressed with Fanny's sorrow. And there was, moreover, an evident conviction in the minds of all the three, thatFrank, of course, looked on the accident as a piece of unalloyedgood fortune--a splendid windfall in his way, unattended with anydisagreeable concomitants. This grated against his feelings, and madehim 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 alittle ease, for Fanny Wyndham seemed to be forgotten in the willingdevotion which was paid to Blake's soup; the interest of the fish, also, seemed to be absorbing; and though conversation became moregeneral 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 [26], together with the claret. 

 [FOOTNOTE 26: A tapis was a small cloth or tapestry sometimes used to cover a table; hence the expression "on the tapis" meant "on the table" or "under consideration. "]

"You and Kilcullen don't hit it off together--eh, Ballindine?" saidMat. 

"We never quarrelled, " answered Frank; "we never, however, were veryintimate. "

"I wonder at that, for you're both fond of the turf. There's a largestring 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 objectto his own prices. "

"Faith I'll not trouble him, " said Mat; "I've two of them already, anda couple on the turf and a couple for the saddle are quite enough tosuit me. But what the deuce made him say, so publicly, that your matchwas off, Ballindine? He couldn't have heard of Wyndham's death at thetime, 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, maybeshe'll take you. "

"There's a speculation for you, " said Blake; "you don't think yourselftoo old yet, I hope, to make your fortune by marriage?--and, if youdon't, I'm sure Miss Wyndham can't. "

"I tell you what, Dot, I admire Miss Wyndham much, and I admire ahundred thousand pounds more. I don't know anything I admire more thana hundred thousand pounds, except two; but, upon my word, I wouldn'ttake 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 youshould 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'tsee them. But I don't see why Morris should not succeed: he's the onlyone of the four that doesn't own a racehorse, and that's much in hisfavour. What do you say, Morris?"

"I'd have no objection, " said the member; "except that I wouldn't liketo 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 theconversation, and he didn't know how to put a stop to it. 

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind giving him a line of introduction to LordCashel, " said Mat. 

"But, Morris, " said Blake, "I'm afraid your politics would go againstyou. A Repealer would never go down at Grey Abbey. "

"Morris'll never let his politics harm him, " said Tierney. "Repeal's avery good thing the other side of the Shannon; or one might, carry itas far as Conciliation Hall, if one was hard pressed, and near anelection. 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 dosomething for your country, for you're a patriot. I never was a publicman. "

"Well, when I can do any good for my country, I'll go there. Talking ofthat, I saw O'Connell in town yesterday, and I never saw him looking sowell. The verdict hasn't disturbed him much. I wonder what steps theGovernment will take now? They must be fairly bothered. I don't thinkthey dare imprison him. "

"Not dare!" said Blake--'and why not? When they had courage to indicthim, you need not fear but what they'll dare to go on with a stronghand, 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 Irelandwill be a Repealer by the end of that time. "

"And why shouldn't they all be Repealers?" said Morris. "It seems to methat it's just as natural for us to be Repealers, as it is for you tobe 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 haveso good an excuse for not doing so: they have such an easy path outof the hobble. There was just enough difference of opinion among thejudges--just enough irregularity in the trial, such as the omissions ofthe names from the long panel--to enable them to pardon the whole setwith a good grace. "

"If they did, " said Blake, "the whole high Tory party in thiscountry--peers and parsons--would be furious. They'd lose one set ofsupporters, and wouldn't gain another. My opinion is, they'll lock thewhole party up in the stone jug--for some time, at least. "

"Why, " said Tierney, "their own party could not quarrel with them fornot taking an advantage of a verdict, as to the legality of which thereis so much difference of opinion even among the judges. I don't knowmuch about these things, myself; but, as far as I can understand, theywould have all been found guilty of high treason a few years back, andprobably have been hung or beheaded; and if they could do that now, thecountry would be all the quieter. But they can't: the people will havetheir own way; and if they want the people to go easy, they shouldn'tput 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 thatthe country will stick to O'Connell, whether he's in prison or outof it;--but Peel will never dare to put him there. They talk of thePenitentiary; but I'll tell you what, if they put him there, the peopleof Dublin won't leave one stone upon another; they'd have it all downin a night. "

"You forget, Morris, how near Richmond barracks are to thePenitentiary. "

"No, I don't. Not that I think there'll be any row of the kind, forI'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 inprison within twelve months of this time. "

"Very well: that is, that he's not put there and kept there for sixmonths, 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 sixmonths. They're going to try for a writ of error, or what the devilthey call it, before the peers. But I'll bet you a cool hundred he isput in prison before twelve months are over, in consequence of theverdict. If he's locked up there for one night, I win. Will you takethat?"

"Well, I will, " said Morris; and they both went to work at their littlebooks. 

"I was in London, " said Mat, "during the greater portion of thetrial--and it's astonishing what unanimity of opinion there was atthe club that the whole set would be acquitted. I heard Howard makebet, at the Reform Club, that the only man put in prison would be theAttorney-General. "

"He ought to have included the Chief Justice, " said Morris. "By thebye, Mat, is that Howard the brother of the Honourable and RiverindAugustus?"

"Upon my soul, I don't know whose brother he is. Who is the RiverindAugustus?"

"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 Imentioned it to you the other day. It only happened the other day, butit _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 waterfirst. I'm sick of the claret. "

"Just as you like, Mat, " and Blake rang the bell, and the hot water wasbrought. 

"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. Whodoesn't know Savy?"

"You know him, don't you, Lord Ballindine?" Morris was determinedeverybody should listen to him. 

"Oh yes, I know him; he comes from County Mayo--his property's close tomine; that is, the patch of rocks and cabins--which he has managed tomortgage three times over, and each time for more than its value--whichhe still calls the O'Leary estate. "

"Well; some time ago--that is, since London began to fill, O'Leary wasseen walking down Regent Street, with a parson. How the deuce he'd evergot hold of the parson, or the parson of him, was never explained; butPhil Mahon saw him, and asked him who his friend in the white chokerwas. 'Is it my friend in black, you mane?' says Savy, 'thin, my frindwas the Honourable and the Riverind Augustus Howard, the Dane. ' 'Howardthe Dane, ' said Mahon, 'how the duce did any of the Howards becomeDanes?' 'Ah, bother!' said Savy, 'it's not of thim Danes he is; it'snot the Danes of Shwaden I mane, at all, man; but a rural Dane of theChurch of England. '"

Mat Tierney laughed heartily at this, and even Frank forgot that hisdignity had been hurt, and that he meant to be sulky; and he laughedalso: the little member was delighted with his success, and felthimself encouraged to persevere. 

"Ah, Savy's a queer fellow, if you knew him, " he continued, turning toLord Ballindine, "and, upon my soul, he's no fool. Oh, if you knew himas well--"

"Didn't you hear Ballindine say he was his next door neighbour inMayo?" said Blake, "or, rather, next barrack neighbour; for theydispense with doors in Mayo--eh, Frank? and their houses are all cabinsor barracks. "

"Why, we certainly don't pretend to all the Apuleian luxuries ofHandicap Lodge; but we are ignorant enough to think ourselvescomfortable, and swinish enough to enjoy our pitiable state. "

"I beg ten thousand pardons, my dear fellow. I didn't mean to offendyour nationality. Castlebar, we must allow, is a fine provincialcity--though Killala's the Mayo city, I believe; and Claremorris, whichis your own town I think, is, as all admit, a gem of Paradise: onlyit's a pity so many of the houses have been unroofed lately. It addsperhaps to the picturesque effect, but it must, I should think, takeaway from the comfort. "

"Not a house in Claremorris belongs to me, " said Lord Ballindine, againrather sulky, "or ever did to any of my family. I would as soon ownClaremorris, though, as I would Castleblakeney. Your own town is quiteas shattered-looking a place. "

"That's quite true--but I have some hopes that Castleblakeney will beblotted out of the face of creation before I come into possession. "

"But I was saying about Savy O'Leary, " again interposed Morris, "didyou ever hear what he did?"

But Blake would not allow his guest the privilege of another story. "Ifyou encourage Morris, " said he, "we shall never get our whist, " andwith 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 mademoney by whist. Tierney was not a gambler by profession; but the men helived among all played, and he, therefore, got into the way of it, andplayed 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 thecard-table was not the place where his light shone brightest, still he wasquite at home at it. 

As might be supposed, Lord Ballindine did not fare well among thethree. He played with each of them, one after the other, and lost withthem all. Blake, to do him justice, did not wish to see his friend'smoney go into the little member's pocket, and, once or twice, proposedgiving up; but Frank did not second the proposal, and Morris wasinveterate. 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 thebrilliant prospects on which his friends congratulated him. 

XVI. BRIEN BORU

The next morning, at breakfast, when Frank was alone with Blake, heexplained to him how matters really stood at Grey Abbey. He told himhow impossible he had found it to insist on seeing Miss Wyndham so soonafter her brother's death, and how disgustingly disagreeable, stiff andrepulsive the earl had been; and, by degrees, they got to talk of otherthings, and among them, Frank's present pecuniary miseries. 

"There can be no doubt, I suppose, " said Dot, when Frank had consoledhimself by anathematising the earl for ten minutes, "as to the fact ofMiss Wyndham's inheriting her brother's fortune?"

"Faith, I don't know; I never thought about her fortune if you'llbelieve me. I never even remembered that her brother's death would inany 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 inthat dingy book-room of his, with as much wise self-confidence as anantiquated raven--to think of him insinuating that I had come therelooking for Harry Wyndham's money; when, as you know, I was as ignorantof the poor fellow's death as Lord Cashel was himself a week ago. Insolent blackguard! I would never, willingly, speak another word tohim, or put my foot inside that infernal door of his, if it were to getten times all Harry Wyndham's fortune. "

"Then, if I understand you, you now mean to relinquish your claims toMiss Wyndham's hand. "

"No; I don't believe she ever sent the message her uncle gave me. Idon'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 youwant it yourself. But I don't think quarrelling with the uncle is thesurest way to get the niece. "

"But, man, he quarrelled with me. "

"It takes two people to quarrel. If he quarrelled with you, do you bethe 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 offashion. "

"But if she's really fond of me--and, upon my honour, I don't believeI'm flattering myself in thinking that she is--why the deuce shouldn'tshe marry me, _malgré_ [27] Lord Cashel? She must be her own mistressin a week or two. By heavens, I cannot stomach that fellow's arrogantassumption of superiority. "

 [FOOTNOTE 27: malgré--(French) in spite of; notwithstanding]

"It will be much more convenient for her to marry you _bon gré_ [28]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 thathappy time, take my advice, and submit to the cawing. Rooks and ravensare respectable birds, just because they do look so wise. It's a greatthing to look wise; the doing so does an acknowledged fool, like LordCashel, very great credit. "

 [FOOTNOTE 28: bon gré--(French) with the consent of]

"But what ought I to do? I can't go to the man's house when he told meexpressly not to do so. "

"Oh, yes, you can: not immediately, but by and by--in a month or sixweeks. 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 thingplaying a game for twenty thousand pounds, which, to you, joined to awife, would have been a positive irreparable loss, and starting forfive or six times that sum, which would give you an income on which youmight manage to live. "

"Well, thou sapient counsellor--but, I tell you beforehand, the chancesare ten to one I sha'n't follow your plan. "

"Do as you like about that: you sha'n't, at any rate, have me to blame. I would in the first place, assure myself that Fanny inherited herbrother'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 littletrouble. Then, take your name off the turf at once; it's worth yourwhile to do it now. You may either do it by a _bona fide_ sale of thehorses, or by running them in some other person's name. Then, watchyour opportunity, call at Grey Abbey, when the earl is not at home, andmanage to see some of the ladies. If you can't do that, if you can'teffect an _entrée_, write to Miss Wyndham; don't be too lachrymose, orsupplicatory, in your style, but ask her to give you a plain answerpersonally, 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'tthink she'll do so. She'll submit to a little parleying, and thenshe'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 whetherthey'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, inspite of her guardian; but, if you make no further advances to her, ofcourse she can make none to you. But I think the game is in your ownhand. You haven't the head to play it, or I should consider the stakesas good as won. "

"But then, about these horses, Dot. I wish I could sell them, out andout, at once. "

"You'll find it very difficult to get anything like the value for ahorse that's well up for the Derby. You see, a purchaser must make uphis mind to so much outlay: there's the purchase-money, and expense ofEnglish 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 understandthat 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 notsuit 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 affairsof the stable. Frank much wanted his friend to take his stud entirelyoff his hands, but this Dot resolutely refused to do. In the course ofconversation, Frank owned that the present state of his funds renderedit almost impracticable for him to incur the expense of sending hisfavourite, Brien Boru, to win laurels in England. He had lost nearlythree hundred pounds the previous evening which his account at hisbanker's did not enable him to pay; his Dublin agent had declinedadvancing him more money at present, and his tradesmen were veryimportunate. In fact, he was in a scrape, and Dot must advise him howto extricate himself from it. 

"I'll tell you the truth, Ballindine, " said he; "as far as I'mconcerned myself, I never will lend money, except where I see, as amatter of business, that it is a good speculation to do so. I wouldn'tdo 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 havebeen annoyed when I refused you; now, you have the power of beingindignant, instead. However, having said so much, I'll tell you what Ithink you should do, and what I will do to relieve you, as far as thehorses are concerned. Do you go down to Kelly's Court, and remain therequiet for a time. You'll be able to borrow what money you absolutelywant down there, if the Dublin fellows actually refuse; but do with aslittle 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 amountwon, after deducting their expenses. If they lose, I will charge youwith half the amount lost, including the expenses. Should you not feelinclined, at the end of the year, to repay me this sum, I will thenkeep the horses, instead, or sell them at Dycer's, if you like itbetter, and hand you the balance if there be any. What do you say tothis? 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 ofwhatever 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 concernthree horses, as good and as valuable as my three. "

"Yes; and you ought to bring into the concern half the capital to beexpended in their training; and knowledge, experience, and skill inmaking use of them, equal to mine. No, Frank; you're mistaken if youthink that I can afford to give up my time, merely for the purpose ofmaking an arrangement to save you from trouble. "

"Upon my word, Dot, " answered the other, "you're about the coolest handI 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 makea distinction between me and some of your other friends, and rememberthat 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 muchsharpness. "

"Then why do you talk about what you can afford to do?"

"Because it's necessary. I made a proposal which you thought an unfairone. You mayn't believe me, but it is a most positive fact, that myonly object in making that proposal was, to benefit you. You will findit difficult to get rid of your horses on any terms; and yet, with thevery great stake before you in Miss Wyndham's fortune, it would befoolish in you to think of keeping them; and, on this account, Ithought in what manner I could take them from you. If they belong to mystables I shall consider myself bound to run them to the bestadvantage, and"--

"Well, well--for heaven's sake don't speechify about it. "

"Stop a moment, Frank, and listen, for I must make you understand. Imust make you see that I am not taking advantage of your position, andtrying to rob my own friend in my own house. I don't care what mostpeople say of me, for in my career I must expect people to lie of me. Imust, also, take care of myself. But I do wish you to know, that thoughI 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 outof your book, by being careful to make the best bargain I could. "

"Well, as I was saying--I would run the horses to the bestadvantage--especially Brien, for the Derby: by doing so, my whole bookwould 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 verystrong interest in the horse. Besides, you remember that I should haveto go over with him to England myself, and that I should be obliged tobe in England a great deal at a time when my own business would requireme here. "

"My dear fellow, " said Frank, "you're going on as though it werenecessary to defend yourself. I never accused you of anything. "

"Never mind whether you did or no. You understand me now: if it willsuit 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 thehouse, and sauntered out into Blake's stud-yard. Here were his stables, where he kept such horses as were not actually in the trainer'shands--and a large assortment of aged hunters, celebratedtimber-jumpers, brood mares, thoroughbred fillies, cock-tailed colts, and promising foals. They were immediately joined by Blake's studgroom, who came on business intent, to request a few words with hismaster; which meant that Lord Ballindine was to retreat, as it was fulltime for his friend to proceed to his regular day's work. Blake's groomwas a very different person in appearance, from the sort of servant inthe possession of which the fashionable owner of two or three horsesusually rejoices. He had no diminutive top boots; no loose brownbreeches, buttoned low beneath the knee; no elongated waistcoat withcapacious pockets; no dandy coat with remarkably short tail. He was avery ugly man of about fifty, named John Bottom, dressed somewhat likea 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 thenumerous tempting offers which were made to him by denizens of the turfto play foul with his master's horses. He was, therefore, a treasure toBlake; and he knew it, and valued himself accordingly. 

"Well, John, " said his master, "I suppose I must desert Lord Ballindineagain, and obey your summons. Your few words will last nearly tilldinner, I suppose?"

"Why, there is a few things, to be sure, 'll be the better for beingtalked over a bit, as his lordship knows well enough. I wish we'd ascrack a nag in our stables, as his lordship. "

"Maybe we may, some day; one down and another come on, you know; as thebutcher-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 atthat joke a thousand times; and, in the best of humours, he wasn't amerry man. 

"Well, Frank, " said Blake, "the cock has crowed; I must away. I supposeyou'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 forthe animals, if you put them into my stables. They shall be made secondto nothing, and shall only and always run to win. "

So, Blake and John Bottom walked off to the box stables and homepaddocks. 

Frank ordered his horse, and complied with his friend's suggestion, byriding down to Igoe's. He was not in happy spirits as he went; he feltafraid that his hopes, with regard to Fanny, would be blighted; andthat, 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 hecould manage to see her. It would be impossible for him to go to GreyAbbey, after having been, as he felt, turned out by Lord Cashel. Otherthings troubled him also. What should he now do with himself? It wastrue that he could go down to his own house; but everyone at Kelly'sCourt 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, andwould be reduced to the disagreeable necessity of borrowing money fromhis own tenants. And then, that awful subject, money--took possessionof him. What the deuce was he to do? What a fool he had been, to beseduced on to the turf by such a man as Blake! And then, he expressed awish to himself that Blake had been--a long way off before he ever sawhim. There he was, steward of the Curragh, the owner of the best horsein Ireland, and absolutely without money to enable him to carry on thegame till he could properly retreat from it!

Then he was a little unfair upon his friend: he accused him of knowinghis position, and wishing to take advantage of it; and, by the time hehad got to Igoe's, his mind was certainly not in a very charitable moodtowards 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 LordBallindine, partly because he was one of the stewards, and partlybecause he was going to run a crack horse for the Derby in England;and though, generally speaking, he did not care much for personalcomplimentary respect, he usually got chattered and flattered into goodhumour 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 getjustice to Ireland on the downs this year. That is, they'll give usnothing but what we takes from 'em by hard fighting, or running, as thecase 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 puton 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'tpick up flesh; though he feeds free, too. He's this moment all wind andbottom, though, as one may say, he's got no training. He's niver beensthretched yet. Faith it's thrue I'm telling you, my lord. "

"I know Scott doesn't like getting horses, early in the season, thatare too fine--too much drawn up; he thinks they lose power by it, andso they do;--it's the distance that kills them, at the Derby. It's sohard to get a young horse to stay the distance. "

"That's thrue, shure enough, my lord; and there isn't a gentleman thisside the wather, anyway, undherstands thim things betther than yourlordship. "

"Well, Grady, let's have a look at the young chieftain: he's all rightabout 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 thinkhe'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 onebetther--that it's a ticklish thing to bring a two year old to thepost, in anything like condition--with any running in him at all, andnot 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 righterat John Scott's, that's all. But that's unpossible. "

"Of course, Grady, you think he might be trained here, as well as atthe 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 theycan 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 yourmoney, steady and shure. "

"And why not run in the North, too?"

"They're too 'cute, my lord: they like to pick up the crumbsthemselves--small blame to thim in that matther. No; a bright Irishnag, with lots of heart, like Brien Boru, is the hoss to stand on forthe Derby; where all run fair and fair alike, the best wins;--but Iwon't say but he'll be the betther for a little polishing at JohnnyScott's. "

"Besides, Grady, no horse could run immediately after a sea voyage. Doyou 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 atwo-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, withjist a dash of speed about 'em, and nothing more--brutes that they putin training half a dozen times in as many months. Thim animals pick upa lot of loose, flabby flesh in no time, and loses it in less; and, incourse, av' they gets a sweat too much, there's nothin left in 'em; nota 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 hissheets on: but a canter down the half mile slope, and up again by thebushes 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, withmuch care and ceremony; and Pat was put up--"and now, Pat, " continuedGrady, "keep him well in hand down the slope--don't let him out at allat 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 therise, when the lad begins to snort a bit, let him just see the end ofthe switch--just raise it till it catches his eye; and av' he don'tshow that he's disposed for running, I'm mistaken. We'll step across tothe bushes, my lord, and see him come round. "

Lord Ballindine and the managing man walked across to the bushesaccordingly, and Pat did exactly as he was desired. It was a prettything to see the beautiful young animal, with his sleek brown coatshining like a lady's curls, arching his neck, and throwing down hishead, in his impatience to start. He was the very picture of health andsymmetry; when he flung up his head you'd think the blood was runningfrom his nose, his nostrils were so ruddy bright. He cantered off ingreat impatience, and fretted and fumed because the little fellow onhis back would be the master, and not let him have his play--down theslope, and round the corner by the trees. It was beautiful to watchhim, his motions were so easy, so graceful. At the turn he answered tothe boy's encouragement, and mended his pace, till again he felt thebridle, and then, as the jock barely moved his right arm, he bounded upthe rising ground, past the spot where Lord Ballindine and the trainerwere standing, and shot away till he was beyond the place where heknew his gallop ordinarily ended. As Grady said, he hadn't yet beenstretched; he had never yet tried his own pace, and he had that look sobeautiful in a horse when running, of working at his ease, and muchwithin his power. 

"He's a beautiful creature, " said Lord Ballindine, as he mournfullyreflected that he was about to give up to Dot Blake half the possessionof his favourite, and the whole of the nominal title. It was such apity he should be so hampered; the mere _éclat_ of possessing such ahorse 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 theSaxons, I think. I suppose the pick-up at the Derby'll be nigh fourthousand this year. "

"I suppose it will--something like that. "

"Well; I would like a nag out of our stables to do the trick on thedowns, and av' we does it iver, it'll be now. Mr Igoe's standing a dealof 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 inthat way. "

"That's thrue for you, my lord; but av' he, or your lordship, wantsto get more on, now's the time. I'll lay twenty thousand pounds thismoment, that afther he's been a fortnight at Johnny Scott's the oddsagin him won't be more than ten to one, from that day till the morninghe 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 jistrun 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 mareout to-day?"

"Not to-day, Grady. Let's see, what's the day she runs?"

"The fifteenth of May, my lord. I'm afraid Mr Watts' Patriot 'll be toomuch 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 hatedthe horses two days since, when he was at Grey Abbey, and had hatedhimself, for having become their possessor; and now he couldn't bearthe thought of parting with them. To be steward of the Curragh--to ownthe best horse of the year--and to win the Derby, were very pleasantthings in themselves; and for what was he going to give over all thisglory, pleasure and profit, to another? To please a girl who hadrejected him, even jilted him, and to appease an old earl who hadalready turned him out of his house! No, he wouldn't do it. By the timethat he was half a mile from Igoe's stables he had determined that, asthe 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 wasstill her own mistress after Christmas, he would again ask her hermind. "If she's a girl of spirit, " he said to himself--"and nobodyknows better than I do that she is, she won't like me the worse forhaving shown that I'm not to be led by the nose by a pompous oldfool like Lord Cashel, " and he rode on, fortifying himself in thisresolution, for the second half mile. "But what the deuce should he doabout money?" There was only one more half mile before he was again atHandicap Lodge. --Guinness's people had his title-deeds, and he knewhe had twelve hundred a year after paying the interest of the oldincumbrances. They hadn't advanced him much since he came of age;certainly not above five thousand pounds; and it surely was very hardhe 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 hisown, like the Duke of Newcastle. However, the money must be had: hemust 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. Ifhe was driven very hard he might get something from Martin Kelly. Theseunpleasant cogitations brought him over the third half mile, and herode through the gate of Handicap Lodge in a desperate state ofindecision. 

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Dot, " he said, when he met his friendcoming in from his morning's work; "and I'm deuced sorry to do it, forI shall be giving you the best horse of his year, and something tellsme 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 thechances 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. Iwas only saying that I've a kind of inward conviction that he willwin. "

"My dear Frank, " said the other, "if men selling horses could also selltheir inward convictions with them, what a lot of articles of thatdescription there would be in the market! But what were you going tosay you'd do?"

"I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll agree to your terms providing you'llpay half the expenses of the horses since the last race each of themran. You must see that would be only fair, supposing the horsesbelonged to you, equally with me, ever since that time. "

"It would be quite fair, no doubt, if I agreed to it: it would be quitefair also if I agreed to give you five hundred pounds; but I will doneither one nor the other. "

"But look here, Dot--Brien ran for the Autumn Produce Stakes lastOctober, and won them: since then he has done nothing to reimburse mefor 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 payhalf 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, yourarguments 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 ofus bound to take any one's decision; and, therefore, any terms whicheither of us chooses to accept must be fair. Now I have told you myterms--the lowest price, if you like to call it so, --at which I willgive your horses the benefit of my experience, and save you from theirimmediate 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 matteraltogether. "

"Wash away then, I'll keep the horses, though I have to sell my huntersand the plate at Kelly's Court into the bargain. "

"I was going to add--only your energy's far too great to allow of aslow steady man like me finishing his sentence--I was going to saythat, if you're pressed for money as you say, and if it will be anyaccommodation, I will let you have two hundred and fifty pounds at fiveper cent. On the security of the horses; that is, that you will becharged with that amount, and the interest, in the final closing of theaccount at the end of the year, before the horses are restored to you. "

Had an uninterested observer been standing by he might have seen withhalf an eye that Blake's coolness was put on, and that his indifferenceto 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 nonebut the first offer. Poor Frank!--he was utterly unable to cope withhis friend at the weapons with which they were playing, and he wasconsequently most egregiously plundered. But it was in an affair ofhorse-flesh, and the sporting world, when it learned the terms on whichthe horses were transferred from Lord Ballindine's name to that of MrBlake, had not a word of censure to utter against the latter. He waspronounced to be very wide awake, and decidedly at the top of hisprofession; and Lord Ballindine was spoken of, for a week, withconsiderable pity and contempt. 

When Blake mentioned the loan Frank got up, and stood with his back tothe 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 thewindow, and attempted to whistle: then he threw himself into anarmchair, poked out both his legs as far as he could, ran his fingersthrough his hair, and set to work hard to make up his mind. But it wasno good; in about five minutes he found he could not do it; so he tookout his purse, and, extracting half-a-crown, threw it up to theceiling, 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 muchsolemnity; "and now you've got the best horse--yes, I believe the verybest 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 giveyou a cheque for the money to-night. "

And so he did; and Frank wrote a letter to Igoe, authorizing him tohand over the horses to Mr Blake's groom, stating that he had soldthem--for so ran his agreement with Dot--and desiring that his billfor training, &c. , might be forthwith forwarded to Kelly's Court. PoorFrank! 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 HandicapLodge. 

The handsome sheets, hoods, and rollers, in which they had hithertoappeared, and on which the initial B was alone conspicuous, werecarefully folded up, and they were henceforth seen in plainer, but asserviceable apparel, labelled W. B. 

"Will you give fourteen to one against Brien Boru?" said Viscount Avocato 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 DotBlake 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 BarryLynch, at Dunmore House, on the same evening that Martin Kelly reachedhome after his Dublin excursion; and that, on that occasion, a gooddeal of interesting conversation took place after dinner. Barry, however, was hardly amenable to reason at that social hour, and it wasnot till the following morning that he became thoroughly convinced thatit would be perfectly impossible for him to make his sister out alunatic 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 sonfor a conspiracy, and an attempt to inveigle his sister Anty into adisgraceful marriage, with the object of swindling her out of herproperty. 

"I'll see Moylan, Mr Lynch, " said Daly; "and if I can talk him over, Ithink we might succeed in frightening the whole set of them, so far asto prevent the marriage. Moylan must know that if your sister was tomarry young Kelly, there'd be an end to his agency; but we must promisehim 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, ifhe makes himself useful. You must let me explain to him that if themarriage is prevented, you will make no objection to his continuing toact as Miss Lynch's agent; and I might hint the possibility of hisreceiving the rents on the whole property. "

"Hint what you like, Daly, but don't tie me down to the infernalruffian. I suppose we can throw him overboard afterwards, can't we?"

"Why, not altogether, Mr Lynch. If I make him a definite promise, Ishall expect you to keep to it. "

"Confound him!--but tell me, Daly; what is it he's to do?--and what isit we're to do?"

"Why, Mr Lynch, it's more than probable, I think, that this plan ofMartin Kelly's marrying your sisther may have been talked over betweenthe ould woman, Moylan, and the young man; and if so, that's somethinglike a conspiracy. If I could worm that out of him, I think I'd manageto frighten them. "

"And what the deuce had I better do? You see, there was a bit of a rowbetween us. That is, Anty got frightened when I spoke to her of thisrascal, and then she left the house. Couldn't you make her understandthat 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, Dalyhad been inquiring into the circumstances under which Anty had left thehouse, 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 backat present; she will probably find herself quieter and easier at theinn. You see, she has been used to a quiet life. "

"But, if she remains there, she can marry that young ruffian any momentshe takes it into her head to do so. There's always some rogue of apriest ready to do a job of that sort. "

"Exactly so, Mr Lynch. Of course your sister can marry whom shepleases, and when she pleases, and neither you nor any one else canprevent her; but still--"

"Then what the devil's the use of my paying you to come here and tellme that?"

"That's your affair: I didn't come without being sent for. But I wasgoing to tell you that, though we can't prevent her from marrying ifshe pleases, we may make her afraid to do so. You had better write hera kind, affectionate note, regretting what has taken place betweenyou, and promising to give her no molestation of any kind, if she willreturn to her own house, --and keep a copy of this letter. Then I willsee Moylan; and, if I can do anything with him, it will be necessarythat you should also see him. You could come over to Tuam, and meethim in my office; and then I will try and force an entrance into thewidow's castle, and, if possible, see your sister, and humbug theould woman into a belief that she has laid herself open to criminalindictment. 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. Myadvice in that case would be, that you should make the best terms inyour power with Martin Kelly. "

"And let the whole thing go! I'd sooner--Why, Daly, I believe you're asbad as Blake! You're afraid of these huxtering thieves!"

"If you go on in that way, Mr Lynch, you'll get no professionalgentleman to act with you. I give you my best advice; it you don't likeit, you needn't follow it; but you won't get a solicitor in Connaughtto do better for you than what I'm proposing. "

"Confusion!" muttered Barry, and he struck the hot turf in the grate adesperate blow with the tongs which he had in his hands, and sent thesparks and bits of fire flying about the hearth. 

"The truth is, you see, your sister's in her full senses; there's thedivil a doubt of that; the money's her own, and she can marry whom shepleases. All that we can do is to try and make the Kellys think theyhave 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 youcan 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 byBarry, and delivered by Terry on the following morning, which wasSunday. Daly then returned to Tuam, with no warm admiration for hisclient. 

In the meantime the excitement at the inn, arising from Anty's arrivaland Martin's return, was gradually subsiding. These two importantevents, both happening on the same day, sadly upset the domesticeconomy of Mrs Kelly's establishment. Sally had indulged in tea almostto stupefaction, and Kattie's elfin locks became more than ordinarilydisordered. On the following morning, however, things seemed to falla little more into their places: the widow was, as usual, behind hercounter; and if her girls did not give her as much assistance as shedesired of them, and as much as was usual with them, they were perhapsexcusable, for they could not well leave their new guest alone on theday after her coming to them. 

Martin went out early to Toneroe; doubtless the necessary labours ofthe incipient spring required him at the farm but I believe that if hismotives were analysed, he hardly felt himself up to a _tête-à-tête_with his mistress, before he had enjoyed a cool day's consideration ofthe extraordinary circumstances which had brought her into the inn ashis mother's guest. He, moreover, wished to have a little undisturbedconversation with Meg, and to learn from her how Anty might be inclinedtowards him just at present. So Martin spent his morning among hislambs and his ploughs; and was walking home, towards dusk, tiredenough, when he met Barry Lynch, on horseback, that hero having comeout, as usual, for his solitary ride, to indulge in useless dreams ofthe happy times he would have, were his sister only removed from hertribulations in this world. Though Martin had never been on friendlyterms with his more ambitious neighbour, there had never, up to thistime, 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; butsome idea struck him as soon as he had passed, and he pulled in hishorse 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 hesaid, "Never mind--I'll get somebody else to say what I was going tosay. But you'd better look sharp what you're about, my lad, or you'llfind 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 willlook sharp enough. But, to my thinking, d'you know, you want lookingafther yourself a precious dale more than I do, " and then he turned toproceed homewards, but said, as he was going--"Have you any message foryour sisther, Mr Lynch?"

"By--! my young man, I'll make you pay for what you're doing, " answeredBarry. 

"I know you'll be glad to hear she's pretty well: she's coming roundfrom 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 thathe had commenced the conversation. Martin got home in time for a snugtea with Anty and his sisters, and succeeded in prevailing on the threeto take each a glass of punch; and, before Anty went to bed he beganto find himself more at his ease with her, and able to call her by herChristian name without any disagreeable emotion. He certainly had amost able coadjutor in Meg. She made room on the sofa for him betweenherself and his mistress, and then contrived that the room should bebarely sufficient, so that Anty was rather closely hemmed up in onecorner: moreover, she made Anty give her opinion as to Martin's looksafter his metropolitan excursion, and tried hard to make Martin paysome compliments to Anty's appearance. But in this she failed, althoughshe gave him numerous opportunities. 

However, they passed the evening very comfortably, --quite sufficientlyso to make Anty feel that the kindly, humble friendship of the inn wasinfinitely preferable to the miserable grandeur of Dunmore House; andit is probable that all the lovemaking in the world would not haveoperated 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 thebed-room she returned to her brother, and lectured him as to hislukewarm manifestations of affection. 

"Martin, " said she, returning into the little sitting-room, andcarefully shutting the door after her, "you're the biggest bosthoon ofa gandher I ever see, to be losing your opportunities with Anty thisway! 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 loverthan jist for you to sit by her, and go on all as one as though shewas one of your own sisthers? Av' once she gets out of this before thepriest has made one of the two of you, mind, I tell you, it'll be allup with you. I wondher, Martin, you haven't got more pluck in you!"

"Oh! bother, Meg. You're thinking of nothing but kissing andslobbhering. --Anty's not the same as you and Jane, and doesn't be allagog for such nonsense!"

"I tell you, Martin, Anty's a woman; and, take my word for it, whatanother girl likes won't come amiss to her. Besides, why don't youspake to her?"

"Spake?--why, what would you have me spake?"

"Well, Martin, you're a fool. Have you, or have you not, made up yourmind 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 makeup her mind to go before the priest, unless you say something sthrongerto her. Jist tell her, plump out, you're ready and willing, and get thething done before Lent. What's to hindher you?--shure, you know, " sheadded, in a whisper, "you'll not get sich a fortune as Anty's in yourway every day. Spake out, man, and don't be afraid of her: take my wordshe won't like you a bit the worse for a few kisses. "

Martin promised to comply with his sister's advice, and to sound Antytouching their marriage on the following morning after mass. 

On the Sunday morning, at breakfast, the widow proposed to Anty thatshe should go to mass with herself and her daughters; but Anty trembledso violently at the idea of showing herself in public, after her escapefrom Dunmore House, that the widow did not press her to do so, althoughafterwards she expressed her disapprobation of Anty's conduct to herown girls. 

"I don't see what she has to be afeard of, " said she, "in going toget mass from her own clergyman in her own chapel. She don't think, Isuppose, that Barry Lynch'd dare come in there to pull her out, beforethe 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, beforeSunday 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. Whenthe women returned, Meg manoeuvred greatly, and, in fine, successfully, that no one should enter the little parlour to interrupt the wooing sheintended should take place there. She had no difficulty with Jane, forshe told her what her plans were; and though her less energetic sisterdid not quite agree in the wisdom of her designs, and pronounced anopinion 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 hadsome 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 tointerrupt Martin in his love-making, for the widow had no charity forsuch follies. She certainly expected her daughters to get married, andwished them to be well and speedily settled; but she watched anythinglike a flirtation on their part as closely as a cat does a mouse. If any young man were in the house, she'd listen to the fall of hisfootsteps with the utmost care; and when she had reason to fear thatthere was anything like a lengthened _tête-à-tête_ upstairs, she wouldsteal on the pair, if possible, unawares, and interrupt, without theleast reserve, any billing and cooing which might be going on, sendingthe delinquent daughter to her work, and giving a glower at the swain, which she expected might be sufficient to deter him from similaroffences for some little time. 

The girls, consequently, were taught to be on the alert--to steal abouton tiptoe, to elude their mother's watchful ear, to have recourse to athousand little methods of deceiving her, and to baffle her with herown weapons. The mother, if she suspected that any prohibited frolicwas likely to be carried on, at a late hour, would tell her daughtersthat she was going to bed, and would shut herself up for a couple ofhours in her bed-room, and then steal out eavesdropping, peepingthrough key-holes and listening at door-handles; and the daughters, knowing their mother's practice, would not come forth till thelistening and peeping had been completed, and till they hadascertained, by some infallible means, that the old woman was betweenthe 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 whata good mother she had been: she was accustomed to use deceit, and wastherefore not disgusted by it in others. Whether the system of domesticmanners which I have described is one likely to induce to soundrestraint and good morals is a question which I will leave to bediscussed by writers on educational points. 

However Meg managed it, she did contrive that her mother should not gonear 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 inpaying it. He loitered about the chapel gates before he came home; andseemed more than usually willing to talk to anyone about anything. Atlast, however, just as Meg was getting furious, he entered the inn. 

"Why, Martin, you born ideot--av' she ain't waiting for you this hourand 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 atthat, " and, without waiting for his sister's sharp reply, he walkedinto 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 downhere 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 knowRosalind's recipe [29] for the difficulty a man feels, when he findshimself gravelled for conversation with his mistress; so he merelyscratched his head, and thought hard to find what he'd say next. Idoubt whether the conviction, which was then strong on his mind, thatMeg was listening at the keyhole to every word that passed, at allassisted him in the operation. At last, some Muse came to his aid, andhe made out another sentence. 

 [FOOTNOTE 29: Rosalind's recipe--In _As You Like It_, Act III, Sc. Ii, Rosalind, disguised as a young man, instructs Orlando to practice his wooing on her. ]

"It was very odd my finding you down here, all ready before me, wasn'tit?"

"'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 talkto, only just the servants. "

"You'll have plenty always to talk to now--eh, Anty?" and Martin trieda sweet look at his lady love. 

"I'm shure I don't know. Av' I'm only left quiet, that's what I mostcare 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 ofwork to do--some occupation, like?"

"Why, I wouldn't like to be idle; but a person needn't be idle becausethey'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 mostas soon as the preaching began; only I know he told the boys to praythat the liberathor might be got out of his throubles; and so theyshould--not that there's much to throuble him, as far as the verdict'sconcerned. "

"Isn't there then? I thought they made him out guilty?"

"So they did, the false ruffians: but what harum 'll that do? theydaren't touch a hair of his head!"

Politics, however, are not a favourable introduction to love-making:so Martin felt, and again gave up the subject, in the hopes that hemight find something better. "What a fool the man is!" thought Meg toherself, at the door--"if I had a lover went on like that, wouldn't Ipull his ears!"

Martin got up--walked across the room--looked out of the littlewindow--felt very much ashamed of himself, and, returning, sat himselfdown on the sofa. 

"Anty, " he said, at last, blushing nearly brown as he spoke; "Were youthinking 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 overtoo, though you do let on to be so innocent. Come, Anty, now that youand mother's so thick, there can be nothing against it. "

"But indeed there is, Martin, a great dale against it--though I'm sureit's good of you to be thinking of me. There's so much against it, Ithink 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 aword to say in the matther. "

"But Barry don't like it!"

"And, afther all, are you going to wait for what Barry likes? Youdidn't wait for what was plazing to Barry Lynch when you came downhere; nor yet did mother when she went up and fetched you down at fivein the morning, dreading he'd murdher you outright. And it was thruefor her, for he would, av' he was let, the brute. And are you going towait 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 itbecause 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--ofa man who'd, anyway, not let Barry Lynch, or anyone else, come betweenyou and your comfort and aise?"

"But you don't know how wretched I've been since he spoke to meabout--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 myown 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 thebest. "

"Maning?--what's the good of maning? Anyways, Anty, let me have ananswer, 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 tobe 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. Andwhy?--because Barry Lynch got dhrunk, and frightened you. Av' I'd seenthe ruffian striking you, I think I'd 've been near putting it beyondhim 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 shouldever be set fighting along of me, it would kill me outright. "

"But who's talking of fighting, Anty, dear?" and Martin drew a littlenearer to her--"who's talking of fighting? I never wish to spakeanother word to Barry the longest day that ever comes. Av' he'll getout 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 andI got married: he'd be in our way, and we'd be in his, and nothingcould 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 thepriest, God bless him, Barry wouldn't trouble Dunmore long afther. "

"That's another rason, too. Why should I be dhriving him out of his ownhouse? 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 staythere long enough for me! He'd go, fast enough, without dhriving, though; you can't say the counthry wouldn't have a good riddhance ofhim. But never mind that, Anty: it wasn't about Barry, one way or theother, I was thinking, when I first asked you to have me; nor it wasn'tabout 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' morerespecthable, as an honest man's wife, as I'd make you, than beingmewed up there in dread of your life, never daring to open your mouthto a Christian, for fear of your own brother, who niver did, nor niverwill lift a hand to sarve you, though he wasn't backward to lift it tosthrike you, woman and sisther though you were. Come, Anty, darlin, " headded, after a pause, during which he managed to get his arm behindher back, though he couldn't be said to have it fairly round herwaist--"Get quit of all these quandaries, and say at once, like anhonest girl, you'll do what I'm asking--and what no living man canhindher 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 shethought of her brother's threats, and was afraid to say she would. Martin advanced a little in his proceedings, however, and now succeededin getting his arm round her waist--and, having done so, he wasn't slowin letting her feel its pressure. She made an attempt, with her hand, to disengage herself--certainly not a successful, and, probably, not avery energetic attempt, when the widow's step was heard on the stairs. Martin retreated from his position on the sofa, and Meg from hersoutside the door, and Mrs Kelly entered the room, with Barry's letterin her hand, Meg following, to ascertain the cause of the unfortunateinterruption. 

XVIII. AN ATTORNEY'S OFFICE IN CONNAUGHT

"Anty, here's a letter for ye, " began the widow. "Terry's brought itdown from the house, and says it's from Misther Barry. I b'lieve he wasin the right not to bring it hisself. "

"A letther for me, Mrs Kelly? what can he be writing about? I don'tjust know whether I ought to open it or no;" and Anty trembled, as sheturned 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 withthe contents of the letter which Daly had dictated; but she then foundthat her difficulties had only just commenced. Was she to send ananswer, and if so, what answer? And if she sent none, what notice oughtshe to take of it? The matter was one evidently too weighty to besettled by her own judgment, so she handed the letter to be read, firstby the widow, and then by Martin, and lastly by the two girls, who, bythis time, were both in the room. 

"Well, the dethermined impudence of that blackguard!" exclaimed MrsKelly. "Conspiracy!--av' that don't bang Banagher! What does the manmean by 'conspiracy, ' eh, Martin?"

"Faith, you must ask himself that, mother; and then it's ten to one hecan't tell you. "

"I suppose, " said Meg, "he wants to say that we're all schaming to robAnty of her money--only he daren't, for the life of him, spake it outstraight forrard. "

"Or, maybe, " suggested Jane, "he wants to bring something agen us likethis affair of O'Connell's--only he'll find, down here, that he an'tgot Dublin soft goods to deal wid. "

Then followed a consultation, as to the proper steps to be taken in thematter. 

The widow advised that father Geoghegan should be sent for to inditesuch a reply as a Christian ill-used woman should send to so base aletter. Meg, who was very hot on the subject, and who had read of somesuch proceeding in a novel, was for putting up in a blank envelope theletter itself, and returning it to Barry by the hands of Jack, theostler; at the same time, she declared that "No surrender" should beher motto. Jane was of opinion that "Miss Anastasia Lynch's complimentsto Mr Barry Lynch, and she didn't find herself strong enough to move toDunmore House at present, " would answer all purposes, and be, on thewhole, the safest course. While Martin pronounced that "if Anty wouldbe led by him, she'd just pitch the letter behind the fire an' take nonotice 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, aftermuch consultation, pen, ink, and paper were procured, and the followingletter was concocted between them, all the soft bits having been greatstumbling-blocks, in which, however, Anty's quiet perseverance carriedthe point, in opposition to the wishes of all the Kellys. The words putin brackets were those peculiarly objected to. 

 Dunmore Inn. February, 1844. 

 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'sgood sense repudiated the term, and insisted on the word "females":Jane suggested that "females" did not sound quite respectful alone, andMartin thought that Anty might call them "female friends, " which wasconsequently 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 tome. 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 carrytheir 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 shewas 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 shurethey 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 todeliver it at the front door, with Miss Lynch's love, which wasaccordingly done. All the care, however, which had been bestowed on itdid 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 asI please?--if I'd the choosing of her friends, they'd be a straitwaistcoat, and the madhouse doctor. Good Heaven! that half myproperty--no, but two-thirds of it, --should belong to her!--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 littlefurther advance with Anty, for he felt that he had been interruptedjust as she was coming round; but her nerves were again disordered, andhe soon found that if he pressed her now, he should only get a decidednegative, which he might find it very difficult to induce her torevoke. 

Anty's letter was sent off early on the Monday morning--at least, asearly as Barry now ever managed to do anything--to the attorney atTuam, with strong injunctions that no time was to be lost in takingfurther steps, and with a request that Daly would again come out toDunmore. 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 onthe intervening day. 

"Obstinate puppy!" said Barry to himself--"if he'd had the least pluckin life he'd have broken the will, or at least made the girl out alunatic. But a Connaught lawyer hasn't half the wit or courage now thathe used to have. " However, he wrote a note to Daly, agreeing to hisproposal, 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 withhim. The old man held out for a long time, expressing much indignationat being supposed capable of joining in any underhand agreement fortransferring Miss Lynch's property to his relatives the Kellys, anddeclaring that he would make public to every one in Dunmore and Tuamthe base manner in which Barry Lynch was treating his sister. Indeed, Moylan kept to his story so long and so firmly that the young attorneywas 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 isvery disinterested;--and I might even go so far as to say that youappear to me foolishly indifferent to your own concerns. Here's theagency of the whole property going a-begging: the rents, I believe, areabout a thousand a-year: you might be recaving them all by jist a wordof 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 hearhim say, down at Dunmore, that divil a one of the tenants'd iver pay ahaporth [30] of the November rents to anyone only jist to himself?There was father Geoghegan heard him, an Doctor Ned Blake. "

 [FOOTNOTE 30: haporth--half-penny's worth]

"Maybe he'll find his mistake, Mr Daly. "

"Maybe he will, Mr Moylan. Maybe we'll put the whole affair intothe courts, and have a regular recaver over the property, under theChancellor. People, though they're ever so respectable in theirway, --and I don't mane to say a word against the Kellys, Mr Moylan, forthey were always friends of mine--but people can't be allowed to make adead set at a property like this, and have it all their own way, likethe 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 knowthat an agreement has been made to induce Miss Lynch to become MartinKelly's wife; and I know the parties to it, too; and I also know thatan active young fellow like him wouldn't be paying an agent to get inhis rents; and I thought, if Mr Lynch was willing to appoint you hisagent, as well as his sister's, it might be worth your while to lend usa hand to settle this affair, without forcing us to stick people into awitness-box whom neither I nor Mr Lynch--"

"But what the d----l can I--"

"Jist hear me out, Mr Moylan; you see, if they once knew--the Kellys Imane--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 oftheirs, I say; for I can call it no less. If they once knew that youwouldn't help 'em, they'd be obliged to drop it all; the matter'd neverhave to go into court at all, and you'd jist step into the agency fairand aisy; and, into the bargain, you'd do nothing but an honest man'swork. "

The old man broke down, and consented to "go agin the Kellys, " as hesomewhat ambiguously styled his apostasy, provided the agency wasabsolutely promised to him; and he went away with the understandingthat he was to come on the following day and meet Mr Lynch. 

At two o'clock, punctual to the time of his appointment, Moylan wasthere, and was kept waiting an hour in Daly's little parlour. At theend of this time Barry came in, having invigorated his courage andspirits with a couple of glasses of brandy. Daly had been for some timeon the look-out for him, for he wished to say a few words to him inprivate, and give him his cue before he took him into the room whereMoylan was sitting. This could not well be done in the office, forit was crowded. It would, I think, astonish a London attorney inrespectable practice, to see the manner in which his brethren towardsthe west of Ireland get through their work. Daly's office was open toall the world; the front door of the house, of which he rented theground floor, was never closed, except at night; nor was the door ofthe office, which opened immediately into the hail. 

During the hour that Moylan was waiting in the parlour, Daly wassitting, with his hat on, upon a high stool, with his feet resting on asmall counter which ran across the room, smoking a pipe: a boy, aboutseventeen years of age, Daly's clerk, was filling up numbers of thoseabominable formulas of legal persecution in which attorneys deal, andwas plying his trade as steadily as though no February blasts wereblowing in on him through the open door, no sounds of loud andboisterous conversation were rattling in his ears. The dashing managerof one of the branch banks in the town was sitting close to the littlestove, and raking out the turf ashes with the office rule, whiledescribing a drinking-bout that had taken place on the previousSunday at Blake's of Blakemount; he had a cigar in his mouth, and wassearching for a piece of well-kindled turf, wherewith to light it. Alittle fat oily shopkeeper in the town, who called himself a woollenmerchant, was standing with the raised leaf of the counter in hishand, roaring with laughter at the manager's story. Two frieze coatedfarmers, outside the counter, were stretching across it, and whisperingvery audibly to Daly some details of litigation which did not appearvery much to interest him; and a couple of idle blackguards wereleaning against the wall, ready to obey any behest of the attorney'swhich might enable them to earn a sixpence without labour, andlistening with all their ears to the different interesting topics ofconversation which might be broached in the inner office. 

"Here's the very man I'm waiting for, at last, " said Daly, when, fromhis position on the stool, he saw, through the two open doors, thebloated red face of Barry Lynch approaching; and, giving an impulse tohis body by a shove against the wall behind him, he raised himself onto the counter, and, assisting himself by a pull at the collar of thefrieze coat of the farmer who was in the middle of his story, jumped tothe ground, and met his client at the front door. 

"I beg your pardon, Mr Lynch, " said he as soon as he had shaken handswith him, "but will you just step up to my room a minute, for I want tospake to you;" and he took him up into his bed-room, for he hadn't asecond sitting-room. "You'll excuse my bringing you up here, for theoffice 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'dbe so tough a customer, or make such a good fight; but I think I'vemanaged him. "

"There was a regular plan then, eh, Daly? Just as I said. It was aregular planned scheme among them?"

"Wait a moment, and you'll know all about it, at least as much as Iknow myself; and, to tell the truth, that's devilish little. But, if wemanage to break off the match, and get your sister clane out of the innthere, you must give Moylan your agency, at any rate for two or threeyears. "

"You haven't promised that?"

"But I have, though. We can do nothing without it: it was only when Ihinted 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 theKellys with: that's all, and, if we can manage that, that's enough. Butcome down now. I only wanted to warn you that, if you think the agencyis too high a price to pay for the man's services, whatever they maybe, you must make up your mind to dispense with them. "

"Well, " answered Barry, as he followed the attorney downstairs, "Ican'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 beenentrusted to receive Anty's rents, on which occasion Moylan had beengrossly insulted by her brother. Barry, remembering the meeting, feltvery awkward at the idea of entering into amicable conversation withhim, and crept in at the door like a whipped dog. Moylan was too oldto feel any such compunctions, and consequently made what he intendedto be taken as a very complaisant bow to his future patron. He wasan ill-made, ugly, stumpy man, about fifty; with a blotched face, straggling sandy hair, and grey shaggy whiskers. He wore a long browngreat coat, buttoned up to his chin, and this was the only article ofwearing apparel visible upon him: in his hands he twirled a shining newfour-and-fourpenny hat. 

As soon as their mutual salutations were over, Daly commenced hisbusiness. 

"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 getpossession of your sister's property--a most shameful attempt, whichthe law will no doubt recognise as a misdemeanour. But I think we shallbe able to stop their game without any law at all, which will saveus the annoyance of putting Mr Moylan here, and other respectablewitnesses, on the table. Mr Moylan says that very soon afther yourfather's will was made known--"

"Now, Mr Daly--shure I niver said a word in life at all about thewill, " 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 MartinKelly were talking over your sister's affairs; I believe the widow wasthere, 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 aboutmarrying 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 swearthat there was a schame among them to get Anty Lynch married to MartinKelly? Come, Mr Moylan, that's all we want to know: if you can't say asmuch as that for us now, just that we may let the Kellys know what sortof evidence we could bring against them, if they push us, we must onlyhave 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 asthat now; but I thought Mr Lynch was wanting to say something about theproperty?"

"Not a word then I've to say about it, " said Barry, "except that Iwon't let that robber, young Kelly, walk off with it, as long asthere's law in the land. "

"Mr Moylan probably meant about the agency, " observed Daly. 

Barry looked considerably puzzled, and turned to the attorney forassistance. "He manes, " continued Daly, "that he and the Kellys aregood friends, and it wouldn't be any convenience to him just to sayanything that wouldn't be pleasing to them, unless we could make himindependent of them:--isn't that about the long and the short of it, MrMoylan?"

"Indepindent of the Kellys, is it, Mr Daly?--Faix, thin, I'm teetotallyindepindent of them this minute, and mane to continue so, glory be toGod. Oh, I'm not afeard to tell the thruth agin ere a Kelly in Galwayor Roscommon--and, av' that was all, I don't see why I need have comehere this day. When I'm called upon in the rigular way, and has arigular 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, Ib'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 thatyou'll not be long without an opportunity of showing how free you arewith your answers. But, as a friend, I tell you you'll be wrong to lavethis 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 toact 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 behappy to undhertake the business. "

"I believe, Mr Lynch, " said Daly, turning to the other, "I may go sofar as to promise Mr Moylan the agency of the whole property, providedMiss Lynch is induced to quit the house of the Kellys? Of course, MrMoylan, you can see that as long as Miss Lynch is in a position ofunfortunate hostility to her brother, the same agent could not act forboth; but I think my client is inclined to put his property under yourmanagement, providing his sister returns to her own home. I believe I'mstating your wishes, Mr Lynch. "

"Manage it your own way, " said Barry, "for I don't see what you'redoing. If this man can do anything for me, why, I suppose I must payhim for it; and if so, your plan's as good a way of paying him asanother. "

The attorney raised his hat with his hand, and scratched his head: hewas afraid that Moylan would have again gone off in a pet at Lynch'sbrutality, but the old man sat quite quiet. He wouldn't have muchminded what was said to him, as long as he secured the agency. 

"You see, Mr Moylan, " continued Daly, "you can have the agency. Fiveper 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, " declaredMoylan. 

And then a long battle followed on this point, which it required allDaly's tact and perseverance to adjust. The old man was pertinacious, and many whispers had to be made into Barry's ear before the mattercould be settled. It was, however, at last agreed that notice was to beserved on the Kellys, of Barry Lynch's determination to indict them fora 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 aconspiracy had been formed;--care was also to be taken that copies ofthe notices so served should be placed in Anty's hands. Moylan, in themeantime, agreed to keep out of the way, and undertook, should he beunfortunate enough to encounter any of the family of the Kellys, tobrave the matter out by declaring that "av' he war brought before theJudge and Jury he couldn't do more than tell the blessed thruth, andwhy not?" In reward for this, he was to be appointed agent over theentire property the moment that Miss Lynch left the inn, at which timehe was to receive a document, signed by Barry, undertaking to retainhim in the agency for four years certain, or else to pay him a hundredpounds when it was taken from him. 

These terms having been mutually agreed to, and Barry having, with manyoaths, declared that he was a most shamefully ill-used man, the threeseparated. Moylan skulked off to one of his haunts in the town; Barrywent to the bank, to endeavour to get a bill discounted [30]; and Dalyreturned to his office, to prepare the notices for the unfortunatewidow and her son. 

 [FOOTNOTE 30: bill discounted--A common way for young men to borrow money in nineteenth century Britain was to sign a promissory note (an "I. O. U. "), often called a "bill, " to repay the loan at a specified time. The lender gave the borrower less than the face value of the note (that is, he "discounted" the note), the difference being the interest. Sometimes these notes were co-signed by a third party, who became responsible for repaying the loan if the borrower defaulted; this is one of the major themes in Trollope's later book _Framley Parsonage_. Trollope himself was quite familiar with methods of borrowing, having gotten into debt in his youth. ]

XIX. MR DALY VISITS THE DUNMORE INN

Daly let no grass grow under his feet, for early on the followingmorning he hired a car, and proceeded to Dunmore, with the notices inhis pocket. His feelings were not very comfortable on his journey, forhe knew that he was going on a bad errand, and he was not naturallyeither a heartless or an unscrupulous man, considering that he was aprovincial attorney; but he was young in business, and poor, and hecould not afford to give up a client. He endeavoured to persuadehimself that it certainly was a wrong thing for Martin Kelly to marrysuch a woman as Anty Lynch, and that Barry had some show of justice onhis 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 thingmost likely to make Anty happy; and he was certain, moreover, that, however anxious Martin might naturally be to secure the fortune, hewould take no illegal or even unfair steps to do so. He felt that hisclient was a ruffian of the deepest die: that his sole object was torob his sister, and that he had no case which it would be possible evento bring before a jury. His intention now was, merely to work upon thetimidity and ignorance of Anty and the other females, and to frightenthem with a bugbear in the shape of a criminal indictment; and Dalyfelt that the work he was about was very, very dirty work. Two or threetimes on the road, he had all but made up his mind to tear the lettershe had in his pocket, and to drive at once to Dunmore House, and tellBarry Lynch that he would do nothing further in the case. And he wouldhave 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 powerto make the whole matter public. 

As he drove down the street of Dunmore, he endeavoured to quiet hisconscience, by reflecting that he might still do much to guard Antyfrom the ill effects of her brother's rapacity; and that at any rate hewould not see her property taken from her, though she might befrightened out of her matrimonial speculation. 

He wanted to see the widow, Martin, and Anty, and if possible to seethem, at first, separately; and fortune so far favoured him that, as hegot 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 theattorney, for Daly put out his hand to him--"how are you again?--Isuppose you're going up to the house? They say you're Barry's righthand man now. Were you coming into the inn?"

"Why, I will step in just this minute; but I've a word I want to spaketo you first. "

"To me!" said Martin. 

"Yes, to you, Martin Kelly: isn't that quare?" and then he gavedirections to the driver to put up the horse, and bring the car roundagain in an hour's time. "D' you remember my telling you, the day wecame into Dunmore on the car together, that I was going up to thehouse?"

"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 wasfor, 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 theway from Tuam, this minute, to tell you all about it. "

Martin turned very red, for he rightly conceived that when an attorneycame all the way from Tuam to talk to him, the tidings were not likelyto 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 theshoulder--"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 honestlycome by. "

"And isn't it a hundred pities that I must come and upset such a prettyschame 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 savedyourself car-hire. Miss Lynch is nothing to me, mind; how should shebe? But av' she war, neither Barry Lynch--who's as big a rogue as thereis from this to hisself and back again--nor you, who, I take it, ain'trogue enough to do Barry's work, wouldn't put me off it. "

"Well, Martin; thank 'ee for the compliment. But now, you know whatI've come about, and there's no joke in it. Of course I don't want youto tell me anything of your plans; but, as Mr Lynch's lawyer, I musttell you so much as this of his:--that, if his sister doesn't lavethe inn, and honestly assure him that she'll give up her intention ofmarrying you, he's determined to take proceedings. " He then fumbled inhis pocket, and, bringing out the two notices, handed to Martin the oneaddressed to him. "Read that, and it'll give you an idea what we'reafther. 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'renot going to sea without wind in our sails. "

"Well--I'm shot av' I know the laist in the world what all this isabout!" said Martin, as he stood in the street, reading over thelegally-worded letter--"'conspiracy!'--well that'll do, Mr Daly; goon--'enticing away from her home!'--that's good, when the blackguardnearly knocked the life out of her, and mother brought herdown here, from downright charity, and to prevent murdher--'wakeintellects!'--well, Mr Daly, I didn't expect this kind of thing fromyou: begorra, I thought you were above this!--wake intellects! faith, they're a dale too sthrong, and too good--and too wide awake too, forBarry to get the betther of her that way. Not that I'm in the laist inlife 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 wasembarked 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 asthis, Martin?--you were doing well, and not in want--and how could youlet 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 toher this minute, you'd have a lawsuit that'd go near to ruin you beforeyou 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 attorneyI'd be looking for it. "

"I'd be sorry to see you in want of it, Martin; but if you mane to keepout 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 andsome pretty girl with five or six hundred pound fortune, than I'd beexposing 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 adisgraceful marriage. "

"Look here, Mr Daly, " said the other; "you've hired yourself out toBarry Lynch, and you must do his work, I suppose, whether it's dirthyor clane; and you know yourself, as well as I can tell you, which it'slikely to be--"

"That's my concern; lave that to me; you've quite enough to do to mindyourself. "

"But av' he's nothing betther for you to do, than to send you herebally-ragging and calling folks out of their name, he must have a sightmore money to spare than I give him credit for; and you must be a daleworse 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 myclient feels himself called upon to take. "

Martin turned to go away, but then, reflecting that it would be as wellnot to leave the women by themselves in the power of the enemy, he alsowaited 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 tothe door. There's a gentleman wanting her. "

"It was Miss Lynch I asked for, " said Daly, still looking to the girlfor an answer. 

"Do as I bid you, you born ideot, 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 deniedto me, the fact of her being so denied will be a very sthrong proofagainst you and your family. In fact, it amounts to an illegaldetention of her person, in the eye of the law. " Daly said this in avery low voice, almost a whisper. 

"Faith, the law must have quare eyes, av' it makes anything wrong witha young lady being asked the question whether or no she wishes to seean 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'sgoing to be the matter now?"

"It's young Daly, " said Jane, stretching forward and peeping clown thestairs: "I can see the curl of his whiskers. "

By this time the news had reached Mrs Kelly, in the shop, "that asthrange gentleman war axing for Miss Anty, but that she warn't to beshown to him on no account;" so the widow dropped her tobacco knife, flung off her dirty apron, and, having summoned Jane and Meg to attendto 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, andhe was equally civil in his salutation. 

"Mr Daly's going to have us all before the assizes, mother. We'll neverget off without the treadmill, any way: it's well av' the whole kit ofus 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 thematter, Mr Daly?"

"Your son's joking, ma'am. I was only asking to see Miss Lynch, onbusiness. "

"Step upstairs, mother, into the big parlour, and don't let's bestanding talking here where all the world can hear us. "

"And wilcome, for me, I'm shure"--said the widow, stroking downthe front of her dress with the palms of her hands, as she walkedupstairs--"and wilcome too for me I'm very shure. I've said or donenothing as I wish to consail, Mr Daly. Will you be plazed to take achair?" and the widow sat down herself on a chair in the middle of theroom, with her hands folded over each other in her lap, as if she waspreparing to answer questions from that time to a very late hour in theevening. 

"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. Wouldyou oblige me by letting Miss Lynch know that I'm waiting to see her onbusiness. "

"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 herav' 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 aginyou, I don't see how Anty Lynch 'll be the betther for seeing ere anattorney in the counthry. "

"I don't want to frighten you, ma'am, " said Daly; "but I can assureyou, you will put yourself in a very awkward position if you refuse toallow me to see Miss Lynch. "

"Ah, mother!" said Martin, "don't have a word to say in the mattherat all, one way or the other. Just tell Anty Mr Daly wishes to seeher--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 continuedwhispering with Martin for some time, during which Daly remainedstanding with his back to the fire. At length Martin said, "Av' you'vegot another of them notices to give my mother, Mr Daly, why don't youdo it?"

"Why, to tell you the thruth, " answered the attorney, "I don't want tothrouble your mother unless it's absolutely necessary; and although Ihave the notice ready in my pocket, if I could see Miss Lynch, I mightbe spared the disagreeable job of serving it on her. "

"The Holy Virgin save us!" said the widow; "an' what notice is it atall, 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, Isuppose, 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 tothe lady, " said Daly; for he felt that it would be impossible for himto see Anty alone. 

The widow unwillingly got up to fetch her guest. When she got to thedoor, she turned round, and said, "And is there a notice, as you callsit, to be sarved on Miss Lynch?"

"Not a line, Mrs Kelly; not a line, on my honour. I only want her tohear 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 sortat all?"

"Not a word, Mrs Kelly. "

"Ah, mother, " said Martin, "Mr Daly couldn't hurt her, av' he warwishing, and he's not. Go and bring her in. "

The widow went out, and in a few minutes returned, bringing Anty withher, trembling from head to foot. The poor young woman had not exactlyheard 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 itwas in some way connected with her brother. She had, therefore, been ina great state of alarm since Meg and Jane had left her alone. When MrsKelly came into the little room where she was sitting, and told herthat Mr Daly had come to Dunmore on purpose to see her, her firstimpulse was to declare that she wouldn't go to him; and had she doneso, the widow would not have pressed her. But she hesitated, for shedidn't like to refuse to do anything which her friend asked her; andwhen 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 shehad no loophole of escape, and got up to comply. 

"But mind, Anty, " whispered the cautious widow, as her hand was on theparlour door, "becase this Daly is wanting to speak to you, that's norason you should be wanting to spake to him; so, if you'll be said byme, you'll jist hould your tongue, and let him say on. "

Fully determined to comply with this prudent advice, Anty followed theold woman, and, curtseying at Daly without looking at him, sat herselfdown in the middle of the old sofa, with her hands crossed before her. 

"Anty, " said Martin, making great haste to speak, before Daly couldcommence, and then checking himself as he remembered that he shouldn'thave ventured on the familiarity of calling her by her Christian namein Daly's presence--"Miss Lynch, I mane--as Mr Daly here has come allthe way from Tuam on purpose to spake to you, it wouldn't perhaps bemanners 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'sall--one you're still your own mistress, free to act and to spake, tocome and to go; and that neither the one nor the other can hurt you, ormother, 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 havea better adviser than you or she may get herself, and, what she'llthink more of, she'll get her friends--maning you, Mrs Kelly, and yourfamily--into a heap of throubles. "

"Oh, God forbid, thin!" exclaimed Anty. 

"Niver mind us, Mr Daly, " said the widow. "The Kellys was always ableto hould their own; thanks be to glory. "

"Well, I've said my say, Mr Daly, " said Martin, "and now do you sayyour'n: as for throubles, we've all enough of thim; but your own musthave been bad, when you undhertook this sort of job for Barry Lynch. "

"Mind yourself, Martin, as I told you before, and you'll about haveenough to do. --Miss Lynch, I've been instructed by your brother to drawup an indictment against Mrs Kelly and Mr Kelly, charging them withconspiracy to get possession of your fortune. "

"A what!" shouted the widow, jumping up from her chair--"to rob AntyLynch of her fortune! I'd have you to know, Mr Daly, I wouldn't demanemyself to rob the best gentleman in Connaught, let alone a poorunprotected young woman, whom I've--"

"Whist, mother--go asy, " said Martin. "I tould you that that was whatwar in the paper he gave me; he'll give you another, telling you allabout it just this minute. "

"Well, the born ruffian! Does he dare to accuse me of wishing to robhis 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 AntyLynch?--Isn't it Barry Lynch himself is thrying to rob his own sistherthis minute? ay, and he'd murdher her too, only the heart within himisn't sthrong enough. "

"Ah, mother! don't be saying such things, " said Martin; "what businessis that of our'n? Let Barry send what messages he plazes; I tell youit's all moonshine; he can't hurt the hair of your head, nor Anty'sneither. Go asy, and let Mr Daly say what he has to say, and have donewith it. "

"It's asy to say 'go asy'--but who's to sit still and be tould sichthings as that? Rob Anty Lynch indeed!"

"If you'll let me finish what I have to say, Mrs Kelly, I think you'llfind it betther for the whole of us, " said Daly. 

"Go on thin, and be quick with it; but don't talk to dacent peopleabout robbers any more. Robbers indeed! they're not far to fitch; andblack robbers too, glory be to God. "

"Your brother, Miss Lynch, is determined to bring this matter before ajury at the assizes, for the sake of protecting you and your property. "

"Protecthing Anty Lynch!--is it Barry? The Holy Virgin defind her fromsich prothection! a broken head the first moment the dhrink makes hisheart sthrong enough to sthrike her!"

"Ah, mother! you're a fool, " exclaimed Martin: "why can't you let theman go on?--ain't he paid for saying it? Well, Mr Daly, begorra I pityyou, to have such things on your tongue; but go on, go on, and finishit. "

"Your brother conceives this to be his duty, " continued Daly, ratherbothered by the manner in which he had to make his communication, "andit is a duty which he is determined to go through with. "

"Duty!" said the widow, with a twist of her nose, and giving almost awhistle through her lips, in a manner which very plainly declared thecontempt she felt for Barry's ideas of duty. 

"With this object, " continued Daly, "I have already handed to MartinKelly a notice of what your brother means to do; and I have anothernotice prepared in my pocket for his mother. The next step will be toswear the informations before a magistrate, and get the committals madeout; Mrs Kelly and her son will then have to give bail for theirappearance at the assizes. "

"And so we can, " said the widow; "betther bail than e'er a Lynch orDaly--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 triedin the dock, for staling Anty's money. "

"Faix, but that'd be a good joke! Isn't Anty to the fore herself to saywho's robbed her? Take an ould woman's advice, Mr Daly, and go back toTuam: 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 whatI have to tell Miss Lynch. --This will be a proceeding most disagreeableto your brother's feelings. "

"Failings, indeed!" muttered the widow; "faix, I b'lieve his chieffailing at present's for sthrong dhrink!"

"--But he must go on with it, unless you at once lave the inn, returnto your own home, and give him your promise that you will never marryMartin Kelly. "

Anty blushed deep crimson over her whole face at the mention of hercontemplated 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 thatyou'll be guided by your brother on this subject, I'll burn the noticeat once; and I'll undertake to say that, as far as your property isconcerned, your brother will not in the least interfere with you in themanagement 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 tooblige 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 andindecision. At last she said: "Oh, Lord defend me! what am I to do, MrsKelly?"

"Do?" said Martin; "why, what should you do--but just wish Mr Daly goodmorning, and stay where you are, snug and comfortable?"

"Av' you war to lave this, Anty, and go up to Dunmore House afther allthat's been said and done, I'd say Barry was right, and thatBallinasloe Asylum was the fitting place for you, " said the widow. 

"The blessed virgin guide and prothect me, " said Anty, "for I want herguidance this minute. Oh, that the walls of a convent was round me thisminute--I wouldn't know what throuble was!"

"And you needn't know anything about throuble, " said Martin, who didn'tquite like his mistress's allusion to a convent. "You don't supposethere's a word of thruth in all this long story of Mr Daly's?--Heknows, --and I'll say it out to his face--he knows Barry don't darecarry on with sich a schame. He knows he's only come here to frightenyou 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 itwas 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'sprotection. "

"She won't do no sich thing, " said the widow. "What! to be locked intothe parlour agin--and be nigh murdhered? holy father!"

"Oh, no, " said Anty, at last, shuddering in horror at the remembranceof the last night she passed in Dunmore House, "I cannot go back tolive with him, but I'll do anything else, av' he'll only lave me, andmy kind, kind friends, in pace and quiet. "

"Indeed, and you won't, Anty, " said the widow; "you'll do nothing forhim. Your frinds--that's av' you mane the Kellys--is very able to takecare of themselves. "

"If your brother, Miss Lynch, will lave Dunmore House altogether, andlet you have it to yourself, will you go and live there, and give himthe promise not to marry Martin Kelly?"

"Indeed an' she won't, " said the widow. "She'll give no promise of thekind. Promise, indeed! what for should she promise Barry Lynch whom shewill marry, or whom she won't?"

"Raily, Mrs Kelly, I think you might let Miss Lynch answer forherself. "

"I wouldn't, for all the world thin, go to live at Dunmore House, " saidAnty. 

"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 thewidow. 

"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, MrsKelly"--and he offered the notice to the widow, but she refused totouch it, and he consequently put it down on the table. "But it is myduty to tell you, Miss Lynch, that the gentry of this counthry, beforewhom you will have to appear, will express very great indignation atyour conduct in persevering in placing poor people like the Kellys inso dreadful a predicament, by your wilful and disgraceful obstinacy. "

Poor Anty burst into tears. She had been for some time past trying torestrain herself, but Daly's last speech, and the horrible idea of thegentry of the country browbeating and frowning at her, completely upsether, 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 firsttime really angry with Daly--"not so poor, Mr Daly, as to do dirthywork for anyone. I wish I could say as much this day for your mother'sson! Poor people, indeed! I suppose, now, you wouldn't call Barry Lynchone of your poor people; but in my mind he's the poorest crature livingthis day in county Galway. Av' you've done now, Mr Daly, you've my laveto be walking; and the less you let the poor Kellys see of you, fromthis 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 whatsuch a fellow as he'd be saying to you?--shure he's jist paid for allthis--he's only sent here by Barry to thry and frighten you, "--butit was of no avail: Daly had succeeded at any rate in making hermiserable, and it was past the power of Martin's eloquence to undo whatthe attorney had done. 

"Well, Mr Daly, " he said, turning round sharply, "I suppose you havedone here now, and the sooner you turn your back on this place thebetther--An' you may take this along with you. Av' you think you'vefrightened my mother or me, you're very much mistaken. "

"Yes, " said Daly, "I have done now, and I am sorry my business has beenso unpleasant. Your mother, Martin, had betther not disregard thatnotice. Good morning, Miss Lynch: good morning, Mrs Kelly; goodmorning, 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'msorry to see you've taken to this line of business. "

As soon as the attorney was gone, both Martin and his mother attemptedto console and re-assure poor Anty, but they did not find the task aneasy one. "Oh, Mrs Kelly, " she said, as soon as she was able to sayanything, "I'm sorry I iver come here, I am: I'm sorry I iver set myfoot in the house!"

"Don't say so, Anty, dear, " said the widow. "What'd you be sorryfor--an't it the best place for you?"

"Oh! but to think that I'd bring all these throubles on you! Bettherbe up there, and bear it all, than bring you and yours into law, andsorrow, and expense. Only I couldn't find the words in my throat tosay it, I'd 've tould the man that I'd 've gone back at once. I wishI had--indeed, Mrs Kelly, I wish I had. "

"Why, Anty, " said Martin, "you an't fool enough to believe what Daly'sbeen 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'swilling enough, av' he had the way. "

"I wish I was in a convent, this moment, " said Anty. "Oh! I wish I'ddone as father asked me long since. Av' the walls of a convent wasaround 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 jargonwhich Daly had used, of juries, judges, trials, and notices, hadsounded terribly in her ears. The very names of such things were toher terrible realities, and she couldn't bring herself to believe thather brother would threaten to make use of such horrible engines ofpersecution, without having the power to bring them into action. Then, visions of the lunatic asylum, into which he had declared that he wouldthrow her, flitted across her, and made her whole body shiver andshake; and again she remembered the horrid glare of his eye, the hotbreath, and the frightful form of his visage, on the night when healmost told her that he would murder her. 

Poor Anty had at no time high or enduring spirits, but such as shehad were now completely quelled. A dreadful feeling of coming evil--aforeboding of misery, such as will sometimes overwhelm stronger mindsthan Anty's, seemed to stifle her; and she continued sobbing till shefell into hysterics, when Meg and Jane were summoned to her assistance. They sat with her for above an hour, doing all that kindness andaffection could suggest; but after a time Anty told them that she had acold, sick feeling within herself, that she felt weak and ill, and thatshe'd sooner go to bed. To bed they accordingly took her; and Sallybrought her tea, and Katty lighted a fire in her room, and Jane read toher an edifying article from the lives of the Saints, and Meg arguedwith her as to the folly of being frightened. But it was all of noavail; before night, Anty was really ill. 

The next morning, the widow was obliged to own to herself that such wasthe case. In the afternoon, Doctor Colligan was called in; and it wasmany, many weeks before Anty recovered from the effects of theattorney's visit. 

XX. VERY LIBERAL

When the widow left the parlour, after having placed her guest inthe charge of her daughters, she summoned her son to follow her downstairs, and was very careful not to leave behind her the notice whichDaly had placed on the table. As soon as she found herself behindthe shutter of her little desk, which stood in the shop-window, shecommenced very eagerly spelling it over. The purport of the notice was, to inform her that Barry Lynch intended immediately to apply to themagistrates to commit her and her son, for conspiring together toinveigle Anty into a marriage; and that the fact of their having doneso would be proved by Mr Moylan, who was prepared to swear that hehad been present when the plan had been arranged between them. Thereader is aware that whatever show of truth there might be for thisaccusation, as far as Martin and Moylan himself were concerned, thewidow at any rate was innocent; and he can conceive the good lady'sindignation at the idea of her own connection, Moylan, having beenseduced over to the enemy. Though she had put on a bold front againstDaly, and though she did not quite believe that Barry was in earnest intaking proceedings against her, still her heart failed her as she readthe legal technicalities of the papers she held in her hand, and turnedto her son for counsel in considerable tribulation. 

"But there must be something in it, I tell you, " said she. "ThoughBarry Lynch, and that limb o' the divil, young Daly, 'd stick at nothinin the way of lies and desait, they'd niver go to say all this aboutMoylan, unless he'd agree to do their bidding. "

"That's like enough, mother: I dare say Moylan has been talkedover--bought over rather; for he's not one of them as'd do mischief fornothin. "

"And does the ould robber mane to say that I--. As I live, I niver asmuch 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 niverwill be. This is all one of Barry's schames to frighten you, and getAnty 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. Buttell me--all this'll be costing money, won't, it? Attorneys don't bringthim sort of things about for nothing, " and she gave a mostcontemptuous twist to the notice. 

"Oh, Barry must pay for that. "

"I doubt that, Martin: he's not fond of paying, the mane, dirthyblackguard. I tell you what, you shouldn't iver have let Daly insidethe house: he'll make us pay for the writing o' thim as shure as myname's Mary Kelly: av' he hadn't got into the house, he couldn't'vedone 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 onecome nigh her. "

"Well, Martin, you'll see we'll have to pay for it. This comes ofmeddling with other folks! I wonder how I was iver fool enough to havefitched her down here!--Good couldn't come of daling with such peopleas 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. "

"May-be not. "

"But, tell me, Martin--was there anything said between you and Moylanabout 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 afellow 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 youshouldn't lave me in the dark. Was you talking to Moylan about Anty andher fortune?"

"Why, thin, I'll jist tell you the whole thruth, as I tould it allbefore to Mister Frank--that is, Lord Ballindine, up in Dublin; and asI wouldn't mind telling it this minute to Barry, or Daly, or any oneelse in the three counties. When Moylan got the agency, he come out tome at Toneroe; and afther talking a bit about Anty and her fortune, helet on as how it would be a bright spec for me to marry her, and Iwon't deny that it was he as first put it into my head. Well, thin, hehad schames of his own about keeping the agency, and getting a nicething out of the property himself, for putting Anty in my way; but Itould him downright I didn't know anything about that; and that 'aviver 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 quiteenough to get us into throuble. And why wouldn't you tell me what wasgoing on between you?"

"There was nothing going on between us. "

"I say there was;--and to go and invaigle me into your schames withoutknowing a word about it!--It was a murdhering shame of you--and av' Ido have to pay for it, I'll never forgive you. "

"That's right, mother; quarrel with me about it, do. It was I made youbring 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! Ididn'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 turnagin the family--them as has made him! I wondher what he's to getfor swearing agin us?"--And then, after a pause, she added in a mostpathetic voice "oh, Martin, to think of being dragged away to Galway, before the whole counthry, to be made a conspirather of! I, that alwayspaid my way, before and behind, though only a poor widdy! Who's to mindthe shop, I wondher?--I'm shure Meg's not able; and there'll be Mary'llbe jist nigh her time, and won't be able to come! Martin, you've beenand ruined me with your plots and your marriages! What did you wantwith a wife, I wondher, and you so well off!"--and Mrs Kelly beganwiping her eyes, for she was affected to tears at the prospect of hercoming misery. 

"Av' you take it so to heart, mother, you'd betther give Anty a hint tobe 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 thisproposition. He understood what the real extent of her sorrow was, andhow much of her lamentation he was to attribute to her laudable wish toappear a martyr to the wishes and pleasures of her children. 

"Turn her out!" replied she, "no, niver; and I didn't think I'd 'veheard you asking me to. "

"I didn't ask you, mother, --only anything'd be betther than downrightruin. "

"I wouldn't demane myself to Barry so much as to wish her out of thisnow she's here. But it was along of you she came here, and av' I've topay for all this lawyer work, you oughtn't to see me at a loss. I'mshure I don't know where your sisthers is to look for a pound or twowhen I'm gone, av' things goes on this way, " and again the widowwhimpered. 

"Don't let that throuble you, mother: av' there's anything to pay, Iwon't let it come upon you, any way. But I tell you there'll be nothingmore about it. "

Mrs Kelly was somewhat quieted by her son's guarantee, and, mutteringthat she couldn't afford to be wasting her mornings in that way, diligently commenced weighing out innumerable three-halfporths of brownsugar, and Martin went about his own business. 

Daly left the inn, after his interview with Anty and the Kellys, inanything but a pleasant frame of mind. In the first place, he knew thathe had been signally unsuccessful, and that his want of success hadbeen 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 probablywould, irretrievably injure his character by undertaking, as Martintruly called it, such a very low line of business: that, if the matterwere persevered in, every one in Connaught would be sure to hear ofAnty's persecution; and that his own name would be so mixed up withLynch's in the transaction as to leave him no means of escaping theignominy which was so justly due to his employer. Beyond these selfishmotives of wishing to withdraw from the business, he really pitiedAnty, and felt a great repugnance at being the means of adding to hertroubles; and he was aware of the scandalous shame of subjecting heragain to the ill-treatment of such a wretch as her brother, bythreatening proceedings which he knew could never be taken. 

As he got on the car to return to Tuam, he determined that whateverplan he might settle on adopting, he would have nothing further to dowith prosecuting or persecuting either Anty or the Kellys. "I'll givehim the best advice I can about it, " said Daly to himself; "and ifhe don't like it he may do the other thing. I wouldn't carry on withthis game for all he's worth, and that I believe is not much. " He hadintended to go direct to Dunmore House from the Kellys, and to haveseen Barry, but he would have had to stop for dinner if he had doneso; and though, generally speaking, not very squeamish in his society, he did not wish to enjoy another after-dinner _tête-à-tête_ withhim--"It's better to get him over to Tuam, " thought he, "and try andmake him see rason when he's sober: nothing's too hot or too bad forhim, when he's mad dhrunk afther dinner. "

Accordingly, Lynch was again summoned to Tuam, and held a secondcouncil in the attorney's little parlour. Daly commenced by telling himthat his sister had seen him, and had positively refused to leave theinn, and that the widow and her son had both listened to the threatsof a prosecution unmoved and undismayed. Barry indulged in hisusual volubility of expletives; expressed his fixed intention ofexterminating the Kellys; declared, with many asseverations, hisconviction that his sister was a lunatic; swore, by everything under, in, and above the earth, that he would have her shut up in the LunaticAsylum in Ballinasloe, in the teeth of the Lord Chancellor and all theother lawyers in Ireland; cursed the shades of his father, deeply andcopiously; assured Daly that he was only prevented from recovering hisown property by the weakness and ignorance of his legal advisers, andended 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 toDunmore under my very nose?"

"I'm very much afraid, Mr Lynch, if you wish to be quit of MartinKelly, 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 takencare of, and that it was put out of her power to throw herself away, Ishould leave it at once. "

"Between you and me, Mr Lynch, she will be taken care of; and as forthrowing herself away, she must judge of that herself. Take my word forit, the best thing for you to do is to come to terms with Martin Kelly, and to sell out your property in Dunmore. You'll make much better termsbefore 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 mostunpleasant proposal. It was a hard pill for him to swallow, and hecouldn't get it down without some convulsive grimaces. He bit his underlip, 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 bythe Kellys instead of by me! I can't understand it, confound me if Ican!"

Daly turned very red at the insinuation. He was within an ace ofseizing Lynch by the collar, and expelling him in a summary way fromhis 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, andrestrained himself. 

"Mr Lynch, " he said, after a moment or two, "that's the second timeyou'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 acase as was ever put into a lawyer's hands, I wouldn't stand it fromyou. If you think you can let out your passion against me, as you doagainst your own people, you'll find your mistake out very soon; soyou'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 youchoose to hear my professional advice, and behave to me as you oughtand shall do? or will you go out of this and look out for anotherattorney? To tell you the truth, I'd jist as lieve you'd take yourbusiness to some one else. "

Barry's brow grew very black, and he looked at Daly as though he wouldmuch like to insult him again if he dared. But he did not dare. He hadno one else to look to for advice or support; he had utterly estrangedfrom him his father's lawyer; and though he suspected that Daly was nottrue 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 muttersomething 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 thesesounds as an _amende honorable_ [32], again renewed his functions asattorney. 

 [FOOTNOTE 32: amende honorable--(French) apology]

"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 totreat with him about. Am I to offer him half the property on conditionhe'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 inthe end. In the first place, you must withdraw all opposition to MissLynch's marriage; indeed, you must give it your direct sanction; and, in the next place, you must make an amicable arrangement with Martinabout the division of the property. "

"What--coolly give him all he has the impudence to ask?--throw up thegame altogether, and pitch the whole stakes into his lap?--Why, Daly, you--"

"Well, Mr Lynch, finish your speech, " said Daly, looking him full inthe face. 

Barry had been on the point of again accusing the attorney of playingfalse to him, but he paused in time; he caught Daly's eye, and did notdare to finish the sentence which he had begun. 

"I can't understand you, I mean, " said he; "I can't understand whatyou're after: but go on; may-be you're right, but I can't see, for thelife 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 toreassure him, and he became, comparatively speaking, calm and subdued. Indeed, before the interview was over he fell into a pitiablylachrymose tone, and claimed sympathy for the many hardships he had toundergo through the ill-treatment of his family. 

"I'll try and explain to you, Mr Lynch, what you'll get by it. Asfar as I can understand, your father left about eight hundred a-yearbetween the two--that's you and your sisther; and then there's thehouse and furniture. Nothing on earth can keep her out of her property, or prevent her from marrying whom she plases. Martin Kelly, who isan honest fellow, though sharp enough, has set his eye on her, andbefore many weeks you'll find he'll make her his wife. Undher thesecircumstances, wouldn't he be the best tenant you could find forDunmore? You're not fond of the place, and will be still less so whenhe's your brother-in-law. Lave it altogether, Mr Lynch; give him alaise of the whole concern, and if you'll do that now at once, takemy word for it you'll get more out of Dunmore than iver you will bystaying 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 somefinal arrangement about the property, you must make some otherarrangement 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 I?"

"I don't think Martin's able to put a large sum down. I'll tell youwhat I think you might ask; and what I think he would give, to getyour good-will and consent to the match, and to prevent any furtherdifficulty. I think he'd become your tenant, for the whole of yourshare, at a rent of five-hundred a year; and maybe he'd give you threehundred 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'smind: five hundred a-year without any trouble in collecting it; thepower of living abroad in the unrestrained indulgence of hotels andbilliard rooms; the probable chance of being able to retain his incomeand bilk his creditors; the prospect of shaking off from himself theconsequences of a connection with the Kellys, and being for ever rid ofDunmore encumbrances. These things all opened before his eyes a vistaof future, idle, uncontrolled enjoyment, just suited to his taste, andstrongly tempted him at once to close with Daly's offer. But still, he could hardly bring himself to consent to be vanquished by his ownsister; it was wormwood to him to think that after all she should beleft to the undisturbed enjoyment of her father's legacy. He had beenbrow-beaten by the widow, insulted by young Kelly, cowed and silencedby the attorney whom he had intended to patronise and convert into acreature of his own: he could however have borne and put up with allthis, if he could only have got his will of his sister; but to give upto her, who had been his slave all his life--to own, at last, that hehad no power over her, whom he had always looked upon as so abject, somean a thing; to give in, of his own accord, to the robbery which hadbeen committed on him by his own father; and to do this, while he feltconvinced as he still did, that a sufficiently unscrupulous attorneycould save him from such cruel disgrace and loss, was a trial to whichhe 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 remainedmute, balancing the pros and cons of Daly's plan. Daly waited a minuteor two for his answer, and, finding that he said nothing, left himalone for a time, to make up his mind, telling him that he would returnin about a quarter of an hour. Barry never moved from his position; itwas an important question he had to settle, and so he felt it, for hegave up to the subject his undivided attention. Since his boyhood hehad looked forward to a life of ease, pleasure, and licence, and hadlonged for his father's death that he might enjoy it. It seemed nowwithin his reach; for his means, though reduced, would still besufficient for sensual gratification. But, idle, unprincipled, brutal, castaway wretch as Barry was, he still felt the degradation ofinaction, when he had such stimulating motives to energy as unsatisfiedrapacity and hatred for his sister: ignorant as he was of the meaningof the word right, he tried to persuade himself that it would be wrongin 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 hemight be successful--that he might, by some legal tactics, at any rateobtain for himself the management of his sister's property. But thishe could not do: he felt that Daly was his master; and though he stillthought that he might have triumphed had he come sufficiently prepared, that is, with a considerable quantum of spirits inside him, he knewhimself well enough to be aware that he could do nothing without thisassistance; and, alas, he could not obtain it there. He had greatreliance in the efficacy of whiskey; he would trust much to a largedose 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 withDaly with some appearance of resolution and self-confidence, but it wasin vain; when the attorney returned, his face still plainly showed thathe was utterly unresolved, utterly unable to resolve on anything. 

"Well, Mr Lynch, " said Daly, "will you let me spake to Kelly aboutthis, or would you rather sleep on the matther?"

Barry gave a long sigh--"Wouldn't he give six hundred, Daly? he'd stillhave two hundred clear, and think what that'd be for a fellow likehim!"

"You must ask him for it yourself then; I'll not propose to him anysuch thing. Upon my soul, he'll be a great fool to give the fivehundred, because he's no occasion to meddle with you in the matther atall, at all. But still I think he may give it; but as for asking formore--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, andeverything about the place--for three hundred pounds?"

"Not unless you like it, you ain't, Mr Lynch; but I'll tell youthis--if you can do so, and do do so, it'll be the best bargain youever made:--mind, one-half of it all belongs to your sisther. "

Barry muttered an oath through his ground teeth; he would have liked toscratch the ashes of his father from their resting-place, and wreak hisvengeance on them, whenever this degrading fact was named to him. 

"But I want the money, Daly, " said he: "I couldn't get afloat unless Ihad more than that: I couldn't pay your bill, you know, unless I got ahigher 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 tolook facetious, by giving a wretched ghastly grin. 

"My bill won't be a long one, Mr Lynch, and you may be shure I'm tryingto make it as short as I can. And as for earning it, whatever you maythink, I can assure you I shall never have got money harder. I've nowgiven you my best advice; if your mind's not yet made up, perhapsyou'll have the goodness to let me hear from you when it is?" and Dalywalked from the fire towards the door, and placed his hand upon thehandle of it. 

This was a hint which Barry couldn't misunderstand. "Well, I'll writeto you, " he said, and passed through the door. He felt, however, thatit was useless to attempt to trust himself to his own judgment, and heturned back, as Daly passed into his office--"Daly, " he said, "step outone minute: I won't keep you a second. " The attorney unwillingly liftedup the counter, and came out to him. "Manage it your own way, " saidhe; "do whatever you think best; but you must see that I've been badlyused--infernally cruelly treated, and you ought to do the best you canfor me. Here am I, giving away, as I may say, my own property to ayoung shopkeeper, and upon my soul you ought to make him pay somethingfor 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 youdon't think the terms fair, you can propose any others yourself; oryou're at liberty to employ any other agent you please. "

Barry sighed again, but he yielded. He felt broken-hearted, andunhappy, and he longed to quit a country so distasteful to him, andrelatives and neighbours so ungrateful; he longed in his heart for thesweet, easy haunts of Boulogne, which he had never known, but of whichhe had heard many a glowing description from congenial spirits whom heknew. He had heard enough of the ways and means of many a leadingstar 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 nofather would follow him, where the presence of no sister would degradeand irritate him, where billiard-tables were rife, and brandy cheap;where virtue was easy, and restraint unnecessary; where no duties wouldharass him, no tenants upbraid him, no duns persecute him. There, carefully guarding himself against the schemes of those less fortunatefollowers of pleasure among whom he would be thrown in his socialhours, he would convert every shilling of his income to some purpose ofself-enjoyment, and live a life of luxurious abandonment. And he neednot be altogether idle, he reflected within himself afterwards, as hewas riding home: he felt that he was possessed of sufficient energy andtalent to make himself perfectly master of a pack of cards, to be aproficient over a billiard-table, and even to get the upper hand of abox of dice. With such pursuits left to him, he might yet live to betalked of, feared, and wealthy; and Barry's utmost ambition would havecarried him no further. 

As I said before, he yielded to the attorney, and commissioned himfully to treat with Martin Kelly in the manner proposed by himself. Martin was to give him five hundred a-year for his share of theproperty, and three hundred pounds for the furniture, &c. ; and Barrywas to give his sister his written and unconditional assent to hermarriage; was to sign any document which might be necessary as to hersettlement, and was then to leave Dunmore for ever. Daly made him writean authority for making such a proposal, by which he bound himself tothe terms, should they be acceded to by the other party. 

"But you must bear in mind, " added Daly, as his client for the secondtime turned from the door, "that I don't guarantee that Martin Kellywill accept these terms: it's very likely he may be sharp enough toknow that he can manage as well without you as he can with you. You'llremember that, Mr Lynch. "

"I will--I will, Daly; but look here--if he bites freely--and I thinkhe will, and if you find you could get as much as a thousand out ofhim, or even eight hundred, you shall have one hundred clear foryourself. "

This was Barry's last piece of diplomacy for that day. Daly vouchsafedhim no answer, but returned into his office, and Barry mounted hishorse, and returned home not altogether ill-pleased with his prospects, but still regretting that he should have gone about so serious a pieceof business, so utterly unprepared. 

These regrets rose stronger, when his after-dinner courage returned tohim 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 ofhis. After all, there's no place for a cock to fight on like his owndunghill; and there's nothing able to carry a fellow well through atough bit of jobation [33] with a lawyer like a stiff tumbler of brandypunch. It'd have been worth a couple of hundred to me, to have had himout here--impertinent puppy! Well, devil a halfpenny I'll pay him!"This thought was consolatory, and he began again to think of Boulogne. 

 [FOOTNOTE 33: jobation--a tedious session; scolding]

XXI. LORD BALLINDINE AT HOME

Two days after the last recorded interview between Lord Ballindine andhis friend, Dot Blake, the former found himself once more sitting downto dinner with his mother and sisters, the Honourable Mrs O'Kelly andthe Honourable Misses O'Kelly; at least such were the titular dignitiesconferred 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 developedcharacter, and perhaps of no very general utility. She was fond of herdaughters, and more than fond of her son, partly because he was sotall and so handsome, and partly because he was the lord, the headof the family, and the owner of the house. She was, on the whole, agood-natured person, though perhaps her temper was a little soured byher husband having, very unfairly, died before he had given her a rightto 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 bedignified; and consequently, when in society, she somewhat ridiculouslyaggravated her natural timidity with an assumed rigidity of demeanour. She was, however, a good woman, striving, with small means, to do thebest for her family; prudent and self-denying, and very diligent inlooking after the house servants. 

Her two daughters had been, at the instance of their grandfather, thecourtier, christened Augusta and Sophia, after the two Princesses ofthat 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 werevery fond of nice young men. They both thought Kelly's Court ratherdull; but then they had known nothing better since they had grown up, and there were some tolerably nice people not very far off, whom theyoccasionally saw: there were the Dillons, of Ballyhaunis, who hadthree thousand a-year, and spent six; they were really a delightfulfamily--three daughters and four sons, all unmarried, and up toanything: the sons all hunted, shot, danced, and did everything thatthey ought to do--at least in the eyes of young ladies; though some oftheir more coldly prudent acquaintances expressed an opinion that itwould be as well if the three younger would think of doing somethingfor themselves; but they looked so manly and handsome when theybreakfasted at Kelly's Court on a hunt morning, with their bright tops, red coats, and hunting-caps, that Guss and Sophy, and a great manyothers, thought it would be a shame to interrupt them in their career. And then, Ballyhaunis was only eight miles from Kelly's Court; thoughthey were Irish miles, it is true, and the road was not patronised bythe Grand Jury; but the distance was only eight miles, and there werealways beds for them when they went to dinner at Peter Dillon's. Thenthere were the Blakes of Castletown. To be sure they could give noparties, for they were both unmarried; but they were none the worsefor that, and they had plenty of horses, and went out everywhere. And the Blakes of Morristown; they also were very nice people; onlyunfortunately, old Blake was always on his keeping, and couldn't showhimself out of doors except on Sundays, for fear of the bailiffs. Andthe Browns of Mount Dillon, and the Browns of Castle Brown; and GeneralBourke of Creamstown. All these families lived within fifteen orsixteen miles of Kelly's Court, and prevented the O'Kellys fromfeeling themselves quite isolated from the social world. Their nearestneighbours, however, were the Armstrongs, and of them they saw a greatdeal. 

The Reverend Joseph Armstrong was rector of Ballindine, and Mrs O'Kellywas his parishioner, and the only Protestant one he had; and, as MrArmstrong did not like to see his church quite deserted, and as MrsO'Kelly was, as she flattered herself, a very fervent Protestant, theywere all in all to each other. 

Ballindine was not a good living, and Mr Armstrong had a very largefamily; he was, therefore, a poor man. His children were helpless, uneducated, and improvident; his wife was nearly worn out with thelabours of bringing them forth and afterwards catering for them; anda great portion of his own life was taken up in a hard battle withtradesmen and tithe-payers, creditors, and debtors. Yet, in spite ofthe insufficiency of his two hundred a-year to meet all or half hiswants, Mr Armstrong was not an unhappy man. At any moment of socialenjoyment he forgot all his cares and poverty, and was always thefirst to laugh, and the last to cease to do so. He never refused aninvitation to dinner, and if he did not entertain many in his ownhouse, it was his fortune, and not his heart, that prevented him fromdoing so. He could hardly be called a good clergyman, and yet hisremissness was not so much his own fault as that of circumstances. Howcould a Protestant rector be a good parish clergyman, with but one oldlady and her daughters, for the exercise of his clerical energies andtalents? He constantly lauded the zeal of St. Paul for proselytism;but, as he himself once observed, even St. Paul had never had to dealwith the obstinacy of an Irish Roman Catholic. He often regretted thewant of work, and grieved that his profession, as far as he saw and hadbeen instructed, required nothing of him but a short service on everySunday morning, and the celebration of the Eucharist four times a-year;but such were the facts; and the idleness which this want of workengendered, and the habits which his poverty induced, had given hima character as a clergyman, very different from that which the highfeelings and strict principles which animated him at his ordinationwould 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 toclerical discipline, but very staunch as to doctrine. He possessed noindustry or energy of any kind; but he was good-natured and charitable, lived on friendly terms with all his neighbours, and was intimate withevery one that dwelt within ten miles of him, priest and parson, lordand commoner. 

Such was the neighbourhood of Kelly's Court, and among such LordBallindine had now made up his mind to remain a while, tillcircumstances should decide what further steps he should take withregard to Fanny Wyndham. There were a few hunting days left in theseason, which he intended to enjoy; and then he must manage to makeshift to lull the time with shooting, fishing, farming, and nursing hishorses and dogs. 

His mother and sisters had heard nothing of the rumour of the quarrelbetween Frank and Fanny, which Mat Tierney had so openly alluded to atHandicap Lodge; and he was rather put out by their eager questions onthe subject. Nothing was said about it till the servant withdrew, afterdinner, but the three ladies were too anxious for information to delaytheir curiosity any longer. 

"Well, Frank, " said the elder sister, who was sitting over thefire, close to his left elbow--(he had a bottle of claret at hisright)--"well, Frank, do tell us something about Fanny Wyndham; we areso longing to hear; and you never will write, you know. "

"Everybody says it's a brilliant match, " said the mother. "They sayhere 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? andI 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 immediatelymake 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 quitesuddenly in London about ten days since; she was very much attached tohim. "

"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 itnow?"

"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 withyou, are you? Has there been anything between you? Have there been anywords between you and Lord Cashel? Why don't you tell me, Frank, whenyou know how anxious I am?"

"If you must know all about it, I have not had any words, as you callthem, with Fanny Wyndham; but I have with her guardian. He thinks ahundred and twenty thousand pounds much too great a fortune for aConnaught viscount. However, I don't think so. It will be for time toshow 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 hermind because of her money, will she?"

"That's what would make me love a man twice the more, " said Guss; "orat any rate show it twice the stronger. "

"Frank, " said the anxious mother, "for heaven's sake don't let anythingstand 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 itever 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 couldget 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: whatdoes it signify how much you give up to such a man as Lord Cashel? Youdon'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 LordCashel. 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 Wyndhamif 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 ustalking 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 moneychanges 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, byway of letting all his friends know that he was again among them. And so missives, in Guss and Sophy's handwriting, were sent roundby a bare-legged little boy, to all the Mounts, Towns, and Castles, belonging to the Dillons, Blakes, Bourkes, and Browns of theneighbourhood, to tell them that the dogs would draw the Kelly's Courtcovers at eleven o'clock on the following Tuesday morning, and that thepreparatory breakfast would be on the table at ten. This was welcomenews to the whole neighbourhood. It was only on the Sunday eveningthat the sportsmen got the intimation, and very busy most of themwere on the following Monday to see that their nags and breecheswere all right--fit to work and fit to be seen. The four Dillons, ofBallyhaunis, gave out to their grooms a large assortment of pipe-clayand putty-powder. Bingham Blake, of Castletown, ordered a new set ofgirths to his hunting saddle; and his brother Jerry, who was in noslight degree proud of his legs, but whose nether trappings were ratherthe worse from the constant work of a heavy season, went so far as togo forth very early on the Monday morning to excite the Ballinrobetailor to undertake the almost impossible task of completing him a pairof doeskin by the Tuesday morning. The work was done, and the breecheshome at Castletown by eight--though the doeskin had to be purchased inTuam, and an assistant artist taken away from his mother's wake, to situp all night over the seams. But then the tailor owed a small trifleof arrear of rent for his potato-garden, and his landlord was JerryBlake's cousin-german [34]. There's nothing carries one further than agood connexion, thought both Jerry and the tailor when the job wasfinished. 

 [FOOTNOTE 34: cousin-german--first cousin]

Among the other invitations sent was one to Martin Kelly, --not exactlyworded like the others, for though Lord Ballindine was perhaps moreanxious to see him than anyone else, Martin had not yet got quite sohigh in the ladder of life as to be asked to breakfast at Kelly'sCourt. But the fact that Frank for a moment thought of asking himshowed that he was looking upwards in the world's estimation. Frankwrote him a note himself, saying that the hounds would throw off atKelly's Court, at eleven; that, if he would ride over, he would be sureto see a good hunt, and that he, Lord Ballindine, had a few words tosay to him on business, just while the dogs were being put into thecover. Martin, as usual, had a good horse which he was disposed tosell, if, as he said, he got its value; and wrote to say he would waiton Lord Ballindine at eleven. The truth was, Frank wanted to borrowmoney from him. 

Another note was sent to the Glebe, requesting the Rector to come tobreakfast and to look at the hounds being thrown off. The modest styleof the invitation was considered as due to Mr Armstrong's clericalposition, but was hardly rendered necessary by his habits; for thoughthe parson attended such meetings in an old suit of rusty black, androde an equally rusty-looking pony, he was always to be seen, at theend of the day, among those who were left around the dogs. 

On the Tuesday morning there was a good deal of bustle at Kelly'sCourt. All the boys about the place were collected in front of thehouse, to walk the gentlemen's horses about while the riders were atbreakfast, and earn a sixpence or a fourpenny bit; and among them, sitting idly on the big steppingstone placed near the door, was Jackthe fool, who, for the day, seemed to have deserted the service ofBarry Lynch. 

And now the red-coats flocked up to the door, and it was laughableto see the knowledge of character displayed by the gossoons in theselection of their customers. One or two, who were known to be "badpays, " were allowed to dismount without molestation of any kind, andcould not even part with their steeds till they had come to an absolutebargain as to the amount of gratuity to be given. Lambert Brown was oneof these unfortunate characters--a younger brother who had a little, and but a very little money, and who was determined to keep that. Hewas a miserable hanger-on at his brother's house, without professionor prospects; greedy, stingy, and disagreeable; endowed with a squint, and long lank light-coloured hair: he was a bad horseman, alwayscraning and shirking in the field, boasting and lying after dinner;nevertheless, he was invited and endured because he was one of theBrowns of Mount Dillon, cousin to the Browns of Castle Brown, nephew toMrs Dillon the member's wife, and third cousin of Lord Ballaghaderrin. 

He dismounted in the gravel circle before the door, and looked roundfor someone to take his horse; but none of the urchins would come tohim. At last he caught hold of a little ragged boy whom he knew, fromhis own side of the country, and who had come all the way there, eightlong Irish miles, on the chance of earning sixpence and seeing a hunt. 

"Here, Patsy, come here, you born little divil, " and he laid hold ofthe arm of the brat, who was trying to escape from him--"come and holdmy horse for me--and I'll not forget you. "

"Shure, yer honer, Mr Lambert, I can't thin, for I'm afther engagingmyself this blessed minute to Mr Larry Dillon, only he's jist trottedround to the stables to spake a word to Mick Keogh. "

"Don't be lying, you little blackguard; hould the horse, and don't stirout of that. "

"Shure how can I, Mr Lambert, when I've been and guv my word to MrLarry?" and the little fellow put his hands behind him, that he mightnot be forced to take hold of the reins. 

"Don't talk to me, you young imp, but take the horse. I'll not forgetyou when I come out. What's the matter with you, you fool; d'ye thinkI'd tell you a lie about it?"

Patsy evidently thought he would; for though he took the horse almostupon compulsion, he whimpered as he did so, and said:

"Shure, Mr Lambert, would you go and rob a poor boy of his chances?--Icome'd all the way from Ballyglass this blessed morning to 'arn atizzy, and av' I doesn't get it from you this turn, I'll--" But LambertBrown had gone into the house, and on his return after breakfast hefully justified the lad's suspicion, for he again promised him that hewouldn'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 knowsyou: sorrow be your bed this night; it's little the poor'll grieve foryou, when you're stretched, or the rich either, for the matther ofthat. "

Very different was the reception Bingham Blake got, as he drove up withhis tandem and tax-cart: half-a-dozen had kept themselves idle, each inthe hope of being the lucky individual to come in for Bingham'sshilling. 

"Och, Mr Bingham, shure I'm first, " roared one fellow. 

But the first, as he styled himself, was soon knocked down under thewheels of the cart by the others. 

"Mr Blake, thin--Mr Blake, darlint--doesn't ye remimber the promise youguv me?"

"Mr Jerry, Mr Jerry, avick, "--this was addressed to the brother--"spakea word for me; do, yer honour; shure it was I come all the way fromTeddy Mahony's with the breeches this morning, God bless 'em, and thefine 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 tostrike them. "Get out, you robbers! Are you going to take the cart andhorses clean away from me? That mare'll settle some of ye, if you makeso free with her! she's not a bit too chary of her hind feet. Get outof that, I tell you;" and he lightly struck with the point of his whipthe 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 forit, God bless you. "

"Faix, " said another, "one blow from your honour is worth two promisesfrom Lambert Brown, any way. "

There was a great laugh at this among the ragged crew, for LambertBrown was still standing on the doorsteps: when he heard this sally, however, he walked in, and the different red-coats and top-boots werenot long in crowding after him. 

Lord Ballindine received them in the same costume, and very glad theyall seemed to see him again. When an Irish gentleman is popular in hisneighbourhood, nothing can exceed the real devotion paid to him; andwhen that gentleman is a master of hounds, and does not require asubscription, he is more than ever so. 

"Welcome back, Ballindine--better late than never; but why did you stayaway 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 thefield 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 meinto the bargain, most likely. "

"Quite right, General, " said Frank; "so you see I've given up theCurragh, and come down to the dogs again. "

"Yes, but you've waited too long, man; the dogs have nearly done theirwork for this year. I'm sorry for it; the last day of the season is theworst 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, letalone Connaught. You must come down, and tell me what you think ofthem. "

"Next October's all very well for you young fellows, but I'mseventy-eight. I always make up my mind that I'll never turn outanother season, and it'll be true for me this year. I'm hunting oversixty years, Ballindine, in these three counties. I ought to have hadenough of it by this time, you'll say. "

"I'll bet you ten pounds, " said Bingham Blake, "that you hunt aftereighty. "

"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 hehad hunted over the same ground sixty years ago. But he had not beenat it ever since, for he had in the meantime seen a great deal of hardactive service, and obtained high military reputation. But he had againtaken kindly to the national sport of his country, on returning tohis own estate at the close of the Peninsular War; and had ever sinceattended the meets twice a week through every winter, with fewerexceptions than any other member of the hunt. He always woretop-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 capaciousdark-coloured leather breeches, the origin of which was unknown toany other present member of the hunt, and a red frock coat, very muchsoiled by weather, water, and wear. The General was a rich man, andtherefore always had a horse to suit him. On the present occasion, hewas riding a strong brown beast, called Parsimony, that would climbover anything, and creep down the gable end of a house if he wererequired to do so. He was got by OEconomy; those who know county Mayoknow 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. Inspite of his shabby appearance, however, and the fact that the greaternumber of those around him were Roman Catholics, he seemed to be verypopular with the lot; and his opinion on the important subject of itsbeing a scenting morning was asked with as much confidence in hisjudgment, as though the foxes of the country were peculiarly subject toepiscopalian jurisdiction. 

"Well, then, Peter, " said he, "the wind's in the right quarter. Micksays 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 whenyou're once over the meering [5] into Roscommon, there's not an acre oftilled land, unless a herd's garden, between that and--the deuce knowswhere all--further than most of you'll like to ride, I take it. "

 [FOOTNOTE 35: meering--a well-marked boundary, such as a ditch or fence, between farms, fields, bogs, etc]

"How far'll you go yourself, Armstrong? Faith, I believe it's few ofthe 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 dogsgive tongue, and seen them well on their game, I'll go home. I've landploughing, and I must look after that. But, as I was saying, if the foxbreaks well away from the gorse, you'll have the best run you've seenthis season; but if he dodges back into the plantation, you'll haveenough to do to make him break at all; and when he does, he'll go awaytowards Ballyhaunis, through as cross a country as ever a horse put ashoe into. "

And having uttered this scientific prediction, which was listened towith the greatest deference by Peter Dillon, the Rev. Joseph Armstrongturned 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 withthe General, but Sophy and Guss kept their positions, beneath thecoffee-pot and tea-urn, at each end of the long table, being veryproperly of opinion that it was the duty of the younger part of thecommunity to come forward, and make their overtures to them. BinghamBlake, the cynosure on whom the eyes of the beauty of county Mayo weremost generally placed, soon found his seat beside Guss, rather toSophy's mortification; but Sophy was good-natured, and when PeterDillon placed himself at her right hand, she was quite happy, thoughPeter's father was still alive, and Bingham's had been dead this many ayear 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 agreat deal too hungry. The last hunt-morning you breakfasted here youthrew 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'vebeen 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 Sundaypelerine, with my own hands on Saturday evening. "

"Oh, what a useful animal! What a husband you'll make, when you're alittle more improved!"

"Shan't I? As you're so fond of accomplishments, perhaps you'll take meyourself by-and-by?"

"Why, as you're so useful, maybe I may. "

"Well, Lambert, " said Lord Ballindine, across the table, to the stingygentleman with the squint, "are you going to ride hard to-day?"

"I'll go bail I'm not much behind, my lord, " said Lambert; "if the dogsgo, I'll follow. "

"I'll bet you a crown, Lambert, " said his cousin, young Brown of MountBrown, "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 betyou a crown I pound you before you're over three leaps. "

"Ah, now, take it easy with yourself, " said Lambert; "there are othersride 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, ifyou'd pay for them. "

"Did you hear, Miss O'Kelly, what Jerry Blake did yesterday?" saidNicholas Dillon aloud, across the table. 

"Indeed, I did not, " said Guss--"but I hope, for the sake of the Blakesin general, he didn't do anything much amiss?"

"I'll tell you then, " continued Nicholas. "A portion of his ouldhunting-dress--I'll not specify what, you know--but a portion, whichhe'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 AndyOulahan, who was burying his wife, rest her sowl, the very moment Jerrygot a howld of him. Well, Jerry was wild that the tailors were soscarce, so he laid his hands on Andy, dragged him away from the corpseand all the illigant enthertainment of the funeral, and never let himout of sight till he'd put on the last button. "

"Oh, Mr Blake!" said Guss, "you did not take the man away from his deadwife?"

"Indeed I did not, Miss O'Kelly: Andy'd no such good chance; his wife'sto the fore this day, worse luck for him. It was only his mother he wasburying. "

"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 awarrant first, before I let the policeman lay a hand on him. "

"Now, General, you've really made no breakfast at all, " said thehospitable 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'llallow 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, youknow. "

"Is it lunch, Mrs O'Kelly, pray don't think of troubling yourself tohave lunch on the table. Maybe we'll be a deal nearer Creamstown thanKelly's Court at lunch time. But it's quite time we were off. As forBingham Blake, from the look of him, he's going to stay here with yourdaughter Augusta all the morning. "

"I believe then he'd much sooner be with the dogs, General, than losinghis time with her. "

"Are you going to move at all, Ballindine, " said the impatient oldsportsman. "Do you know what time it is?--it'll be twelve o'clockbefore you have the dogs in the cover. "

"Very good time, too, General: men must eat, you know, and the foxwon't stir till we move him. But come, gentlemen, you seem to bedropping your knives and forks. Suppose we get into our saddles?"

And again the red-coats sallied out. Bingham gave Guss a tendersqueeze, which she all but returned, as she bade him take care and notgo and kill himself. Peter Dillon stayed to have a few last words withSophy, 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, andspend the night there. 

"We will, if we're let, tell Nora, " said Sophy; "but now Frank's athome, we must mind him, you know. "

"Make him bring you over: there'll be a bed for him; the old house isbig enough, heaven knows. "

"Indeed it is. Well, I'll do my best; but tell Nora to be sure and getthe fiddler from Hollymount. It's so stupid for her to be sitting thereat the piano while we're dancing. "

"I'll manage that; only do you bring Frank to dance with her, " andanother 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, "MrsArmstrong wants a favour from you. Poor Minny's very bad with herthroat; 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 Armstrongwould be so thankful. She has so much to think of, and is so weakherself, poor thing, she hasn't time to make those things. "

"Indeed I will, Mr Armstrong. I'll send it down this morning; and alittle calf's foot jelly won't hurt her. It is in the house, and MrsArmstrong mightn't be able to get the feet, you know. Give them mylove, and if I can get out at all to-morrow, I'll go and see them. "

And so the Parson, having completed his domestic embassy for thebenefit of his sick little girl, followed the others, keen for thehunt; and the three ladies were left alone, to see the plate and chinaput away. 

XXII. THE HUNT

Though the majority of those who were in the habit of hunting withthe Kelly's Court hounds had been at the breakfast, there were stilla considerable number of horsemen waiting on the lawn in front ofthe house, when Frank and his friends sallied forth. The dogs werecollected round the huntsman, behaving themselves, for the most part, with admirable propriety; an occasional yelp from a young hound wouldnow and then prove that the whipper [36] had his eye on them, and wouldnot allow rambling; but the old dogs sat demurely on their haunches, waiting the well-known signal for action. There they sat, as graveas so many senators, with their large heads raised, their heavy lipshanging from each side of their jaws, and their deep, strong chestsexpanded so as to show fully their bone, muscle, and breeding. 

 [FOOTNOTE 36: whipper--an officer of the hunt whose duty was to help the hunstman control the hounds]

Among the men who had arrived on the lawn during breakfast were two whocertainly had not come together, and who had not spoken since they hadbeen there. They were Martin Kelly and Barry Lynch. Martin was dressedjust as usual, except that he had on a pair of spurs, but Barrywas armed cap-a-pie [37]. Some time before his father's death hehad supplied himself with all the fashionable requisites for thefield, --not because he was fond of hunting, for he was not, --but inorder to prove himself as much a gentleman as other people. He had beenout twice this year, but had felt very miserable, for no one spoke tohim, and he had gone home, on both occasions, early in the day; buthe had now made up his mind that he would show himself to his oldschoolfellow in his new character as an independent country gentleman;and what was more, he was determined that Lord Ballindine should notcut him. 

 [FOOTNOTE 37: cap-a-pie--from head to foot]

He very soon had an opportunity for effecting his purpose, for themoment that Frank got on his horse, he unintentionally rode close up tohim. 

"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 yourlordship 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, "didyou see Martin Kelly anywhere?"

"Can't say I did, my lord, " said Barry, and he turned away completelysilenced, 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 everyhorse in Lord Ballindine's stable, and was consequently held in greatrespect by Mick Keogh and his crew. 

And now the business began. "Mick, " said the lord, "we'll take themdown to the young plantation, and bring them back through the firs andso 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 hisobedient family. 

"You're wrong, Ballindine, " said the Parson; "for you'll drive him upinto the big plantation, and you'll be all day before you make himbreak; 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 intothe gorse, and then, if he's there, he must go away, and into a tip-topcountry too--miles upon miles of pasture--right away to Ballintubber, "

"That's thrue, too, my lord: let his Rivirence alone for understandhinga fox, " said Mick, with a wink. 

The Parson's behests were obeyed. The hounds followed Mick into theplantation, and were followed by two or three of the more eager of theparty, who did not object to receiving wet boughs in their faces, orwho delighted in riding for half an hour with their heads bowed closedown over their saddle-bows. The rest remained with the whipper, outside. 

"Stay a moment here, Martin, " said Lord Ballindine. "They can't getaway 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; "andthere'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, ifthe priest were out, and he told you to run the dogs through thegooseberry-bushes, you'd do it?"

"I'm blessed if I would, my lord! Every man to his trade. Not but whatMr Armstrong knows pretty well what he's about. "

"Well but, Martin, I'll tell you what I want of you. I want a littlemoney, without bothering those fellows up in Dublin; and I believe youcould let me have it; at any rate, you and your mother together. Thosefellows at Guinness's are stiff about it, and I want three hundredpounds, without absolutely telling them that they must give it me. I'dgive you my bill for the amount at twelve months, and, allow you sixper cent. ; but then I want it immediately. Can you let me have it?"

"Why, my lord, " said Martin, after pausing awhile and looking verycontemplative during the time, "I certainly have the money; that is, Iand 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 toask your lordship's advice about laying out the same sum in anotherway, 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 wantyour 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 Ithought 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 myliking, though; and I think it'll be betther for me to be giving youthe money, " and then Martin told his landlord the offer which had beenmade 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 Barryentirely out of the counthry, and to have poor Anty's mind at ase aboutit, should she iver live to get betther; but thin, I don't like to havedailings with the divil, or any one so much of his colour as BarryLynch. "

"This is a very grave matter, Martin, and takes some little time tothink about. To tell the truth, I forgot your matrimonial speculationwhen I asked for the money. Though I want the cash, I think you shouldkeep it in your power to close with Barry: no, you'd better keep themoney by you. "

"After all, the ould woman could let me have it on the security of thehouse, you know, av' I did take up with the offer. So, any way, yourlordship 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 waswith 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 wecould, till it got dangerous like. Mother manes to send Colligan to himto-day, av' he thinks she's not betther. "

"If she were to die, Martin, there'd be an end of it all, wouldn'tthere?"

"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 asit'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 onlythinking of Anty herself: you don't know what a good young woman sheis--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 gonethrough. It'd be a thousand pities that wretch Barry got all theproperty again. "

"He's wilcome to it for the Kellys, av' Anty dies. But av' she lives heshall niver rob a penny from her. Oh, my lord! we wouldn't put sich athing as a will into her head, and she so bad, for all the money theould man their father iver had. But, hark! my lord--that's Gaylass, Iknow 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 thedog's voices came, sharp, sweet, and mellow. 

Yes; the Parson was as right as if he had been let into the fox'sconfidence overnight, and had betrayed it in the morning. Gaylass washardly in the gorse before she discovered the doomed brute's vicinity, and told of it to the whole canine confraternity. Away from hishiding-place he went, towards the open country, but immediatelyreturned into the covert, for he saw a lot of boys before him, who hadassembled with the object of looking at the hunt, but with the veryprobable effect of spoiling it; for, as much as a fox hates a dog, hefears the human race more, and will run from an urchin with a stickinto 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 youkeep 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 athird, but still there they remained, each loudly endeavouring tobanish the others. 

At last, however, the fox saw a fair course before him, and away hewent; and with very little start, for the dogs followed him out of thecovert almost with a view. 

And now the men settled themselves to the work, and began to strivefor the pride of place, at least the younger portion of them: for inevery field there are two classes of men. Those who go out to get thegreatest possible quantity of riding, and those whose object is to getthe least. Those who go to work their nags, and those who go to sparethem. The former think that the excellence of the hunt depends on thehorses; the latter, on the dogs. The former go to act, and the latterto see. And it is very generally the case that the least active part ofthe community know the most about the sport. 

They, the less active part above alluded to, know every high-road andbye-road; they consult the wind, and calculate that a fox won't runwith his nose against it; they remember this stream and this bog, andavoid them; they are often at the top of eminences, and only descendwhen they see which way the dogs are going; they take short cuts, andlay themselves out for narrow lanes; they dislike galloping, and eschewleaping; and yet, when a hard-riding man is bringing up his two hundredguinea hunter, a minute or two late for the finish, covered with foam, trembling with his exertion, not a breath left in him--he'll probablyfind one of these steady fellows there before him, mounted on abroken-down screw, but as cool and as fresh as when he was brought outof the stable; and what is, perhaps, still more amazing, at the end ofthe day, when the hunt is canvassed after dinner, our dashing friend, who is in great doubt whether his thoroughbred steeplechaser will everrecover his day's work, and who has been personally administering warmmashes 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 ascorrectly where the game went, as our, quiet-going friend, whose hackwill probably go out on the following morning under the car, with themistress and children. Such a one was Parson Armstrong; and when LordBallindine and most of the others went away after the hounds, he coollyturned round in a different direction, crept through a broken wall intoa 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 weregoing 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. Allmasters of hounds do. Some one was always too forward, another too nearthe dogs, a third interfering with the servants, and a fourth makingtoo 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 youknew 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 thenext wall. "

"Well, it may be nonsense, " continued Frank; "but when I see a manriding right through the hounds, and they hunting, I call that crossingthem. "

"Hoicks! tally"--hollowed some one--"there's Graceful has itagain--well done, Granger! Faith, Frank, that's a good dog! if he's notfirst, he's always second. "

"Now, gentlemen, steady, for heaven's sake. Do let the dogs settle totheir 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 toheaven, " said Bingham Blake. 

"Thank'ee, " said Nicholas; "go to heaven yourself. I'm well enoughwhere I am. "

And now they were off again. In the next field the whole pack caught aview 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 wassoft, but not too soft; and a magnificent hunt they had; but there weresome misfortunes shortly after getting away. Barry Lynch, wishing, in his ignorance, to lead and show himself off, and not knowinghow--scurrying along among the dogs, and bothered at every leap, hadgiven great offence to Lord Ballindine. But, not wishing to speakseverely to a man whom he would not under any circumstances address ina friendly way, he talked at him, and endeavoured to bring him to orderby blowing up others in his hearing. But this was thrown away on Barry, and he continued his career in a most disgusting manner; scramblingthrough gaps together with the dogs, crossing other men without theslightest reserve, annoying every one, and evidently pluming himselfon his performance. Frank's brow was getting blacker and blacker. Jerry Blake and young Brown were greatly amusing themselves atthe exhibition, and every now and then gave him a word or two ofencouragement, praising his mare, telling how well he got over thatlast fence, and bidding him mind and keep well forward. This was allnew to Barry, and he really began to feel himself in his element;--ifit hadn't been for those abominable walls, he would have enjoyedhimself. 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 wrathof the viscount. 

They had been galloping across a large, unbroken sheep-walk, whichexactly suited Barry's taste, and he had got well forward towards thehounds. Frank was behind, expostulating with Jerry Blake and the othersfor encouraging him, when the dogs came to a small stone wall about twofeet and a half high. In this there was a broken gap, through whichmany of them crept. Barry also saw this happy escape from the granddifficulty of jumping, and, ignorant that if he rode the gap at all, heshould let the hounds go first, made for it right among them, in spiteof Frank's voice, now raised loudly to caution him. The horse the manrode knew his business better than himself, and tried to spare thedogs which were under his feet; but, in getting out, he made a slightspring, and came down on the haunches of a favourite young hound called"Goneaway"; he broke the leg close to the socket, and the poor beastmost loudly told his complaint. 

This was too much to be borne, and Frank rode up red with passion; anda 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 anotherday, and amuse yourself in any other way, I should be 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 athome again, with his brandy-bottle. 

"Ah! sir, " said Frank; "you're as fit to ride a hunt as you are to doanything else which gentlemen usually do. May I trouble you to makeyourself scarce? Your horse, I see, can't carry you much farther, andif you'll take my advice, you'll go home, before you're ridden overyourself. Well, Martin, is the bone broken?"

Martin had got off his horse, and was kneeling down beside the poorhurt brute. "Indeed it is, my lord, in two places. You'd better letTony kill him; he has an awful sprain in the back, as well; he'll niverput a foot to the ground again. "

"By heavens, that's too bad! isn't it Bingham? He was, out and out, thefinest puppy we entered last year. "

"What can you expect, " said Bingham, "when such fellows as that comeinto 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 tocome, he must. "

"Why, yes, " said Bingham, "if he will come he must. But then, if heinsists 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, paltryscoundrel; and, if he repeats his visits, that's the treatment he'llprobably receive. "

Barry was close to both the speakers, and of course heard, and wasintended to hear, every word that was said. He contented himself, however, with muttering certain inaudible defiances, and was seen andheard of no more that day. 

The hunt was continued, and the fox was killed; but Frank and thosewith him saw but little more of it. However, as soon as directions weregiven for the death of poor Goneaway, they went on, and received a verysatisfactory account of the proceedings from those who had seen thefinish. As usual, the Parson was among the number, and he gave them amost detailed history, not only of the fox's proceedings during theday, but also of all the reasons which actuated the animal, in everydifferent turn he took. 

"I declare, Armstrong, " said Peter Dillon, "I think you were a foxyourself, once! Do you remember anything about it?"

"What a run he would give!" said Jerry; "the best pack that was everkennelled wouldn't have a chance with him. "

"Who was that old chap, " said Nicholas Dillon, showing off hisclassical learning, "who said that dead animals always became somethingelse?--maybe it's only in the course of nature for a dead fox to becomea live parson. "

"Exactly: you've hit it, " said Armstrong; "and, in the same way, themoment the breath is out of a goose it becomes an idle squireen [38], and, generally speaking, a younger brother. "

 [FOOTNOTE 38: squireen--diminutive of squire; a minor Irish gentleman given to "putting on airs" or imitating the manners and haughtiness of men of greater wealth]

"Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Nick, " said Jerry; "and take carehow you meddle with the Church again. "

"Who saw anything of Lambert Brown?" said another; "I left him boggedbelow there at Gurtnascreenagh, and all he could do, the old grey horsewouldn't move a leg to get out for him. "

"Oh, he's there still, " said Nicholas. "He was trying to follow me, andI took him there on purpose. It's not deep, and he'll do no hurt: he'llkeep as well there, as anywhere else. "

"Nonsense, Dillon!" said the General--"you'll make his brother reallyangry, if you go on that way. If the man's a fool, leave him in hisfolly, but don't be playing tricks on him. You'll only get yourselfinto a quarrel with the family. "

"And how shall we manage about the money, my lord?" said Martin, as hedrew near the point at which he would separate from the rest, to ridetowards Dunmore. "I've been thinking about it, and there's no doubtabout having it for you on Friday, av that'll suit. "

"That brother-in-law of yours is a most unmitigated blackguard, isn'the, Martin?" said Frank, who was thinking more about poor Goneaway thanthe 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 takehimself out of the counthry, and be no more throuble to your lordshipor any of us. "

"But to think of his riding right a-top of the poor brute, and thensaying that the dog got under his horse's feet! Why, he's a fool aswell as a knave. Was he ever out before?"

"Well, then, I believe he was, twice this year; though I didn't see himmyself. "

"Then I hope this'll be the last time: three times is quite enough forsuch a fellow as that. "

"I don't think he'll be apt to show again afther what you and MrBingham 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 aboutthe money, and this job of my own. Av it wasn't asking too much, it'dbe a great thing av your lordship'd see Daly. "

It was then settled that Lord Ballindine should ride over to Dunmoreon the following Friday, and if circumstances seemed to render itadvisable, that he and Martin should go on together to the attorney atTuam. 

XXIII. DOCTOR COLLIGAN

Doctor Colligan, the Galen of Dunmore, though a practitioner of mostunprepossessing appearance and demeanour, was neither ignorant norcareless. Though for many years he had courted the public in vain, hisneighbours had at last learned to know and appreciate him; and, at thetime of Anty's illness, the inhabitants of three parishes trusted theircorporeal ailments to his care, with comfort to themselves and profitto him. Nevertheless, there were many things about Doctor Colligan notcalculated to inspire either respect or confidence. He always seemeda little afraid of his patient, and very much afraid of his patient'sfriends: he was always dreading the appearance at Dunmore of one ofthose young rivals, who had lately established themselves at Tuam onone side, and Hollymount on the other; and, to prevent so fatal acircumstance, was continually trying to be civil and obliging to hiscustomers. He would not put on a blister, or order a black dose, without consulting with the lady of the house, and asking permissionof the patient, and consequently had always an air of doubt andindecision. Then, he was excessively dirty in his person and practice:he carried a considerable territory beneath his nails; smelt equallystrongly of the laboratory and the stable; would wipe his hands onthe patient's sheets, and wherever he went left horrid marks of hiswhereabouts: he was very fond of good eating and much drinking, andwould neglect the best customer that ever was sick, when tempted by thefascination of a game of loo. He was certainly a bad family-man; forthough he worked hard for the support of his wife and children, hewas little among them, paid them no attention, and felt no scruple inassuring Mrs C. That he had been obliged to remain up all night withthat dreadful Mrs Jones, whose children were always so tedious; or thatMr Blake was so bad after his accident that he could not leave him fora moment; when, to tell the truth, the Doctor had passed the night withthe 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 alittle bald at the top of his head; and looked always as though he hadshaved himself the day before yesterday, and had not washed since. Hisface was good-natured, but heavy and unintellectual. He was ignorant ofeverything but his profession, and the odds on the card-table or therace-course. But to give him his due, on these subjects he was notignorant; 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 didas much for her as could be done; but it was a bad case, and DoctorColligan thought it would be fatal. She had intermittent fever, andwas occasionally delirious; but it was her great debility between theattacks which he considered so dangerous. 

On the morning after the hunt, he told Martin that he greatly fearedshe would go off, from exhaustion, in a few days, and that it would bewise to let Barry know the state in which his sister was. There was aconsultation on the subject between the two and Martin's mother, inwhich it was agreed that the Doctor should go up to Dunmore House, andtell Barry exactly the state of affairs. 

"And good news it'll be for him, " said Mrs Kelly; "the best he heardsince the ould man died. Av he had his will of her, she'd niver risefrom the bed where she's stretched. But, glory be to God, there's aprovidence 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 hewishes won't harum her; and maybe, now she's dying, his heart'll besoftened 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 thewidow, with a shudder. 

"He can hardly complain of that, when he'll be getting all the moneyhimself. But, however, it's much betther, all ways, that DoctorColligan should see him. "

"You know, Mrs Kelly, " said the Doctor, "as a matter of course he'll beasking to see his sister. "

"You wouldn't have him come in here to her, would you?--Faix, DoctorColligan, 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, MrsKelly, in what I say to him. "

"Besides, " said Martin, "I know Anty would wish to see him: he is herbrother; and there's only the two of 'em. "

"Between you be it, " said the widow; "I tell you I don't like it. Youneither of you know Barry Lynch, as well as I do; he'd smother her avit come into his head. "

"Ah, mother, nonsense now; hould your tongue; you don't know whatyou'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 seeher; that is, av Anty wishes it. "

It ended in the widow being sent into Anty's room, to ask her whethershe had any message to send to her brother. The poor girl knew how illshe was, and expected her death; and when the widow told her thatDoctor Colligan was going to call on her brother, she said that shehoped she should see Barry once more before all was over. 

"Mother, " said Martin, as soon as the Doctor's back was turned, "you'llget yourself in a scrape av you go on saying such things as that aboutfolk before strangers. "

"Is it about Barry?"

"Yes; about Barry. How do you know Colligan won't be repating all themthings to him?"

"Let him, and wilcome. Shure wouldn't I say as much to Barry Lynchhimself? What do I care for the blagguard?--only this, I wish I'd niverheard his name, or seen his foot over the sill of the door. I'm sorry Iiver 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 isit regretting to be slaving as much and more for her than I would formy own, and no chance of getting as much as thanks for it. "

"You'll be rewarded hereafther, mother; shure won't it all go forcharity?"

"I'm not so shure of that, " said the widow. "It was your schaming toget 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 thetime lost, and afther all, Barry'll be getting everything when she'sgone. You'll see, Martin; we'll have the wake, and the funeral, and thedocthor and all, on us--mind my words else. Och musha, musha! what'llI do at all? Faix, forty pounds won't clear what this turn is like tocome to; an' all from your dirthy undherhand schaming ways. "

In truth, the widow was perplexed in her inmost soul about Anty; tornand tortured by doubts and anxieties. Her real love of Anty and truecharity was in state of battle with her parsimony; and then, avaricewas strong within her; and utter, uncontrolled hatred of Barry stillstronger. But, opposed to these was dread of some unforeseen evil--sometremendous law proceedings: she had a half-formed idea that she wasdoing what she had no right to do, and that she might some day bewalked off to Galway assizes. Then again, she had an absurd pride aboutit, 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 withhim if it cost her a hundred pounds; though no one understood what thebattle was which she was to fight. 

Just before Anty's illness had become so serious, Daly called, and hadsucceeded in reconciling both Martin and the widow to himself; but hehad not quite made them agree to his proposal. The widow, indeed, wasmuch averse to it. She wouldn't deal with such a Greek as Barry, evenin the acceptance of a boon. When she found him willing to compromise, she became more than ever averse to any friendly terms; but now thewhole ground was slipping from under her feet. Anty was dying: shewould have had her trouble for nothing; and that hated Barry would gainhis point, and the whole of his sister's property, in triumph. 

Twenty times the idea of a will had come into her mind, and howcomfortable it would be if Anty would leave her property, or at anyrate a portion of it, to Martin. But though the thoughts of such adelightful arrangement kept her in a continual whirlwind of anxiety, she never hinted at the subject to Anty. As she said to herself, "aKelly wouldn't demane herself to ask a brass penny from a Lynch. " Shedidn't even speak to her daughters about it, though the continualtwitter she was in made them aware that there was some unusual burthenon her mind. 

It was not only to the Kellys that the idea occurred that Anty in herillness might make a will. The thoughts of such a catastrophe hadrobbed Barry of half the pleasure which the rumours of his sister'sdangerous position had given him. He had not received any directintimation of Anty's state, but had heard through the servants that shewas ill--very ill--dangerously--"not expected, " as the country peoplecall it; and each fresh rumour gave him new hopes, and new life. Henow spurned all idea of connexion with Martin; he would trample on theKellys for thinking of such a thing: he would show Daly, when in theplenitude of his wealth and power, how he despised the lukewarmnessand timidity of his councils. These and other delightful visions werefloating 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 witha ton weight. His heart sunk low within him; he became white, and hisjaw dropped. After all, there were victory and triumph, plunder andwealth, _his_ wealth, in the very hands of his enemies! Of course theKellys would force her to make a will, if she didn't do it of herown accord; if not, they'd forge one. There was some comfort in thatthought: he could at any rate contest the will, and swear that it wasa 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 butgone?" 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 awill?"

"Go and hear it read. Or, if you don't like to do that yourself, stayaway, and let me hear it. "

"But they'll forge one! They'll make out what they please, and whenshe's dying, they'll make her put her name to it; or they'll only justput 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 fightingfor so hard. "

"It's my belief, " answered the attorney, "that the Kellys not onlywon't do anything dishonest, but that they won't even take any unfairadvantage of you. But at any rate you can do nothing. You must waitpatiently; 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 Iasked her--if I asked her now--now she's going off, you know. I'm sureshe'd do it. Don't you think she would?"

"You're safer, I think, to let it alone, " said Daly, who could hardlycontrol the ineffable disgust he felt. 

"I don't know that, " continued Barry. "She's weak, and 'll do whatshe's asked: besides, _they'll_ make her do it. Fancy if, when she'sgone, I find I have to share everything with those people!" And hestruck his forehead and pushed the hair off his perspiring face, as heliterally shook with despair. "I must see her, Daly. I'm quite sureshe'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 sitwith her, and watch till it's all over. I'm sure, now she's ill, I'd doanything for her. "

Daly said nothing, though Barry paused for him to reply. "Only aboutthe 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 canhave you down at a minute's warning. " Daly utterly declined, but Barrycontinued to press him. "But you must, Daly; I tell you I know I'mright. I know her so well--she'll do it at once for the sake--for thesake of--You know she is my own sister, and all that--and she thinks somuch of that kind of thing. I'll tell you what, Daly; upon my honourand soul, " and he repeated the words in a most solemn tone, "if you'lldraw the will, and she signs it, so that I come in for the wholething--and I know she will I'll make over fifty--ay, seventy pounds ayear for you for ever and ever. I will, as I live. "

The interview ended by the attorney turning Barry Lynch into thestreet, 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 afarthing for his labour. Indeed, after all that had taken place, hethought it as well not to trouble his _ci-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 doctorrepeated his visit later in the afternoon, but Barry had still notreturned, and he therefore left word that he would call early afterbreakfast the following morning. He did so; and, after waiting half anhour in the dining-room, Barry, only half awake and half dressed, andstill half drunk, came down to him. 

The doctor, with a long face, delivered his message, and explainedto him the state in which his sister was lying; assured him thateverything in the power of medicine had been and should be done; that, nevertheless, he feared the chance of recovery was remote; and endedby informing him that Miss Lynch was aware of her danger, and hadexpressed a wish to see him before it might be too late. Could hemake it convenient to come over just now--in half an hour--or say anhour?--said the doctor, looking at the red face and unfinished toiletof the distressed brother. 

Barry at first scarcely knew what reply to give. On his return fromTuam, he had determined that he would at any rate make his way into hissister's room, and, as he thought to himself, see what would come ofit. In his after-dinner courage he had further determined, that hewould treat the widow and her family with a very high hand, if theydared to make objection to his seeing his sister; but now, when thefriendly overture came from Anty herself, and was brought by one of theKelly faction, he felt himself a little confounded, as though he ratherdreaded 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'tany 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 holdout a fortnight yet. "

"Then, perhaps, doctor, I'd better put it off till to-morrow; I'll tellyou why: there's a person I wish--"

"Why, Mr Lynch, to-day would be better. The fever's periodical, yousee, and will be on her again to-morrow--"

"I beg your pardon, Doctor Colligan, " said Barry, of a suddenremembering 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 to-morrow?"

"That's a matter of course, Mr Lynch; the fever'll come on her againto-morrow. Every attack leaves her weaker and weaker, and we fearshe'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, DoctorColligan--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 outanother bumper. 

"Thank'ee, Mr Lynch, thank'ee; not a drop more. And you'll be over inan hour then? I'd better go and tell her, that she may be prepared, youknow, " and the doctor returned to the sick room of his patient. 

Barry remained standing in the parlour, looking at the glasses and thedecanter, as though he were speculating on the manner in which they hadbeen 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 knowshe'll recover, and then what shall I do? Stand to the offer Daly madeto Kelly, I suppose!" And then he sat down close to the table, with hiselbow 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 moreintensely than he did during those ten minutes. At last he jumped upsuddenly, as though surprised at what had been passing within himself;he looked hastily at the door and at the window, as though to see thathe 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 wereso particularly inherent in her nature. She had never complained; andhad 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 receivethat tender care with which sickness is treated in affectionatefamilies. When ill, they felt they had a right to be petulant, and tocomplain; to exact, and to be attended to: they had been used to itfrom each other, and thought it an incidental part of the business. ButAnty had hitherto had no one to nurse her, and she looked on Meg andJane as kind ministering angels, emulous as they were to relieve herwants and ease her sufferings. 

Her thin face had become thinner, and was very pale; her head had beenshaved close, and there was nothing between the broad white border ofher nightcap and her clammy brow and wan cheek. But illness was morebecoming to Anty than health; it gave her a melancholy and beautifulexpression of resignation, which, under ordinary circumstances, waswanting to her features, though not to her character. Her eyes werebrighter than they usually were, and her complexion was clear, colourless, and transparent. I do not mean to say that Anty in herillness was beautiful, but she was no longer plain; and even to theyoung Kellys, whose feelings and sympathies cannot be supposed to havebeen of the highest order, she became an object of the most intenseinterest, and the warmest affection. 

"Well, doctor, " she said, as Doctor Colligan crept into her room, afterthe termination of his embassy to Barry; "will he come?"

"Oh, of course he will; why wouldn't he, and you wishing it? He'll behere in an hour, Miss Lynch. He wasn't just ready to come over withme. "

"I'm glad of that, " said Anty, who felt that she had to collect herthoughts 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 girlswill step up and give it you when he's below. He'll want to speak aword or so to Mrs Kelly before he comes up. "

"Spake to me, docthor!" said the widow, alarmed. "What'll he be spakingto me about? Faix, I had spaking enough with him last time he washere. "

"You'd better just see him, Mrs Kelly, " whispered the, doctor. "You'llfind him quiet enough, now; just take him fair and asy; keep himdownstairs a moment, while Jane gives her the medicine. She'd bettertake 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 Ithink 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. Hetold her he was. "You've told Mrs Kelly, haven't you, that I'm to seeBarry alone?"

"Why, I didn't say so, " said the doctor, looking at the widow; "but Isuppose 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 theroom myself for worlds. "

"But you won't keep him here long, Miss Lynch--eh? And you won't exciteyourself?--indeed, you mustn't. You'll allow them fifteen minutes, MrsKelly, not more, and then you'll come up;" and with these cautions, thedoctor 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 ofmy warm bed to go and fetch Anty Lynch down here that cowld morning!Well, I'll be wise another time. Live and larn they say, and it'sthrue, 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 theway I have managed to live. But it's not that altogether, neither. I'mnot begrudging Anty anything for herself; but that I'd be dhriven tolet that blagguard of a brother of hers into the house, and that as afrind 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 theyhad begun to expect him; and as soon as Meg saw him, one of them flewupstairs, to tell Anty and give her her tonic. Barry had made himselfquite a dandy to do honour to the occasion of paying probably a partingvisit to his sister, whom he had driven out of her own house to die atthe inn. He had on his new blue frock-coat, and a buff waistcoat withgilt buttons, over which his watch-chain was gracefully arranged. Hispantaloons were strapped clown very tightly over his polished boots; ashining new silk hat was on one side of his head; and in his hand hewas dangling an ebony cane. In spite, however, of all these gaudytrappings, he could not muster up an easy air; and, as he knocked, hehad 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 theshop, 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'mhere. "

"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 stayinghere, as though he didn't know it! There niver was his ditto fordesait, maneness and divilry!"

A minute or two after the widow had left him, Barry found himself byhis sister's bed-side, but never had he found himself in a position forwhich 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, toldhis sister, in a whining voice, that he was very glad to see her. 

"Sit down, Barry, sit down, " said Anty, stretching out her thin palehand, 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 thenafter 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'dseen her looking better. 

"Yes, I am, Barry: Doctor Colligan has said as much; and I should knowit well enough myself, even if he'd never said a word. We're friendsnow, 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 keepit. He sat on the edge of his chair, with his knees tucked in againstthe bed, the very picture of discomfort, both of body and mind. 

"Oh, of course it is, Anty, " said he; "forgive and forget; that wasalways my motto. I'm sure I never bore any malice--indeed I never wasso sorry as when you went away, and--"

"Ah, Barry, " said Anty; "it was better I went then; may-be it's allbetter 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 spaketo you about. "

"If there's anything I can do, I'm sure I'd do it: if there's anythingat 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'tit be more comfortable for you to be in your own house? These peoplehere are all very well, I dare say, but they must be a great bother toyou, 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 theKellys. "I'm sure they're very nice people, " said he; "indeed I alwaysthought 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 kindas 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 lookedaffectionately in the face of her brother--"there are only the two ofus left now; and soon, very soon you'll be all alone. " Barry felt veryuncomfortable, and wished the interview was over: he tried to saysomething, but failed, and Anty went on--"when that time comes, willyou remember what I say to you now?--When you're all alone, Barry; whenthere's nothing left to trouble you or put you out--will you think thenof 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, andthink how much we ought to be to each other! We've neither of us fatheror mother, husband or wife. --When I'm gone you'll be alone: will youthink of me then--and will you remember, remember every day--what I sayto you now?"

"Indeed I will, Anty. I'll do anything, everything you'd have me. Isthere anything you'd wish me to give to any person?"

"Barry, " she continued, "no good ever came of my father's will. "--Barryalmost jumped off his chair as he heard his sister's words, so much didthey 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 togall against me. Yes, Barry--yes--don't speak now, let me go on;--theold man brought you up to look for it, and, alas, he taught you tolook for nothing else; it has not been your fault, and I'm not blamingyou--I'm not maning to blame you, my own brother, for you are myown"--and she turned round in the bed and shed tears upon his hand, andkissed it. --"But gold, and land, will never make you happy, --no, notall the gold of England, nor all the land the old kings ever had couldmake you happy, av the heart was bad within you. You'll have it allnow, Barry, or mostly all. You'll have what you think the old manwronged 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, avit's in your heart that that can make you happy--there's nothing beforeyou but misery--and death--and hell. " Barry shook like a child in theclutches of its master--"Yes, Barry; misery and death, and all thetortures 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 yoursister is now speaking to you from her grave. --Oh, Barry! try andcure it. Learn to give to others, and you'll enjoy what you haveyourself. --Learn to love others, and then you'll know what it is to beloved 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 havechildren, and love them; and when you feel, as feel you must, that themoney is clinging round your soul, fling it from you, and think of thelast words your sister said to you. "

The sweat was now running down the cheeks of the wretched man, for themixed rebuke and prayer of his sister had come home to him, and touchedhim; but it was neither with pity, with remorse, nor penitence. No; inthat foul heart there was no room, even for remorse; but he trembledwith fear as he listened to her words, and, falling on his knees, sworeto her that he would do just as she would have him. 

"If I could but think, " continued she, "that you would remember what Iam 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 loveyou better than anything on earth;" and again she pressed his hot redhand--"but oh, brother! I feel for you:--you never kneel before thealtar of God--you've no priest to move the weight of sin from yoursoul--and how heavy that must be! Do you remember, Barry; it's buta week or two ago and you threatened to kill me for the sake of ourfather's money? you wanted to put me in a mad-house; you tried to makeme mad with fear and cruelty; me, your sister; and I never harmed orcrossed you. God is now doing what you threatened; a kind, good Godis now taking me to himself, and you will get what you so longed forwithout more sin on your conscience; but it'll never bless you, avyou've still the same wishes in your heart, the same love of gold--thesame hatred of a fellow-creature. "

"Oh, Anty!" sobbed out Barry, who was now absolutely in tears, "I wasdrunk that night; I was indeed, or I'd never have said or done what Idid. "

"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 yourvoice; it's that that makes your heart so black:--it's that that givesyou over, body and soul, to the devil. I would not have said a wordabout that night to hurt you now; and, dear Barry, I wouldn't have saidsuch words as these to you at all, but that I shall never speak toyou 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 blessingto 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 workat the farm; he would marry and have a family; he would not care theleast for money; he would pay his debts; he would go to church, orchapel, if Anty liked it better; at any rate, he'd say his prayers; hewould remember every word she had said to the last day of his life;he promised everything or anything, as though his future existencedepended on his appeasing his dying sister. But during the whole time, his chief wish, his longing desire, was to finish the interview, andget out of that horrid room. He felt that he was mastered and cowed bythe creature whom he had so despised, and he could not account for thefeeling. Why did he not dare to answer her? She had told him he wouldhave her money: she had said it would come to him as a matter ofcourse; and it was not the dread of losing that which prevented hissaying a word in his own defence. No; she had really frightened him:she had made him really feel that he was a low, wretched, wickedcreature, and he longed to escape from her, that he might recover hiscomposure. 

"I have but little more to say to you, Barry, " she continued, "and thatlittle is about the property. You will have it all, but a small sum ofmoney--"

Here Anty was interrupted by a knock at the door, and the entrance ofthe widow. She came to say that the quarter of an hour allowed by thedoctor had been long exceeded, and that really Mr Barry ought to takehis 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 havedone; only five minutes--I'm much stronger now, and really it won'thurt me. "

"Well, then--mind, only five minutes, " said the widow, and again leftthem alone. 

"You don't know, Barry--you can never know how good that woman has beento me; indeed all of them--and all for nothing. They've asked nothingof me, and now that they know I'm dying, I'm sure they expect nothingfrom me. She has enough; but I wish to leave something to Martin, andthe girls;" and a slight pale blush covered her wan cheeks and foreheadas 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, outof the whole; but see and pay it at once, will you?" and she lookedkindly into his face. 

He promised vehemently that he would, and told her not to botherherself about a will: they should have the money as certainly as iftwenty wills were made. To give Barry his due, at that moment, he meantto be as good as his word. Anty, however, told him that she would makea will; that she would send for a lawyer, and have the matter properlysettled. 

"And now, " she said, "dear Barry, may God Almighty bless you--may Heguide you and preserve you; and may He, above all, take from you thathorrid love of the world's gold and wealth. Good bye, " and she raisedherself up in her bed--"good bye, for the last time, my own dearbrother; and try to remember what I've said to you this day. Kiss mebefore you go, Barry. "

Barry leaned over the bed, and kissed her, and then crept out of theroom, and down the stairs, with the tears streaming down his redcheeks; and skulked across the street to his own house, with his hatslouched 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, buttowards evening she rallied a little, and told Jane, who was sittingwith her, that she wanted to say one word in private, to Martin. Janewas rather surprised, for though Martin was in the habit of going intothe room every morning to see the invalid, Anty had never before askedfor 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'mthinking it's something about her brother; he was with her a long longtime 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 staylong; every word she spakes is killing her. "

Martin followed his sister into the sick-room, and, gently takingAnty'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 distancefrom the door, though she was in a painful state of curiosity as towhat 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 everythingthey could do for her was only a pleasure. 

"Don't mind whispering, " said Anty; "spake out; your voice won't hurtme. I love to hear your voices, they're all so kind and good. ButMartin, I've business you must do for me, and that at once, for I feelwithin me that I'll soon be gone from this. "

"We hope not, Anty; but it's all with God now--isn't it? No one knowsthat betther than yourself. "

"Oh yes, I do know that; and I feel it is His pleasure that it shouldbe 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 gonenow. "

Martin did not know what answer to make; he again told her he hoped shewould soon get better. It is a difficult task to talk properly to adying person about death, and Martin felt that he was quite incompetentto do so. 

"But, " she continued, after a little, "there's still much that I wantto 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 felthimself equally unwilling to speak; he could not advise her not to makeone; and he certainly would not advise her to do so. 

"Your will, Anty?--there's time enough for that; you'll be sthrongeryou know, in a day or two. Doctor Colligan says so--and then we'll talkabout 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 wouldhave been betther so, eh Martin?" Anty never doubted her lover'sdisinterestedness; at this moment she suspected him of no dirty longingafter her money, and she did him only justice. When he came into herroom he had no thoughts of inheriting anything from her. Had he beensure that by asking he could have induced her to make a will in hisfavour, he would not have done so. But still his heart sunk a littlewithin him when he heard her declare that she was going to leaveeverything back to her brother. It was, however, only for a moment; heremembered his honest determination firmly and resolutely to protecttheir joint property against any of her brother's attempts, should heever 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 toBarry, nathurally, without your bothering yourself about a will, andyou so wake. "

"In course it would, at laist I suppose so; but Martin, " and she smiledfaintly as she looked up into his face, "I want the two dear, deargirls, 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 totake a few of the silver things in the house, I'm sure she'll keep themfor my sake. Oh, Martin! I do love you all so very--so very much!" andthe warm tears streamed down her cheeks. 

Martin's eyes were affected, too: he made a desperate struggle torepress the weakness, but he could not succeed, and was obliged to ownit 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 truepersonal regard for her, but he hardly knew how to express it. "We alllove you as though you were one of ourselves--and so you are--it's allthe same--at any rate it is to me. "

"And I would have been one of you, had I lived. I can talk to you moreabout it now, Martin, than I ever could before, because I know I feel Iam dying. "

"But you mustn't talk, Anty; it wakens you, and you've had too muchtalking already this day. "

"It does me good, Martin, and I must say what I have to say to you. Imayn't be able again. Had it plazed God I should have lived, I wouldhave prayed for nothing higher or betther than to be one of such afamily as yourselves. Had I been--had I been"--and now Anty blushedagain, and she also found a difficulty in expressing herself; but shesoon 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, verysure I would have been an affectionate one. "

"I'm shure you would--I'm shure you would, Anty. God send you maystill: av you war only once well again there's nothing now to hindherus. "

"You forget Barry, " Anty said, with a shudder. "But it doesn't matthertalking of that now"--Martin was on the point of telling her that Barryhad agreed, under certain conditions, to their marriage: but, on secondthoughts, 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 fondlyand truly. I would have liked what you liked, and, av I could, Iwould've made your home quiet and happy. Your mother should have beenmy mother, and your sisthers my sisthers. "

"So they are now, Anty--so they are now, my own, own Anty--they loveyou as much as though they were. "

"God Almighty bless them for their goodness, and you too, Martin. Icannot tell you, I niver could tell you, how I've valued your honestthrue love, for I know you have loved me honestly and thruly; but I'vealways been afraid to spake to you. I've sometimes thought you mustdespise me, I've been so wake and cowardly. "

"Despise you, Anty?--how could I despise you, when I've always lovedyou?"

"But now, Martin, about poor Barry--for he is poor. I've sometimesthought, as I've been lying here the long long hours awake, that, feeling to you as I do, I ought to be laving you what the ould man leftto me. "

"I'd be sorry you did, Anty. I'll not be saying but what I thought ofthat 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 ratherBarry had the money than us. We've enough, the Lord be praised; and Iwouldn't for worlds it should be said that it war for that we broughtyou among us; nor for all County Galway would I lave it to Barry tosay, that when you were here, sick, and wake, and dying, we put a peninto your hand to make you sign a will to rob him of what should byrights be his. "

"That's it, dear Martin; it wouldn't bless you if you had it; it canbless no one who looks to it alone for a blessing. It wouldn't make youhappy--it would make you miserable, av people said you had that whichyou ought not to have. Besides, I love my poor brother; he is mybrother, 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, Ishould not sleep in my grave, av I died with his curse upon me; as Ishould, av he found, when I am gone, that I'd willed the property allaway. 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 besomething betther in the world than what I fear he's like to be. Ithink he minded what I said when he was here, for death-bed words havea solemn sound to the most worldly; but when I'm gone he'll be allalone, there'll be no one to look afther him. Nobody loves him--no oneeven likes him; no one will live with him but those who mane to robhim; and he will be robbed, and plundered, and desaved, when he thinkshe's robbing and desaving others. " Anty paused, more for breath thanfor 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 inhim. "

"It's thrue, dear Martin; it's too thrue. Will you do me a great greatfavour, Martin"--and she rose up a little and turned her moist cleareye 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 muchthrouble and pain? Afther I'm dead and gone--long long after I'm in mycold grave, will you do that for me, Martin?". 

"Indeed I will, Anty, " said Martin, rather astonished, but with a lookof solemn assurance; "anything that I can do, I will: you needn't dreadmy 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 himand by him, and for him, not as a man whom you know and dislike, but asmy brother--your own Anty's only brother?--Whatever he does, will youthry to make him do betther? Whatever troubles he's in, will you lendhim your hand? Come what come may to him, will you be his frind? He hasno 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 bebefrinded by us. Besides, of all Dunmore he hates us most. "

"He won't when he finds you haven't got the property from him: butfrindship doesn't depend on letting--rale frindship doesn't. I don'twant you to be dhrinking, and ating, and going about with him. Godforbid!--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'tbut 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 itfor my sake; for my sake thry to make him like you, and thry to makeothers like him. " Martin felt that this would be impossible, but hedidn't say so--"No one respects him now, but all respect you. I see itin people's eyes and manners, without hearing what they say. Av youspake well of him--at any rate kindly of him, people won't turnthemselves 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 neverquarrel with him. 

"You'll have very, very much to forgive, " continued Anty; "but thenit's so sweet to forgive; and he's had no fond mother like you; he hasnot been taught any duties, any virtues, as you have. He has only beentaught that money is the thing to love, and that he should worshipnothing but that. Martin, for my sake, will you look on him as abrother?--a wicked, bad, castaway brother; but still as a brother, tobe forgiven, and, if possible, redeemed?"

"As I hope for glory in Heaven, I will, " said Martin; "but I thinkhe'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 namebehind him. Don't be too hard on that, and don't let others; and evenav he does go, it'll not be long before he'll want a frind, and I don'tknow anywhere he can go that he's likely to find one. Wherever he maygo, or whatever he may do, you won't forget he was my brother; willyou, 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 hisability, act as a friend and brother to Barry. 

"And now about the will. " Martin again endeavoured to dissuade her fromthinking about a will just at present. 

"Ah! but my heart's set upon it, " she said; "I shouldn't be happyunless 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 lawyerenough for that yourself. "

"Indeed I'm not, Anty; it's a trade I know little about. "

"Well; you must get me a lawyer; not to-morrow, for I know I shan't bewell enough; but I hope I shall next day, and you may tell him justwhat to put in it. I've no secrets from you. " And she told him exactlywhat she had before told her brother. "That'll not hurt him, " shecontinued; "and I'd like to think you and the dear girls should acceptsomething from me. "

Martin then agreed to go to Daly. He was on good terms with them allnow, since making the last offer to them respecting the property;besides, as Martin said, "he knew no other lawyer, and, as the will wasso decidedly in Barry's favour, who was so proper to make it as Barry'sown lawyer?"

"Good-bye now, Martin, " said Anty; "we shall be desperately scolded fortalking so long; but it was on my mind to say it all, and I'm betthernow it's all over. "

"Good night, dear Anty, " said Martin, "I'll be seeing you to-morrow. "

"Every day, I hope, Martin, till it's all over. God bless you, Godbless you all--and you above all. You don't know, Martin--at laistyou didn't know all along, how well, how thruly I've loved you. Goodnight, " and Martin left the room, as Barry had done, in tears. But hehad no feeling within him of which he had cause to be ashamed. He wasashamed, and tried to hide his face, for he was not accustomed to beseen with the tears running down his cheeks; but still he had withinhim a strong sensation of gratified pride, as he reflected that he wasthe object of the warmest affection to so sweet a creature as AntyLynch. 

"Well, Martin--what was it she wanted?" said his mother, as she met himat the bottom of the stairs. 

"I couldn't tell you now, mother, " said he; "but av there was iver anangel on 'arth, it's Anty Lynch. " And saying so, he pushed open thedoor and escaped into the street. 

"I wondher what she's been about now?" said the widow, speculating toherself--"well, av she does lave it away from Barry, who can say butwhat she has a right to do as she likes with her own?--and who's donethe most for her, I'd like to know?"--and pleasant prospects of herson's enjoying an independence flitted before her mind's eye. "Butthin, " she continued, talking to herself, "I wouldn't have it said inDunmore that a Kelly demaned hisself to rob a Lynch, not for twiceall Sim Lynch ever had. Well--we'll see; but no good 'll ever come ofmeddling with them people. Jane, Jane, " she called out, at the top ofher voice, "are you niver coming down, and letting me out of this?--badmanners 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 themLynches!--Well, glory be to God, there's an end to everything--not thatI'm wishing her anywhere but where she is; she's welcome, for MaryKelly. "

XXVI. LOVE'S AMBASSADOR

Two days after the hunt in which poor Goneaway was killed by Barry'shorse, Ballindine received the following letter from his friend DotBlake. 

 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_ [39], 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. 

 [FOOTNOTE 39: congé--(French) dismissal, notice to quit]

 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 hispoor dear favourite nag returned in full force, and he felt all thepangs of remorse for having parted with him; but when he came to thelatter part, to Lord Kilcullen's name, and the initials by which hisown Fanny was designated, he forgot all about horse and owner; becametotally regardless of thirteen, eleven, and six to one, and read onhastily to the end; read it all again--then closed the letter, andput it in his pocket, and remained for a considerable time in silentcontemplation, trying to make up his mind what he would do. 

Nobody was with him as he opened his post-bag, which he took from themessenger as the boy was coming up to the house; he therefore read hisletter alone, on the lawn, and he continued pacing up and down beforethe house with a most perturbed air, for half an hour. 

Kilcullen going to marry Fanny Wyndham! So, that was the cause of LordCashel's singular behaviour--his incivility, and refusal to allow Frankto 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 hisson, before her brother, from whom she inherited it, was in his grave:to determine at once to reject an accepted suitor for the sake ofclosing on the poor girl's money--and without the slightest regard forher happiness, without a thought for her welfare! And then, such lies, "said the viscount, aloud, striking his heel into the grass in his angryimpetuosity; "such base, cruel lies!--to say that she had authorisedhim, when he couldn't have dared to make such a proposal to her, andher brother but two days dead. Well; I took him for a stiff-neckedpompous fool, but I never thought him such an avaricious knave. " AndFanny, too--could Fanny have agreed, so soon, to give her hand toanother? She could not have transferred her heart. His own dear, fondFanny! A short time ago they had been all in all to each other; and nowso completely estranged as they were! However, Dot was right; up tothis time Fanny might be quite true to him; indeed, there was notground even for doubting her, for it was evident that no reliance wasto be placed in Lord Cashel's asseverations. But still he could notexpect that she should continue to consider herself engaged, if sheremained totally neglected by her lover. He must do something, and thatat once; but there was very great difficulty in deciding what thatsomething 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 hisletter would be allowed to reach Fanny? and, if he went, how much lesschance was there that he would be allowed to see her. And then, againto be turned out of the house! again informed, by that pompous schemingearl, that his visits there were not desired. Or, worse still, not tobe admitted; to be driven from the door by a footman who would wellknow for what he came! No; come what come might, he would never againgo to Grey Abbey; at least not unless he was specially and courteouslyinvited thither by the owner; and then it should only be to marry hisward, and take her from the odious place, never to return again. 

"The impudent impostor!" continued Frank to himself; "to pretend tosuspect me, when he was himself hatching his dirty, mercenary, heartless schemes!"

But still the same question recurred, --what was to be done? Venting hiswrath on Lord Cashel would not get him out of the difficulty: goingwas out of the question; writing was of little use. Could he not sendsomebody else? Some one who could not be refused admittance to Fanny, and who might at any rate learn what her wishes and feelings were? Hedid not like making love by deputy; but still, in his present dilemma, he could think of nothing better. But whom was he to send? BinghamBlake was a man of character, and would not make a fool of himself; buthe was too young; he would not be able to make his way to Fanny. No--ayoung unmarried man would not do. --Mat Tierney?--he was afraid ofno 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, andpolished manner; besides, his standing in the world was so good, sounexceptionable; but then the chances were he would not go on suchan errand; he was too old to be asked to take such a troublesomeservice; and besides, if asked, it was very probable he would saythat he considered Lord Cashel entitled to his ward's obedience. Therector--the Rev. Joseph Armstrong? He must be the man: there was, atany rate, respectability in his profession; and he had sufficientworldly tact not easily to be thrust aside from his object: thedifficulty would be, whether he had a coat sufficiently decent toappear in at Grey Abbey. 

After mature consideration he made up his mind that the parson shouldbe his ambassador. He would sooner have confided in Bingham Blake, butan unmarried man would not do. No; the parson must be the man. Frankwas, unfortunately, but little disposed to act in any case withoutadvice, and in his anxiety to consult some one as to consulting theparson, returned into the house, to make a clear breast of it to hismother. He found her in the breakfast-room with the two girls, and thethree were holding council deep. 

"Oh, here's Frank, " said Sophy; "we'd better tell him all about it atonce--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 towork two sofas for the drawing-room--in Berlin wool, you know: they'llbe very handsome--everybody has them now, you know; they have asplendid pair at Ballyhaunis which Nora and her cousin worked. "

"But we want to know what pattern would suit Fanny's taste, " saidSophy. 

"Well; you can't know that, " said Frank rather pettishly, "so you'dbetter 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--eachwith plumage of the brightest colours. "The colours are so bright, andthe feathers will work in so well. "

"I don't like anything in worsted-work but flowers, " said Sophy; "NoraDillon says she saw two most beautiful wreaths at that shop in GraftonStreet, both hanging from bars, you know; and that would be so muchprettier. I'm sure Fanny would like flowers best; wouldn't she now, Frank?--Mamma thinks the common cross-bar patterns are nicer forfurniture. "

"Indeed I do, my dear, " said Mrs O'Kelly; "and you see them much morecommon now in well-furnished drawing-rooms. But still I'd much soonerhave them just what Fanny would like best. Surely, Frank, you must haveheard her speak about worsted-work?"

All this completely disconcerted Frank, and made him very much out oflove with his own plan of consulting his mother. He gave the trio somenot very encouraging answer as to their good-natured intentions towardshis drawing-room, and again left them alone. "Well; there's nothing forit 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 hemounted his nag, and rode off to Ballindine glebe. 

The glebe-house was about a couple of miles from Kelly's Court, and itwas about half-past four when Lord Ballindine got there. He knocked atthe door, which was wide open, though it was yet only the last day ofMarch, and was told by a remarkably slatternly maid-servant, that hermaster was "jist afther dinner;" that he was stepped out, but was aboutthe place, and could be "fetched in at oncet;"--and would his honourwalk in? And so Lord Ballindine was shown into the rectory drawing-roomon one side of the passage (alias hall), while the attendant of allwork went to announce his arrival in the rectory dining-room on theother side. Here Mrs Armstrong was sitting among her numerous progeny, securing the _débris_ of the dinner from their rapacious paws, andendeavouring to make two very unruly boys consume the portions of fatwhich had been supplied to them with, as they loudly declared, anunfairly insufficient quantum of lean. As the girl was good-naturedenough to leave both doors wide open, Frank had the full advantage ofthe conversation. 

"Now, Greg, " said the mother, "if you leave your meat that way I'llhave it put by for you, and you shall have nothing but potatoes tillit's ate. "

"Why, mother, it's nothing but tallow; look here; you gave me all theoutside part. "

"I'll tell your dada, and see what he'll say, if you call the meattallow; 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 youeat 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. Whywould you go out on the wet grass?--Is there none of the black currantjam left?"

"No, mother, " coughed Minny, "not a bit. "

"Greg ate it all, " peached Sarah, an elder sister; "I told him not, buthe would. "

"Greg, I'll have you flogged, and you never shall come from schoolagain. 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 newimportation--"only, he's a dark, sightly jintleman, as come on ahorse. "

"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 torush 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 faceand fingers;" and, after speculating a little longer, the lady wentinto the drawing-room herself; though, to tell the truth, her own faceand fingers were hardly in a state suitable for receiving company. 

Mrs Armstrong marched into the drawing-room with something of a statelyair, to meet the strange gentleman, and there she found her old friendLord Ballindine. Whoever called at the rectory, and at whatever hourthe visit might be made, poor Mrs Armstrong was sure to apologise forthe confusion in which she was found. She had always just got rid of aservant, and could not get another that suited her; or there was someother commonplace reason for her being discovered _en déshabille_[40]. However, she managed to talk to Frank for a minute or two withtolerable volubility, till her eyes happening to dwell on her ownhands, which were certainly not as white as a lady's should be, shebecame a little uncomfortable and embarrassed--tried to hide them inher drapery--then remembered that she had on her morning slippers, which were rather the worse for wear; and, feeling too much ashamed ofher _tout ensemble_ to remain, hurried out of the room, saying that shewould go and see where Armstrong could possibly have got himself to. She did not appear again to Lord Ballindine. 

 [FOOTNOTE 40: en déshabille--(French) partly or scantily dressed]

Poor Mrs Armstrong!--though she looked so little like one, she hadbeen brought up as a lady, carefully and delicately; and her lot wasthe more miserable, for she knew how lamentable were her presentdeficiencies. When she married a poor curate, having, herself, onlya few hundred pounds' fortune, she had made up her mind to a life ofcomparative poverty; but she had meant even in her poverty to bedecent, respectable, and lady-like. Weak health, nine children, animprovident husband, and an income so lamentably ill-suited to herwants, had however been too much for her, and she had degenerated intoa slatternly, idle scold. 

In a short time the parson came in from his farm, rusty andmuddy--rusty, from his clerical dress; muddy from his farmingoccupations; and Lord Ballindine went into the business of his embassy. He remembered, however, how plainly he had heard the threats about theuneaten fat, and not wishing the household to hear all he had to sayrespecting Fanny Wyndham, he took the parson out into the road beforethe house, and, walking up and down, unfolded his proposal. 

Mr Armstrong expressed extreme surprise at the nature of the mission onwhich he was to be sent; secondly at the necessity of such a mission atall; and thirdly, lastly, and chiefly, at the enormous amount of theheiress's fortune, to lose which he declared would be an unpardonablesin on Lord Ballindine's part. He seemed to be not at all surprisedthat Lord Cashel should wish to secure so much money in his own family;nor did he at all participate in the unmeasured reprobation with whichFrank loaded the worthy earl's name. One hundred and thirty thousandpounds would justify anything, and he thought of his nine poorchildren, 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 mostprobably have some interest in the Church, which she could not butexercise in his favour, if he were instrumental in getting her married;and he determined to go. Then the, difficult question as to thewardrobe occurred to him. Besides, he had no money for the road. Those, however, were minor evils to be got over, and he expressed himselfwilling to undertake the embassy. 

"But, my dear Ballindine; what is it I'm to do?" said he. "Of courseyou know, I'd do anything for you, as of course I ought--anything thatought to be done; but what is it exactly you wish me to say?"

"You see, Armstrong, that pettifogging schemer told me he didn't wishme 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 Iwas there, and I could not press it, because her brother was only justdead; so I'm obliged to take her refusal second hand. Now I don'tbelieve she ever sent the message he gave me. I think he has made herbelieve that I'm deserting and ill-treating her; and in this way shemay be piqued and tormented into marrying Kilcullen. "

"I see it now: upon my word then Lord Cashel knows how to play hiscards! 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 reasonto doubt Fanny's love; she has assured me of it a thousand times. Iwouldn't say so to you even, as it looks like boasting, only it's sonecessary you should know how the land lies; besides, everybody knewit; all the world knew we were engaged. "

"Oh, boasting--it's no boasting at all: it would be very little good mygoing to Grey Abbey, if she had not told you so. "

"Well, I think that if you were to see Lord Cashel and tell him, inyour 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 CountyMayo especially to see Miss Wyndham, that you might hear from herselfwhatever message she had to send to me--if you were to do this, I don'tthink 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 longreceived as Miss Wyndham's accepted swain, were at least entitled to somuch consideration at her hands; and that I must demand so much on yourbehalf, wouldn't that be it, eh?"

"Exactly. I see you understand it, as if you'd been at it all yourlife; 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 betrue and plain: if you do that I think you will manage to see her, andthen--"

"Well, then--for that'll be the difficult part. "

"Oh, when you see her, one simple word will do: Fanny Wyndham lovesplain dealing. Merely tell her that Lord Ballindine has not changed hismind; and that he wishes to know from herself, by the mouth of a friendwhom he can trust, whether she has changed hers. If she tells you thatshe has, I would not follow her farther though she were twice as richas Croesus. I'm not hunting her for her money; but I am determined thatLord Cashel shall not make us both miserable by forcing her into amarriage 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 howlong it is since I saw Fanny--three months, I believe--no time shouldbe 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 onthe Monday week following; that he was to mention to no one where hewas going; that he was to tell his wife that he was going on businesshe was not allowed to talk about;--she would be a very meek woman ifshe rested satisfied with that!--and that he was to present himself atGrey Abbey on the following Wednesday. 

"And now, " said the parson, with some little hesitation, "my difficultycommences. We country rectors are never rich; but when we've ninechildren, 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 youdown 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 wrotehim a cheque for twenty pounds. 

That'll get the coat into the bargain, thought the rector, as herather uncomfortably shuffled the bit of paper into his pocket. He hadstill a gentleman's dislike to be paid for his services. But then, Necessity--how stern she is! He literally could not have gone withoutit. 

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, ifnecessary, to go with him to the attorney's office in Tuam. Martin hadas yet given Daly no answer respecting Barry Lynch's last proposal;and though poor Anty's health made it hardly necessary that any answershould be given, still Lord Ballindine had promised to see theattorney, if Martin thought it necessary. 

The family were all in great confusion that morning, for Anty was verybad--worse than she had ever been. She was in a paroxysm of fever, wasraving in delirium, and in such a state that Martin and his sister wereoccasionally obliged to hold her in bed. Sally, the old servant, hadbeen in the room for a considerable time during the morning, standingat the foot of the bed with a big tea-pot in her hand, and begging in awhining voice, from time to time, that "Miss Anty, God bless her, mightget a dhrink of tay!" But, as she had been of no other service, and asthe widow thought it as well that she should not hear what Anty saidin her raving, she had been desired to go down-stairs, and was sittingover the fire. She had fixed the big tea-pot among the embers, and helda slop-bowl of tea in her lap, discoursing to Nelly, who with her hairsomewhat more than ordinarily dishevelled, in token of grief for Anty'sillness, 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 thoughtherself entitled to hear Anty's ravings; "mind, I tell you, good won'tcome of this. The Virgin prothect us from all harum!--it niver warlucky 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' mewouldn't be let hear 'em. Not but what I did hear, as how could I helpit? There'll be no good come of it. Who's to be axed to the wake, I'dlike to know. "

"Axed to the wake, is it? Why, shure, won't there be rashions of atingand lashings of dhrinking? The misthress isn't the woman to spare, andsich a frind as Miss Anty dead in the house. Let 'em ax whom theylike. "

"You're a fool, Nelly--Ax whom they like!--that's asy said. Is they toax Barry Lynch, or is they to let it alone, and put the sisther intothe sod without a word said to him about it? God be betwixt us and allevil"--and she took a long pull at the slop-bowl; and, as the liquidflowed down her throat, she gradually threw back her head till the topof 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 brownsugar might trickle into her mouth. She then gave a long sigh, andrepeated that difficult question--"Who is they to ax to the wake?"

It was too much for Nelly to answer: she re-echoed the sigh, and moreclosely embraced the candlestick. 

"Besides, Nelly, who'll have the money when she's gone?--and she's nighthat already, the Blessed Virgin guide and prothect her. Who'll get allher money?"

"Why; won't Mr Martin? Sure, an't they as good as man and wife--all asone?"

"That's it; they'll be fighting and tearing, and tatthering about thatmoney, the two young men will, you'll see. There'll be lawyering, an'magisthrate's work--an' factions--an' fighthins at fairs; an' thin, asin course the Lynches can't hould their own agin the Kellys, there'llbe undherhand blows, an' blood, an' murdher!--you'll see else. "

"Glory be to God, " involuntarily prayed Nelly, at the thoughtssuggested by Sally's powerful eloquence. 

"There will, I tell ye, " continued Sally, again draining the tea-potinto the bowl. "Sorrow a lie I'm telling you;" and then, in a lowwhisper across the fire, "didn't I see jist now Miss Anty ketch a houldof Misther Martin, as though she'd niver let him go agin, and bid himfor dear mercy's sake have a care of Barry Lynch?--Shure I knowed whatthat meant. And thin, didn't he thry and do for herself with his ownhands? Didn't Biddy say she'd swear she heard him say he'd do it?--andav he wouldn't boggle about his own sisther, it's little he'd mind whathe'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; may-be it's the docthor back again; only mostly hedon't mind knocking much. "

Nelly went to the door, and opened it to Lord Ballindine, who had lefthis gig in charge of his servant. He asked for Martin, who in a shorttime, joined him in the parlour. 

"This is a dangerous place for your lordship, now, " said he: "the feveris 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 keepyour lordship. I've managed about the money;"--and the necessarywriting 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'veseen enough this last time back to cure me altogether--at laist, I hopeso. "

"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 saidabout her will, her wishes as to the property, her desire to leavesomething to him (Martin) and his sisters: and last he repeated thestrong injunctions which Anty had given him respecting her poorbrother, and her assurance, so full of affection, that had she livedshe would have done her best to make him happy as her husband. 

Lord Ballindine was greatly affected; he warmly shook hands withMartin, told him how highly he thought of his conduct, and begged himto take care that Anty had the gratification of making her will as shehad desired to do. "The fact, " Lord Ballindine said, "of your beingnamed in the will as her executor will give you more control over Barrythan 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 fromweakness and exhaustion; but she still held on, and then the feverabated, and Doctor Colligan thought that it was possible she mightrecover: she was, however, so dreadfully emaciated and worn out, therewas so little vitality left in her, that he would not encourage morethan the faintest hope. Anty herself was too weak either to hope orfear;--and the women of the family, who from continual attendance knewhow very near to death she was, would hardly allow themselves to thinkthat she could recover. 

There were two persons, however, who from the moment of her amendmentfelt an inward sure conviction of her convalescence. They were Martinand Barry. To the former this feeling was of course one of unalloyeddelight. He went over to Kelly's Court, and spoke there of hisbetrothed as though she were already sitting up and eating muttonchops; was congratulated by the young ladies on his approachingnuptials, 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, whetherhe would live at Dunmore, or build a house at Toneroe for himself andAnty. With Barry, however, the feeling was very different: he was againgoing to have his property wrenched from him; he was again to sufferthe pangs he had endured, when first he learned the purport of hisfather's will; after clutching the fruit for which he had striven, aseven he himself felt, so basely, it was again to be torn from him socruelly. 

He had been horribly anxious for a termination to Anty's sufferings;horribly impatient to feel himself possessor of the whole. From day today, and sometimes two or three times a day, he had seen Dr Colligan, and inquired how things were going on: he had especially enjoined thatworthy man to come up after his morning call at the inn, and get aglass of sherry at Dunmore House; and the doctor had very generallydone so. For some time Barry endeavoured to throw the veil of brotherlyregard over the true source of his anxiety; but the veil was much toothin to hide what it hardly covered, and Barry, as he got intimatewith the doctor, all but withdrew it altogether. When Barry would say, "Well, doctor, how is she to-day?" and then remark, in answer to thedoctor's statement that she was very bad--"Well, I suppose it can'tlast much longer; but it's very tedious, isn't it, poor thing?" itwas plain enough that the brother was not longing for the sister'srecovery. And then he would go a little further, and remark that "ifthe 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 keptso very long in suspense. 

Doctor Colligan ought to have been shocked at this; and so he was, atfirst, to a certain extent, but he was not a man of a very high toneof feeling. He had so often heard of heirs to estates longing forthe death of the proprietors of them; he had so often seen relativescallous and indifferent at the loss of those who ought to have beendear to them; it seemed so natural to him that Barry should want theestate, that he gradually got accustomed to his impatient inquiries, and listened to, and answered them, without disgust. He fell too into akind of intimacy with Barry; he liked his daily glass, or three or fourglasses, of sherry; and besides, it was a good thing for him to standwell in a professional point of view with a man who had the best housein the village, and who would soon have eight hundred a-year. 

If Barry showed his impatience and discontent as long as the dailybulletins told him that Anty was still alive, though dying, it mayeasily be imagined that he did not hide his displeasure when he firstheard that she was alive and better. His brow grew very black, hischeeks flushed, the drops of sweat stood on his forehead, and he said, speaking through his closed teeth, "D---- it, doctor, you don't mean totell me she's recovering now?"

"I don't say, Mr Lynch, whether she is or no; but it's certain thefever has left her. She's very weak, very weak indeed; I never knew aperson to be alive and have less life in 'em; but the fever has lefther 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 mustdo what we can for her, " and the doctor took his sherry and went hisway. 

How horrible then was the state of Barry's mind! For a time he wasabsolutely stupified with despair; he stood fixed on the spot where thedoctor had left him, realising, bringing home to himself, the tidingswhich he had heard. His sister to rise again, as though it were fromthe dead, to push him off his stool! Was he to fall again into thathorrid low abyss in which even the Tuam attorney had scorned him; inwhich he had even invited that odious huxter's son to marry his sisterand 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 bedone?--Something must be done--she should not be, could not be allowedto 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 thenhe thought how easily he might have smothered her, as she lay thereclasping his hand, with no one but themselves in the room; and as thethought crossed his brain his eyes nearly started from his head, thesweat ran down his face, he clutched the money in his trousers' pockettill the coin left an impression on his flesh, and he gnashed his teethtill 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 thewealth of the Bank of England!--but now!

The devil sat within him, and revelled with full dominion over hissoul: there was then no feeling left akin to humanity to give him onechance of escape; there was no glimmer of pity, no shadow of remorse, no sparkle of love, even though of a degraded kind; no hesitationin the will for crime, which might yet, by God's grace, lead toits eschewal: all there was black, foul, and deadly, ready for thedevil's deadliest work. Murder crouched there, ready to spring, yetafraid;--cowardly, but too thirsty alter blood to heed its own fears. Theft, --low, pilfering, pettifogging, theft; avarice, lust, andimpotent, scalding hatred. Controlled by these the black blood rushedquick to and from his heart, filling him with sensual desires below thepassions of a brute, but denying him one feeling or one appetite foraught 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 doubtsraised only a false alarm?" It was utterly beyond Barry's power to makeany 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, shudderinginvoluntarily at the open expression of Barry's atrocious wish, and yettaking 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, saidnothing, but continued sipping his wine. 

"In the name of mercy, what must I do?" said Barry, speaking more tohimself than to the other. 

"Why, you've enough, Mr Lynch, without hers; you can do well enoughwithout it. "

"Enough! Would you think you had enough if you were robbed of more thanhalf of all you have. Half, indeed, " he shouted--"I may say all, atonce. I don't believe there's a man in Ireland would bear it. Nor willI. "

Again there was a silence; but still, somehow, Colligan seemed to staylonger than usual. Every now and then Barry would for a moment lookfull in his face, and almost instantly drop his eyes again. He wastrying to mature future plans; bringing into shape thoughts which hadoccurred to him, in a wild way at different times; proposing to himselfschemes, with which his brain had been long loaded, but which he hadnever resolved on, --which he had never made palpable and definite. Onething he found sure and certain; on one point he was able to becomedetermined: he could not do it alone; he must have an assistant; hemust buy some one's aid; and again he looked at Colligan, and againhis eyes fell. There was no encouragement there, but there was nodiscouragement. Why did he stay there so long? Why did he so slowly sipthat 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 musthave some reason for sitting there so long, and so silent, withoutspeaking a word, or taking his eyes off the fire. 

Barry had all but made up his mind to ask the aid he wanted; but hefelt that he was not prepared to do so--that he should soon quiver andshake, that he could not then carry it through. He felt that he wantedspirit to undertake his own part in the business, much less to inspireanother with the will to assist him in it. At last he rose abruptlyfrom his chair, and said, "Will you dine with me to-day, Colligan?--I'm so down in the mouth, sodeucedly hipped, it will be a charity. "

"Well, " said Colligan, "I don't care if I do. I must go down to yoursister 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 bedisturbed over our punch?"

"I must see her the last thing, --about nine, but I can look up againafterwards, for a minute or so. I don't stay long with her now: it'sbetter 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 showeda great want of character and of good feeling in him. He should neverhave become intimate, or even have put up with a man expressing suchwishes as those which so often fell from Barry's lips. But he wasentirely innocent of the thoughts which Barry attributed to him. It hadnever even occurred to him that Barry, bad as he was, would wish tomurder his sister. No; bad, heedless, sensual as Doctor Colligan mightbe, 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 histhoughts, mature his plans, and finally determine. He took his usualremedy in his difficulties, a glass of brandy; and, going out into thegarden, walked up and down the gravel walk almost unconsciously, forabove an hour. 

Yes: he would do it. He would not be a coward. The thing had been donea 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 notboggle at such a job. But then, of course, he must be paid--and Barrybegan to calculate how much he must offer for the service; and, whenthe service should be performed, how he might avoid the fulfilment ofhis portion of the bargain. 

He went in and ordered the dinner; filled the spirit decanters, openeda couple of bottles of wine, and then walked out again. In giving hisorders, and doing the various little things with which he had to keephimself employed, everybody, and everything seemed strange to him. Hehardly knew what he was about, and felt almost as though he were ina dream. He had quite made up his mind as to what he would do; hisresolution was fixed to carry it through but:--still there was thebut, --how was he to open it to Doctor Colligan? He walked up and downthe gravel path for a long time, thinking of this; or rather trying tothink of it, for his thoughts would fly away to all manner of othersubjects, and he continually found himself harping upon some trifle, connected with Anty, but wholly irrespective of her death; some littlething that she had done for him, or ought to have done; something shehad 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 thathe had observed; and as often as he found his mind thus wandering, hewould start off at a quicker pace, and again endeavour to lay out aline of conduct for the evening. 

At last, however, he came to the conclusion that it would be better totrust to the chapter of chances: there was one thing, or rather twothings, he could certainly do: he could make the doctor half drunkbefore he opened on the subject, and he would take care to be in thesame state himself. So he walked in and sat still before the fire, forthe two long remaining hours, which intervened before the clock strucksix. 

It was about noon when the doctor left him, and during those six longsolitary hours no one feeling of remorse had entered his breast. He hadoften doubted, hesitated as to the practicability of his present plan, but not once had he made the faintest effort to overcome the wish tohave the deed done. There was not one moment in which he would not mostwillingly have had his sister's blood upon his hands, upon his brain, upon his soul; could he have willed and accomplished her death, withoutmaking himself liable to the penalties of the law. 

At length Doctor Colligan came, and Barry made a great effort to appearunconcerned 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 herethis morning, till nine o'clock. "

"Oh, true; so you were saying. I forgot. Well, will you take a glass ofwine?"--and Barry filled his own glass quite full. 

He drank his wine at dinner like a glutton, who had only a shorttime allowed him, and wished during that time to swallow as much aspossible; and he tried to hurry his companion in the same manner. Butthe doctor didn't choose to have wine forced down his throat; he wishedto enjoy himself, and remonstrated against Barry's violent hospitality. 

At last, dinner was over; the things were taken away, they both drewtheir chairs over the fire, and began the business of the evening--themaking and consumption of punch. Barry had determined to begin upon thesubject which lay so near his heart, at eight o'clock. He had thoughtit better to fix an exact hour, and had calculated that the wholematter might be completed before Colligan went over to the inn. Hekept continually looking at his watch, and gulping down his drink, andthinking over and over again how he would begin the conversation. 

"You're very comfortable here, Lynch, " said the doctor, stretching hislong 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 inGalway. You'll be marrying soon, I suppose?"

"Well, I wouldn't wonder if I did. You don't take your punch; there'sbrandy there, if you like it better than whiskey. "

"This is very good, thank you--couldn't be better. You haven't muchland 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 hasto do in the country. I wish to goodness I could give up the gallipots[41] and farm a few acres of my own land. There's nothing I wish somuch as to get a bit of land: indeed, I've been looking out for it, butit's so difficult to get. "

 [FOOTNOTE 41: gallipots--A gallipot was a small ceramic vessel used by apothecaries to hold medicines. The term was also used colloquially to refer to apothecaries themselves and even physicians (Trollope so uses the term in later chapters). ]

Up to this, Barry had hardly listened to what the doctor had beensaying; 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 haveit. "

Barry looked at his watch: it was near eight o'clock, but he seemed tofeel that all he had drank had had no effect on him: it had not givenhim the usual pluck; it had not given him the feeling of recklessassurance, which he mistook for courage and capacity. 

"If you've a mind to be a tenant of mine, Colligan, I'll keep a lookout for you. The land's crowded now, but there's a lot of them cottier[42] devils I mean to send to the right about. They do the estate nogood, and I hate the sight of them. But you know how the property'splaced, and while Anty's in this wretched state, of course I can donothing. "

 [FOOTNOTE 42: cottier--an Irish tenant renting land directly from the owner, with the price determined by bidding]

"Will you bear it in mind though, Lynch? When a bit of land does fallinto your hands, I should be glad to be your tenant. I'm quite inearnest, and should take it as a great favour. "

"I'll not forget it;" and then he remained silent for a minute. What anopportunity this was for him to lose! Colligan so evidently wished tobe bribed--so clearly showed what the price was which was to purchasehim. But still he could not ask the fatal question. 

Again he sat silent for a while, till he looked at his watch, and foundit was a quarter past eight. "Never fear, " he said, referring to thefarm; "you shall have it, and it shall not be the worst land on theestate that I'll give you, you may be sure; for, upon my soul, I have agreat 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 waywith me at all; and when you know me better you'll say so, --and you maybe sure you shall have the farm by Michaelmas. " And then, in a voicewhich he tried to make as unconcerned as possible, he continued: "Bythe bye, Colligan, when do you think this affair of Anty's _will_ beover? It's the devil and all for a man not to know when he'll be hisown master. "

"Oh, you mustn't calculate on your sister's property at all now, " saidthe other, in an altered voice. "I tell you it's very probable she mayrecover. "

This again silenced Barry, and he let the time go by, till the doctortook 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 becoming 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 Colliganto be home early. " This was always the doctor's excuse when he wishedto get away. He never allowed his domestic promises to draw him homewhen there was anything to induce him to stay abroad; but, to tell thetruth, he was getting rather sick of his companion. The doctor took hishat, 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 aboutthe farm!--that's the trap, certainly. " And he stood leaning withhis back against the mantel-piece, and his coat-laps hanging overhis arm, waiting for and yet fearing, the moment of the doctor'sreturn. It seemed an age since he went. Barry looked at hiswatch 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 shallbe 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 thegravel outside the door, and immediately afterwards the door bell wasrung. Barry hastily poured out a glass of raw spirits and swallowed it;he then threw himself into his chair, and Doctor Colligan again enteredthe room. 

"What a time you've been, Colligan! Why I thought you weren't comingall night. Now, Terry, some hot water, and mind you look sharp aboutit. 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 itwould be humbug in me to pretend that I wish she should recover, to robme of what you know I've every right to consider my own. " Terry broughtthe hot water in, and left the room. 

"Well, I can't say you do appear very anxious about it. I'll justswallow one dandy of punch, and then I'll get home. I'm later now thanI meant to be. "

"Nonsense, man. The idea of your being in a hurry, when everybody knowsthat 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 youmean to say you'd be very anxious that Anty should recover?--Wouldyou like your own sister to rise from her death-bed to rob you ofeverything you have? For, by Heaven! it is robbery--nothing less. She'sso stiff-necked, that there's no making any arrangement with her. I'vetried everything, fair means and foul, and nothing'll do but she mustgo and marry that low young Kelly--so immeasurably beneath her, youknow, and of course only scheming for her money. Put yourself in myplace, 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 tolose. "

"That's a different thing, but just supposing you were exactly in myshoes at this moment, do you mean to tell me that you'd be glad sheshould get well?--that you'd be glad she should be able to deprive youof 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 sayto you, " and Barry got up and prevented the doctor from leaving theroom. Colligan had gone so far as to put on his hat and great coat, andnow sat down again without taking them off. 

"You and I, Colligan, are men of the world, and too wide awake for allthe old woman's nonsense people talk. What can I, or what could you inmy place, care for a half-cracked old maid like Anty, who's better deadthan alive, for her own sake and everybody's else; unless it is somescheming ruffian like young Kelly there, who wants to make money byher?"

"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 likeyou 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--badluck to him for an old rogue--not made such a will as he did, I'd 'vetreated Anty as well as any parson of 'em all would treat an old maidof 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 pleaseme, Anty must never come out of that bed alive. "

"As if your wishes could make any difference. If it is to be so, she'lldie, poor creature, without your saying so much about it; but may-be, and it's very likely too, she'll be alive and strong, after the two ofus are under the sod. "

"Well; if it must be so, it must; but what I wanted to say to you isthis: while you were away, I was thinking about what you said of thefarm--of being a tenant of mine, you know. "

"We can talk about that another time, " said the doctor, who began tofeel 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, ifyou'll wait, I can settle it all for you to-night. I was telling youthat I hate farming, and so I do. There are thirty or five-and-thirtyacres 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 wouldtake the land, with many thanks, if the rent any way suited him. 

"We'll not quarrel about that, you may be sure, Colligan, " continuedBarry; "and as I said fifty acres at first--it was fifty acres I thinkyou were saying you wished for--I'll not baulk you, and go back from myown word. "

"What you have yourself, round the house, 'll be enough; only I'mthinking the rent 'll be too high. "

"It shall not; it shall be low enough; and, as I was saying, you shallhave the remainder, at the same price, immediately after Michaelmas, assoon as ever those devils are ejected. "

"Well;" said Colligan, who was now really interested, "what's thefigure?"

Barry had been looking steadfastly at the fire during the wholeconversation, up to this: playing with the poker, and knocking thecoals about. He was longing to look into the other's face, but he didnot dare. Now, however, was his time; it was now or never: he took onefurtive glance at the doctor, and saw that he was really anxious on thesubject--that his attention was fixed. 

"The figure, " said he; "the figure should not trouble you if you had noone but me to deal, with. But there'll be Anty, confound her, puttingher 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 findan easier fellow to deal with, or one who'll put a better thing in yourway. "

Colligan again sat down. He couldn't quite make Barry out: he suspectedhe was planning some iniquity, but he couldn't tell what; and heremained silent, looking full into the other's face till he should goon. Barry winced under the look, and hesitated; but at last he screwedhimself up to the point, and said, "One word, between two friends, is as good as a thousand. If Antydies of this bout, you shall have the fifty acres, with a lease forperpetuity, at sixpence an acre. Come, that's not a high figure, Ithink. "

"What?" said Colligan, apparently not understanding him, "a lease forperpetuity at how much an acre?"

"Sixpence--a penny--a pepper-corn--just anything you please. But it'sall on Anty's dying. While she's alive I can do nothing for the bestfriend I have. "

"By the Almighty above us, " said the doctor, almost in a whisper, "Ibelieve the wretched man means me to murder her--his own sister!"

"Murder?--Who talked or said a word of murder?" said Barry, with ahoarse and croaking voice--"isn't she dying as she is?--and isn't shebetter dead than alive? It's only just not taking so much trouble tokeep the life in her; you're so exceeding clever you know!"--and hemade a ghastly attempt at smiling. "With any other doctor she'd havebeen dead long since: leave her to herself a little, and the farm'syour own; and I'm sure there'll 've been nothing at all like murderbetween us. "

"By Heavens, he does!"--and Colligan rose quickly from his seat "hemeans to have her murdered, and thinks to make me do the deed! Why, youvile, thieving, murdering reptile!" and as he spoke the doctor seizedhim by the throat, and shook him violently in his strong grasp--"whotold you I was a fit person for such a plan? who told you to come tome for such a deed? who told you I would sell my soul for your paltryland?"--and he continued grasping Barry's throat till he was black inthe face, and nearly choked. "Merciful Heaven! that I should have sathere, 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 befound in Connaught to-morrow, or in Ireland the next day, I'll hangyou!"--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 thatbefore, and I believe that when I was young I read of such: but I neverexpected to meet so black a villain! What had I better do?--If I go andswear an information before a magistrate there'll be nothing but myword 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. " Andso he did; but it was not for a long time, for the recollection ofBarry's hideous proposal kept him awake. 

Barry lay sprawling among the chairs till the sound of the hall doorclosing told him that his guest had gone, when he slowly picked himselfup, and sat down upon the sofa. Colligan's last words were ringingin his ear--"If you're found in Ireland the next day, I'll hangyou. "--Hang him!--and had he really given any one the power to speak tohim in such language as that? After all, what had he said?--He had noteven whispered a word of murder; he had only made an offer of what hewould do if Anty should die: besides, no one but themselves had heardeven that; and then his thoughts went off to another train. "Who'd havethought, " he said to himself, "the man was such a fool! He meant it, atfirst, as well as I did myself. I'm sure he did. He'd never have caughtas 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 tella story, I suppose, as it is for him. " And then Barry, too, draggedhimself 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 unhappylove-sick heiress, his ward, Fanny Wyndham. Affairs there had takenno turn to give increased comfort either to the earl or to his niece, during the month which succeeded the news of young Harry Wyndham'sdeath. 

The former still adhered, with fixed pertinacity of purpose, to thematrimonial arrangement which he had made with his son. Circumstances, indeed, rendered it even much more necessary in the earl's eyes than ithad appeared to be when he first contemplated this scheme for releasinghimself from his son's pecuniary difficulties. He had, as the readerwill remember, advanced a very large sum of money to Lord Kilcullen, to be repaid out of Fanny Wyndham's fortune, This money Lord Kilcullenhad certainly appropriated in the manner intended by his father, butit had anything but the effect of quieting the creditors. The paymentswere sufficiently large to make the whole hungry crew hear that hislordship was paying his debts, but not at all sufficient to satisfytheir craving. Indeed, nearly the whole went in liquidation of turfengagements, and gambling debts. The Jews, money-lenders, and tradesmenmerely heard that money was going from Lord Kilcullen's pocket; butwith all their exertions they got very little of it themselves. 

Consequently, claims of all kinds--bills, duns, remonstrances andthreats, poured in not only upon the son but also upon the father. Thelatter, it is true, was not in his own person liable for one penny ofthem, nor could he well, on his own score, be said to be an embarrassedman; but he was not the less uneasy. He had determined if possible toextricate his son once more, and as a preliminary step had himselfalready raised a large sum of money which it would much trouble him topay; and he moreover, as he frequently said to Lord Kilcullen, wouldnot and could not pay another penny for the same purpose, until he sawa tolerably sure prospect of being repaid out of his ward's fortune. 

He was therefore painfully anxious on the subject; anxious not onlythat 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 hewould be arrested; the same thing would happen at Grey Abbey, if hewere to remain there long without settling his affairs; and if he wereonce to escape his creditors by going abroad, there would be no suchthing as getting him back again. Lord Cashel saw no good reason whythere should be any delay; Harry Wyndham was dead above a month, andFanny was evidently grieving more for the loss of her lover than thatof her brother; she naturally felt alone in the world--and, as LordCashel thought, one young viscount would be just as good as another. The advantages, too, were much in favour of his son; he would one daybe an earl, and possess Grey Abbey. So great an accession of grandeur, dignity, and rank could not but be, as the earl considered, verydelightful 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 Kilcullenshould be absolutely accepted--Lord Ballindine finally rejected. 

The earl certainly felt some scruples of conscience at the sacrificehe was making of his ward, and stronger still respecting his ward'sfortune; but he appeased them with the reflection that if his son werea gambler, a _roué_, and a scamp, Lord Ballindine was probably just asbad; and that if the latter were to spend all Fanny's money there wouldbe no chance of redemption; whereas he could at any rate settle on hiswife a jointure, which would be a full compensation for the loss of herfortune, should she outlive her husband and father-in-law. Besides, helooked on Lord Kilcullen's faults as a father is generally inclined tolook on those of a son, whom he had not entirely given up--whom he isstill striving to redeem. He called his iniquitous vices, follies--hislicentiousness, love of pleasure--his unprincipled expenditure andextravagance, a want of the knowledge of what money was: and his worstsin of all, because the one least likely to be abandoned, his positive, unyielding damning selfishness, he called "fashion"--the fashion of theyoung men of the day. 

Poor Lord Cashel! he wished to be honest to his ward; and yet to savehis son, and his own pocket at the same time, at her expense: hewished to be, in his own estimation, high-minded, honourable, anddisinterested, and yet he could not resist the temptation to begenerous to his own flesh and blood at the expense of another. Thecontest within him made him miserable; but the devil and mammon weretoo strong for him, particularly coming as they did, half hiddenbeneath the gloss of parental affection. There was little of the Romanabout the earl, and he could not condemn his own son; so he fumed andfretted, and twisted himself about in the easy chair in his dingybook-room, and passed long hours in trying to persuade himself that itwas for Fanny's advantage that he was going to make her Lady Kilcullen. 

He might have saved himself all his anxiety. Fanny Wyndham had muchtoo strong a mind--much too marked a character of her own, to be madeLady Anything by Lord Anybody. Lord Cashel might possibly prevent herfrom marrying Frank, especially as she had been weak enough, throughill-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 sheloved another, and while that other was unmarried. 

Since the interview between Fanny and her uncle and aunt, which hasbeen recorded, she had been nearly as uncomfortable as Lord Cashel, andshe had, to a certain extent, made the whole household as much so asherself. Not that there was anything of the kill-joy character inFanny's composition; but that the natural disposition of Grey Abbeyand 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 housetolerable; and her secession to the ranks of the sombre crew wastherefore the more remarked. If Fanny moped, all Grey Abbey mightfiguratively be said to hang down its head. Lady Cashel was, in everysense of the words, continually wrapped up in wools and worsteds. Theearl was always equally ponderous, and the specific gravity of LadySelina 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 [43] indeed. Griffiths in my lady's boudoir rolled and unrolled those huge whitebundles of mysterious fleecy hosiery with more than usually slow andunbroken perseverance. My lady herself bewailed the fermentation amongthe jam-pots with a voice that did more than whine, it was almostfunereal. As my lord went from breakfast-room to book-room, frombook-room to dressing-room, and from dressing-room to dining-room, hisfootsteps 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 booksseemed to have lost their gilding, and the mahogany furniture itsFrench polish. There, like a god, Lord Cashel sate alone, throned amidclouds of awful dulness, ruling the world of nothingness around by thesilent solemnity of his inertia. 

 [FOOTNOTE 43: triste--(French) sad, mournful, dull, dreary]

Lady Selina was always useful, but with a solid, slow activity, adignified intensity of heavy perseverance, which made her perhaps moreintolerable than her father. She was like some old coaches which weremember--very sure, very respectable; but so tedious, so monotonous, so heavy in their motion, that a man with a spark of mercury in hiscomposition would prefer any danger from a faster vehicle to theirhorrid, weary, murderous, slow security. Lady Selina from day to dayperformed her duties in a most uncompromising manner; she knew what wasdue to her position, and from it, and exacted and performed accordinglywith a stiff, steady propriety which made her an awful if not a hatefulcreature. One of her daily duties, and one for the performance of whichshe had unfortunately ample opportunity, was the consolation of Fannyunder her troubles. Poor Fanny! how great an aggravation was thisto her other miseries! For a considerable time Lady Selma had knownnothing of the true cause of Fanny's gloom; for though the two cousinswere good friends, as far as Lady Selina was capable of admitting sohuman a frailty as friendship, still Fanny could not bring herself tomake a confidante of her. Her kind, stupid, unpretending old aunt was amuch better person to talk to, even though she did arch her eyebrows, and shake her head when Lord Ballindine's name was mentioned, andassure her niece that though she had always liked him herself, hecould not be good for much, because Lord Kilcullen had said so. ButFanny could not well dissemble; she was tormented by Lady Selina'scondolements, and recommendations of Gibbon, her encomiums on industry, and anathemas against idleness; she was so often reminded that weepingwould not bring back her brother, nor inactive reflection make his fateless certain, that at last she made her monitor understand that it wasabout Lord Ballindine's fate that she was anxious, and that it was hiscoming back which might be effected by weeping--or other measures. 

Lady Selina was shocked by such feminine, girlish weakness, such wantof dignity and character, such forgetfulness, as she said to Fanny, ofwhat 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 oftensaid to herself, and occasionally said to Fanny, she would not stepdown from the lofty pedestal on which it had pleased fortune and birthto place her. 

She learned, however, by degrees, to forgive, though she couldn'tapprove, Fanny's weakness; she remembered that it was a very differentthing to be an earl's niece and an earl's daughter, and that the sameconduct 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 talkingto her guardian on the subject nearest to her heart, and had nearlydistracted him by begging him to take steps to make Frank understandthat 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 bysilence, frowns, and looks: but not finding himself successful, hecommenced a long oration, in which he broke down, or rather, which hehad to cut up into sundry short speeches; in which he endeavoured tomake it appear that Lord Ballindine's expulsion had originated withFanny herself, and that, banished or not banished, the less Fanny hadto do with him the better. His ward, however, declared, in rather atempestuous manner, that if she could not see him at Grey Abbey shewould see him elsewhere; and his lordship was obliged to capitulateby promising that if Frank were unmarried in twelve months' time, and Fanny should then still be of the same mind, he would consent tothe match and use his influence to bring it about. This by no meanssatisfied Fanny, but it was all that the earl would say, and shehad now to consider whether she would accept those terms or act forherself. Had she had any idea what steps she could with propriety takein opposition to the earl, she would have withdrawn herself and herfortune 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 tocome back to her!--Whither could she go? She couldn't well set up housefor herself. 

Lady Selina was bending over her writing-desk, and penning mostdecorous notes, with a precision of calligraphy which it was painfulto witness. She was writing orders to Dublin tradesmen, and each ordermight have been printed in the Complete Letter-Writer, as a specimen ofthe manner in which young ladies should address such correspondents. Fanny had a volume of French poetry in her hand, but had it been Greekprose it would have given her equal occupation and amusement. It hadbeen in her hands half-an-hour, and she had not read a line. 

"Fanny, " said Lady Selina, raising up her thin red spiral tresses fromher desk, and speaking in a firm, decided tone, as if well assured ofthe importance of the question she was going to put; "don't you wantsome 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 toher thoughts. 

"Surely you do, Fanny, " said her ladyship. "I'm sure you want blackcrape; you were saying so on Friday last. "

"Was I?--Yes; I think I do. It'll do another time, Selina; never mindnow. "

"You had better have it in the parcel he will send to-morrow; if you'llgive 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'llbe annoyed about it. You'd better let me order it with the otherthings. "

"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 verywell without it, so don't mind troubling yourself. "

"How very ridiculous, Fanny! You know you want black crape--and youmust get it from Ellis's. " Lady Selina paused for a reply, and thenadded, in a voice of sorrowful rebuke, "It's to save yourself thetrouble of sending Jane for the pattern. "

"Well, Selina, perhaps it is. Don't bother me about it now, there's adear. I'll be more myself by-and-by; but indeed, indeed, I'm neitherwell nor happy now. "

"Not well, Fanny! What ails you?"

"Oh, nothing ails me; that is, nothing in the doctor's way. I didn'tmean I was ill. "

"You said you weren't well; and people usually mean by that, that theyare ill. "

"But I didn't mean it, " said Fanny, becoming almost irritated, "I onlymeant--" and she paused and did not finish her sentence. 

Lady Selina wiped her pen, in her scarlet embroidered pen-wiper, closedthe lid of her patent inkstand, folded a piece of blotting-paper overthe note she was writing, pushed back the ruddy ringlets from hercontemplative forehead, gave a slight sigh, and turned herselftowards her cousin, with the purpose of commencing a vigorous lectureand cross-examination, by which she hoped to exorcise the spiritof lamentation from Fanny's breast, and restore her to a healthfulactivity in the performance of this world's duties. Fanny felt what wascoming; she could not fly; so she closed her book and her eyes, andprepared herself for endurance. 

"Fanny, " said Lady Selina, in a voice which was intended to be bothsevere and sorrowful, "you are giving way to very foolish feelings ina very foolish way; you are preparing great unhappiness for yourself, and allowing your mind to waste itself in uncontrolled sorrow in amanner--in a manner which cannot but be ruinously injurious. My dearFanny, 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 upeverything in the shape of reading; how long, Fanny, will you go on inthis sad manner?" Lady Selina paused, but, as Fanny did not immediatelyreply, she continued her speech "I've begged you to go on with yourreading, because nothing but mental employment will restore your mindto its proper tone. I'm sure I've brought you the second volume ofGibbon twenty times, but I don't believe you've read a chapter thismonth back. How long will you allow yourself to go on in this sadmanner?"

"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 whomyou yourself rejected because he was unworthy of you?"

"Selina, I've told you before that such was not the case. I believe himto 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 discontinuehis visits--didn't you?"

Fanny felt that her cousin was taking an unfair advantage in throwingthus in her teeth her own momentary folly in having been partlypersuaded, partly piqued, into quarrelling with her lover; and sheresented it as such. "If I did, " she said, somewhat angrily, "it doesnot 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 grieveis past recovery. Sorrow, for which there is no cure, should cease tobe grieved for, at any rate openly. If Lord Ballindine were to die youwould not allow his death to doom you to perpetual sighs, and perpetualinactivity. No; you'd then know that grief was hopeless, and you'drecover. "

"But Lord Ballindine is not dead, " said Fanny. 

"Ah! that's just the point, " continued her ladyship; "he should be deadto you; to you he should now be just the same as though he were in hisgrave. You loved him some time since, and accepted him; but you foundyour love misplaced, --unreturned, or at any rate coldly returned. Though you loved him, you passed a deliberate judgment on him, andwisely rejected him. Having done so, his name should not be on yourlips; his form and figure should be forgotten. No thoughts of himshould sully your mind, no love for him should be permitted to rest inyour heart; it should be rooted out, whatever the exertion may costyou. "

"Selina, I believe you have no heart yourself. "

"Perhaps as much as yourself, Fanny. I've heard of some people who weresaid to be all heart; I flatter myself I am not one of them. I trust Ihave some mind, to regulate my heart; and some conscience, to preventmy sacrificing my duties for the sake of my heart. "

"If you knew, " said Fanny, "the meaning of what love was, you'd knowthat 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'tchoose 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 thatI 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 ofnothing but what you call your own dignity; I will not give up my ownhappiness, and, I firmly believe his, too, for anything so empty. "

"Don't be angry with me, Fanny, " said Lady Selina; "my regard for yourdignity arises only from my affection for you. I should be sorry to seeyou lessen yourself in the eyes of those around you. You must rememberthat you cannot act as another girl might, whose position was lessexalted. Miss O'Joscelyn might cry for her lost lover till she got himback again, or got another; and no one would be the wiser, and shewould not be the worse; but you cannot do that. Rank and station arein themselves benefits; but they require more rigid conduct, much morecontrol over the feelings than is necessary in a humbler position. Youshould always remember, Fanny, that much is expected from those to whommuch is given. "

"And I'm to be miserable all my life because I'm not a parson'sdaughter, like Miss O'Joscelyn!"

"God forbid, Fanny! If you'd employ your time, engage your mind, andcease to think of Lord Ballindine, you'd soon cease to be miserable. Yes; though you might never again feel the happiness of loving, youmight 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 asdifferent thoughts crowded to her mind. "You, who think more of yourposition as an earl's daughter--an aristocrat, than of your natureas a woman! Thank Heaven, I'm not a queen, to be driven to have otherfeelings than those of my sex. I do love Lord Ballindine, and if I hadthe power to cease to do so this moment, I'd sooner drown myself thanexercise it. "

"Then why were you weak enough to reject him?"

"Because I was a weak, wretched, foolish girl. I said it in a moment ofpassion, and my uncle acted on it at once, without giving me one minutefor reflection--without allowing me one short hour to look into my ownheart, and find how I was deceiving myself in thinking that I ought topart from him. I told Lord Cashel in the morning that I would give himup; and before I had time to think of what I had said, he had beenhere, 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 Fannyhid her face in her handkerchief, and burst into tears. 

"That's unfair, Fanny; it couldn't be cruel in him to do for you thatwhich 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 Fannythrough 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 becausehe wouldn't become stiff, and solemn, and grave like--like--" Fanny wasgoing to make a comparison that would not have been flattering eitherto Lady Selina or to her father, but she did not quite forget herself, and stopped short without expressing the likeness. "Had he spokenagainst him at first, I would have obeyed; but I will not destroymyself now for his prejudices. " And Fanny buried her face among thepillows of the sofa, and sobbed aloud. 

Lady Selina walked over to the sofa, and stood at the head of itbending over her cousin. She wished to say something to soothe andcomfort her, but did not know how; there was nothing soothing orcomforting in her nature, nothing soft in her voice; her manner wasrepulsive, and almost unfeeling; and yet she was not unfeeling. Sheloved Fanny as warmly as she was capable of loving; she would have madealmost any personal sacrifice to save her cousin from grief; she would, were it possible, have borne her sorrows herself; but she could notunbend; 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 byexpressing hope for the future or consolation for the past. She wouldhave felt that she was compromising truth by giving hope, and dignityby uttering consolation for the loss of that which she consideredbetter lost than retained. Lady Selina's only recipe was endurance andoccupation. And at any rate, she practised what she preached; she wasnever idle, and she never complained. 

As she saw Fanny's grief, and heard her sobs, she at first thought thatin mercy she should now give up the subject of the conversation; butthen she reflected that such mercy might be the greatest cruelty, andthat the truest kindness would be to prove to Fanny the hopelessness ofher 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 todo? You surely will not willingly continue to indulge a hopelesspassion?"

"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 refuseto listen to reason? You must know that what I say is only from myaffection. I want you to look before you; I want you to summon courageto look forward; and then I'm sure your common sense will tell you thatLord Ballindine can never be anything to you. "

"Look here, Selina, " and Fanny rose, and wiped her eyes, and somewhatcomposed her ruffled hair, which she shook back from her face andforehead, as she endeavoured to repress the palpitation which hadfollowed her tears; "I have looked forward, and I have determined whatI mean to do. It was your father who brought me to this, by forcingme 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: hehas refused to do so, at any rate for twelve months--"

"And has he consented to ask him at the end of twelve months?" askedSelina, much astonished, and, to tell the truth, considerably shockedat 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 fortwelve months, after being repelled without a cause, or without a wordof explanation; without even seeing me;--turned out of the house, andinsulted in every way? No; whatever he might do, I will not wait twelvemonths. I'll ask Lord Cashel once again, and then--" Fanny paused for amoment, to consider in what words she would finish her declaration. 

"Well, Fanny, " said Selina, waiting with eager expectation for Fanny'sfinal declaration; for she expected to hear her say that she woulddrown herself, or lock herself up for ever, or do something equallyabsurd. 

"Then, " continued Fanny, --and a deep blush covered her face as shespoke, "I will write to Lord Ballindine, and tell him that I am stillhis own if he chooses to take me. "

"Oh, Fanny! do not say such a horrid thing. Write to a man, and beg himto accept you? No, Fanny; I know you too well, at any rate, to believethat you'll do that. "

"Indeed, indeed, I will. "

"Then you'll disgrace yourself for ever. Oh, Fanny! though my heartwere breaking, though I knew I were dying for very love, I'd soonerhave it break, I'd sooner die at once, than disgrace my sex by becominga suppliant to a man. "

"Disgrace, Selina!--and am I not now disgraced? Have I not given him mysolemn word? Have I not pledged myself to him as his wife? Have I notsworn to him a hundred times that my heart was all his own? Have I notsuffered those caresses which would have been disgraceful had I notlooked 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 thatwouldn't fit?--to treat him as a servant that wouldn't suit me?--tosend him a contemptuous message to be gone?--and so, to forget him, that I might lay myself out for the addresses and admiration ofanother? 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 toown affection for another, without being overwhelmed with shame anddisgrace? And then, that the world should say that I had accepted, andrejoiced in his love when I was poor, and rejected it with scorn when Iwas rich! No; I would sooner--ten thousand times sooner my uncle shoulddo it for me! but if he will not write to Frank, I will. And though myhand will shake, and my face will be flushed as I do so, I shall neverthink 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 wouldprefer; then I will endeavour to look forward to a broken heart, anddeath, without a complaint and without tears. Then, Selina, " andshe tried to smile through the tears which were again running downher cheeks, "I'll come to you, and endeavour to borrow your stoicendurance, and patient industry;" and, as she said so, she walked tothe 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 timewas fixed for Lord Kilcullen's arrival at Grey Abbey. The earl triedmuch to accelerate it, and the viscount was equally anxious to staveoff the evil day; but at last it was arranged that, on the 3rd ofApril, he was to make his appearance, and that he should commence hiswooing as soon as possible after that day. 

When this was absolutely fixed, Lord Cashel paid a visit to hiscountess, in her boudoir, to inform her of the circumstance, andprepare her for the expected guest. He did not, however, say a word ofthe purport of his son's visit. He had, at one time, thought of tellingthe old lady all about it, and bespeaking her influence with Fanny forthe furtherance of his plan; but, on reconsideration, he reflected thathis wife was not the person to be trusted with any intrigue. So hemerely told her that Lord Kilcullen would be at Grey Abbey in fivedays; that he would probably remain at home a long time; that, as hewas giving up his London vices and extravagances, and going to resideat Grey Abbey, he wished that the house should be made as pleasant forhim as possible; that a set of friends, relatives, and acquaintancesshould be asked to come and stay there; and, in short, that LordKilcullen, having been a truly prodigal son, should have a fatted calfprepared for his arrival. 

All this flurried and rejoiced, terrified and excited my ladyexceedingly. In the first place it was so truly delightful that herson should turn good and proper, and careful and decorous, just atthe right time of life; so exactly the thing that ought to happen. Ofcourse young noblemen were extravagant, and wicked, and lascivious, habitual breakers of the commandments, and self-idolators; it was theirnature. In Lady Cashel's thoughts on the education of young men, theseevils were ranked with the measles and hooping cough; it was well thatthey should be gone through and be done with early in life. She hada kind of hazy idea that an opera-dancer and a gambling club wereindispensable in fitting a young aristocrat for his future career;and I doubt whether she would not have agreed to the expediencyof inoculating a son of hers with these ailments in a milddegree--vaccinating him as it were with dissipation, in order that hemight 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 fewyears after his first entrance on a life in London, but latterly shehad begun to be a little uneasy. Tidings of the great amount of hisdebts reached even her ears; and, moreover, it was nearly time that heshould reform and settle down. During the last twelve months she hadremarked fully twelve times, to Griffiths, that she wondered whenKilcullen 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 liveat home. But then, why was it so sudden? It was quite proper that thehouse should be made a little gay for his reception; that he shouldn'tbe expected to spend his evenings with no other society than that ofhis father and mother, his sister and his cousin; but how was sheto get the house ready for the people, and the people ready for thehouse, at so very short a notice?--What trouble, also, it would beto her!--Neither she nor Griffiths would know another moment's rest;besides--and the thought nearly drove her into hysterics, --where wasshe to get a new cook?

However, she promised her husband to do her best. She received fromhim a list of people to be invited, and, merely stipulating that sheshouldn't be required to ask any one except the parson of the parishunder a week, undertook to make the place as bearable as possible toso fastidious and distinguished a person as her own son. 

Her first confidante was, of course, Griffiths; and, with herassistance, the wool and the worsted, and the knitting-needles, theunfinished vallances and interminable yards of fringe, were put up androlled out of the way; and it was then agreed that a council should beheld, to which her ladyship proposed to invite Lady Selina and Fanny. Griffiths, however, advanced an opinion that the latter was at presenttoo lack-a-daisical to be of any use in such a matter, and strengthenedher argument by asserting that Miss Wyndham had of late been quitemumchance [44]. Lady Cashel was at first rather inclined to insiston her niece being called to the council, but Griffiths's eloquencewas too strong, and her judgment too undoubted; so Fanny was leftundisturbed, and Lady Selina alone summoned to join the aged femalesenators of Grey Abbey. 

 [FOOTNOTE 44: mumchance--silent and idle]

"Selina, " said her ladyship, as soon as her daughter was seated onthe sofa opposite to her mother's easy chair, while Griffiths, havingshut the door, had, according to custom, sat herself down on her ownsoft-bottomed chair, on the further side of the little table thatalways stood at the countess's right hand. "Selina, what do you thinkyour father tells me?"

Lady Selina couldn't think, and declined guessing; for, as sheremarked, 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; fromwhat your father says, I suppose he'll stay here the greater part ofthe summer. "

"What, stay at Grey Abbey all May and June?" said Lady Selina, evidently discrediting so unlikely a story, and thinking it all butimpossible that her brother should immure himself at Grey Abbey duringthe London season. 

"It's true, my lady, " said Griffiths, oracularly; as if her word werenecessary to place the countess's statement beyond doubt. 

"Yes, " continued Lady Cashel; "and he has given up all hisestablishment in London--his horses, and clubs, and the opera, and allthat. He'll go into Parliament, I dare say, now, for the county; at anyrate 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 declareI'm delighted with him; it shows such proper feeling. I always knew hewould; I was sure that when the time came for doing it, Adolphus wouldnot 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 herladyship first told me all about it, --how his lordship was coming downto live regular and decorous among his own people, and that he wasturning his back upon his pleasures and iniquities, thinks I to myselfthere'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 ofthe last suggestion; "and if he'd even guessed such a thing, I'm surehe'd have mentioned it. "

"It mightn't be quite fixed, you know, mamma: but if Adolphus is doingas you say, you may be sure he's either engaged, or thinking ofbecoming so. "

"Well, my dear, I'm sure I wish it may be so; only I own I'd like toknow, because it makes a difference, as to the people he'd like tomeet, you know. I'm sure nothing would delight me so much as toreceive Adolphus's wife. Of course she'd always be welcome to lie inhere--indeed it'd be the fittest place. But we should be dreadfully putabout, eh, Griffiths?"

"Why, we should, my lady; but, to my mind, this would be the only mostproper place for my lord's heir to be born in. If the mother and childcouldn't have the best of minding here, where could they?"

"Of course, Griffiths; and we wouldn't mind the trouble, on such anoccasion. I think the south room would be the best, because of thedressing-room being such a good size, and neither of the fireplacessmoking, you know. "

"Well, I don't doubt but it would, my lady; only the blue room isnearer to your ladyship here, and in course your ladyship would chooseto be in and out. "

And visions of caudle cups, cradles, and monthly nurses, floated overLady Cashel's brain, and gave her a kind of dreamy feel that the worldwas going to begin again with her. 

"But, mamma, is Adolphus really to be here on Tuesday?" said LadySelina, recalling the two old women from their attendance on theunborn, to the necessities of the present generation. 

"Indeed he is, my dear, and that's what I sent for you for. Your papawishes to have a good deal of company here to meet your brother; andindeed it's only reasonable, for of course this place would be verydull for him, if there was nobody here but ourselves--and he's alwaysused to see so many people; but the worst is, it's all to be done atonce, and you know there'll be so much to be got through before we'llbe 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 almostwept as the latter came to her great final difficulty--"What are we todo about a cook?--Richards'll never do; Griffiths says she won't evendo for ourselves, as it is. "

"Indeed she won't, my lady; it was only impudence in her coming to sucha place at all. --She'd never be able to send a dinner up for eighteenor twenty. "

"What are we to do, Griffiths? What can have become of all thecooks?--I'm sure there used to be cooks enough when I was firstmarried. "

"Well, my lady, I think they must be all gone to England, those thatare 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 wewere young. "

"But, mamma, " said Lady Selina, "you're not going to ask people herejust immediately, are you?"

"Directly, my dear; your papa wishes it done at once. We're to havea dinner-party this day week--that'll be Thursday; and we'll get asmany of the people as we can to stay afterwards; and we'll get theO'Joscelyns to come on Wednesday, just to make the table look not quiteso bare, and I want you to write the notes at once. There'll be a greatmany things to be got from Dublin too. "

"It's very soon after poor Harry Wyndham's death, to be receivingcompany, " said Lady Selina, solemnly. "Really, mamma, I don't think itwill be treating Fanny well to be asking all these people so soon. TheO'Joscelyns, or the Fitzgeralds, are all very well--just our own nearneighbours; but don't you think, mamma, it's rather too soon to beasking 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 ofthings as they used to; and that's true too, I believe. "

"Indeed you may say that, my lady, " interposed Griffiths. "I rememberwhen bombazines used to be worn three full months for an uncle orcousin, and now they're hardly ever worn at all for the like, exceptin cases where the brother or sister of him or her as is dead may bestopping in the house, and then only for a month: and they were alwaysworn the full six months for a brother or sister, and sometimes thetwelve months round. Your aunt, Lady Charlotte, my lady, wore hers thefull twelve months, when your uncle, Lord Frederick, was shot by SirPatrick O'Donnel; and now they very seldom, never, I may say, wear themthe six months!--Indeed, I think mourning is going out altogether; andI'm very sorry for it, for it's a very decent, proper sort of thing; atleast, such was always my humble opinion, my lady. "

"Well; but what I was saying is, " continued the countess, "that whatwould 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 lookedunkind to Fanny, I really don't see how we can help it, as your fathermakes such a point of it. "

"I can't say I think it's right, mamma, for I don't. But if you andpapa do, of course I've nothing further to say. "

"Well, my love, I don't know that I do exactly think it's right; andI'm sure it's not my wish to be having people, especially when I don'tknow 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 wasnobody 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 behere than anywhere, for here he must be out of harm's way; but still Ithink that if he comes to a house of mourning, he might, for a shorttime, submit to put up with its decent tranquillity. "

"Selina, " said the mother, pettishly, "I really thought you'd helpme when I've so much to trouble and vex me--and not make any freshdifficulties. How can I help it?--If your father says the people areto come, I can't say I won't let them in. I hope you won't make Fannythink I'm doing it from disrespect to her. I'm sure I wouldn't have asoul here for a twelvemonth, on my own account. "

"I'm sure Miss Wyndham won't think any such thing, my lady, " saidGriffiths; "will she, Lady Selina?--Indeed, I don't think she'll matterit one pin. "

"Indeed, Selina, I don't think she will, " said the countess; and thenshe half whispered to her daughter. "Poor Fanny! it's not about herbrother she's grieving; it's that horrid man, Ballindine. She senthim away, and now she wants to have him back. I really think a littlecompany will be the best thing to bring her to herself again. " Therewas a little degree of humbug in this whisper, for her ladyship meanther daughter to understand that she wouldn't speak aloud about Fanny'slove-affair before Griffiths; and yet she had spent many a half hourtalking to her factotum on that very subject. Indeed, what subject wasthere of any interest to Lady Cashel on which she did not talk toGriffiths!

"Well, mamma, " said Lady Selina, dutifully, "I'll not say another wordabout it; only let me know what you want me to do, and I'll do it. Whois it you mean to ask?"

"Why, first of all, there's the Fitzgeralds: your father thinks thatLord and Lady George would come for a week or so, and you know thegirls have been long talking of coming to Grey Abbey--these two years Ibelieve, and more. "

"The girls will come, I dare say, mamma; though I don't exactly thinkthey're the sort of people who will amuse Adolphus; but I don't thinkLord 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'llgo back after dinner. "

"Well, my dear, if they will, they must, and I can't help it; only Imust say it'll be very ill-natured of them. I'm sure it's a long timesince 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 sureI 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, withrheumatics. There would be nothing to do, the whole time, but nurse thetwo of them. "

"Never mind, Griffiths; you'll not have to nurse them, so you needn'tbe so ill-natured. "

"Me, ill-natured, my lady? I'm sure I begs pardon, but I didn't meannothing ill-natured; besides, Mrs. Ellison was always a very nice ladyto me, and I'm sure I'd be happy to nurse her, if she wanted it; onlythat, as in duty bound, I've your ladyship to look to first, and socouldn't spare time very well for nursing any one. "

"Of course you couldn't, Griffiths; but, Selina, at any rate you mustask the Ellisons: your papa thinks a great deal about the colonel--hehas so much influence in the county, and Adolphus will very likelystand, now. Your papa and the colonel were members together for thecounty more than forty years since. "

"Well, mamma, I'll write Mrs. Ellison. Shall I say for a week or tendays?"

"Say for ten days or a fortnight, and then perhaps they'll stay aweek. Then there's the Bishop of Maryborough, and Mrs. Moore. I'm sureAdolphus will be glad to meet the bishop, for it was he that christenedhim. "

"Very well, mamma, I'll write to Mrs. Moore. I suppose the bishop is inDublin at present?"

"Yes, my dear, I believe so. There can't be anything to prevent theircoming. "

"Only that he's the managing man on the Education Board, and he'sgiving 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 thinkabout the cook, I don't see how we're to expect anybody to stay. Whatam I to do, Griffiths, about that horrid woman?"

"I'll tell you what I was thinking, my lady; only I don't know whetheryour ladyship would like it, either, and if you didn't you could easilyget 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 aman cook for a time, just to try. "

"Then I never will, Griffiths: there'd be no peace in the house withhim!"

"Well, your ladyship knows best, in course; only if you thought wellof trying it, of course you needn't keep the man; and I know there'sMurray in Dublin, that was cook so many years to old Lord Galway. Iknow 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 havethree 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 mysister, whether she could send me over anything that would answer?"

"What, from London, my lady?" answered Griffiths--"You'd find a Londonwoman cook sent over in that way twice worse than any man: she'd beall airs and graces. If your ladyship thought well of thinking aboutMurray, Richards would do very well under him: she's a decent poorcreature, poor woman--only she certainly is not a cook that'd suit forsuch a house as this; and it was only impudence her thinking to attemptit. "

"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; thetime is so very short that I ought not to lose a post. "

The poor countess threw herself back in her easy chair, the picture ofdespair. Oh, how much preferable were rolls of worsted and yards ofnetting, to the toils and turmoil of preparing for, and entertainingcompany! She was already nearly overcome by the former: she didn't dareto look forward to the miseries of the latter. She already began tofeel the ill effects of her son's reformation, and to wish that it hadbeen postponed just for a month or two, till she was a little moresettled. 

"Well, mamma, " said Lady Selina, as undisturbed and calm as ever, andas resolved to do her duty without flinching, "shall we go on?"

The countess groaned and sighed--"There's the list there, Selina, whichyour 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 areonly to come to dinner?--the O'Joscelyns, and the Parchments?"

"Ask the O'Joscelyns for Wednesday and Thursday: the girls mightas well stay and sleep here. But what's the good of writing tothem?--can't you drive over to the Parsonage and settle it allthere?--you do nothing but make difficulties, Selina, and my head'sracking. "

Lady Selina sate silent for a short time, conning the list, andendeavouring to see her way through the labyrinth of difficultieswhich was before her, without further trouble to her mother; while thecountess leaned back, with her eyes closed, and her hands placed on thearms of her chair, as though she were endeavouring to get some repose, after the labour she had gone through. Her daughter, however, againdisturbed her. 

"Mamma, " she said, trying by the solemnity of her tone to impress hermother with the absolute necessity she was under of again appealing toher 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 theFitzgeralds--and Lady Louisa Pratt--and Miss Ellison--and the threeO'Joscelyns--and not a single young man, except Mr O'Joscelyn'scurate!"

"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 sucha 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 fondof ladies' society. "

"I tell you, mamma, it won't do. There'll be the bishop and two otherclergymen, and old Colonel Ellison, who has always got the gout, andLord George, if he comes--and I'm sure he won't. If you want to make apleasant party for Adolphus, you must get some young men; besides, youcan't ask all those girls, and have nobody to dance with them or talkto them. "

"I'm sure, my dear, I don't know what you're to do. I don't know anyyoung men except Mr. Hill; and there's that young Mr. Grundy, who livesin Dublin. I promised his aunt to be civil to him: can't you ask himdown?"

"He was here before, mamma, and I don't think he liked it. I'm sure wedidn't. He didn't speak a word the whole day he was here. He's not atall the person to suit Adolphus. "

"Then, my dear, you _must_ go to your papa, and ask him: it's quiteclear I can't make young men. I remember, years ago, there always usedto be too many of them, and I don't know where they're all gone to. Atany rate, when they do come, there'll be nothing for them to eat, " andLady Cashel again fell back upon her deficiencies in the kitchenestablishment. 

Lady Selina saw that nothing more could be obtained from her mother, no further intelligence as regarded the embryo party. The whole burdenwas to lie on her shoulders, and very heavy she felt it. As far asconcerned herself, she had no particular wish for one kind of guestmore 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 couldcondescend to notice save as her father's guests; there could be noone there whose presence could be to her of any interest: the goutycolonel, and the worthy bishop, would be as agreeable to her as anyother men that would now be likely to visit Grey Abbey. But Lady Selinafelt 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 hernature to be so. But though she herself might be contented to twaddlewith old men, she knew that other girls would not. Yet it was not thatshe herself had no inward wish for that admiration which is desiredby nearly every woman, or that she thought a married state was anunenviable one. No; she could have loved and loved truly, and couldhave devoted herself most scrupulously to the duties of a wife; but shehad vainly and foolishly built up for herself a pedestal, and there shehad placed herself; nor would she come down to stand on common earth, though Apollo had enticed her, unless he came with the coronet of apeer 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 thetradesmen; and then she went to her father, and consulted him on thedifficult subject of young men. She suggested the Newbridge Barracks, where the dragoons were; and the Curragh, where perhaps some straydenizen of pleasure might be found, neither too bad for Grey Abbey, nortoo good to be acceptable to Lord Kilcullen; and at last it was decidedthat a certain Captain Cokely, and Mat Tierney, should be asked. Theywere both acquaintances of Adolphus; and though Mat was not a youngman, he was not very old, and was usually very gay. 

So that matter was settled, and the invitations were sent off. Thecountess overcame her difficulty by consenting that Murray the man cookshould be hired for a given time, with the distinct understanding thathe was to take himself off with the rest of the guests, and so greatwas her ladyship's sense of the importance of the negotiation, that sheabsolutely despatched Griffiths to Dublin to arrange it, though therebyshe was left two whole days in solitary misery at Grey Abbey; and hadto go to bed, and get up, she really hardly knew how, with suchassistance as Lady Selina's maid could give her. 

When these things were all arranged, Selina told her cousin thatAdolphus was coming home, and that a house full of company had beenasked to meet him. She was afraid that Fanny would be annoyed andoffended at being forced to go into company so soon after her brother'sdeath, but such was not the case. She felt, herself, that her poorbrother was not the cause of the grief that was near her heart; and shewould not pretend what she didn't really feel. 

"You were quite right, Selina, " she said, smiling, "about the thingsyou 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 thetrouble 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 herpreparations for the expected festivities. Little did either of themthink that she, Fanny Wyndham, was the sole cause of all the troublewhich the household and neighbourhood were to undergo:--the fatigue ofthe countess; Griffiths's journey; the arrival of the dread man cook;Richards's indignation at being made subordinate to such authority; thebishop's desertion of the Education Board; the colonel's dangerous andprecipitate consumption of colchicum; the quarrel between Lord andLady George as to staying or not staying; the new dresses of the MissO'Joscelyns, which their worthy father could so ill afford; and, aboveall, the confusion, misery, rage, and astonishment which attended LordKilcullen's unexpected retreat from London, in the middle of thesummer. And all in vain!

How proud and satisfied Lord Ballindine might have been, had he beenable to see all this, and could he have known how futile was everyeffort Lord Cashel could make to drive from Fanny Wyndham's heart thelove she felt for him. 

The invitations, however, were, generally speaking, accepted. Thebishop and his wife would be most happy; the colonel would come if thegout would possibly allow; Lady George wrote a note to say they wouldbe very happy to stay a few days, and Lord George wrote another soonafter 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 havestayed 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, LordKilcullen reached Grey Abbey; for it was about eleven o'clock when histravelling-phaëton rattled up to the door. He had been expected todinner at seven, and the first attempts of Murray in the kitchens ofGrey Abbey had been kept waiting for him till half-past eight; but invain. At that hour the earl, black with ill-humour, ordered dinner;and remarked that he considered it criminal in any man to make anappointment, who was not sufficiently attached to veracity to keep it. 

The evening was passed in moody silence. The countess was disappointed, for she always contrived to persuade herself that she was very anxiousto see her son. Lady Selina was really vexed, and began to have herdoubts as to her brother's coming at all: what was to be done, if itturned out that all the company had been invited for nothing? As toFanny, 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 whichprevailed. The ladies went to bed early, the countess grumbling at herlot, in not being allowed to see her son, and her daughter and niecemarching off with their respective candlesticks in solemn silence. Theearl retired to his book-room soon afterwards; but he had not yet satdown, when the quick rattle of the wheels was heard upon the gravelbefore the house. 

Lord Cashel walked out into the hall, prepared to meet his son in abefitting manner; that is, with a dignified austerity that could notfail to convey a rebuke even to his hardened heart. But he was balkedin his purpose, for he found that Lord Kilcullen was not alone; MatTierney 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 butone following, had persuaded him to accelerate his visit, had waitedfor him, and brought him down in his own carriage. The truth was, thatLord Kilcullen had thought that the shades of Grey Abbey would be toomuch for him, without some genial spirit to enlighten them: he wasdelighted to find that Mat Tierney was to be there, and was rejoicedto be able to convey him with him, as a sort of protection from hisfather's eloquence for the first two days of the visit. 

"Lord Kilcullen, your mother and I--" began the father, intent on atonce commenting on the iniquity of the late arrival; when he saw thefigure of a very stout gentleman, amply wrapped up in travellinghabiliments, follow his son into the inner hall. 

"Tierney, my lord, " said the son, "was good enough to come down withme. I found that he intended to be here to-morrow, and I told him youand my mother would be delighted to see him to-day instead. "

The earl shook Mr. Tierney's hand, and told him how very welcome hewas at all times, and especially at present--unexpected pleasures werealways the most agreeable; and then the earl bustled about, and orderedsupper and wine, and fussed about the bed-rooms, and performed thenecessary rites of hospitality, and then went to bed, without havingmade one solemn speech to his son. So far, Lord Kilcullen had beensuccessful in his manoeuvre; and he trusted that by making judicioususe of Mat Tierney, he might be able to stave off the evil hour for atany rate a couple of days. 

But he was mistaken. Lord Cashel was now too much in earnest to beput off his purpose; he had been made too painfully aware that hisson's position was desperate, and that he must at once be saved by adesperate 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, soinsurmountable seemed the difficulties, that he all but repented thathe had not left him to his fate. The attempt, however, must again bemade; he was there, in the house, and could not be turned out; butLord Cashel determined that at any rate no time should be lost. 

The two new arrivals made their appearance the next morning, greatlyto Lady Cashel's delight; she was perfectly satisfied with her son'sapology, and delighted to find that at any rate one of her expectedguests would not fail her in her need. The breakfast went overpleasantly enough, and Kilcullen was asking Mat to accompany him intothe stables, to see what novelties they should find there, when LordCashel spoiled the arrangement by saying, "Could you spare me half-an-hour in the bookroom first, Kilcullen?"

This request, of course, could not be refused; and the father and sonwalked off, leaving Mat Tierney to the charity of the ladies. 

There was much less of flippant overbearing impudence now, about LordKilcullen, much less of arrogance and insult from the son towards thefather, than there had been in the previous interview which has beenrecorded. He seemed to be somewhat in dread, to be cowed, and ill atease; he tried, however, to assume his usual manner, and followed hisfather into the book-room with an affected air of indifference, whichvery ill concealed his real feelings. 

"Kilcullen, " began the earl, "I was very sorry to see Tierney with youlast night. It would have been much better that we should have beenalone together, at any rate for one morning. I suppose you are awarethat there is a great deal to be talked over between us?"

"I suppose there is, " said the son; "but I couldn't well help bringingthe man, when he told me he was coming here. "

"He didn't ask you to bring him, I suppose?--but we will not talk aboutthat. Will you do me the favour to inform me what your present plansare?"

"My present plans, my lord? Indeed, I've no plans!--It's a long timesince I had a plan of my own. I am, however, prepared to acquiesceentirely in any which you may propose. I have come quite prepared tothrow 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, atany rate, will ask her; if she refuses me, your lordship will perhapsbe able to persuade her to a measure so evidently beneficial to allparties. "

"The persuading must be with yourself; but if you suppose you can carryher with a high hand, without giving yourself the trouble to try toplease her, you are very much mistaken. If you think she'll accept youmerely because you ask her, you might save yourself the trouble, and aswell return to London at once. "

"Just as you please, my lord; but I thought I came in obedience to yourexpress wishes. "

"So you did; but, to tell you the truth--your manner in coming is verydifferent 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 tothose who are endeavouring to rescue you from ruin: with some feelingof, at any rate, sorrow for the mad extravagance of your past career. Instead of that, you come gay, reckless, and unconcerned as ever; youpick up the first jovial companion you meet, and with him disturb thehouse at a most unseasonable hour. You are totally regardless of theappointments you make; and plainly show, that as you come here solelyfor your own pleasure, you consider it needless to consult my wishesor my comfort. Are you aware that you kept your mother and myself twohours waiting for dinner yesterday?"

The pathos with which Lord Cashel terminated his speech--and it was onethe thrilling effect of which he intended to be overwhelming--almostrestored Lord Kilcullen to his accustomed effrontery. 

"My lord, " he said, "I did not consider myself of sufficient importanceto have delayed your dinner ten minutes. "

"I have always endeavoured, Kilcullen, to show the same respect to youin my house, which my father showed to me in his; but you do not allowme the opportunity. But let that pass; we have more important things tospeak of. When last we were here together why did you not tell me thewhole truth?"

"What truth, my lord?"

"About your debts, Kilcullen: why did you conceal from me their fullamount? Why, at any rate, did you take pains to make me think them somuch less than they really are?"

"Conceal, my lord?--that is hardly fair, considering that I told youexpressly I could not give you any idea what was the amount I owed. Iconcealed nothing; if you deceived yourself, the fault was not mine. "

"You could not but have known that the claims against you were muchlarger than I supposed them to be--double, I suppose. Good heaven!--whyin ten years more, at this rate, you would more than consume the feesimple of the whole property! What can I say to you, Kilcullen, to makeyou look on your own conduct in the proper light?"

"I think you have said enough for the purpose; you have told me tomarry, and I have consented to do so. "

"Do you think, Kilcullen, you have spent the last eight years in a waywhich it can please a father to contemplate? Do you think I can lookback on your conduct with satisfaction or content? And yet you have noregret to express for the past--no promises to make for the future. Ifear it is all in vain. I fear that what I am doing what I am strivingto do, is now all in vain. I fear it is hopeless to attempt to recallyou from the horrid, reckless, wicked mode of life you have adopted. "The sombre mantle of expostulatory eloquence had now descended on theearl, and he continued, turning full upon his victim, and raising andlowering his voice with monotonous propriety. --"I fear it is to nogood purpose that I am subjecting your mother and myself to privation, restraint, and inconvenience; that I am straining every nerve to placeyou again in a position of respectability, a position suitable to myfortune and your own rank. I am endeavouring to retrieve the desperateextravagance--the--I must say--though I do not wish to hurt yourfeelings, yet I must say, disgraceful ruin of your past career. And howdo you help me? what regret do you show? what promises of amendment doyou afford? You drive up to my hall-door at midnight with your booncompanion; you disturb the whole household at most unseasonable hours, and subject my family to the same disreputable irregularity in whichyou have yourself so long indulged. Can such doings, Kilcullen, give meany hopes for the future? Can--"

"My lord--I am extremely sorry for the dinner: what can I say more? Andas 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, butthat is the extent of my offence. "

"Well, Kilcullen; if you think your conduct has always been such as itought to be, it is of little use for me to bring up arguments to thecontrary. "

"I don't think so, my lord. What can I say more? I have donethose things which I ought not to have done. Were I to confess mytransgressions for the hour together, I could not say more; except thatI have left undone the things which I ought to have done. Or, do youwant me to beat my breast and tear my hair?"

"I want you, Lord Kilcullen, to show some sense of decency--some filialrespect. "

"Well, my lord, here I am, prepared to marry a wife of your ownchoosing, and to set about the business this morning, if you please. Ithought you would have called that decent, filial, and respectable. "

The earl could hardly gainsay this; but still he could not bringhimself to give over so soon the unusual pleasure of blowing up hisonly son. It was so long since Lord Kilcullen had been regularlyin his power, and it might never occur again. So he returned fromconsideration of the future to a further retrospect on the past. 

"You certainly have played your cards most foolishly; you have thrownaway your money--rather, I should say, my money, in a manner whichnothing can excuse or palliate. You might have made the turf a sourceof gratifying amusement; your income was amply sufficient to enableyou to do so; but you have possessed so little self-control, so littlejudgment, so little discrimination, that you have allowed yourselfto be plundered by every blackleg, and robbed by every--everybody inshort, who chose to rob you. The same thing has been the case in allyour other amusements and pursuits--"

"Well, my lord, I confess it all; isn't that enough?"

"Enough, Kilcullen!" said the earl, in a voice of horrifiedastonishment, "how enough?--how can anything be enough after such acourse--so wild, so mad, so ruinous!"

"For Heaven's sake, my lord, finish the list of my iniquities, oryou'll make me feel that I am utterly unfit to become my cousin'shusband. "

"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 moreowing for them than they are worth; you may say they belong to thetrainer now. "

"Is the establishment in Curzon Street broken up?"

"To tell the truth, not exactly; but I've no thoughts of returningthere. I'm still under rent for the house. "

The cross-examination was continued for a considerable time--till theearl had literally nothing more to say, and Lord Kilcullen was soirritated that he told his father he would not stand it any longer. Then they went into money affairs, and the earl spoke despondinglyabout ten thousands and twenty thousands, and the viscount somewhatflippantly of fifty thousands and sixty thousands; and this wascontinued till the earl felt that his son was too deep in the mire tobe pulled out, and the son thought that, deep as he was there, it wouldbe better to remain and wallow in it than undergo so disagreeable aprocess as that to which his father subjected him in extricating himfrom it. It was settled, however, that Mr. Jervis, Lord Cashel'sagent, should receive full authority to deal summarily in all mattersrespecting the horses and their trainers, the house in Curzon Street, and its inhabitants, and all other appendages and sources of expensewhich Lord Kilcullen had left behind him; and that he, Kilcullen, should at once commence his siege upon his cousin's fortune. And onthis point the son bargained that, as it would be essentially necessarythat his spirits should be light and easy, he was not, duringthe operation, to be subjected to any of his father's book-roomconversations: for this he stipulated as an absolute _sine quâ non_in the negotiation, and the clause was at last agreed to, though notwithout much difficulty. 

Both father and son seemed to think that the offer should be made atonce. Lord Cashel really feared that his son would be arrested at GreyAbbey, and he was determined to pay nothing further for him, unlesshe felt secure of Fanny's fortune; and whatever were Lord Kilcullen'shopes and fears as to his future lot, he was determined not to remainlong in suspense, as far as his projected marriage was concerned. Hewas determined to do his best to accomplish it, for he would have doneanything 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. TheQueen's Bench would be preferable to that. He was not, however, verydoubtful; he felt but little confidence in the constancy of any woman'saffection, and a great deal in his own powers of fascination: he hadalways been successful in his appeals to ladies' hearts, and did notdoubt of being so now, when the object of his adoration must, as hethought, be so dreadfully in want of some excitement, something tointerest her. Any fool might have her now, thought he, and she can'thave any violent objection to being Lady Kilcullen for the present, andLady Cashel in due time. He felt, however, something like remorse atthe arrangement to which he was a party; it was not that he was aboutto make a beautiful creature, his own cousin, miserable for life, byuniting her to a spendthrift, a _roué_, and a gambler--such was thenatural lot of women in the higher ranks of life--but he felt thathe was robbing her of her money. He would have thought it to be nodisgrace to carry her off had another person been her guardian. Shewould then have had fair play, and it would be the guardian's fault ifher 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 be had, and Lord Kilcullen was not long inquieting his conscience. 

"Tierney, " said Kilcullen, meeting his friend after his escape from thebook-room; "you are not troubled with a father now, I believe;--do yourecollect whether you ever had one?"

"Well, I can't say I remember just at present, " said Mat; "but Ibelieve I had a sort of one, once. "

"I'm a more dutiful son than you, " said the other; "I never can forgetmine. I have no doubt an alligator on the banks of the Nile is afearful creature--a shark when one's bathing, or a jungle tiger whenone's out shooting, ought, I'm sure, to be avoided; but no creatureyet created, however hungry, or however savage, can equal in ferocitya 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 astarved hyena, single-handed in the desert, than be shut up for anotherhour with my Lord Cashel in that room of his on the right-hand sideof 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 willknow that I have lacked courage to comply with a second summons tothose gloomy realms. If I receive another invite such as that I gotthis morning, I am off. "

Lady Cashel's guests came on the day appointed; the carriages weredriven up, one after another, in quick succession, about an hour beforedinner-time; and, as her ladyship's mind became easy on the score ofdisappointments, it was somewhat troubled as to the multitude of peopleto be fed and entertained. Murray had not yet forgiven the injuryinflicted on him when the family dinner was kept waiting for LordKilcullen, 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 commencedthe operation of dressing herself, she declared she was so utterlyexhausted by what she had gone through during the last week, as to beentirely unfit to entertain her company. Poor dear Lady Cashel! Was sheso ignorant of her own nature as to suppose it possible that she shouldever entertain anybody?

However, a glass of wine, and some mysterious drops, and a littlepaint; a good deal of coaxing, the sight of her diamonds, and of alarge puce-coloured turban, somewhat revivified her; and she was in herdrawing-room in due time, supported by Lady Selina and Fanny, ready toreceive her visitors as soon as they should descend from theirrespective rooms. 

Lady Cashel had already welcomed Lord George, and shaken hands with thebishop: and was now deep in turnips and ten-pound freeholders with thegouty colonel, who had hobbled into the room on a pair of crutches, andwas accommodated with two easy chairs in a corner--one for himself, andthe other for his feet. 

"Now, my dear Lady George, " said the countess, "you must not think ofreturning to Mountains tonight: indeed, we made sure of you and LordGeorge for a week. "

"My dear Lady Cashel, it's impossible; indeed, we wished it of allthings, and tried it every way: but we couldn't manage it; Lord Georgehas so much to do: there's the Sessions to-morrow at Dunlavin, and hehas 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 thosethings, you know, or the tenants couldn't get their corn to market. Butyou don't know how sorry we are, and such a charming set you have gothere!"

"Well, I know it's no use pressing you; but I can't tell you how vexedI 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 quitefond 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 sidledoff to the bishop's fat wife. 

"Well, this is very kind of you and the bishop, to come at so short anotice: indeed I hardly dared expect it. I know he has so much to do inDublin with those horrid boards and things. "

"He is busy there, to be sure, Lady Cashel; but he couldn't denyhimself the pleasure of coming to Grey Abbey; he thinks so very muchof the earl. Indeed, he'd contrive to be able to come here, when hecouldn't think of going anywhere else. "

"I'm sure Lord Cashel feels how kind he is; and so do I, and so doesAdolphus. Lord Kilcullen will be delighted to meet you and the bishop. "

The bishop's wife assured the countess that nothing on earth, at thepresent moment, would give the bishop so much pleasure as meeting LordKilcullen. 

"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 everythingthat's high-minded and talented, Adolphus is: a little sarcasticperhaps--I don't mind saying so to you; but that's only to inferiorsort of people--not talented, you know: some people are stupid, andAdolphus can't bear that. "

"Indeed they are, my lady. I was dining last week at Mrs. Prijean's, inMerrion 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 withthe bishop: it's so delightful, his having christened him. Adolphusmeans to live a good deal here now. Indeed, he and his father have somuch in common that they can't get on very well apart, and I reallyhope he and the bishop'll see a good deal of each other;" and thecountess 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 GreyAbbey; it's such ages since you were here!"

"Indeed it is, Lady Cashel, a very long time; but the poor colonelsuffers so much, it's rarely he's fit to be moved; and, indeed, I'm notmuch better myself. I was not able to move my left shoulder from a weekbefore 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 preventingit, and no curing it. It's like a bad husband, Lady Cashel; the bestway 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 dyingto see Lord Cashel. He thinks the ministers'll be shaken about thisbusiness of O'Connell's; and if so, that there'll be a generalelection, 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 withthose things; but I really think Adolphus is thinking of going intoParliament. You know he's living here at present: his father's viewsand his own are so exactly the same on all those sort of things, thatit's quite delightful. He's taking a deal of interest about the countylately, is Adolphus, and about Grey Abbey too: he's just the same hisfather used to be, and that kind of thing is so pleasant, isn't it, MrsEllison?"

Mrs Ellison said it was, and at the same moment groaned, for hershoulder gave her a twinge. 

The subject of these eulogiums, in the meantime, did not make hisappearance till immediately before dinner was announced, and certainlydid not evince very strongly the delight which his mother had assuredher friends he would feel at meeting them, for he paid but very littleattention to any one but Mat Tierney and his cousin Fanny; he shookhands with all the old gentlemen, bowed to all the old ladies, andnodded 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 bishopand the colonel respecting things temporal and spiritual, he certainlyvery successfully suppressed his anxiety. 

He had, during the last two or three days, applied himself to the taskof ingratiating himself with Fanny. He well knew how to suit himself todifferent 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 oppressivetedium of Grey Abbey society. 

He had not begun by making love to her, or expressing admiration, orby doing or saying anything which could at all lead her to suspect hispurpose, or put her on her guard. He had certainly been much moreattentive to her, much more intimate with her, than he usually had beenin his flying visits to Grey Abbey; but then he was now making hisfirst appearance as a reformed rake; and besides, he was her firstcousin, and she therefore felt no inclination to repel his advances. 

He was obliged, in performance of a domestic duty, to walk out todinner with one of Lady George's daughters, but he contrived to sitnext to Fanny--and, much to his father's satisfaction, talked to herduring 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 hadnot a moment to come and look after us? The Miss O'Joscelyns have beenexpecting you to ride with them, walk with them, talk with them, andplay _la grace_ with them. They didn't give up the sticks till it wasquite 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 fromthe Miss O'Joscelyns. "

"But that won't do at all; don't you know they were asked here for yourespecial edification and amusement?"

"Oh, I know they were. So were the bishop, and the colonel, and LordGeorge, and their respective wives, and Mr Hill. My dear mamma askedthem all here for my amusement; but, you know, one man may lead a horseto water--a hundred can't make him drink. I cannot, cannot drink of theMiss O'Joscelyns, and the Bishop of Maryborough. "

"For shame, Adolphus! you ought at any rate to do something to amusethem. "

"Amuse them! My dear Fanny, who ever heard of amusing a bishop? Butit's very easy to find fault; what have you done, yourself, for theiramusement?"

"I didn't run away from them; though, had I done so, there would havebeen more excuse for me than for you. "

"So there would, Fanny, " said Kilcullen, feeling that she had alludedto her brother's death; "and I'm very, very sorry all these people arehere to bore you at such a time, and doubly sorry that they should havebeen asked on my account. They mistake me greatly, here. They know thatI've thought Grey Abbey dull, and have avoided it; and now that I'vedetermined 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 bethe nastiest part of the dose. Indeed I have no dislike to Grey Abbeyat present; though I own I have no taste for the sugar in which my kindmother 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 wasthe 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 anend, 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 sucha time, " and Lord Kilcullen contrived to give his voice a tone oftender solicitude. 

"Kilcullen, " said the earl, across the table, "you don't hear thebishop. His lordship is asking you to drink wine with him. "

"I shall be most proud of the honour, " said the son, and bobbed hishead at the bishop across the table. 

Fanny was on the point of saying something respecting her brother toLord Kilcullen, which would have created a kind of confidence betweenthem, but the bishop's glass of wine broke it off, and from that timeLord Kilcullen was forced by his father into a general conversationwith his guests. 

In the evening there was music and singing. The Miss O'Joscelyns, andMiss Fitzgeralds, and Mr Hill, performed: even Mat Tierney condescendedto amuse the company by singing the "Coronation", first begging thebishop to excuse the peculiar allusions to the "_clargy_", containedin one of the verses; and then Fanny was asked to sing. She had againbecome silent, dull, and unhappy, was brooding over her miseries anddisappointments, 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 wonderhow my mother can have been so thoughtless. "

Fanny persisted in declining to sing--and Lord Kilcullen again satdown 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!--yourAmadis de Gaul--your Bertrand du Guesclin [45]! And no paladin of oldever attempted to defend a damsel from more formidable foes. "

 [FOOTNOTE 45: Amadis . . . Du Guesclin--mediaeval heroes. Amadis de Gaul was the title hero of a 14th century romantic novel, probably first written in Spanish, which was popular throughout Europe. Bertrand du Guesclin was a historical figure, a fourteenth century French soldier and Marshall of France. ]

"Indeed, Adolphus, I don't think them so formidable. Many of them aremy 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 oneof 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 soeasily?"

"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 hercharacter 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 needmind 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 offlirtations: she encourages correspondence between young ladies; alwayscrosses her letters, and never finished one for the last ten yearswithout expressing entire resignation to the will of God, --as if shecouldn't be resigned without so often saying so. She speaks to herconfidential friends of young men as a very worthless, insignificantrace of beings; she is, however, prepared to take the very first thatmay be unfortunate enough to come in her way; she has no ideas ofher own, but is quick enough at borrowing those of other people; sheconsiders herself a profound theologian; dotes on a converted papist, and looks on a Puseyite [46] as something one shade blacker than thedevil. Now isn't that sufficiently like for a portrait?"

 [FOOTNOTE 46: Puseyite--a follower of Edward Pusey (1800-1882), one of three scholars at Oxford who started a movement critical of the Church of England. One of the three, John Henry Newman, converted to Catholicism, and Pusey and his followers were accused of advocating Catholic practices. ]

"It's the portrait of a set, I fear, rather than an individual. I don'tknow that it's particularly like Miss O'Joscelyn, except as to theworsted 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; peopleought to be resigned. "

"Oh, of course. And now doesn't she love a convert and hate aPuseyite?"

"All Irish clergyman's daughters do that. "

"Well, Fanny, you can't say but that it was a good portrait; and afterthat, 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 asmost others. "

"And who is the friend of friends, Fanny?"

"Come, you're not my father confessor. I'm not to tell you all. If Itold you that, you'd make another portrait. "

"I'm sure I couldn't draw a disparaging picture of anybody you wouldreally call your friend. But indeed I pity you, living among so manysuch 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 drawyour portrait. "

"Pray don't; if it were frightful I should think you uncivil; and ifyou made it handsome, I should know you were flattering. Besides, youdon'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 thecanvass. Some likenesses are very hard to catch. "

Fanny felt, when she went to bed, that she had spent a pleasanterevening than she usually did, and that it was a much less nuisanceto talk to her cousin Adolphus than to either his father, mother, orsister; and as she sat before her fire, while her maid was brushingher hair, she began to think that she had mistaken his character, andthat he couldn't be the hard, sensual, selfish man for which she hadtaken him. Her ideas naturally fell back to Frank and her love, herdifficulties and sorrows; and, before she went to sleep, she had almosttaught herself to think that she might make Lord Kilcullen the means ofbringing 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'sfolly and extravagance; but she had never heard him do so; she hadonly heard of it through Lord Cashel; and she quite ceased to believeanything her guardian might say respecting her discarded lover. At anyrate she would try. Some step she was determined to take about LordBallindine; and, if her cousin refused to act like a cousin and afriend, 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 guestsassembled at Grey Abbey. Captain Cokely, and a Mr Battersby, came overfrom Newbridge barracks, but they did not add much to the generalenjoyment of the party, though their arrival was hailed with delightby some of the young ladies. At any rate they made the rooms look lessforlorn in the evenings, and made it worth the girls' while to put ontheir best bibs and tuckers. 

"But what's the use of it at all?" said Matilda Fitzgerald to littleLetty O'Joscelyn, when she had spent three-quarters of an hour inadjusting her curls, and setting her flounces properly, on the eveningbefore the arrival of the two cavalry officers; "not a soul to look atus 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 askedus to meet such a set, " and Matilda descended, pouting, and out ofhumour. 

But on the next day she went through her work much more willingly, ifnot more carefully. 

"That Captain Cokely's a very nice fellow, " said Matilda; "the best ofthat Newbridge set, out and out. "

"Well now, I really think he's not so nice as Mr Battersby, " saidLetty. "I'm sure he's not so good-looking. "

"Oh, Battersby's only a boy. After all, Letty, I don't know whether Ilike officers so much better than other men, "--and she twisted her neckround to get a look at her back in the pier-glass, and gave her dress alittle pull just above her bustle. 

"I'm sure I do, " said Letty; "they've so much more to say forthemselves, and they're so much smarter. "

"Why, yes, they are smarter, " said Matilda; "and there's nothing onearth so dowdy as an old black coat, But, then, officers are alwaysgoing away: you no sooner get to know one or two of a set, and tofeel that one of them is really a darling fellow, but there, they areoff--to Jamaica, China, Hounslow barracks, or somewhere; and then it'sall 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 MrsMoore. "I'm sure some one told me so. "

"Oh, yes, she was, " said Mrs Moore; "the affair was settled, andeverything arranged; but the man was very poor, and a gambler, --LordBallindine: he has the name of a property down in Mayo somewhere; butwhen she got all her brother's money, Lord Cashel thought it a pity tosacrifice it, --so he got her out of the scrape. A very good thing forthe poor girl, for they say he's a desperate scamp. "

"Well, I declare I think, " said Mrs Ellison, "she'll not have far tolook 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 veryglad of it. I know he wants money desperately, and it would be such acapital thing for the earl. "

"At any rate, the lady does not look a bit unwilling, " said MrsEllison. "I suppose she's fond of rakish young men. You say LordBallindine was of that set; and I'm sure Lord Kilcullen's thesame, --he has the reputation, at any rate. They say he and his fathernever 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 toMat Tierney, as they were playing a game of piquet in the littledrawing-room. 

"Yes, " said Mat; "and she's a hundred thousand exceedingly fine charmstoo, independently of her fine face. "

"So I hear, " said Cokely; "but I only believe half of what I hear aboutthose things. "

"She has more than that; I know it. "

"Has she though? Faith, do you know I think Kilcullen has a mind tokeep it in the family. He's very soft on her, and she's just as sweetto him. I shouldn't be surprised if he were to marry now, and turnsteady. "

"Not at all; there are two reasons against it. In the first place, he'stoo much dipped for even Fanny's fortune to be any good to him; andsecondly, 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 sayso myself. I'll back Kilcullen to marry her against Ballindine for ahundred 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 shedoesn't get bagged in his absence. Kilcullen is here, and I tell youhe's a keen sportsman. They say it's quite up with him in London, andI should be sorry she were sacrificed: she seems a nice girl. "

Lord Kilcullen had ample opportunities of forwarding his intimacy withFanny, and he did not neglect them. To give him his due, he played hiscards as well as his father could wish him. He first of all overcamethe dislike with which she was prepared to regard him; he theninterested her about himself; and, before he had been a week at GreyAbbey, she felt that she had a sort of cousinly affection for him. Hegot her to talk with a degree of interest about himself; and when hecould do that, there was no wonder that Tierney should have fears forhis 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 realpassion, by anyone. 

"Now, tell me the truth, Fanny, " said Kilcullen, as they were sittingover the fire together in the library, one dark afternoon, before theywent to dress for dinner; "hadn't you been taught to look on me as akind of ogre--a monster of iniquity, who spoke nothing but oaths, anddid nothing but sin?"

"Not exactly that: but I won't say I thought you were exactly just whatyou 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 layin bed all day, devising iniquity in my dreams? Come now, tell thetruth, and shame the devil; if I am the devil, I know people have mademe out to be. "

"Why, really, Adolphus, I never calculated how your days and nightswere spent. But if I am to tell the truth, I fear some of them mighthave 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; youasked me the question, --and I suppose you wanted an answer. "

"I did; I wanted a true one--for though you may never have givenyourself much trouble to form an opinion about me, I am anxious thatyou should do so now. I don't want to trouble you with what is done andpast; I don't want to make it appear that I have not been thoughtlessand 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 believethat I have done nothing which should exclude me from your future goodopinion; from your friendship and esteem. "

"I am not of an unforgiving temperament, even had you done anything forme to forgive: but I am not aware that you have. "

"No; nothing for you to forgive, in the light of an offence toyourself; but much, perhaps, to prevent your being willing to regardme as a personal friend. We're not only first cousins, Fanny, but areplaced more closely together than cousins usually are. You have neitherfather nor mother; now, also, you have no brother, " and he took herhands in his own as he said so. "Who should be a brother to you, if Iam 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, andcold--unlike you in everything. I should be so happy if I could be thefriend--the friend of friends you spoke of the other evening; if Icould fill the place which must be empty near your heart. I can neverbe this to you, if you believe that anything in my past life has beenreally disgraceful. It is for this reason that I want to know what youtruly think of me. I won't deny that I am anxious you should think wellof me:--well, at any rate for the present, and the future, andcharitably as regards the past. "

Fanny had been taken much by surprise by the turn her cousin had givento the conversation; and was so much affected, that, before he hadfinished, she was in tears. She had taken her hand out of his, to puther handkerchief to her eyes, and as she did not immediately answer, hecontinued:

"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 becomefriends: not such friends, Fanny, as you and Judith O'Joscelyn--friendsonly of circumstance, who have neither tastes, habits, or feelingsin common--friends whose friendship consists in living in the sameparish, and meeting each other once or twice a week; but friends inreality--friends in confidence--friends in mutual dependence--friendsin love--friends, dear Fanny, as cousins situated as we are should beto 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 itwould be to have such a friend, and to find him in her own cousin! Thewhole family, hitherto, were so cold to her--so uncongenial. The earlshe absolutely disliked; she loved her aunt, but it was only becauseshe was her aunt--she couldn't like her; and though she loved LadySelina, and, to a degree, admired her, it was like loving a marblefigure. There was more true feeling in what Kilcullen had now said toher, than in all that had fallen from the whole family for the fouryears she had lived at Grey Abbey, and she could not therefore butclose on the offer of his affection. 

"Shall we be such friends, then?" said he; "or, after all, am I toobad? Have I too much of the taint of the wicked world to be the friendof so pure a creature as you?"

"Oh no, Adolphus; I'm sure I never thought so, " said she. "I neverjudged you, and indeed I am not disposed to do so now. I'm too much inwant of kindness to reject yours, --even were I disposed to do so, whichI am not. "

"Then, Fanny, we are to be friends--true, loving, trusting friends?"

"Oh, yes!" said Fanny. "I am really, truly grateful for your affectionand kindness. I know how precious they are, and I will value themaccordingly. "

Again Lord Kilcullen took her hand, and pressed it in his; and then hekissed it, and told her she was his own dear cousin Fanny; and thenrecommended her to go and dress, which she did. He sat himself down fora quarter of an hour, ruminating, and then also went off to dress; but, during that quarter of an hour, very different ideas passed through hismind, than such as those who knew him best would have given him creditfor. 

In the first place, he thought that he really began to feel anaffection for his cousin Fanny, and to speculate whether it wereabsolutely within the verge of possibility that he should marryher--retrieve his circumstances--treat her well, and live happily forthe rest of his life as a respectable nobleman. 

For two or three minutes the illusion remained, till it was banished byretrospection. It was certainly possible that he should marry her: itwas his full intention to do so: but as to retrieving his circumstancesand treating her well!--the first was absolutely impossible--the othernearly 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 amonth in such a way, let alone a life. But then Fanny Wyndham was sobeautiful, so lively, so affectionate, so exactly what a cousin and awife ought to be: he could not bear to think that all his protestationsof friendship and love had been hypocritical; that he could only lookupon her as a gudgeon, and himself as a bigger fish, determined toswallow her! Yet such must be his views regarding her. He departed todress, absolutely troubled in his conscience. 

And what were Fanny's thoughts about her cousin? She was much surprisedand gratified, but at the same time somewhat flustered and overwhelmed, by the warmth and novelty of his affection. However, she never for amoment doubted his truth towards her, or had the slightest suspicion ofhis real object. Her chief thought was whether she could induce him tobe a mediator for her, between Lord Cashel and Lord Ballindine. 

During the next two days he spoke to her a good deal about herbrother--of whom, by-the-bye, he had really known nothing. Hecontrived, however, to praise him as a young man of much spirit andgreat promise; then he spoke of her own large fortune, asked her whather wishes were about its investment, and told her how happy he wouldbe to express those wishes at once to Lord Cashel, and to see that theywere carried out. Once or twice she had gradually attempted to lead theconversation to Lord Ballindine, but Kilcullen was too crafty, and hadprevented her; and she had not yet sufficient courage to tell him atonce what was so near her heart. 

"Fanny, " said Lady Selina, one morning, about a week after the generalarrival of the company at Grey Abbey, and when some of them had takentheir departure, "I am very glad to see you have recovered yourspirits: I know you have made a great effort, and I appreciate andadmire it. "

"Indeed, Selina, I fear you are admiring me too soon. I own I havebeen amused this week past, and, to a certain degree, pleased; but Ifear you'll find I shall relapse. There's been no radical reform; mythoughts are all in the same direction as they were. "

"But the great trial in this world is to behave well and becominglyin spite of oppressive thoughts: and it always takes a struggle to dothat, and that struggle you've made. I hope it may lead you to feelthat you may be contented and in comfort without having everythingwhich you think necessary to your happiness. I'm sure I looked forwardto this week as one of unmixed trouble and torment; but I was verywrong 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 nothave come from poor Mrs Ellison, or the bishop's wife; and you seemedto me to spend all your time in talking to them. Virtue, they say, isits own reward: I don't know what other satisfaction you can have hadfrom them. "

"In the first place, it has given me great pleasure to see that youwere able to exert yourself in company, and that the crowd of peopledid not annoy you: but I have chiefly been delighted by seeing that youand Adolphus are such good friends. You must think, Fanny, that I amanxious about an only brother--especially when we have all had so muchcause to be anxious about him; and don't you think it must be a delightto me to find that he is able to take pleasure in your society? Ishould be doubly pleased, doubly delighted, if I could please himmyself. 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 becomedistasteful to him because we are all sedate, steady people. Perhapssome would call us dull, and heavy; and I have grieved that it shouldbe so, though I cannot alter my nature; but you are so much thecontrary--there is so much in your character like his own, before hebecame fond of the world, that I feel he can become attached to andfond of you; and I am delighted to see that he thinks so himself. Whatdo you think of him, now that you have seen more of him than you everdid before?"

"Indeed, " said Fanny, "I like him very much. "

"He is very clever, isn't he? He might have been anything if he hadgiven himself fair play. He seems to have taken greatly to you. "

"Oh yes; we are great friends:" and then Fanny paused--"so greatfriends, " she continued, looking somewhat gravely in Lady Selina'sface, "that I mean to ask the greatest favour of him that I could askof 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 totell him all I feel about Lord Ballindine, and I mean to ask him to seehim for me. Adolphus has offered to be a brother to me, and I mean totake 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 shouldprotect you from importunity and insult, from injury and wrong; andthat, I am sure, Adolphus would do: but no brother would consent tooffer your hand to a man who had neglected you and been refused, andwho, in all probability, would now reject you with scorn if he has theopportunity--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 sureAdolphus will not undertake. If you take my advice you will not askhim. "

As Lady Selina finished speaking she walked to the door, as ifdetermined to hear no reply from her cousin; but, as she was leavingthe room, she fancied that she heard her sobbing, and her heartsoftened, 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 anythingfor your comfort and happiness, but I cannot bear to think thatyou should"--Lady Selina was puzzled for a word to express hermeaning--"that you should forget yourself, " and she attempted to puther arm round Fanny's waist. 

But she was mistaken; Fanny was not sobbing, but was angry; and whatSelina now said about her forgetting herself, did not make her less so. 

"No, " she said, withdrawing herself from her cousin's embrace andstanding erect, while her bosom was swelling with indignation: "Iwant no affection from you, Selina, that is accompanied by so muchdisapprobation. You don't wish to be severe, only you say that I amlikely to forget myself. Forget myself!" and Fanny threw back herbeautiful head, and clenched her little fists by her side: "The otherday you said 'disgrace myself', and I bore it calmly then; but I willnot any longer bear such imputations. I tell you plainly, Selina, Iwill not forget myself, nor will I be forgotten. Nor will I submit towhatever fate cold, unfeeling people may doom me, merely because I am awoman and alone. I will not give up Lord Ballindine, if I have to walkto his door and tell him so. And were I to do so, I should never thinkthat I had forgotten myself. "

"Listen to me, Fanny, " said Selina. 

"Wait a moment, " continued Fanny, "I have listened enough: it ismy turn to speak now. For one thing I have to thank you: you havedispelled 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 sodisgraceful. I will not subject him to the scorn with which you chooseto think my love will be treated by him who loved me so well. That youshould dare to tell me that he who did so much for my love should nowscorn it!--Oh, Selina, that I may live to forget that you said thosewords!" and Fanny, for a moment, put her handkerchief to her eyes--butit was but for a moment. "However, " she continued, "I will now act formyself. As you think I might forget myself, I tell you I will do it inno clandestine way. I will write to Lord Ballindine, and I will showmy letter to my uncle. The whole house shall read it if they please. Iwill tell Lord Ballindine all the truth--and if Lord Cashel turns mefrom his house, I shall probably find some friend to receive me, whomay still believe that I have not forgotten myself. " And Fanny Wyndhamsailed out of the room. 

Lady Selina, when she saw that she was gone, sat down on the sofa andtook her book. She tried to make herself believe that she was going toread; but it was no use: the tears dimmed her eyes, and she put thebook 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 awonderful piece of good news to communicate to her. 

"I declare, my dear, " she said, "it's the most delightful thing I'veheard for years and years; and it's just exactly what I had plannedmyself, 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 tellsme 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 justwhat ought to be done. I suppose they won't have the wedding beforesummer; though May is a very nice month. Let me see; it only wantsthree 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'vethought of all this happening so soon, out of this party, which gaveus so much trouble! However, I knew your father was right. I said allalong that he was in the right to ask the people. "

"Mamma, " said Lady Selina, gravely, "listen to me: calmly now, andattentively. I don't know what papa has told you; but I tell you Fannydoes not dream of marrying Adolphus. He has never asked her, and if hedid she would never accept him. Fanny is more than ever in love withLord Ballindine. "

The countess opened her eyes wide, and looked up into her daughter'sface, but said nothing. 

"Tell me, mamma, as nearly as you can recollect, what it is papa hassaid 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 wishthey should be married; that Adolphus was very eager for it, and thatFanny had received his attentions and admiration with evident pleasureand satisfaction. And so she has, my dear; you couldn't but have seenthat yourself. "

"Well, mamma, what else did papa say?"

"Why, he said just what I'm telling you: that I wasn't to be surprisedif 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'tsay she had accepted him. But he said he had no doubt about it; andI'm sure, from what was going on last week, I couldn't have anydoubt 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 shewas 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 bringingLord Ballindine back to Grey Abbey. "

"Lord have mercy!" said the countess. 

"I only tell you this, mamma, to show you how impossible it is thatpapa should be right. "

"What are we to do, my dear? Oh, dear, there'll be such a piece ofwork! What a nasty thing Fanny is. I'm sure she's been making love toAdolphus all the week!"

"No, mamma, she has not. Don't be unfair to Fanny. If there is anyonein fault it is Adolphus; but, as you say, what shall we do to preventfurther misunderstanding? I think I had better tell papa the whole. "

And so she did, on the following morning. But she was too late; she didnot 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 Tierneywere playing billiards, and were just finishing their last game: thebed-candles were lighted ready for them, and Tierney was on the pointof 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 PaddyRea, else, " said Mat. 

"Who the deuce was Paddy Rea?"

"Didn't you ever hear of Paddy Rea?--Michael French of GlareAbbey--he's dead now, but he was alive enough at the time I'm tellingyou of, and kept the best house in county Clare--well, he was comingdown 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 tumblerof punch together at Roscrea; and when French got down at Bird Hill, he told his acquaintance that if he ever found himself anywhere nearEnnis, he'd be glad to see him at Glare Abbey. He was a hospitable sortof a fellow, and had got into a kind of way of saying the same thingto everybody, without meaning anything except to be civil--just asI'd wish a man good morning. Well, French thought no more about theman, whose name he didn't even know; but about a fortnight afterwards, a hack car from Ennis made its appearance at Glare Abbey, and thetalkative traveller, and a small portmanteau, had soon found theirway into the hail. French was a good deal annoyed, for he had somefashionables in the house, but he couldn't turn the man out; so heasked his name, and introduced Paddy Rea to the company. How long doyou think he stayed at Glare Abbey?"

"Heaven only knows!--Three months. "

"Seventeen years!" said Mat. "They did everything to turn him out, andcouldn't do it. It killed old French; and at last his son pulled thehouse down, and Paddy Rea went then, because there wasn't a roof tocover him. Now I don't want to drive your father to pull down thishouse, so I'll go to-morrow. "

"The place is so ugly, that if you could make him do so, it would be anadvantage; but I'm afraid the plan wouldn't succeed, so I won't pressyou. But if you go, I shan't remain long. If it was to save my life andtheirs, I can't get up small talk for the rector and his curate. "

"Well, good night, " said Mat; and the two turned off towards theirbed-rooms. 

As they passed from the billiard-room through the hall, Lord Cashelshuffled out of his room, in his slippers and dressing-gown. 

"Kilcullen, " said he, with a great deal of unconcerned good humouraffected in his tone, "just give me one moment--I've a word to say toyou. Goodnight, Mr Tierney, goodnight; I'm sorry to hear we're to loseyou to-morrow. "

Lord Kilcullen shrugged his shoulders, winked at his friend and thenturned round and followed his father. 

"It's only one word, Kilcullen, " said the father, who was afraid ofangering or irritating his son, now that he thought he was in so fair away to obtain the heiress and her fortune. "I'll not detain you half aminute;" and then he said in a whisper, "take my advice, Kilcullen, andstrike when the iron's hot. "

"I don't quite understand you, my lord, " said his son, affectingignorance of his father's meaning. 

"I mean, you can't stand better than you do with Fanny: you'vecertainly played your cards admirably, and she's a charming girl, avery charming girl, and I long to know that she's your own. Take myadvice and ask her at once. "

"My lord, " said the dutiful son, "if I'm to carry on this affair, Imust be allowed to do it in my own way. You, I dare say, have moreexperience than I can boast, and if you choose to make the proposalyourself to Miss Wyndham on my behalf, I shall be delighted to leavethe matter in your hands; but in that case, I shall choose to be absentfrom Grey Abbey. If you wish me to do it, you must let me do it when Iplease and how I please. "

"Oh, certainly, certainly, Kilcullen, " said the earl; "I only want topoint out that I think you'll gain nothing by delay. "

"Very well, my lord. Good night. " And Lord Kilcullen went to bed, andthe father shuffled back to his study. He had had three differentletters that day from Lord Kilcullen's creditors, all threateningimmediate arrest unless he would make himself responsible for his son'sdebts. 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 receivedletters, and threats, and warnings, and understood, even better thanhis father did, the perils which awaited him. He knew that he couldn'tremain at Grey Abbey another week; that in a day or two it wouldn't besafe for him to leave the house; and that his only chance was at onceto obtain the promise of his cousin's hand, and then betake himself tosome place of security, till he could make her fortune available. 

When Fanny came into the breakfast-room next morning, he asked herto walk with him in the demesne after breakfast. During the wholeof the previous evening she had sat silent and alone, pretending toread, although he had made two or three efforts to engage her inconversation. She could not, however, refuse to walk with him, norcould she quite forgive herself for wishing to do so. She felt thather sudden attachment for him was damped by what had passed betweenher and Lady Selina; but she knew, at the same time, that she was veryunreasonable for quarrelling with one cousin for what another had said. She accepted his invitation, and shortly after breakfast went upstairsto get ready. It was a fine, bright, April morning, though the air wascold, and the ground somewhat damp; so she put on her boa and strongboots, and sallied forth with Lord Kilcullen; not exactly in a goodhumour, but still feeling that she could not justly be out of humourwith him. At the same moment, Lady Selina knocked at her father's door, with the intention of explaining to him how impossible it was thatFanny should be persuaded to marry her brother. Poor Lord Cashel! hislife, at that time, was certainly not a happy one. 

The two cousins walked some way, nearly in silence. Fanny felt verylittle inclined to talk, and even Kilcullen, with all his knowledge ofwomankind--with all his assurance, had some difficulty in commencingwhat he had to get said and done that morning. 

"So Grey Abbey will once more sink into its accustomed dullness, " saidhe. "Cokely went yesterday, and Tierney and the Ellisons go to-day. Don't you dread it, Fanny?"

"Oh, I'm used to it: besides, I'm one of the component elements of thedullness, you know. I'm a portion of the thing itself: it's you thatmust feel it. "

"I feel it? I suppose I shall. But, as I told you before, the physic tome was not nearly so nauseous as the sugar. I'm at any rate glad to getrid of such sweetmeats as the bishop and Mrs Ellison;" and they wereboth silent again for a while. 

"But you're not a portion of the heaviness of Grey Abbey, Fanny, " saidhe, referring to what she had said. "You're not an element of itsdullness. I don't say this in flattery--I trust nothing so vile asflattery will ever take place between us; but you know yourself thatyour nature is intended for other things; that you were not born topass your life in such a house as this, without society, withoutexcitement, without something to fill your mind. Fanny, you can't behappy here, at Grey Abbey. "

Happy! thought Fanny to herself. No, indeed, I'm not happy! She didn'tsay 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 inthe world, to feel strongly the everlasting do-nothingness of thishorrid place. I wonder what possesses my father, that he does not goto London--for your sake if for no one else's. It's not just of him tocoop you up here. "

"Indeed it is, Adolphus, " said she. "You mistake my character. I'm notat all anxious for London parties and gaiety. Stupid as you may thinkme, I'm quite as well contented to stay here as I should be to go toLondon. "

"Do you mean me to believe, " said Kilcullen, with a gentle laugh, "that you are contented to live and die in single blessedness at GreyAbbey?--that your ambition does not soar higher than the interchange ofworsted-work patterns with Miss O'Joscelyn?"

"I did not say so, Adolphus. "

"What is your ambition then? what kind and style of life would youchoose to live? Come, Fanny, I wish I could get you to talk with meabout yourself. I wish I could teach you to believe how anxious I amthat your future life should be happy and contented, and at the sametime splendid and noble, as it should be. I'm sure you must haveambition. I have studied Lavater [47] well enough to know that sucha head and face as yours never belonged to a mind that could satisfyitself with worsted-work. "

 [FOOTNOTE 47: Lavater--Johann Kaspar Lavater (1741-1801), Swiss writer whose only widely read book was a tract on physiognomy (Physiognomische Fragmente zur Beförderung der Menschenkenntnis und Menschenliebe). The Victorians put much stock in physiognomy. ]

"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 aspirationfor a kind of life different from this you are leading?--If so, I ammuch disappointed in you; much, very much astray in my judgment of yourcharacter. " Then he walked on a few yards, looking on the ground, andsaid, "Come, Fanny, I am talking very earnestly to you, and you answerme only in joke. You don't think me impertinent, do you, to talk aboutyourself?"

"Impertinent, Adolphus--of course I don't. "

"Why won't you talk to me then, in the spirit in which I am talking toyou? If you knew, Fanny, how interested I am about you, how anxiousthat you should be happy, how confidently I look forward to thedistinguished position I expect you to fill--if you could guess howproud I mean to be of you, when you are the cynosure of all eyes--theadmired of all admirers--admired not more for your beauty than yourtalent--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 wouldnot, at any rate, answer me lightly. "

"Adolphus, " said Fanny, "I thought there was to be no flatteringbetween us?"

"And do you think I would flatter you? Do you think I would stoop toflatter you? Oh! Fanny, you don't understand me yet; you don't at allunderstand, how thoroughly from the heart I'm speaking--how much inearnest I am; and, so far from flattering you, I am quite as anxiousto find fault with you as I am to praise you, could I feel that I hadliberty to do so. "

"Pray do, " said Fanny: "anything but flattery; for a friend neverflatters. "

But Kilcullen had intended to flatter his fair cousin, and he had beensuccessful. She was gratified and pleased by his warmth of affection. "Pray do, " repeated Fanny; "I have more faults than virtues to be toldof, 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, Iwill not torment you now with a catalogue of faults. I did not ask youto come out with me for that object. You are now in grief for the deathof poor Harry"--Fanny blushed as she reflected how much more poignanta sorrow weighed upon her heart--"and are therefore unable to exertyourself; but, as soon as you are able--when you have recovered fromthis severe blow, I trust you will not be content to loiter and dawdleaway your existence at Grey Abbey. "

"Not the whole of it, " said Fanny. 

"None of it, " replied her cousin. "Every month, every day, shouldhave its purpose. My father has got into a dull, heartless, apatheticmode of life, which suits my mother and Selina, but which will neversuit you. Grey Abbey is like the Dead Sea, of which the waters arealways bitter as well as stagnant. It makes me miserable, dearestFanny, to see you stifled in such a pool. Your beauty, talents, andenergies--your disposition to enjoy life, and power of making itenjoyable for others, are all thrown away. Oh, Fanny, if I could rescueyou from this!"

"You are inventing imaginary evils, " said she; "at any rate they arenot 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 isto be looked for in this world than vegetation at Grey Abbey, or someother place of the kind, to which you may be transplanted. I want towake you from such a torpor; to save you from such ignominy. I wish torestore you to the world. "

"There's time enough, Adolphus; you'll see me yet the gayest of the gayat Almack's. "

"Ah! but to please me, Fanny, it must be as one of the leaders, not oneof the led. "

"Oh, that'll be in years to come: in twenty years' time; when I comeforth glorious in a jewelled turban, and yards upon yards of yellowsatin--fat, fair, and forty. I've certainly no ambition to be one ofthe leaders yet. "

Lord Kilcullen walked on silent for a considerable time, during whichFanny went on talking about London, Almack's, and the miserable lifeof lady patronesses, till at last she also became silent, and beganthinking of Lord Ballindine. She had, some little time since, fullymade up her mind to open her heart to Lord Kilcullen about him, and shehad as fully determined not to do so after what Selina had said uponthe subject; but now she again wavered. His manner was so kind andaffectionate, his interest in her future happiness appeared to be sotrue and unaffected: at any rate he would not speak harshly or cruellyto her, if she convinced him how completely her happiness dependedon her being reconciled to Lord Ballindine. She had all but broughtherself 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 weregoing 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 be away. I goon 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 believethere is no fear of our quarrelling now. I should rather say I trustthere is none. He not only approves of my going, but approves of what Iam 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 sometime, for I feel that different circumstances make it premature. But Icannot bring myself to leave you without doing so;" and again he pausedand walked on a little way in silence--"and yet, " he continued, "Ihardly know how to utter what I wish to say; or rather what I wouldwish to have said, were it not that I dread so much the answer you maymake me. Stop, Fanny, stop a moment; the seat is quite dry; sit downone moment. "

Fanny sat down in a little alcove which they had reached, considerablyembarrassed and surprised. She had not, however, the most remote ideaof 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 anoffer; but from the way in which she had always regarded her cousin, both heretofore, when she hardly knew him, and now, when she was onsuch affectionate terms with him, she would as soon have thought ofreceiving an offer from Lord Cashel as from his son. 

"Fanny, " he said, "I told you before that I have my father's warmestand most entire approval for what I am now going to do. Should I besuccessful in what I ask, he will be delighted; but I have no words totell you what my own feelings will be. Fanny, dearest Fanny, " and hesat down close beside her--"I love you better--ah! how much better, than all the world holds beside. Dearest, dearest Fanny, will you, canyou, return my love?"

"Adolphus, " said Fanny, rising suddenly from her seat, more for thesake of turning round so as to look at him, than with the object ofgetting from him, "Adolphus, you are joking with me. "

"No, by heavens then, " said he, following her, and catching herhand; "no man in Ireland is this moment more in earnest: no man moreanxiously, painfully in earnest. Oh, Fanny! why should you suppose thatI am not so? How can you think I would joke on such a subject? No: hearme, " he said, interrupting her, as she prepared to answer him, "hear meout, 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, youhave made me so miserable!" and Fanny burst into tears. 

"I have spoken too suddenly to you, Fanny; I should have given you moretime--I should have waited till--"

"No, no, no, " said Fanny, "it is not that--but yes; what you say istrue: had you waited but one hour--but ten minutes--I should have toldyou that which would for ever have prevented all this. I should havetold you, Adolphus, how dearly, how unutterably I love another. " AndFanny again sat down, hid her face in her handkerchief against thecorner of the summer-house, and sobbed and cried as though she werebroken-hearted: during which time Kilcullen stood by, rather perplexedas to what he was to say next, and beginning to be very doubtful as tohis 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 bringyou here to listen to what I have told you, without having become toopainfully sure that your hand, your heart, your love, are necessaryto my happiness. All my hopes are now at stake; but I would not, if Icould, secure my own happiness at the expense of yours. Pray believeme, Fanny, when I say that I love you completely, unalterably, devotedly: it is necessary now for my own sake that I should say asmuch as that. Having told you so much of my own heart, let me hear whatyou wish to tell me of yours. Oh, that I might have the most distantgleam of hope, that it would ever return the love which fills my own!"

"It cannot, Adolphus--it never can, " said she, still trying to hideher tears. "Oh, why should this bitter misery have been added!" Shethen rose quickly from her seat, wiped her eyes, and, pushing back herhair, continued, "I will no longer continue to live such a life as Ihave done--miserable to myself, and the cause of misery to others. Adolphus, --I love Lord Ballindine. I love him with, I believe, as trueand 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 heartis wholly, utterly, given away; and I would not for worlds receive itback, 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, youare really to be pitied. If this be true, your condition is nearly asunhappy as my own. "

"I am unhappy, very unhappy in your love, " said Fanny, drawing herselfup proudly; "but not unhappy in my own. My misery is that I should bethe cause of trouble and unhappiness to others. I have nothing toregret in my own choice. "

"You are harsh, Fanny. It may be well that you should be decided, butit cannot become you also to be unfeeling. I have offered to you allthat a man can offer; my name, my fortune, my life, my heart; thoughyou may refuse me, you have no right to be offended with me. "

"Oh, Adolphus!" said she, now in her turn offering him her hand: "prayforgive me: pray do not be angry. Heaven knows I feel no offence: andhow 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--leaveyou in any doubt. I only spoke as I did to show you I could not thinktwice, when my heart was given to one whom I so entirely love, respect--and--and approve. "

Lord Kilcullen's face became thoughtful, and his brow grew black: hestood 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 toknow that ray own love is hopeless, and that yours is no less so. Didyou not refuse Lord Ballindine?"

"If I did, is it not sufficient that I tell you I love him? If he weregone past all redemption, you would not have me encourage you while Ilove another?"

"I never dreamed of this! What, Fanny, what are your hopes? what is ityou wish or intend? Supposing me, as I wish I were, fathoms deep belowthe earth, what would you do? You cannot marry Lord Ballindine. "

"Then I will marry no one, " said Fanny, striving hard to suppress hertears, and barely succeeding. 

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Kilcullen; "what an infatuation isthis!"--and then again he walked on silent a little way. "Have you toldany 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: rememberme only as your cousin and your friend, and speak to me openly. Do theyknow 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, asshe confronted her cousin. "Yes, Lord Cashel. He, above all others, knows it. I have told him so almost on my knees. I have imploredhim, as a child may implore her father, to bring back to me the onlyman I ever loved. I have besought him not to sacrifice me. Oh! howI have implored him to spare me the dreadful punishment of my ownfolly--wretchedness rather--in rejecting the man I loved. But he hasnot listened to me; he will never listen to me, and I will never askagain. He shall find that I am not a tree or a stone, to be plantedor placed as he chooses. I will not again be subjected to what I haveto-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 Ihave done?" said Kilcullen. 

"I did, " said she. "I was on the point of telling you everything: twiceI had intended to do so. I intended to implore you, as you loved me asyour cousin, to use your exertions to reconcile my uncle and LordBallindine--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 loveme, when you know I never can be yours: forget your short-livedlove; won't you, Adolphus?"--and she put her clasped hands upon hisbreast--"forget, --let us both forget that the words were ever spoken. Be still my cousin, my friend, my brother; and we shall still both behappy. "

Different feelings were disturbing Lord Kilcullen's breast--differentfrom each other, and some of them very different from those whichusually found a place there. He had sought Fanny's hand not only withmost sordid, but also with most dishonest views: he not only intendedto marry her for her fortune, but also to rob her of her money; todefraud her, that he might enable himself once more to enter the worldof pleasure, with the slight encumbrance of a wretched wife. But, incarrying out his plan, he had disturbed it by his own weakness: he hadabsolutely 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 anxiousthat 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 manymisgivings had haunted him as to the ruined state to which he shouldbring her as his wife. But these feelings, though strong enough todisturb him, were not strong enough to make him pause: he tried topersuade himself that he could yet make her happy, and hurried on tothe consummation of his hopes. He now felt strongly tempted to act agenerous part; to give her up, and to bring Lord Ballindine back to herfeet; to deserve at any rate well of her, and leave all other things tochance. But Lord Kilcullen was not accustomed to make such sacrifices:he had never learned to disregard himself; and again and again heturned it over in his mind--"how could he get her fortune?--was thereany way left in which he might be successful?"

"This is child's play, Fanny, " he said. "You may reject me: to that Ihave nothing further to say, for I am but an indifferent wooer; but youcan 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 anyunworthy purpose, but because it is so. He was your lover, and you senthim away; you cannot whistle him back as you would a dog. "

Fanny made no answer to this, but walked on towards the house, anxiousto find herself alone in her own room, that she might compose her mindand think over all that she had heard and said; nor did Lord Kilcullenrenew the conversation till he got to the house. He could not determinewhat to do. Under other circumstances it might, he felt, have been wisefor him to wait till time had weakened Fanny's regret for her lostlover; but in his case this was impracticable; if he waited anywhere itwould be in the Queen's Bench. And yet, he could not but feel that, atpresent, it was hopeless for him to push his suit. 

They reached the steps together, and as he opened the front door, Fannyturned round to wish him good morning, as she was hurrying in; but hestopped her, and said, "One word more, Fanny, before we part. You must not refuse me; nor mustwe part in this way. Step in here; I will not keep you a minute;" andhe 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 uspersist in being irrational if we ourselves see that we are so;" and hepaused 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 LordBallindine. "--Fanny, who was now sitting, bit her lips and clenched herhands, but she said nothing; "If this is so--if you feel that so faryour fate is fixed, are you mad enough to give yourself up to a vainand wicked passion--for wicked it will be? Will you not rather striveto forget him who has forgotten you?"

"That is not true, " interposed Fanny. 

"His conduct, unfortunately, proves that it is too true, " continuedKilcullen. "He has forgotten you, and you cannot blame him that heshould do so, now that you have rejected him; but he neglected you evenbefore 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. Asto myself, Heaven knows with what perfect truth, with what true love, I offered you, this morning, all that a man can offer: how ardentlyI hoped for an answer different from that you have now given me. You cannot give me your heart now; love cannot, at a moment, betransferred. But think, Fanny, think whether it is not better foryou to accept an offer which your friends will all approve, and whichI trust will never make you unhappy, than to give yourself up to alasting 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 yourheart would follow your hand. Whoever may be your husband, you willlove him. But ask my mother, talk to her, ask her advice; she at anyrate 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 saya word farther to urge my suit. "

"I will go to no one, " said Fanny, rising. "I have gone to too manywith 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, ofcourse, proud of the honour your declaration has conveyed; but I shouldbe wicked indeed if I did not make you perfectly understand that itis one which I cannot accept. Whatever may be your views, your ideas, I will never marry unless I thoroughly love, and feel that I amthoroughly loved by my future husband. Had you not made this ill-timeddeclaration--had you not even persisted in repeating it after I hadopened my whole heart to you, I could have loved and cherished you asa brother; under no circumstances could I ever have accepted you as ahusband. Good morning. " And she left him alone, feeling that he couldhave but little chance of success, should he again renew the attempt. 

He did not see her again till dinner-time, when she appeared silentand reserved, but still collected and at her ease; nor did he speak toher at dinner or during the evening, till the moment the ladies wereretiring for the night. He then came up to her as she was standingalone turning over some things on a side-table, and said, "Fanny, Iprobably leave Grey Abbey to-morrow. I will say good bye to youtonight. "

"Good bye, Adolphus; may we both be happier when next we meet, " saidshe. 

"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 askmy father to invite Lord Ballindine here. He has been anxious that weshould be married: when I tell him that that is impossible, he mayperhaps be induced to do so. "

"Do that, " said Fanny, "and you will be a friend to me. Do that, andyou will be more than a brother to me. "

"I will; and in doing so I shall crush every hope that I have had leftin me. "

"Do not say so, Adolphus:--do not--"

"You'll understand what I mean in a short time. I cannot explaineverything to you now. But this will I do; I will make Lord Cashelunderstand that we never can be more to each other than we are now, andI will advise him to seek a reconciliation with Lord Ballindine. Andnow, 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 shallhave other adieux to make. "

"Good bye, then, Adolphus; and may God bless you; and may we yet liveto have many happy days together, " and she shook hands with him, andwent to her room. 

XXXIII. LORD KILCULLEN MAKES ANOTHER VISIT TO THE BOOK-ROOM

Lord Cashel's plans were certainly not lucky. It was not thatsufficient care was not used in laying them, nor sufficient cautiondisplayed in maturing them. He passed his time in care and caution;he spared no pains in seeing that the whole machinery was right; hewas indefatigable in deliberation, diligent in manoeuvring, constantin attention. But, somehow, he was unlucky; his schemes were neversuccessful. In the present instance he was peculiarly unfortunate, foreverything 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 hadundergone worlds of trouble and self-restraint;--and then, when hereally began to think that his ward's fortune would compensate him forthis, his own family came to him, one after another, to assure him thathe was completely mistaken--that it was utterly impossible that sucha thing as a family marriage between the two cousins could never takeplace, and indeed, ought not to be thought of. 

Lady Selina gave him the first check. On the morning on which LordKilcullen made his offer, she paid her father a solemn visit in hisbook-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 unfeignedsorrow and shame, that Fanny was still madly in love with LordBallindine; 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 withirritation. 

"We none of us approve of him, papa: we don't think of supposingthat he could now be a fitting husband for Fanny, or that they couldpossibly ever be married. Of course it's not to be thought of. But ifyou 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'tinterfere between them, " said the angry father. 

"But if you were only to recommend delay, " suggested the daughter; "afew 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, andhummed, and hawed; quite lost the dignity on which he piqued himself, and ended by declaring that he would not interfere; that they might doas they liked; that young people would not be guided, and that he wouldnot make himself unhappy about them. And so, Lady Selina, crestfallenand disappointed, went away. 

Then, Lady Cashel, reflecting on what her daughter had told her, andyet anxious that the marriage should, if possible, take place at sometime or other, sent Griffiths down to her lord, with a message--"Wouldhis lordship be kind enough to step up-stairs to her ladyship?" LordCashel went up, and again had all the difficulties of the case openedout before him. 

"But you see, " said her ladyship, "poor Fanny--she's become sounreasonable--I don't know what's come to her--I'm sure I do everythingI 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 Selinasays; 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'msure 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 goodsense to get rid of his, and yet Fanny's so foolish, she'd sooner havethat other horrid man--and I'm sure he's not half so good-looking, nora 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 heartilysick of the subject; thoroughly repented that he had not allowed hisson to ruin himself in his own way; detested the very name of LordBallindine, and felt no very strong affection for his poor innocentward. He accordingly made his wife nearly the same answer he had madehis 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 quitesincere in what he had told her. He had made up his mind entirely togive over all hopes of marrying her himself, and to tell his fatherthat the field was again open for Lord Ballindine, as far as he wasconcerned. 

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 stillthere was something chivalrous in his resolve, something magnanimous inhis determination to do all he could for the happiness of her he reallyloved, when everything in his own prospects was gloomy, dark, anddesperate. As he entered his father's room, feeling that it wouldprobably be very long before he should be closeted with him again, hedetermined that he would not quietly bear reproaches, and even felt asource of satisfaction in the prospect of telling his father that theirjoint plans were overturned--their schemes completely at an end. 

"I'm disturbing you, my lord, I'm afraid, " said the son, walking intothe room, not at all with the manner of one who had any hesitation atcausing the disturbance. 

"Who's that?" said the earl--"Adolphus?--no--yes. That is, I'm justgoing to bed; what is it you want?" The earl had been dozing after allthe vexations of the day. 

"To tell the truth, my lord, I've a good deal that I wish to say: willit trouble you to listen to me?"

"Won't to-morrow morning do?"

"I shall leave Grey Abbey early to-morrow, my lord; immediately afterbreakfast. "

"Good heavens, Kilcullen! what do you mean? You're not going to run offto London again?"

"A little farther than that, I'm afraid, will be necessary, " said theson. "I have offered to Miss Wyndham--have been refused--and, havingfinished my business at Grey Abbey, your lordship will probably thinkthat 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 havepledged my word to my cousin that I will never renew my suit. "

The earl sat speechless in his chair--so much worse was thiscatastrophe even than his expectations. Lord Kilcullen continued. 

"I hope, at any rate, you are satisfied with me. I have not onlyimplicitly obeyed your directions, but I have done everything inmy power to accomplish what you wished. Had my marriage with mycousin been a project of my own, I could not have done more for itsaccomplishment. Miss Wyndham's affections are engaged; and she willnever, I am sure, marry one man while she loves another. "

"Loves another--psha!" roared the earl. "Is this to be the end of itall? After your promises to me--after your engagement! After such anengagement, 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 willmaterially postpone their payment. "

"Well, sir, " said the earl. He did not exactly know how to commence thethunder of indignation with which he intended to annihilate his son, for certainly Kilcullen had done the best in his power to complete thebargain. But still the storm could not be stayed, unreasonable as itmight 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 stillstanding--and, thrusting his hands into his trowsers' pockets, frownedawfully--"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 toyours. "

"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; Ihave pointed out to you, I arranged for you, the only way in which youraffairs 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'slove. "

"Don't contradict me, sir. I say I did. I made every thing straightand easy for you: and now you come to me with a whining story about agirl's love! What's her love to me, sir? Where am I to get my thirtythousand 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 youremember that you have engaged to repay me these sums?--do you rememberthat, 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 alsoremember, and so must you, that I beforehand warned you that I thoughtshe would refuse me. "

"Refuse you, " said the earl, with a contortion of his nose and lipsintended to convey unutterable scorn; "of course she refused you, whenyou asked her as a child would ask for an apple, or a cake! What elsecould you expect?"

"I hardly think your lordship knows--"

"Don't you hardly think?--then I do know; and know well too. I know youhave deceived me, grossly deceived me--induced me to give you money--toincur debts, with which I never would have burdened myself had I notbelieved 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 thandownright swindling--and that from a son to his father! But it's forthe last time; not a penny more do you get from me: you can ruin theproperty; indeed, I believe you have; but, for your mother's andsister'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 wasstamping about the room as he uttered this speech; but, as he came tothe end of it, he threw himself into his chair again, and buried hisface in his hands. 

Lord Kilcullen was standing with his back resting against themantel-piece, with a look of feigned indifference on his face, whichhe tried hard to maintain. But his brow became clouded, and he bit hislips when his father accused him of swindling; and he was just about tobreak forth into a torrent of recrimination, when Lord Cashel turnedoff into a pathetic strain, and Kilcullen thought it better to leavehim there. 

"What I'm to do, I don't know; what I am to do, I do not know!" saidthe earl, beating the table with one hand, and hiding his face withthe other. "Sixty thousand pounds in one year; and that after so manydrains!--And there's only my own life--there's only my own life!"--andthen there was a pause for four or five minutes, during which LordKilcullen 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 thefather, and he again roared out, "Well, sir, what are you standingthere for? If you've nothing else to say; why don't you go? I've donewith 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 waswaiting till you were disposed to listen to me. I've a good deal tosay, indeed, which you must hear; and I trust, therefore, you willendeavour 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: youhave done your worst to ruin me, and now you come to insult me in myown room. Say what you want to say, and then leave me. "

"As to insulting language, my lord, I think you need not complain, whenyou remember that you have just called me a swindler, because I havebeen 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 gainthat object. I did more than either of us thought it possible that Ishould do, when I consented to attempt it. I offered her my hand, andassured her of my affection, without falsehood or hypocrisy. My bargainwas that I should offer to her. I have done more than that, for I haveloved her. I have, however, been refused, and in such a manner asto convince me that it would be useless for me to renew my suit. Ifyour lordship will allow me to advise you on such a subject, I wouldsuggest that you make no further objection to Fanny's union with LordBallindine. For marry him she certainly will. "

"What, sir?" again shouted Lord Cashel. 

"I trust Fanny will receive no further annoyance on the subject. Shehas convinced me that her own mind is thoroughly made up; and she isnot the person to change her mind on such a subject. "

"And haven't you enough on hand in your own troubles, but what you mustlecture me about my ward?--Is it for that you have come to torment meat 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 mentionher 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 thatit is better that I should at once leave Grey Abbey, when I tell youthat, if I remain here, I shall certainly be arrested before theweek is over, if I am found outside the house. I do not wish to havebailiffs knocking at your lordship's door, and your servants instructedto deny me. "

"Upon my soul, you are too good. "

"At any rate, " said Kilcullen, "you'll agree with me that this is noplace for me to remain in. "

"You're quite at liberty to go, " said the earl. "You were never veryceremonious with regard to me; pray don't begin to be so now. Praygo--to-night if you like. Your mother's heart will be broken, that'sall. "

"I trust my mother will be able to copy your lordship's indifference. "

"Indifference! Is sixty thousand pounds in one year, and more thandouble within three or four, indifference? I have paid too much to beindifferent. 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 notset 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 anotherword 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 candleson the book-room table, having lighted a bed candle which he held inhis hand. 

"Pardon me, my lord, " continued the son, standing just before hisfather, so as to prevent his leaving the room; "pardon me, but you mustlisten to what I have to say. "

"Not another word--not another word. Leave the door, sir, or I willring 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 to-morrow, perhaps for ever; and you will notlisten to the last word I wish to speak to you?"

"I'll stay five minutes, " said the earl, taking out his watch, "andthen I'll go; and if you attempt again to stop me, I'll ring the bellfor the servants. "

"Thank you, my lord, for the five minutes; it will be time enough. Ipurpose leaving Grey Abbey to-morrow, and I shall probably be in Francein 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 canmake 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 gaolto-morrow! This is too bad!" and the earl again walked to the door, against which Lord Kilcullen leaned his back. "By Heaven, sir, I'llraise the house if you think to frighten me by violence!"

"I'll use no violence, but you must hear the alternative: if you pleaseit, the whole house shall hear it too. If you persist in refusing thesmall 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 thana penny; you would even give more than I ask, to save yourself from theannoyance 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, Ishall remain here. You cannot turn me out of your house, or refuse me aseat 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 verydifficult tenant to eject summarily: and of my own accord I will not gowithout the money I ask. "

"By heavens, this exceeds all I ever heard. Would you rob your ownfather?"

"I will not rob him, but I'll remain in his house. The sheriff'sofficers, doubtless, will hang about the doors, and be rathertroublesome before the windows; but I shall not be the first Irishgentleman that has remained at home upon his keeping. And, like otherIrish gentlemen, I will do so rather than fall into the hands of thesemyrmidons. 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 thecontinual attempts which will be made to arrest me; but I will not putmy 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 Ishould be driven to wish that he was in gaol!"

"Your wishing so won't put me there, my lord. If it would I should notbe weak enough to ask you for this money. Do you mean to comply with myrequest?"

"I do not, sir: not a penny shall you have--not one farthing more shallyou get from me. "

"Then good night, my lord. I grieve that I should have to undergo asiege in your lordship's house, more especially as it is likely to be along one. In a week's time there will be a '_ne exeat_' [48] issuedagainst 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 toconsider what he had better do in his distress. 

 [FOOTNOTE 48: ne exeat--(Latin) "let him not leave"; a legal writ forbidding a person to leave the jurisdiction of the court]

Lord Cashel was dreadfully embarrassed. What Lord Kilcullen said wasperfectly true; an eldest son was a most difficult tenant to eject; andthen, the ignominy of having his heir arrested in his own house, ordetained there by bailiffs lurking round the premises! He could notdetermine whether it would be more painful to keep his son, or to givehim up. If he did the latter, he would be driven to effect it by a mostdisagreeable process. He would have to assist the officers of the lawin their duty, and to authorise them to force the doors locked by hisson. The prospect, either way, was horrid. He would willingly give thefive hundred pounds to be rid of his heir, were it not for his word'ssake, or rather his pride's sake. He had said he would not, and, as hewalked up and down the room he buttoned up his breeches pocket, andtried to resolve that, come what come might, he would not expedite hisson's departure by the outlay of one shilling. 

The candles had been put out, and the gloom of the room was onlylightened 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 thechamber. For half an hour Lord Cashel walked to and fro, anxious, wretched, and in doubt, instead of going to his room. How he wishedthat Lord Ballindine had married his ward, and taken her off six monthssince!--all this trouble would not then have come upon him. And as hethought of the thirty thousand pounds that he had spent, and the thirtythousand more that he must spend, he hurried on with such rapidity thatin the darkness he struck his shin violently against some heavy pieceof furniture, and, limping back to the candlestick, swore through histeeth--"No, not a penny, were it to save him from perdition! I'll seethe sheriff's officer. I'll see the sheriff himself, and tell him thatevery door in the house--every closet--every cellar, shall be open tohim. My house shall enable no one to defy the law. " And, with thisnoble resolve, to which, by the bye, the blow on his shin greatlycontributed, Lord Cashel went to bed, and the house was at rest. 

About nine o'clock on the following morning Lord Kilcullen was still inbed, but awake. His servant had been ordered to bring him hot water, and he was seriously thinking of getting up, and facing the troublesof the day, when a very timid knock at the door announced to him thatsome stranger was approaching. He adjusted his nightcap, brought thebed-clothes up close to his neck, and on giving the usual answer to aknock at the door, saw a large cap introduce itself, the head belongingto 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 herlove, and would you see her ladyship for five minutes before you getup?"

Lord Kilcullen having assented to this proposal, the cap and headretired. A second knock at the door was soon given, and Lady Selinaentered 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 veryparticular, which brings you here at this hour. "

"It is indeed, something very particular. I have been with papa thismorning, Adolphus: he has told me of the interview between you lastnight. "

"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 plantogether, and we both failed, and each blames the other; so you neednot tell me anything further about his anger. Did he send any messageto me?"

"He did. He told me I might give you this, if I would undertake thatyou left Grey Abbey to-day:" and Lady Selina held up, but did not givehim, 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 thehouse?"

"I can ask you to give me your word that you will do so; and I can takeback the check if you refuse, " said Lady Selina, conceiving it utterlyimpossible that one of her own family could break his word. 

"Well, Selina, I'll answer you fairly. If that bit of paper is a chequefor five hundred pounds, I will leave this place in two hours. If it isnot--"

"It is, " said Selina. "It is a cheque for five hundred pounds, and Imay then give it to you?"

"I thought as much, " said Lord Kilcullen; "I thought he'd alter hismind. Yes, you may give it me, and tell my father I'll dine in Londonto-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 speakin that wicked, thoughtless, reckless manner?" said his sister. 

"Because I'm a wicked, thoughtless, reckless man, I suppose. I didn'tmean to vex you, Selina; but my father is so pompous, so absurd, and sotedious. In the whole of this affair I have endeavoured to do exactlyas he would have me; and he is more angry with me now, because his planhas failed, than he ever was before, for any of my past misdoings. --Butlet 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, youknow; 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, youknow 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 kindestlove, 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 yousomething. If you care for your cousin's happiness, do not attempt toraise difficulties between her and Lord Ballindine. And now, I must saygood bye to you. I'll have my breakfast up here, and go directly downto the yard. Good bye, Selina; when I'm settled I'll write to you, andtell you where I am. "

"Good bye, Adolphus; God bless you, and enable you yet to retrieve yourcourse. I'm afraid it is a bad one;" and she stooped down and kissedher 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 inBoulogne; and the sub-sheriff of County Kildare in vain issuedhalf-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 ofthe Kellys and Lynches, which we left in rather a precarious state. 

Barry's attempt on Doctor Colligan's virtue was very unsuccessful, forAnty continued to mend under the treatment of that uncouth but safe sonof Galen. As Colligan told her brother, the fever had left her, thoughfor some time it was doubtful whether she had strength to recover fromits effects. This, however, she did gradually; and, about a fortnightafter the dinner at Dunmore House, the doctor told Mrs Kelly and Martinthat his patient was out of danger. 

Martin had for some time made up his mind that Anty was to live formany years in the character of Mrs Martin, and could not therefore besaid to be much affected by the communication. But if he was not, hismother was. She had made up her mind that Anty was to die; that shewas to pay for the doctor--the wake, and the funeral, and that shewould have a hardship and grievance to boast of, and a subject ofself-commendation to enlarge on, which would have lasted her till herdeath; and she consequently felt something like disappointment at beingordered to administer to Anty a mutton chop and a glass of sherry everyday at one o'clock. Not that the widow was less assiduous, or lessattentive to Anty's wants now that she was convalescent; but shecertainly had not so much personal satisfaction, as when she was ableto speak despondingly of her patient to all her gossips. 

"Poor cratur!" she used to say--"it's all up with her now; the Lord bepraised for all his mercies. She's all as one as gone, glory be to Godand the Blessed Virgin. Shure no good ever come of ill-got money;--notthat she was iver to blame. Thank the Lord, av' I have a penny saved atall, it was honestly come by; not that I shall have when this is doneand paid for, not a stifle; (stiver [49] Mrs Kelly probably meant)--butwhat's that!" and she snapped her fingers to show that the world's gearwas 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 anotherof all the dirthy money Sim Lynch scraped together out of thegutthers. "

 [FOOTNOTE 49: stiver--a Dutch coin worth almost nothing]

There was a degree of triumph in these lamentations, a tone ofself-satisfied assurance in the truth of her melancholy predictions, which showed that the widow was not ill at ease with herself. When Antywas declared out of danger, her joy was expressed with much moremoderation. 

"Yes, thin, " she said to Father Pat Geoghegan, "poor thing, she'srallying a bit. The docthor says maybe she'll not go this time; buthe's much in dread of a re-claps--"

"Relapse, Mrs Kelly, I suppose?"

"Well, relapse, av' you will, Father Pat--relapse or reclaps, it'spretty much the same I'm thinking; for she'd niver get through anotherbout. 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 andmother did afore him, and I won't say a word agin him; but he's broughtmore throuble on me with them Lynches than iver I knew before. What hasa lone woman like me, Father Pat, to do wid sthrangers like them? jistto turn their backs on me when I ain't no furder use, and to be gittingthe 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 asore morning yet, some day. "

Doctor Colligan, also, was in trouble from his connection with theLynches: not that he had any dissatisfaction at the recovery of hispatient, for he rejoiced at it, both on her account and his own. He hadstrongly that feeling of self-applause, which must always be enjoyed bya doctor who brings a patient safely through a dangerous illness. ButBarry's iniquitous proposal to him weighed heavy on his conscience. Itwas now a week since it had been made, and he had spoken of it to noone. He had thought much and frequently of what he ought to do; whetherhe should publicly charge Lynch with the fact; whether he should tellit confidentially to some friend whom he could trust; or whether--byfar the easiest alternative, he should keep it in his own bosom, andavoid the man in future as he would an incarnation of the devil. Itpreyed much upon his spirits, for he lived in fear of Barry Lynch--infear lest he should determine to have the first word, and, in hisown defence, accuse him (Colligan) of the very iniquity which he hadhimself committed. Nothing, the doctor felt, would be too bad or toofalse for Barry Lynch; nothing could be more damnable than the proposalhe had made; and yet it would be impossible to convict him, impossibleto punish him. He would, of course, deny the truth of the accusation, and probably return the charge on his accuser. And yet Colligan feltthat he would be compromising the matter, if he did not mention it tosome one; and that he would outrage his own feelings if he did notexpress his horror at the murder which he had been asked to commit. 

For one week these feelings quite destroyed poor Colligan's peaceof mind; during the second, he determined to make a clean breastof it; and, on the first day of the third week, after turning inhis mind twenty different people--Martin Kelly--young Daly--thewidow--the parish priest--the parish parson--the nearest stipendiarymagistrate--and a brother doctor in Tuam, he at last determined ongoing to Lord Ballindine, as being both a magistrate and a friend ofthe Kellys. Doctor Colligan himself was not at all acquainted with LordBallindine: he attended none of the family, who extensively patronisedhis rival, and he had never been inside Kelly's Court house. He felt, therefore, considerable embarrassment at his mission; but he made uphis mind to go, and, manfully setting himself in his antique ricketygig, 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 missionto Grey Abbey, and innumerable difficulties seemed to arise to preventhis doing so. First of all, the black cloth was to be purchased, anda tailor, sufficiently adept for making up the new suit, was to becaught. This was a work of some time; for though there is in the Westof Ireland a very general complaint of the stagnation of trade, tradeitself is never so stagnant as are the tradesmen, when work, is to bedone; and it is useless for a poor wight to think of getting his coator his boots, till such time as absolute want shall have driven theartisan to look for the price of his job--unless some private andunderhand influence be used, as was done in the case of Jerry Blake'snew leather breeches. 

This cause of delay was, however, not mentioned to Lord Ballindine; butwhen it was well got over, and a neighbouring parson procured to preachon the next Sunday to Mrs O'Kelly and the three policemen who attendedBallindine Church, Mrs Armstrong broke her thumb with the rolling-pinwhile making a beef pudding for the family dinner, and her husband'sdeparture was again retarded. And then, on the next Sunday, theneighbouring parson could not leave his own policemen, and the twospinsters, who usually formed his audience. 

All this tormented Lord Ballindine. And he was really thinking ofgiving up the idea of sending Mr Armstrong altogether, when he receivedthe 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 coming 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. He 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 hewrote a note to Mr Armstrong, informing him that he would not troublehim to go at all, unless he could start the next day. Indeed, that heshould 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 couldnot well return the twenty pounds he had received, nor did he wish toforego the advantage which might arise from the trip. So he told hiswife to be very careful about her thumb, made up his mind to leavethe three policemen for once without spiritual food, and wrote toLord Ballindine to say that he would be with him the next morning, immediately after breakfast, on his road to catch the mail-coach atBallyglass. 

He was as good as his word, or rather better; for he breakfasted atKelly's Court, and induced Lord Ballindine to get into his own gig, anddrive him as far as the mail-coach road. 

"But you'll be four or five hours too soon, " said Frank; "the coachdoesn't pass Ballyglass till three. "

"I want to see those cattle of Rutledge's. I'll stay there, and maybeget a bit of luncheon; it's not a bad thing to be provided for theroad. "

"I'll tell you what, though, " said Frank. "I want to go to Tuam, so youmight as well get the coach there; and if there's time to spare, youcan pay your respects to the bishop. "

It was all the same to Mr Armstrong, and the two therefore startedfor Tuam together. They had not, however, got above half way downthe avenue, when they saw another gig coming towards them; and, after sundry speculations as to whom it might contain, Mr Armstrongpronounced the driver to be "that dirty gallipot, Colligan. "

It was Colligan; and, as the two gigs met in the narrow road, thedirty gallipot took off his hat, and was very sorry to trouble LordBallindine, but had a few words to say to him on very important andpressing business. 

Lord Ballindine touched his hat, and intimated that he was ready tolisten, but gave no signs of getting out of his gig. 

"My lord, " said Colligan, "it's particularly important, and if youcould, as a magistrate, spare me five minutes. "

"Oh, certainly, Mr Colligan, " said Frank; "that is, I'm ratherhurried--I may say very much hurried just at present. But still--Isuppose there's no objection to Mr Armstrong hearing what you have tosay?"

"Why, my lord, " said Colligan, "I don't know. Your lordship can judgeyourself afterwards; but I'd rather--"

"Oh, I'll get down, " said the parson. "I'll just take a walk among thetrees: I suppose the doctor won't be long?"

"If you wouldn't mind getting into my buggy, and letting me into hislordship's gig, you could be following us on, Mr Armstrong, " suggestedColligan. 

This suggestion was complied with. The parson and the doctor changedplaces; 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 helearned the cause of it, he gave his full attention to the matter, andonly interrupted the narrator by exclamations of horror and disgust. 

When Doctor Colligan had finished, Lord Ballindine insisted onrepeating the whole affair to Mr Armstrong. "I could not take uponmyself, " said he, "to advise you what to do; much less to tell you whatyou should do. There is only one thing clear; you cannot let thingsrest as they are. Armstrong is a man of the world, and will know whatto do; you cannot object to talking the matter over with him. "

Colligan consented: and Armstrong, having been summoned, drove thedoctor's buggy up alongside of Lord Ballindine's gig. 

"Armstrong, " said Frank, "I have just heard the most horrid story thatever came to my ears. That wretch, Barry Lynch, has tried to induceDoctor 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 allthrough the country in no time. "

"Poison his sister!" repeated Armstrong. "Oh, it'll hang him! There'sno doubt it'll hang him! Of course you'll take the doctor'sinformation?"

"But the doctor hasn't tendered me any information, " said Frank, stopping his horse, so that Armstrong was able to get close up to hiselbow. 

"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 comebefore myself and the stipendiary magistrate at Tuam. We shall be sureto find Brew at home to-day. "

"But, my lord, " said Colligan, "I really had no intention of doingthat. I have no witnesses. I can prove nothing. Indeed, I can't say heever asked me to do the deed: he didn't say anything I could charge himwith 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 hiseye. "

"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 Iknocked him down, and then I rushed out of the room. I believe Ithreatened 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 wouldnot put up with being knocked down. And I'll tell you what's more--ifyou tax him with the murder, he'll deny it and defy you; but tax himwith having been knocked down, and he'll swear his foot slipped, orthat he'd have done as much for the doctor if he hadn't run away. Andthen ask him why the doctor knocked him down?--you'll have him on thehip so. "

"There's something in that, " said Frank; "but the question is, what isDoctor Colligan to do? He says he can't swear any information on whicha magistrate could commit him. "

"Unless he does, my lord, " said Armstrong, "I don't think you shouldlisten 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 marryLynch's sister. Of course, if you cannot advise me, I will go awayagain. "

"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 notable to prove anything. "

"I'll tell you what, Ballindine, " said the parson; "only I don't knowwhether it mayn't be tampering with justice--suppose we were to go tothis 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 myword 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 thecountry of him. Do you remember the way he rode a-top of that poorbitch of mine the other day--Goneaway, you know; the best bitch in thepack?"

"Indeed I do, " said the parson; "but for all that, she wasn't the bestbitch 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 thecountry of Barry Lynch. "

"Indeed it would. "

"And there'd be nothing then to prevent young Kelly marrying Anty atonce. "

"Make him give his consent in writing before you let him go, " saidArmstrong. 

"I'll tell you what, Doctor Colligan, " said Frank; "do you get intoyour own gig, and follow us on, and I'll talk the matter over with MrArmstrong. "

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 enoughfor Doctor Colligan to keep him in sight. 

"I don't know how far we can trust that apothecary, " said Frank to hisfriend. 

"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'stelling you now is as true as gospel. If he was telling a lie frommalice, he'd be louder, and more urgent about it: you see he's halfafraid to speak, as it is. He would not have come near you at all, onlyhis conscience makes him afraid to keep the matter to himself. You maytake my word for it, Ballindine, Barry Lynch did propose to him tomurder his sister. Indeed, it doesn't surprise me. He is so utterlyworthless. "

"But murder, Armstrong! downright murder; of the worst kind;studied--premeditated. He must have been thinking of it, and planningit, for days. A man may be worthless, and yet not such a wretch as thatwould make him. Can you really think he meant Colligan to murder hissister?"

"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 bringhimself to bear disappointment. I do not think he could do it with hisown hand, for he is a coward; but I can quite believe that he couldinstigate another person to do it. "

"Then I'd hang him. I wouldn't raise my hand to save him from therope!"

"Nor would I: but we can't hang him. We can do nothing to him, if hedefies us; but, if he's well handled, we can drive him from thecountry. "

The lord and the parson talked the matter over till they reachedDunmore, and agreed that they would go, with Colligan, to Barry Lynch;tell him of the charge which was brought against him, and give himhis option of standing his trial, or of leaving the country, under awritten promise that he would never return to it. In this case, he wasalso to write a note to Anty, signifying his consent that she shouldmarry Martin Kelly, and also execute some deed by which all controlover the property should be taken out of his own hands; and that heshould agree to receive his income, whatever it might be, through thehands of an agent. 

There were sundry matters connected with the subject, which were ratherdifficult of arrangement. In the, first place, Frank was obliged, veryunwillingly, to consent that Mr Armstrong should remain, at any rateone day longer, in the country. It was, however, at last settled thathe should return that night and sleep at Kelly's Court. Then LordBallindine insisted that they should tell young Kelly what they wereabout, before they went to Barry's house, as it would be necessary toconsult him as to the disposition he would wish to have made of theproperty. Armstrong was strongly against this measure, --but it was, atlast, 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 hadquite enough of Dunmore House; and, in spite of the valiant manner inwhich he had knocked its owner down the last time he was there, seemednow quite afraid to face him. But Mr Armstrong informed him that hemust go on now, as he had said so much, and at last frightened him intoan unwilling compliance. 

The three of them went up into the little parlour of the inn, andsummoned Martin to the conference, and various were the conjecturesmade by the family as to the nature of the business which brought threesuch persons to the inn together. But the widow settled them all byasserting that "a Kelly needn't be afeared, thank God, to see his ownlandlord in his own house, nor though he brought an attorney wid him aswell as a parson and a docther. " And so, Martin was sent for, and soonheard the horrid story. Not long after he had joined them, the foursallied out together, and Meg remarked that something very bad wasgoing to happen, for the lord never passed her before without a kindword or a nod; and now he took no more notice of her than if it hadbeen 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, butgrieved and astonished. He had never thought well of his intendedbrother-in-law, but he had not judged him so severely as Mr Armstronghad done. He listened to all Lord Ballindine said to him, and agreed asto the propriety of the measures he proposed. But there was nothing ofelation about him at the downfall of the man whom he could not but lookon as his enemy: indeed, he was not only subdued and modest in hisdemeanour, but he appeared so reserved that he could hardly be got toexpress any interest in the steps which were to be taken respecting theproperty. It was only when Lord Ballindine pointed out to him that itwas his duty to guard Anty's interests, that he would consent to go toDunmore House with them, and to state, when called upon to do so, whatmeasures he would wish to have adopted with regard to the property. 

"Suppose he denies himself to us?" said Frank, as the four walkedacross the street together, to the great astonishment of the wholepopulation. 

"If he's in the house, I'll go bail we won't go away without seeinghim, " said the parson. "Will he be at home, Kelly, do you think?"

"Indeed he will, Mr Armstrong, " said Martin; "he'll be in bed andasleep. He's never out of bed, I believe, much before one or two in theday. It's a bad life he's leading since the ould man died. "

"You may say that, " said the doctor:--"cursing and drinking; drinkingand cursing; nothing else. You'll find him curse at you dreadful, MrArmstrong, I'm afraid. "

"I can bear that, doctor; it's part of my own trade, you know; but Ithink we'll find him quiet enough. I think you'll find the difficultyis to make him speak at all. You'd better be spokesman, my lord, asyou're a magistrate. "

"No, Armstrong, I will not. You're much more able, and more fitting: ifit's necessary for me to act as a magistrate, I'll do so--but at firstwe'll leave him to you. "

"Very well, " said the parson; "and I'll do my best. But I'll tell youwhat I am afraid of: if we find him in bed we must wait for him, andwhen the servant tells him who we are, and mentions the doctor's namealong with yours, my lord, he'll guess what we're come about, andhe'll be out of the window, or into the cellar, and then there'd beno catching him without the police. We must make our way up into hisbed-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 forceourselves upstairs: we might as well tell all the servants what we'dcome about. "

"And so we must, " said Armstrong, "if it's necessary. The moredetermined we are--in fact, the rougher we are with him, the morelikely we are to bring him on his knees. I tell you, you must have noscruples in dealing with such a fellow; but leave him to me;" and sosaying, the parson gave a thundering rap at the hail door, and in aboutone minute repeated it, which brought Biddy running to the door withoutshoes or stockings, with her hair streaming behind her head, and, inher 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 upyet, nor awake, yer honer, " and she held the door in her hand, asthough this answer was final. 

"But I want to see him on especial and immediate business, " said theparson, pushing back the door and the girl together, and walking intothe hall. "I must see him at once. Mr Lynch will excuse me: we've knowneach 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 thetime the masther's most fittest to be talking to the likes of yerhoner. "

"These gentlemen could not wait, " said the parson. 

"Shure the docther there, and Mr Martin, knows well enough I'm nottelling 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 alie;--but, nevertheless, I must see Mr Lynch. Just step up and wakehim, and tell him I'm waiting to say two words to him. "

"Faix, yer honer, he's very bitther intirely, when he's waked thisearly. But in course I'll be led by yer honers. I'll say then, that thelord, and Parson Armstrong, and the docther, and Mr Martin, is waitingto spake two words to him. Is that it?"

"That'll do as well as anything, " said Armstrong; and then, when thegirl went upstairs, he continued, "You see she knew us all, and ofcourse will tell him who we are; but I'll not let him escape, for I'llgo up with her, " and, as the girl slowly opened her master's bed-roomdoor, Mr Armstrong stood close outside it in the passage. 

After considerable efforts, Biddy succeeded in awaking her mastersufficiently to make him understand that Lord Ballindine, and DoctorColligan were downstairs, and that Parson Armstrong was just outsidethe bed-room door. The poor girl tried hard to communicate her tidingsin such a whisper as would be inaudible to the parson; but this wasimpossible, for Barry only swore at her, and asked her "what thed---- she meant by jabbering there in that manner?" When, however, hedid comprehend who his visitors were, and where they were, he gnashedhis teeth and clenched his fist at the poor girl, in sign of his angeragainst her for having admitted so unwelcome a party; but he was toofrightened to speak. 

Mr Armstrong soon put an end to this dumb show, by walking into thebed-room, when the girl escaped, and he shut the door. Barry sat up inhis bed, rubbed his eyes, and stared at him, but he said nothing. 

"Mr Lynch, " said the parson, "I had better at once explain thecircumstances 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 thisway, and him in bed!"

"Doctor Colligan is downstairs--"

"D---- Doctor Colligan! He's at his lies again, I suppose? Much I carefor Doctor Colligan. "

"Doctor Colligan is downstairs, " continued Mr Armstrong, "and LordBallindine, who, you are aware, is a magistrate. They wish to speak toyou, 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 asthough 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 remainthere!" and he threw himself back in the bed, and wrapped thebedclothes round him. 

"Very well, " said Mr Armstrong; and then going out on to thelanding-place, called out over the banisters--"Doctor--Doctor Colligan!tell his lordship Mr Lynch objects to a private interview: he hadbetter just step down to the Court-house, and issue his warrant. Youmight as well tell Constable Nelligan to be in the way. "

"D----n!" exclaimed Barry, sitting bolt upright in his bed. "Who says Iobject 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 tohave my bed-room to myself, while I get up. "

"For once in the way, Mr Lynch, you must manage to get up although yourprivacy be intruded on. To tell you the plain truth, I will not leaveyou till you come downstairs with me, unless it be in the custody of apoliceman. If you will quietly dress and come downstairs with me, Itrust we may be saved the necessity of troubling the police at all. "

Barry, at last, gave way, and, gradually extricating himself from thebedclothes, put his feet down on the floor, and remained sitting onthe side of his bed. He leaned his head down on his hands, and groanedinwardly; for he was very sick, and the fumes of last night's punchstill disturbed his brain. His stockings and drawers were on; forTerry, when he put him to bed, considered it only waste of time to pullthem off, for "shure wouldn't they have jist to go on agin the nextmorning?"

"Don't be particular, Mr Lynch: never mind washing or shaving tillwe're gone. We won't keep you long, I hope. "

"You're very kind, I must say, " said Barry. "I suppose you won't objectto my having a bottle of soda water?"--and he gave a terrible tug atthe bell. 

"Not at all--nor a glass of brandy in it, if you like it. Indeed, MrLynch, I think that, just at present, it will be the better thing foryou. "

Barry got his bottle of soda water, and swallowed about two glasses ofwhiskey in it, for brandy was beginning to be scarce with him; and thencommenced his toilet. He took Parson Armstrong's hint, and wasn't veryparticular about it. He huddled on his clothes, smoothed his hair withhis brush, and muttering something about it's being their own fault, descended into the parlour, followed by Mr Armstrong. He made a kind ofbow to Lord Ballindine; took no notice of Martin, but, turning roundsharp on the doctor, said:

"Of all the false ruffians, I ever met, Colligan--by heavens, you'rethe worst! There's one comfort, no man in Dunmore will believe a wordyou 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 ashamedto show my face, though I must say your visit is not made in thegenteelest manner. "

"Mr Lynch, " said the parson, "do you remember the night Doctor Colliganknocked 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 theservant 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, thinkabout 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 thegirl says, she didn't see it. Colligan, I suppose, has given herhalf-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 afarm, and said cursed queer things about my sister. I hardly know whathe said; but I know I had to turn him out of the house, and there was ascrimmage between us. "

"I see you're so far prepared, Mr Lynch: now, I'll tell you my versionof the story. --Martin Kelly, just see that the door is shut. Youendeavoured to bribe Doctor Colligan to murder your own sister. "

"It's a most infernal lie!" said Barry. "Where's yourevidence?--where's your evidence? What's the good of your all cominghere 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 tothe open Court-house. "

"Adjourn when you like; it's all one to me. Who'll believe such adrunken ruffian as that Colligan, I'd like to know? Such a story asthat!"

"My lord, " said Armstrong, "I'm afraid we must go on with this businessat the Court-house. Martin, I believe I must trouble you to go down tothe police barrack. " And the whole party, except Barry, rose from theirseats. 

"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'texpect I'll own to such a lie as this about my sister. I suppose myword's as good as Colligan's, gentlemen? I suppose my character as aProtestant 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 wordof such a man as that?"

"I think, Mr Lynch, " said Armstrong, "if you'll listen to me, you'llsave yourself and us a great deal of trouble. You asked me who mywitness was: my witness is in this house. I would not charge you withso horrid, so damnable a crime, had I not thoroughly convinced myselfyou were guilty--now, do hold your tongue, Mr Lynch, or I will have youdown to the Court-house. We all know you are guilty, you know ityourself--"

"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 probablymayn'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 tohang you, or, upon my word, I wouldn't interfere to prevent it: the lawshould have its course. I'd hang you with as little respite as I woulda dog. "

Barry grinned horribly at this suggestion, but said nothing, and theparson continued:

"It is not the want of evidence that stands in the way of so desirablea proceeding, but that Doctor Colligan, thoroughly disgusted andshocked at the iniquity of your proposal--"

"Oh, go on, Mr Armstrong!--go on; I see you are determined to have itall your own way, but my turn'll come soon. "

"I say that Doctor Colligan interrupted you before you fully committedyourself. "

"Fully committed myself, indeed! Why, Colligan knows well enough, thatwhen he got up in such a fluster, there'd not been a word at all saidabout Anty. "

"Hadn't there, Mr Lynch?--just now you said you turned the doctor outof your house for speaking about your sister. You're only committingyourself. I say, therefore, the evidence, though quite strong enoughto put you into the dock as a murderer in intention, might not besufficient to induce a jury to find you guilty. But guilty you wouldbe 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 standthis! I didn't do it, Mr Armstrong. I didn't do it. He's a liar, LordBallindine: upon my sacred word and honour as a gentleman, he's aliar. Why do you believe him, when you won't believe me? Ain't I aProtestant, Mr Armstrong, and ain't you a Protestant clergyman? Don'tyou 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 offeredto poison Anty, on condition he got the farm round the house fornothing!--He knows it's true, and why should you believe him soonerthan 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 thendoing the same thing to Mr Armstrong. He was a horrid figure: he had nocollar round his neck, and his handkerchief was put on in such a wayas to look like a hangman's knot: his face was blotched, and red, andgreasy, for he had neither shaved nor washed himself since his lastnight's debauch; he had neither waistcoat nor braces on, and histrousers fell on his hips; his long hair hung over his eyes, which werebleared and bloodshot; he was suffering dreadfully from terror, and anintense anxiety to shift the guilt from himself to Doctor Colligan. Hewas a most pitiable object--so wretched, so unmanned, so low in thescale of creation. Lord Ballindine did pity his misery, and suggestedto Mr Armstrong whether by any possibility there could be any mistakein the matter--whether it was possible Doctor Colligan could havemistaken Lynch's object?--The poor wretch jumped at this loop-hole, anddoubly condemned himself by doing so. 

"He did, then, " said Barry; "he must have done so. As I hope forheaven, Lord Ballindine, I never had the idea of getting him to--todo anything to Anty. I wouldn't have done it for worlds--indeed Iwouldn't. There must be some mistake, indeed there must. He'd beendrinking, Mr Armstrong--drinking a good deal that night--isn't thattrue, Doctor Colligan? Come, man, speak the truth--don't go and try andhang a fellow out of mistake! His lordship sees it's all a mistake, andof 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, LordBallindine, I know you won't. I give you my sacred word of honour as agentleman, it all came from mistake when we were both drunk, or nearlydrunk. Come, Doctor Colligan, speak man--isn't that the truth? I tellyou, Mr Armstrong, Lord Ballindine's in the right of it. There is somemistake in all this. "

"As sure as the Lord's in heaven, " said the doctor, now becoming alittle uneasy at the idea that Lord Ballindine should think he had toldso strange a story without proper foundation--"as sure as the Lord's inheaven, he offered me the farm for a reward, should I manage to preventhis 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 Colliganof offering to murder your sister! According to your own showing, therefore, there was a deliberate conversation between you; and yourown evasion now would prove which of you were the murderer, were anyadditional proof wanted. But it is not. Barry Lynch, as sure as you nowstand in the presence of your Creator, whose name you so constantlyblaspheme, you endeavoured to instigate that man to murder your ownsister. "

"Oh, Lord Ballindine!--oh, Lord Ballindine!" shrieked Barry, in hisagony, "don't desert me! pray, pray don't desert me! I didn't do it--Inever thought of doing it. We were at school together, weren't we?--Andyou won't see me put upon this way. You mayn't think much of me inother things, but you won't believe that a school-fellow of your ownever--ever--ever--" Barry couldn't bring himself to use the words withwhich his sentence should be finished, and so he flung himself backinto his armchair and burst into tears. 

"You appeal to me, Mr Lynch, " said Lord Ballindine, "and I must sayI most firmly believe you to be guilty. My only doubt is whether youshould not at once be committed for trial at the next assizes. "

"Oh, my G----!" exclaimed Barry, and for some time he continuedblaspheming most horribly--swearing that there was a conspiracy againsthim--accusing Mr Armstrong, in the most bitter terms, of joining withDoctor Colligan and Martin Kelly to rob and murder him. 

"Now, Mr Lynch, " continued the parson, as soon as the unfortunate manwould listen to him, "as I before told you, I am in doubt--we are allin doubt--whether or not a jury would hang you; and we think that weshall 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 tolet 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 leavethe 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 notprescribing any punishment to you. We fear, indeed we know, you'rebeyond the reach of the law, or we shouldn't make the proposal. " Barrybreathed freely again as he heard this avowal. "But you're not beyondthe reach of public opinion--of public execration--of general hatred, and of a general curse. For your sister's sake--for the sake of MartinKelly, 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 countrywithout this public brand being put upon your name. If you remain, noone shall speak to you but as to a man who would have murdered hissister: murder shall be everlastingly muttered in your ears; nor willyour going then avail you, for your character shall go with you, andthe very blackguards with whom you delight to assort, shall avoidyou as being too bad even for their society. Go now, Mr Lynch--go atonce;--leave your sister to happiness which you cannot prevent; and sheat least shall know nothing of your iniquity, and you shall enjoy theproceeds of your property anywhere you will--anywhere, that is, but inIreland. 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 leaveyou to your fate. Come, Lord Ballindine, we can have nothing further tosay, " 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 inhis 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 thedoor--"but--" continued Barry. 

"I will have no 'buts, ' Mr Lynch; will you at once and unconditionallyagree to the terms I have proposed?"

"I don't want to live in the country, " said Barry; "the country'snothing 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 yourproperty to the care of others. You must leave Dunmore _to-day_, forever. "

"To-day!" shouted Barry. 

"Yes, to-day. You can easily get as far as Roscommon. You have yourown horse and car. And, what is more, before you go, you must write toyour sister, telling her that you have made up your mind to leave thecountry, 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 to-day?" whisperedFrank to the parson. 

"I am, and you'll find he'll go, too, " said Armstrong. "It must beto-day--this very day, Mr Lynch. Martin Kelly will manage for you aboutthe property. "

"Or you can send for Mr Daly, to meet you at Roscommon, " suggestedMartin. 

"Thank you for nothing, " said Barry; "you'd better wait till you'respoken to. I don't know what business you have here at all. "

"The business that all honest men have to look after all rogues, " saidMr Armstrong. "Come, Mr Lynch, you'd better make up your mind toprepare for your journey. "

"Well, I won't--and there's an end of it, " said Barry. "It's allnonsense. You can't do anything to me: you said so yourself. I'm notgoing to be made a fool of that way--I'm not going to give up myproperty and everything. "

"Don't you know, Mr Lynch, " said the parson, "that if you are kept injail till April next, as will be your fate if you persist in stayingat Dunmore tonight, your creditors will do much more damage to yourproperty, than your own immediate absence will do? If Mr Daly is yourlawyer, send for him, as Martin Kelly suggests. I'm not afraid that hewill recommend you to remain in the country, even should you dare totell him of the horrid accusation which is brought against you. But atany rate make up your mind, for if you do stay in Dunmore tonight itshall 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 anincubus upon him, which he was totally unable to shake off. He knewneither how to resist nor how to give way. Misty ideas got into hishead of escaping to his bed-room and blowing his own brains out. Different schemes of retaliation and revenge flitted before him, buthe could decide on nothing. There he sat, silent, stupidly gazing atnothing, while Lord Ballindine and Mr Armstrong stood whispering overthe 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, MrLynch, I will give you five minutes more, and then I go;" and he pulledout his watch, and stood with his back to the fire, looking at it. LordBallindine walked to the window, and Martin Kelly and Doctor Colligansat in distant parts of the room, with long faces, silent and solemn, breathing heavily. How long those five minutes appeared to them, andhow short to Barry! The time was not long enough to enable him to cometo any decision: at the end of the five minutes he was still gazingvacantly before him: he was still turning over in his brain, one afteranother, 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 wellenough. "

"I'll give him twenty-five, " said Martin. "I'm sure his sister'll dothat 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 thetwenty-five--that will last you till you make arrangements about yourproperty. 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 saveyour sister from knowing what it was that her brother wished toaccomplish. "

Barry scowled at him as though he would like, if possible, to try hishand at murdering him; but he did not answer him again. Arrangementswere at last made for Barry's departure, and off he went, that veryday--not to Roscommon, but to Tuam; and there, at the instigation ofMartin, Daly the attorney took upon himself the division and temporarymanagement of the property. From thence, with Martin's, or rather withhis sister's twenty-five pounds in his pocket, he started to thatElysium for which he had for some time so ardently longed, and soonlanded at Boulogne, regardless alike of his sister, his future brother, Lord Ballindine, or Mr Armstrong. The parson had found it quiteimpossible to carry out one point on which he had insisted. He couldnot induce Barry Lynch to write to his sister: no, not a line; not aword. Had it been to save him from hanging he could hardly have inducedhimself to write those common words, "_dear sister_". 

"Oh! you can tell her what you like, " said he. "It's you're making mego away at once in this manner. Tell her whatever confounded lies youlike; tell her I'm gone because I didn't choose to stay and see hermake a fool of herself--and that's the truth, too. If it wasn't forthat I wouldn't move a step for any of you. "

He went, however, as I have before said, and troubled the people ofDunmore 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 therejust to wish him good bye--and Parson Armstrong too. What the dickenscould they be at there so long? Come, Martin--you're safe with me, youknow; tell us something about it now. "

"Nonsense, mother; I've nothing to tell: Barry Lynch has left the placefor 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 aheap. "

"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'sofficer, 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 fatherbefore him, never held any land in Ballindine parish. "

"Didn't they--well thin, you know more than I, mother, so it's no usemy telling you, " and Martin walked off to bed. 

"I'll even you, yet, my lad, " said she, "close as you are; you seeelse. Wait awhile, till the money's wanting, and then let's see who'llknow all about it!" And the widow slapped herself powerfully on thatpart where her pocket depended, in sign of the great confidence she hadin the strength of her purse. 

"Did I manage that well?" said the parson, as Lord Ballindine drove himhome to Kelly's Court, as soon as the long interview was over. "If Ican 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 hotwater as I have been all this day: and, now it's over, to tell you thetruth, I'm sorry we interfered. We did what we had no possible right todo. "

"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 inthe county could have committed him; for he had done, and, as far asI can judge, had said, literally nothing. It's true we know what heintended; 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 backagain. "

"What I mean is, we had no business to drive him out of the countrywith threats. "

"Oh, Ballindine, that's nonsense. One can keep no common terms withsuch a blackguard as that. However, it's done now; and I must say Ithink it was well done. "

"There's no doubt of your talent in the matter, Armstrong: upon my soulI never saw anything so cool. What a wretch--what an absolute fiend thefellow is!"

"Bad enough, " said the parson. "I've seen bad men before, but I thinkhe's the worst I ever saw. What'll Mrs O'Kelly say of my coming in thisway, without notice?"

The parson enjoyed his claret at Kelly's Court that evening, after hishard 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 hisdaughter told him that Lord Kilcullen had left the house, and was onhis way to Dublin, though he had been forced to pay so dearly for thesatisfaction, had had to falsify his solemn assurance that he wouldnot give his son another penny, and to break through his resolution ofacting the Roman father [50]. He consoled himself with the idea that he hadbeen actuated by affection for his profligate son; but such had notbeen the case. Could he have handed him over to the sheriff's officersilently and secretly, he would have done so; but his pride could notendure the reflection that all the world should know that bailiffs hadforced an entry into Grey Abbey. 

 [FOOTNOTE 50: Roman father--Lucius Junius Brutus, legendary founder of the Roman republic, was said to have passed sentence of death on his two sons for participating in a rebellion. ]

He closely questioned Lady Selina, with regard to all that had passedbetween her and her brother. 

"Did he say anything?" at last he said--"did he say anythingabout--about Fanny?"

"Not much, papa; but what he did say, he said with kindness andaffection, " replied her ladyship, glad to repeat anything in favour ofher brother. 

"Affection--pooh!" said the earl. "He has no affection; no affectionfor any one; he has no affection even for me. --What did he say abouther, Selina?"

"He seemed to wish she should marry Lord Ballindine. "

"She may marry whom she pleases, now, " said the earl. "I wash my handsof her. I have done my best to prevent what I thought a disgracefulmatch for her--"

"It would not have been disgraceful, papa, had she married him sixmonths ago. "

"A gambler and a _roué_!" said the earl, forgetting, it is to besupposed, for the moment, his own son's character. "She'll marry himnow, I suppose, and repent at her leisure. I'll give myself no furthertrouble about it. "

The earl thought upon the subject, however, a good deal; and before MrArmstrong's arrival he had all but made up his mind that he must againswallow his word, and ask his ward's lover back to his house. He had atany rate become assured that if he did not do so, some one else woulddo it for him. 

Mr Armstrong was, happily, possessed of a considerable stock ofself-confidence, and during his first day's journey, felt no want of itwith regard to the delicate mission with which he was entrusted. Butwhen he had deposited his carpet-bag at the little hotel at Kilcullenbridge, and found himself seated on a hack car, and proceeding to GreyAbbey, 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 completelypuzzled as to the manner in which he should open his negotiation. 

He had, however, desired the man to drive to the house, and he couldnot well stop the car in the middle of the demesne, to mature hisplans; and when he was at the door he could not stay there withoutapplying for admission. So he got his card-case in his hand, and rangthe bell. After a due interval, which to the parson did not seem a bittoo long, the heavy-looking, powdered footman appeared, and announcedthat Lord Cashel was at home; and, in another minute Mr Armstrong foundhimself in the book-room. 

It was the morning after Lord Kilcullen's departure, and Lord Cashelwas still anything but comfortable. Her ladyship had been bothering himabout the poor boy, as she called her son, now that she learned he wasin distress; and had been beseeching him to increase his allowance. The earl had not told his wife the extent of their son's pecuniarydelinquencies, and consequently she was greatly dismayed when herhusband very solemnly said, "My lady, Lord Kilcullen has no longer any allowance from me. "

"Good gracious!" screamed her ladyship; "no allowance?--how is the poorboy to live?"

"That I really cannot tell. I cannot even guess; but, let him live howhe may, I will not absolutely ruin myself for his sake. "

The interview was not a comfortable one, either to the father ormother. Lady Cashel cried a great deal, and was very strongly ofopinion that her son would die of cold and starvation: "How couldhe get shelter or food, any more than a common person, if he had noallowance? Mightn't he, at any rate, come back, and live at GreyAbbey?--That wouldn't cost his father anything. " And then the countessremembered how she had praised her son to Mrs Ellison, and the bishop'swife; and she cried worse than ever, and was obliged to be left toGriffiths and her drops. 

This happened on the evening of Lord Kilcullen's departure, and on thenext morning her ladyship did not appear at breakfast. She was weakand nervous, and had her tea in her own sitting-room. There was no onesitting at breakfast but the earl, Fanny, and Lady Selina, and theywere all alike, stiff, cold, and silent. The earl felt as if he werenot at home even in his own breakfast-parlour; he felt afraid of hisward, as though he were conscious that she knew how he had intendedto injure her: and, as soon as he had swallowed his eggs, he mutteredsomething which was inaudible to both the girls, and retreated to hisprivate den. 

He had not been there long before the servant brought in our friend'sname. "The Rev. George Armstrong", written on a plain card. The parsonhad not put the name of his parish, fearing that the earl, knowingfrom 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 MrArmstrong, having accepted the offer of a chair, "on a rather delicatemission. "

The earl bowed, and rubbed his hands, and felt more comfortable than hehad 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 delicatemanner; he liked, also, displaying his dignity to strangers, for hefelt that strangers stood rather in awe of him: he also felt, though hedid not own it to himself, that his manner was not so effective withpeople who had known him some time. 

"I may say, a very delicate mission, " said the parson; "and one I wouldnot have undertaken had I not known your lordship's character forcandour and honesty. "

Lord Cashel again bowed and rubbed his hands. 

"I am, my lord, a friend of Lord Ballindine; and as such I have takenthe liberty of calling on your lordship. "

"A friend of Lord Ballindine?" said the earl, arching his eyebrows, andassuming a look of great surprise. 

"A very old friend, my lord; the clergyman of his parish, and for manyyears an intimate friend of his father. I have known Lord Ballindinesince 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 thereanything, Mr Armstrong, in which I can assist either you or hislordship?"

"My lord, " said the parson, "I need not tell you that before I took theperhaps unwarrantable liberty of troubling you, I was made acquaintedwith Lord Ballindine's engagement with your ward, and with the mannerin which that engagement was broken off. "

"And your object is, Mr Armstrong--?"

"My object is to remove, if possible, the unfortunate misunderstandingbetween your lordship and my friend. "

"Misunderstanding, Mr Armstrong?--There was no misunderstanding betweenus. I really think we perfectly understood each other. Lord Ballindinewas engaged to my ward; his engagement, however, being contingent onhis adoption of a certain line of conduct. This line of conduct hislordship did not adopt; perhaps, he used a wise discretion; however, Ithought not. I thought the mode of life which he pursued--"

"But--"

"Pardon me a moment, Mr Armstrong, and I shall have said all whichappears to me to be necessary on the occasion; perhaps more than isnecessary; more probably than I should have allowed myself to say, hadnot Lord Ballindine sent as his ambassador the clergyman of his parishand the friend of his father, " and Lord Cashel again bowed and rubbedhis hands. "I thought, Mr Armstrong, that your young friend appearedwedded to a style of life quite incompatible with his income--withhis own income as a single man, and the income which he would havepossessed had he married my ward. I thought that their marriage wouldonly lead to poverty and distress, and I felt that I was only doing myduty to my ward in expressing this opinion to her. I found that shewas herself of the same opinion; that she feared a union with LordBallindine would not ensure happiness either to him or to herself. Hishabits were too evidently those of extravagance, and hers had not beensuch 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. Aftermature consideration, Miss Wyndham commissioned me to express hersentiments, --and I must say they fully coincided with my own, --to LordBallindine, and to explain to him, that she found herself obligedto--to--to retrace the steps which she had taken in the matter. I didthis in a manner as little painful to Lord Ballindine as I was able. It is difficult, Mr Armstrong, to make a disagreeable communicationpalatable; 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 Ballindinewill do me the justice to own that, on the occasion alluded to, I saidnothing unnecessarily harsh--nothing calculated to harass his feelings. I appreciate and esteem Lord Ballindine's good qualities, and I muchregretted that prudence forbad me to sanction the near alliance he wasanxious to do me the honour of making with me. "

Lord Cashel finished his harangue, and felt once more on good termswith himself. He by no means intended offering any further vehementresistance to his ward's marriage. He was, indeed, rejoiced to havean opportunity of giving way decently. But he could not resist thetemptation of explaining his conduct, and making a speech. 

"My lord, " said the parson, "what you tell me is only a repetition ofwhat I heard from my young friend. "

"I am glad to hear it. I trust, then, I may have the pleasure offeeling that Lord Ballindine attributes to me no personal unkindness?"

"Not in the least, Lord Cashel; very far from it. Though LordBallindine may not be--may not hitherto have been, free from thefollies of his age, he has had quite sense enough to appreciate yourlordship's conduct. "

"I endeavoured, at any rate, that it should be such as to render meliable to no just imputation of fickleness or cruelty. "

"No one would for a moment accuse your lordship of either. It is myknowledge of your lordship's character in this particular which hasinduced me to undertake the task of begging you to reconsider thesubject. 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 atKelly's Court. He is passionately, devotedly attached to your ward, Lord Cashel; and with a young man's vanity he still thinks that she maynot 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 sometimesmistake their own feelings. Miss Wyndham must have been attached to myfriend, or she would not have received him as her lover. Will you, mylord, allow me to see Miss Wyndham? If she still expresses indifferenceto Lord Ballindine, I will assure her that she shall be no furtherpersecuted by his suit. If such be not the case, surely prudence neednot further interfere to prevent a marriage desired by both the personsmost concerned. Lord Ballindine is not now a spendthrift, whatever hemay formerly have been; and Miss Wyndham's princely fortune, though italone would never have induced my friend to seek her hand, will makethe match all that it should be. You will not object, my lord, to myseeing Miss Wyndham?"

"Mr Armstrong--really--you must be aware such a request is ratherunusual. "

"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 ofcharacter, and should elicit nothing but admiration; but circumstancesare 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 manneras he thought should entitle him to the eternal gratitude of his ward, Lord Ballindine, and the parson. He consequently rang the bell, anddesired the servant to give his compliments to Miss Wyndham and tellher that the Rev. Mr Armstrong wished to see her, alone, upon businessof importance. 

Mr Armstrong felt that his success was much greater than he had had anyreason to expect, from Lord Ballindine's description of his last visitat Grey Abbey. He had, in fact, overcome the only difficulty. If MissWyndham really disliked his friend, and objected to the marriage, MrArmstrong was well aware that he had only to return, and tell hisfriend so in the best way he could. If, however, she still had a trueregard for him, if she were the Fanny Wyndham Ballindine had describedher to be, if she had ever really been devoted to him, if she had atall a wish in her heart to see him again at her feet, the parson feltthat he would have good news to send back to Kelly's Court; and that hewould have done the lovers a service which they never could forget. 

"At any rate, Mr Armstrong, " said Lord Cashel, as the parson was bowinghimself backwards out of the room, "you will join our family circlewhile you are in the neighbourhood. Whatever may be the success of yourmission--and I assure you I hope it may be such as will be gratifyingto you, I am happy to make the acquaintance of any friend of LordBallindine's, when Lord Ballindine chooses his friends so well. " (Thiswas meant as a slap at Dot Blake. ) "You will give me leave to send downto the town for your luggage. " Mr Armstrong made no objection to thisproposal, and the luggage was sent for. 

The powder-haired servant again took him in tow, and ushered him out ofthe book-room, across the hall through the billiard-room, and into thelibrary; gave him a chair, and then brought him a newspaper, giving himto understand that Miss Wyndham would soon be with him. 

The parson took the paper in his hands, but he did not trouble himselfmuch with the contents of it. What was he to say to Miss Wyndham?--howwas he to commence? He had never gone love-making for another in hislife; and now, at his advanced age, it really did come rather strangeto him. And then he began to think whether she were short or tall, darkor fair, stout or slender. It certainly was very odd, but, in all theirconversations on the subject, Lord Ballindine had never given him anydescription of his inamorata. Mr Armstrong, however, had not much timeto make up his mind on any of these points, for the door opened, andMiss Wyndham entered. 

She was dressed in black, for she was, of course, still in mourning forher brother; but, in spite of her sable habiliments, she startled theparson by the brilliance of her beauty. There was a quiet dignity ofdemeanour natural to Fanny Wyndham; a well-balanced pose, and a graceof motion, which saved her from ever looking awkward or confused. Shenever appeared to lose her self-possession. Though never arrogant, sheseemed always to know what was due to herself. No insignificant puppycould ever have attempted to flirt with her. 

When summoned by the servant to meet a strange clergyman alone in thelibrary, at the request of Lord Cashel, she felt that his visit musthave some reference to her lover; indeed, her thoughts for the last fewdays had run on little else. She had made up her mind to talk to hercousin about him; then, her cousin had matured that determinationby making love to her himself: then, she had talked to him of LordBallindine, and he had promised to talk to his father on the samesubject; and she had since been endeavouring to bring herself to makeone other last appeal to her uncle's feelings. Her mind was therefore, full of Lord Ballindine, when she walked into the library. But her facewas no tell-tale; her gait and demeanour were as dignified as thoughshe had no anxious love within her heart--no one grand desire, todisturb the even current of her blood. She bowed her beautiful head toMr 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 tothe young lady, so he shut his eyes, and rushed at once into the middleof his subject. "Miss Wyndham, " he said, "I have come a long way tocall on you, at the request of a friend of yours--a very dear and oldfriend of mine--at the request of Lord Ballindine. "

Fanny's countenance became deeply suffused at her lover's name, but theparson did not observe it; indeed he hardly ventured to look in herface. She merely said, in a voice which seemed to him to be anythingbut promising, "Well, sir?" The truth was, she did not know what tosay. Had she dared, she would have fallen on her knees before herlover's friend, and sworn to him how well she loved him. 

"When Lord Ballindine was last at Grey Abbey, Miss Wyndham, he had notthe honour of an interview with you. "

"No, sir, " said Fanny. Her voice, look, and manner were still sedateand courtly; her heart, however, was beating so violently that shehardly knew what she said. 

"Circumstances, I believe, prevented it, " said the parson. "Myfriend, 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 madeLord Ballindine feel that any further visit to Grey Abbey on his ownpart would be an intrusion. "

"I never--" said Fanny, "I never--"

"You never authorised so harsh a message, you would say. It is not theharshness of the language, but the certainty of the fact, that hasdestroyed my friend's happiness. If such were to be the case--if itwere absolutely necessary that the engagement between you and LordBallindine should be broken off, the more decided the manner in whichit were done, the better. Lord Ballindine now wishes--I am a badmessenger in such a case as this, Miss Wyndham: it is, perhaps, betterto tell you at once a plain tale. Frank has desired me to tell you thathe loves you well and truly; that he cannot believe you are indifferentto him; that your vows, to him so precious, are still ringing in hisears; that he is, as far as his heart is concerned, unchanged; andhe has commissioned me to ascertain from yourself, whether you--havereally changed your mind since he last had the pleasure of seeingyou. " The parson waited a moment for an answer, and then added, "LordBallindine by no means wishes to persecute you on the subject; norwould I do so, if he did wish it. You have only to tell me that you donot intend to renew your acquaintance with Lord Ballindine, and I willleave Grey Abbey. " Fanny still remained silent. "Say the one word 'go', Miss Wyndham, and you need not pain yourself by any further speech. Iwill at once be gone. "

Fanny strove hard to keep her composure, and to make some fitting replyto Mr Armstrong, but she was unable. Her heart was too full; she wastoo happy. She had, openly, and in spite of rebuke, avowed her love toher uncle, her aunt, to Lady Selina, and her cousin. But she could notbring herself to confess it to Mr Armstrong. At last she said:

"I am much obliged to you for your kindness, Mr Armstrong. Perhaps Iowe it to Lord Ballindine to--to . . . I will ask my uncle, sir, towrite to him. "

"I shall write to Lord Ballindine this evening, Miss Wyndham; will youintrust me with no message? I came from him, to see you, with no otherpurpose. 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 mindas to the words of her message, --"tell him to come himself. " And, hurrying from the room, she left the parson alone, to meditate on thesingular success of his mission. He stood for about half an hour, thinking over what had occurred, and rejoicing greatly in his mind thathe had undertaken the business. "What fools men are about women!" hesaid at last, to himself. "They know their nature so well when they arethinking and speaking of them with reference to others; but as soon asa man is in love with one himself, he is cowed! He thinks the natureof one woman is different from that of all others, and he is afraid toact 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 askedif his bag had come. It had, and was in his bed-room. "Could theservant get him pen, ink, and paper?" The servant did so; and, withintwo hours of his entering the doors of Grey Abbey, he was informing hisfriend of the success of his mission. 

XXXVII. VENI; VIDI; VICI [51]

 [FOOTNOTE 51: Veni; vidi; vici--(Latin) Julius Caesar's terse message to the Senate announcing his victory over King Pharnaces II of Pontus in 47 B. C. : "I came, I saw, I conquered. "]

The two following letters for Lord Ballindine were sent off, in theGrey Abbey post-bag, on the evening of the day on which Mr Armstronghad arrived there. They were from Mr Armstrong and Lord Cashel. Thatfrom 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 me, 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 hoursto compose, and was twice copied. I trust, therefore, it is a fairspecimen 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 mostrespectable, with a stiff white tie and the new suit expressly preparedfor the occasion. He was introduced to Lady Cashel and Lady Selina asa valued friend of Lord Ballindine, and was received, by the former atleast, in a most flattering manner. Lady Selina had hardly reconciledherself to the return of Lord Ballindine. It was from no envy at hercousin's happiness; she was really too high-minded, and too falselyproud, also, to envy anyone. But it was the harsh conviction of hermind, that no duties should be disregarded, and that all duties weredisagreeable: she was always opposed to the doing of anything whichappeared to be the especial wish of the person consulting her; becauseit would be agreeable, she judged that it would be wrong. She was mostsincerely anxious for her poor dependents, but she tormented them mostcruelly. When Biddy Finn wished to marry, Lady Selina told her itwas her duty to put a restraint on her inclinations; and ultimatelyprevented her, though there was no objection on earth to Tony Mara;and when the widow Cullen wanted to open a little shop for soap andcandles, having eight pounds ten shillings left to stock it, after thewake and funeral were over, Lady Selina told the widow it was her dutyto restrain her inclination, and she did so; and the eight pounds tenshillings drifted away in quarters of tea, and most probably, halfnoggins of whiskey. 

In the same way, she could not bring herself to think that Fanny wasdoing right, in following the bent of her dearest wishes--in marryingthis man she loved so truly. She was weak; she was giving way totemptation; she was going back from her word; she was, she said, givingup her claim to that high standard of feminine character, which itshould be the proudest boast of a woman to maintain. 

It was in vain that her mother argued the point with her in her ownway. "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 allthat; and your papa thinks it's all right? I declare I can't see theharm of it. "

"I don't say there's harm, mother, " said Lady Selina; "not absoluteharm; 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 sherejected him; but, having rejected him, no power on earth should haveinduced her to name him, or even to think of him again. She should havebeen 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 bedelighted to see anybody happy in the house again, and I always likedLord Ballindine myself. There was never any trouble about his dinnersor anything. "

And Lady Cashel was delighted. The grief she had felt at the abrupttermination of all her hopes with regard to her son had been toomuch for her; she had been unable even to mind her worsted-work, andGriffiths had failed to comfort her; but from the moment that herhusband had told her, with many hems and haws, that Mr Armstrong hadarrived to repeat Lord Ballindine's proposal, and that he had come toconsult her about again asking his lordship to Grey Abbey, she becamehappy and light-hearted; and, before Griffiths had left her for thenight, she had commenced her consultations as to the preparations forthe wedding. 

XXXVIII. WAIT TILL I TELL YOU

There was no one at dinner that first evening, but Mr Armstrong, andthe 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 seeinghim at Grey Abbey, and asked one or two questions as to the quantityof flannel it took to make petticoats for the old women in hisparish; but, to make up the rest, Lord Cashel talked incessantly. Hewished to show every attention to his guest, and he crammed him withecclesiastical conversation, till Mr Armstrong felt that, poor as hewas, and much as his family wanted the sun of lordly favour, he wouldnot give up his little living down in Connaught, where, at any rate, hecould do as he pleased, to be domestic chaplain to Lord Cashel, with asalary of a thousand a-year. 

The next morning was worse, and the whole of the long day wasinsufferable. He endeavoured to escape from his noble friend into thedemesne, where he might have explored the fox coverts, and ascertainedsomething of the sporting capabilities of the country; but Lord Cashelwould not leave him alone for an instant; and he had not only to endurethe earl's tediousness, but also had to assume a demeanour which wasnot at all congenial to his feelings. Lord Cashel would talk Church andultra-Protestantism to him, and descanted on the abominations of theNational system, and the glories of Sunday-schools. Now, Mr Armstronghad no leaning to popery, and had nothing to say against Sundayschools; but he had not one in his own parish, in which, by thebye, he was the father of all the Protestant children to be foundthere--without the slightest slur upon his reputation be it said. LordCashel totally mistook his character, and Mr Armstrong did not know howto set him right; and at five o'clock he went to dress, more tired thanhe ever had been after hunting all day, and then riding home twelvemiles 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, wasdelighted to hear that they were coming. Anything was better thananother _tête-à-tête_ with the ponderous earl. There were no otherneighbours near enough to Grey Abbey to be asked on so short a notice;but the rector, his wife, and their daughters, entered the dining-roompunctually at half-past six. 

The character and feelings of Mr O'Joscelyn were exactly those whichthe earl had attributed to Mr Armstrong. He had been an Orangeman [52], 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 carriedthe feeling to such a length, that he almost hated Papists. He had not, generally speaking, a bad opinion of human nature; but he would nothave considered his life or property safe in the hands of any RomanCatholic. He pitied the ignorance of the heathen, the credulity of theMahommedan, the desolateness of the Jew, even the infidelity of theatheist; but he execrated, abhorred, and abominated the Church of Rome. "Anathema Maranatha [53]; get thee from me, thou child of Satan--goout into utter darkness, thou worker of iniquity--into everlastinglakes of fiery brimstone, thou doer of the devil's work--thou falseprophet--thou ravenous wolf!" Such was the language of his soul, at thesight of a priest; such would have been the language of his tongue, hadnot, as he thought, evil legislators given a licence to falsehood inhis unhappy country, and rendered it impossible for a true Churchmanopenly to declare the whole truth. 

 [FOOTNOTE 52: Orangeman--a member of the Orange Order, a militant Irish protestant organization founded in 1746 and named after William of Orange, who in 1688 deposed his father-in-law, Catholic King James II, became King William III, and helped establish protestant faith as a prerequisite for succession to the English throne. The Orange Order is still exists and remains rabidly anti-Catholic. ]

 [FOOTNOTE 53: Anathema Maranatha--an extreme form of excommunication from the Catholic church formulated by the Fathers of the Fourth Council of Toledo. The person so excommunicated is also condemned to damnation at the second coming. ]

But though Mr O'Joscelyn did not absolutely give utterance to suchimprecations as these against the wolves who, as he thought, destroyedthe lambs of his flock, --or rather, turned his sheep into foxes, --yethe by no means concealed his opinion, or hid his light under a bushel. He spent his life--an eager, anxious, hard-working life, in denouncingthe scarlet woman of Babylon and all her abominations; and he did soin season and out of season: in town and in country; in public and inprivate; from his own pulpit, and at other people's tables; in highwaysand byways; both to friends--who only partly agreed with him, and tostrangers, who did not agree with him at all. He totally disregardedthe feelings of his auditors; he would make use of the same languageto persons who might in all probability be Romanists, as he did tothose whom he knew to be Protestants. He was a most zealous andconscientious, but a most indiscreet servant of his Master. He mademany enemies, but few converts. He rarely convinced his opponents, butoften disgusted his own party. He had been a constant speaker at publicmeetings; an orator at the Rotunda, and, on one occasion, at ExeterHall. But even his own friends, the ultra Protestants, found that hedid the cause more harm than good, and his public exhibitions had beenas much as possible discouraged. Apart from his fanatical enthusiasm, he was a good man, of pure life, and simple habits; and rejoicedexceedingly, that, in the midst of the laxity in religious opinionswhich so generally disfigured the age, his wife and his children wereequally eager and equally zealous with himself in the service of theirGreat Master. 

A beneficed clergyman from the most benighted, that is, most Papisticalportion of Connaught, would be sure, thought Mr O'Joscelyn, to have afellow-feeling with him; to sympathise with his wailings, and to havesimilar woes to communicate. 

"How many Protestants have you?" said he to Mr Armstrong, in thedrawing-room, a few minutes after they had been introduced to eachother. "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 ofEngland police-serjeant has been sent here, in place of a horridPapist. We've a great gain in Serjeant Woody, my lord. "

"In one way we certainly have, Mr O'Joscelyn, " said the earl. "I wishall the police force were Protestants; I think they would be much moreeffective. But Serjeant Carroll was a very good man; you know he wasremoved from hence on his promotion. "

"I know he was, my lord--just to please the priests just because he wasa Papist. Do you think there was a single thing done, or a word said atPetty Sessions, but what Father Flannery knew all about it?--Yes, everyword. When did the police ever take any of Father Flannery's ownpeople?"

"Didn't Serjeant Carroll take that horrible man Leary, that robbed theold widow that lived under the bridge?" said the countess. 

"True, my lady, he did, " said Mr O'Joscelyn; "but you'll find, ifyou inquire, that Leary hadn't paid the priest his dues, nor yethis brother. How a Protestant government can reconcile it to theirconscience--how they can sleep at night, after pandering to the priestsas they daily do, I cannot conceive. How many Protestants did you sayyou have, Mr Armstrong?"

"We're not very strong down in the West, Mr O'Joscelyn, " said the otherparson. "There are usually two or three in the Kelly's Court pew. Thevicarage pew musters pretty well, for Mrs Armstrong and five of thechildren are always there. Then there are usually two policemen, andthe clerk; though, by the bye, he doesn't belong to the parish. Iborrowed 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 isabsent I'm able to miss him. "

"It must paralyse your efforts, preaching to such a congregation, " saidthe other. 

"Do not disparage my congregation, " said Mr Armstrong, laughing; "theyare friendly and neighbourly, if not important in point of numbers;and, if I wanted to fill my church, the Roman Catholics think so wellof me, that they'd flock in crowds there if I asked them; and thepriest would show them the way--for any special occasion, I mean; ifthe bishop came to see me, or anything of that kind. "

Mr O'Joscelyn was struck dumb; and, indeed, he would have had no timeto answer if the power of speech had been left to him, for the servantannounced dinner. 

The conversation was a little more general during dinner-time, butafter dinner the parish clergyman returned to another branch of hisfavourite subject. Perhaps, he thought that Mr Armstrong was himselfnot very orthodox; or, perhaps, that it was useless to enlarge on theabominations of Babylon to a Protestant peer and a Protestant parson;but, on this occasion, he occupied himself with the temporal iniquitiesof the Roman Catholics. The trial of O'Connell and his fellow-prisonershad come to an end, and he and they, with one exception, had just. Commenced their period of imprisonment. The one exception was aclergyman, who had been acquitted. He had in some way been connectedwith Mr O'Joscelyn's parish; and, as the parish priest and most of hisflock were hot Repealers, there was a good deal of excitement on theoccasion, --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 infinitewisdom, who, for His own purposes, now allows sedition to rear her headunchecked, and falsehood to sit in the high places. They are indeeddangerous days, when the sympathy of government is always with the evildoers, and the religion of the state is deserted by the crown. "

"Why, God bless me! Mr O'Joscelyn!--the queen hasn't turned Papist, andthe Repealers are all in prison, or soon will be there. "

"I don't mean the queen. I believe she is very good. I believe she is asincere 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 dareprotect the Protestant faith: they do not dare secure the tranquillityof 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, whetherthey 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 hada staunch Protestant jury. "

"I tell you the priests are at the head of it all. O'Connell would benothing without them; he is only their creature. The truth is, thegovernment did not dare to frame an indictment that would really leadto the punishment of a priest. The government is truckling to the falsehierarchy of Rome. Look at Oxford, --a Jesuitical seminary, devoted tothe secret propagation of Romish falsehood. --Go into the churches ofEngland, and watch their bowings, their genuflexions, their crosses andtheir candles; see the demeanour of their apostate clergy; look intotheir private oratories; see their red-lettered prayer-books, theircrucifixes, and images; and then, can you doubt that the most dreadfulof all prophecies is about to be accomplished?"

"But I have not been into their closets, Mr O'Joscelyn, nor yet intotheir churches lately, and therefore I have not seen these things; norhave I seen anybody who has. Have you seen crucifixes in the rooms ofChurch of England clergymen? or candles on the altar-steps of Englishchurches?"

"God forbid that I should willingly go where such things are to beseen; but of the fearful fact there is, unfortunately, no doubt. Andthen, as to the state of the country, we have nothing round us butanarchy and misrule: my life, Mr Armstrong, has not been safe any daythis week past. "

"Good Heaven, Mr O'Joscelyn--your life not safe! I thought you were asquiet here, in Kildare, as we are in Mayo. "

"Wait till I tell you, Mr Armstrong: you know this priest, whom theyhave let loose to utter more sedition?--He was coadjutor to the priestin this parish. "

"Was he? The people are not attacking you, I suppose, because he's letloose?"

"Wait till I tell you. No; the people are mad because O'Connell and hismyrmidons are to be locked up; and, mingled with their fury on thishead are their insane rejoicings at the escape of this priest. Theyare, therefore, --or were, till Saturday last, howling for joy and forgrief 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 hisgrievances, had heard all these atrocities before; and, not being veryexcited by their interest, had continued sipping his claret in silencetill he began to doze; and, by the time the worthy parson had got tothe climax of his misery, the nobleman was fast asleep. 

"You don't mean that the people made any attack on the parsonage?" saidMr Armstrong. 

"Wait till I tell you, Mr Armstrong, " replied the other. "On Thursdaymorning 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 letloose. It was soon evident that no work was to be done that day. Theyassembled about the roads in groups; at the chapel-door; at PriestFlannery's house; at the teetotal reading-room as they call it, wherethe people drink cordial made of whiskey, and disturb the neighbourhoodwith cracked horns; and we heard that a public demonstration was to bemade. "

"Was it a demonstration of joy or of grief?"

"Both, Mr Armstrong! it was mixed. They were to shout and dance for joyabout Father Tyrrel; and howl and curse for grief about O'Connell; andthey did shout and howl with a vengeance. All Thursday, you would havethought 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 Idetermined to be prepared. I armed myself, Mr Armstrong; and so did MrsO'Joscelyn. Mrs O'Joscelyn is a most determined woman--a woman of greatspirit; we were resolved to protect our daughters and our infants fromill-usage, as long as God should leave us the power to do so. We botharmed ourselves with pistols, and I can assure you that, as far asammunition 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 ofvery great nerve. I can assure you we shall never forget that Thursdaynight. About seven in the evening it got darkish, but the horrid yellsof the wild creatures had never ceased for one half-hour; and, a littleafter seven, twenty different bonfires illuminated the parish. Therewere bonfires on every side of us: huge masses of blazing turf were tobe 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, thechildren were put to bed; but with their clothes and shoes on, forthere was no knowing at what moment and in how sudden a way the poorinnocents might be called up. My daughters behaved admirably; theyremained quite quiet in the drawing-room till about eleven, when wehad evening worship, and then they retired to rest. Their mother, however, insisted that they should not take off their petticoats orstockings. At about one, we went to the hall-door: it was then brightmoonlight--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? Thegovernment 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, youmay be sure. Mary did not rise from her chair once that night withouta 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 thewindows--crowds of them--men, women and children; and still theycontinued shouting. The next morning they were a little more quiet, butstill the parish was disturbed: nobody was at work, and men and womenstood collected together in the roads. But as soon as it was dusk, the shoutings and the bonfires began again; and again did I and MrsO'Joscelyn prepare for a night of anxious watching. We sat up allFriday night, Mr Armstrong. "

"With the pistols again?"

"Indeed we did; and lucky for us that we did so. Had they not knownthat we were prepared, I am convinced the house would have beenattacked. Our daughters sat with us this night, and we were so far usedto the state of disturbance, that we were able to have a littlesupper. "

"You must have wanted that, I think. "

"Indeed we did. About four in the morning, I dropped asleep on thesofa; 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--thatis, Mrs O'Joscelyn. We were both determined to fire, if we found ourpremises invaded. Thank God the miscreants did not come within thegate. "

"You did not suffer much, then, except the anxiety, Mr O'Joscelyn?"

"God was very merciful, and protected us; but who can feel safe, livingin 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 whilethe right foot of truth was on her neck; for a while she lay prostratedbefore the strength of those, who by God's grace, had prevailed againsther. But the latter prophecies which had been revealed to us, are nowabout to be accomplished. It is well for those who comprehend the signsof the coming time. "

"Suppose we join the ladies, " said the earl, awakened by the suddenlull in Mr O'Joscelyn's voice. "But won't you take a glass of Madeirafirst, 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'sgig, I'm very glad I came here, for Frank's sake. I've smoothed hisway to matrimony and a fortune. But I don't know anything which wouldinduce me to stay a week at Grey Abbey. The earl is bad--nearlyunbearable; 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 sincehas he told in Connaught, how Mr O'Joscelyn. And Mary, his wife, satup two nights running, armed to the teeth, to protect themselves fromthe noisy Repealers of Kilcullen. 

Mr Armstrong arrived safely at his parsonage, and the next morning herode over to Kelly's Court. But Lord Ballindine was not there. He hadstarted for Grey Abbey almost immediately on receiving the two letterswhich we have given, and he and his friend had passed each other on theroad. 

XXXIX. IT NEVER RAINS BUT IT POURS

When Frank had read his two letters from Grey Abbey, he was in such astate of excitement as to be unable properly to decide what he wouldimmediately do. His first idea was to gallop to Tuam, as fast as hisbest horse would carry him; to take four horses there, and not tostop one moment till he found himself at Grey Abbey: but a littleconsideration showed him that this would not do. He would not findhorses 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 ofhis approach. So he at last made up his mind to postpone his departurefor a few hours. 

He was, however, too much overcome with joy to be able to do anythingrationally. His anger against the earl totally evaporated; indeed, heonly thought of him now as a man who had a house in which he could meethis love. He rushed into the drawing-room, where his mother and sisterswere sitting, and, with the two letters open in his hand, proclaimedhis 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 theworsted-work sofa. 

"You have made up your difference, then, with Miss Wyndham?" said theanxious mother. "I am so glad! My own dear, good, sensible Frank!"

"I never had any difference with Fanny, " said he. "I was not ableto explain all about it, nor can I now: it was a crotchet of theearl'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 afterto-morrow, and I must go by Dublin. I shall be off in a couple ofhours; 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 tellme something about it. I never asked any questions when I thought thesubject was a painful one. "

"God bless you, mother, you never did. But I can tell you nothing--onlythe stupid old earl has begged me to go there at once. Fanny mustsettle the time herself: there'll be settlements, and lawyer's work. "

"That's true, my love. A hundred thousand pounds in ready cash doeswant looking after. But look here, my dear; Fanny is of age, isn'tshe?"

"She is, mother. "

"Well now, Frank, take my advice; they'll want to tie up her money inall 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 theylock up a girl's money, so that neither she nor her husband can spendthe principal or the interest. Don't let them do it, Frank. Of courseshe will be led by you, let them settle whatever is fair on her; butdon'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 Dublinbefore the settlements were signed; but declared that he was not goingto marry Fanny Wyndham for her money. 

"That's all very well, Frank, " said the mother; "but you know you couldnot marry her without the money, and mind, it's now or never. Thinkwhat a thing it would be to have the property unencumbered!"

The son hurried away to throw himself at the feet of his mistress, andthe mother remained in her drawing-room, thinking with delight on therenovated grandeur of the family, and of the decided lead which theO'Kellys would again be able to take in Connaught. 

Fanny's joy was quite equal to that of her lover, but it was not shownquite so openly. Her aunt congratulated her most warmly; kissed hertwenty times; called her her own dear, darling niece, and promised herto love her husband, and to make him a purse if she could get Griffithsto teach her that new stitch; it looked so easy she was sure she couldlearn it, and it wouldn't tease her eyes. Lady Selina also wished herjoy; but she did it very coldly, though very sensibly. 

"Believe me, my dear Fanny, I am glad you should have the wish of yourheart. There were obstacles to your union with Lord Ballindine, whichappeared to be insurmountable, and I therefore attempted to wean youfrom your love. I hope he will prove worthy of that love, and that youmay never have cause to repent of your devotion to him. You are goinggreatly to increase your cares and troubles; may God give you strengthto bear them, and wisdom to turn them to advantage!"

The earl made a very long speech to her, in which there were but fewpauses, and not one full stop. Fanny was not now inclined to quarrelwith him; and he quite satisfied himself that his conduct, throughout, towards his ward, had been dignified, prudent, consistent, anddisinterested. 

These speeches and congratulations all occurred during the period of MrArmstrong's visit, and Fanny heard nothing more about her lover, tillthe third morning after that gentleman's departure; the earl announcedthen, on entering the breakfast-room, that he had that morning receiveda communication from Lord Ballindine, and that his lordship intendedreaching Grey Abbey that day in time for dinner. 

Fanny felt herself blush, but she said nothing; Lady Selina regrettedthat he had had a very wet day yesterday, and hoped he would have afine day to-day; and Lady Cashel was overcome at the reflection thatshe had no one to meet him at dinner, and that she had not yet suitedherself with a cook. 

"Dear me, " exclaimed her ladyship; "I wish we'd got this letteryesterday; no one knows now, beforehand, when people are coming. I'msure it usen't to be so. I shall be so glad to see Lord Ballindine; youknow, Fanny, he was always a great favourite of mine. Do you think, Selina, the O'Joscelyns would mind coming again without any notice? I'msure I don't know--I would not for the world treat Lord Ballindineshabbily; but what can I do, my dear?"

"I think, my lady, we may dispense with any ceremony now, with LordBallindine, " said the earl. "He will, I am sure, be delighted to bereceived merely as one of the family. You need not mind asking theO'Joscelyns to-day. "

"Do you think not? Well, that's a great comfort: besides, LordBallindine never was particular. But still, Fanny, had I known he wascoming 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 ceasedto love him dearly; and she also thought she owed him much for hisconstancy. It was so good of him to send his friend to her--and one towhom her uncle could not refuse admission; and then she thought she hadtreated Mr Armstrong haughtily and unkindly. She had never thanked himfor all the trouble he had taken; she had never told him how very happyhe had made her; but she would do so at some future time, when heshould be an honoured and a valued guest in her own and her husband'shouse. 

But how should she receive her lover? Would they allow her to be alonewith him, if only for a moment, at their first meeting? Oh! How shelonged for a confidante! but she could not make a confidante of hercousin. Twice she went down to the drawing-room, with the intentionof talking of her love; but Lady Selina looked so rigid, and spoke sorigidly, that she could not do it. She said such common-place things, and spoke of Lord Ballindine exactly as she would of any other visitorwho might have been coming to the house. She did not confine herself tohis eating and drinking, as her mother did; but she said, he'd find thehouse very dull, she was afraid--especially as the shooting was allover, and the hunting very nearly so; that he would, however, probablybe a good deal at the Curragh races. 

Fanny knew that her cousin did not mean to be unkind; but there wasno sympathy in her: she could not talk to her of the only subjectwhich occupied her thoughts; so she retreated to her own room, andendeavoured to compose herself. As the afternoon drew on, she began towish that he was not coming till to-morrow. She became very anxious;she must see him, somewhere, before she dressed for dinner; and shewould 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, andher cousin. 

She was still pondering on the subject, when, about four o'clock in theafternoon, she got a message from her aunt, desiring her to go to herin 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 wasthinking Lord Ballindine will soon be here. "

"I suppose he will, aunt. In his letter to Lord Cashel, he said he'd behere before dinner. "

"I'm sure he'll be here soon. Dear me; I'm so glad it's all made upbetween you. I'm sure, Fanny, I hope, and think, and believe, you'll bevery, very happy. "

"Dear aunt"--and Fanny kissed Lady Cashel. A word of kindness to herthen seemed invaluable. 

"It was so very proper in Lord Ballindine to give up his horses, andall that sort of thing, " said the countess; "I'm sure I always saidhe'd turn out just what he should be; and he is so good-tempered. Isuppose, 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, andComo, and Rome, and those sort of places. It'll be very nice: we wentthere--your uncle and I--and it was delightful; only I used to be verytired. It wasn't then we went to Rome though. I remember now it wasafter Adolphus was born. Poor Adolphus!" and her ladyship sighed, asher thoughts went back to the miseries of her eldest born. "But I'lltell you why I sent for you, my dear: you know, I must go downstairsto receive Lord Ballindine, and tell him how glad I am that he's comeback; and I'm sure I am very glad that he's coming; and your uncle willbe 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, byyourself; and Griffiths shall show Lord Ballindine upstairs, as soon ashe leaves the drawing-room. "

"How very, very kind of you, dear aunt!" said Fanny, relieved from hermost dreadful difficulty. And so it was arranged. Lady Cashel went downinto the drawing-room to await her guest, and Fanny brought her bookinto her aunt's boudoir, and pretended she would read till LordBallindine disturbed her. 

I need hardly say that she did not read much. She sat there over heraunt's fire, waiting to catch the sound of the wheels on the gravelat the front door. At one moment she would think that he was nevercoming--the time appeared to be so long; and then again, when she heardany sound which might be that of his approach, she would again wish tohave a few minutes more to herself. 

At length, however, she certainly did hear him. There was the quickrattle of the chaise over the gravel, becoming quicker and quicker, till the vehicle stopped with that kind of plunge which is made by noother animal than a post-horse, and by him only at his arrival at theend of a stage. Then the steps were let down with a crash--she wouldnot 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; butshe heard his quick step at the hail door; she was sure--she could havesworn to his step--and then she heard the untying of cords, and pullingdown of luggage. Lord Ballindine was again in the house, and thedearest wish of her heart was accomplished. 

She felt that she was trembling. She had not yet made up her mind howshe would receive him--what she would first say to him--and certainlyshe had no time to do so now. She got up, and looked in heraunt's pier-glass. It was more a movement of instinct than one ofpremeditation; but she thought she had never seen herself look sowretchedly. She had, however, but little time, either for regret orimprovement on that score, for there were footsteps in the corridor. Hecouldn'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 asshowing great moderation on her part. For, of course, Frank kept hertalking a great deal longer than he should have done; and then she notonly had to dress, but to go through many processes with her eyes, to obliterate the trace of tears. She was, however, successful, forshe looked very beautiful when she came down, and so dignified, socomposed, so quiet in her happiness, and yet so very happy in herquietness. Fanny was anything but a hypocrite; she had hardly a taintof hypocrisy in her composition, but her looks seldom betrayed herfeelings. There was a majesty of beauty about her, a look of serenityin her demeanour, which in public made her appear superior to allemotion. 

Frank seemed to be much less at his ease. He attempted to chat easilywith the countess, and to listen pleasantly to the would-be witticismsof the earl; but he was not comfortable, he did not amalgamate wellwith the family; had there been a larger party, he could have talkedall dinner-time to his love; but, as it was, he hardly spoke a word toher during the ceremony, and indeed, but few during the evening. He didsit next to her on the sofa, to be sure, and watched the lace she wasworking; but he could not talk unreservedly to her, when old LadyCashel was sitting close to him on the other side, and Lady Selina on achair immediately opposite. And then, it is impossible to talk to one'smistress, in an ordinary voice, on ordinary subjects, when one has notseen her for some months. A lover is never so badly off as in a familyparty: 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 hiselement in a family party. After all, Lady Cashel was right; it wouldhave been much better to have asked the O'Joscelyns. 

The next morning, Frank underwent a desperate interview in thebook-room. His head was dizzy before Lord Cashel had finished half ofwhat he had to say. He commenced by pointing out with what perfectuprightness and wisdom he had himself acted with regard to his ward;and Lord Ballindine did not care to be at the trouble of contradictinghim. He then went to the subject of settlements, and money matters:professed that he had most unbounded confidence in his young friend'sliberality, integrity, and good feeling; that he would be glad tolisten, 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 wasnot liberal, fair, and most proper; and he said a great deal more ofthe kind, and then himself proposed to arrange his ward's fortune insuch a way as to put it quite beyond her future husband's control. Onthis subject, however, Frank rather nonplussed the earl by proposingnothing, and agreeing to nothing; but simply saying that he would leavethe whole matter in the hands of the lawyers. 

"Quite right, my lord, quite right, " said Lord Cashel, "my men ofbusiness, Green and Grogram, will manage all that. They know all aboutFanny's property; they can draw out the settlements, and Grogram canbring 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. Greenand Grogram. Cummings is a very proper man: he was recommended to me byGuinness. "

"Oh, ah--yes; your attorney, you mean?" said the earl. "Why, yes, thatwill be quite proper, too. Of course Mr Cummings will see the necessityof absolutely securing Miss Wyndham's fortune. "

Nothing further, however, was said between them on the subject; and thesettlements, whatever was their purport, were drawn out without anyvisible interference on the part of Lord Ballindine. But Mr Grogram, the attorney, on his first visit to Grey Abbey on the subject, had nodifficulty in learning that Miss Wyndham was determined to have a willof her own in the disposition of her own money. 

Fanny told her lover the whole episode of Lord Kilcullen's offer toher; but she told it in such a way as to redound rather to her cousin'scredit than otherwise. She had learned to love him as a cousin anda friend, and his ill-timed proposal to her had not destroyed thefeeling. A woman can rarely be really offended at the expression oflove, unless it be from some one unfitted to match with her, either inrank or age. Besides, Fanny thought that Lord Kilcullen had behavedgenerously to her when she so violently repudiated his love: shebelieved that it had been sincere; she had not even to herself accusedhim 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; howher 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 lovehim, for a day; not even on that day when, in her foolish spleen, shehad told her uncle she was willing to break off the match; she owned tohim all her troubles, all her doubts; how she had made up her mind towrite to him, but had not dared to do so, lest his answer should besuch as would kill her at once. And then she prayed to be forgiven forher falseness; for having consented, even for a moment, to forget thesolemn vows she had so often repeated to him. 

Frank stopped her again and again in her sweet confessions, and sworethe blame was only his. He anathematised himself, his horses, andhis friends, for having caused a moment's uneasiness to her; but sheinsisted on receiving his forgiveness, and he was obliged to say thathe forgave her. With all his follies, and all his weakness, LordBallindine was not of an unforgiving temperament: he was too happy tobe angry with any one, now. He forgave even Lord Cashel; and, had heseen Lord Kilcullen, he would have been willing to give him his handas to a brother. 

Frank spent two or three delightful weeks, basking in the sunshineof Fanny's love, and Lord Cashel's favour. Nothing could be moreobsequiously civil than the earl's demeanour, now that the matter wasdecided. Every thing was to be done just as Lord Ballindine liked;his taste was to be consulted in every thing; the earl even proposeddifferent visits to the Curragh; asked after the whereabouts of FinM'Coul and Brien Boru; and condescended pleasantly to inquire whetherDot Blake was prospering as usual with his favourite amusement. 

At length, the day was fixed for the marriage. It was to be in thepleasant, sweet-smelling, grateful month of May, --the end of May; andLord and Lady Ballindine were then to start for a summer tour, as thecountess had proposed, to see the Rhine, and Switzerland, and Rome, andthose sort of places. And now, invitations were sent, far and wide, to relatives and friends. Lord Cashel had determined that the weddingshould be a great concern. The ruin of his son was to be forgotten inthe marriage of his niece. The bishop of Maryborough was to come andmarry them; the Ellisons were to come again, and the Fitzgeralds: aDuchess was secured, though duchesses are scarce in Ireland; and greatexertions were made to get at a royal Prince, who was commanding theforces in the west. But the royal Prince did not see why he shouldput himself to so much trouble, and he therefore sent to say that hewas very sorry, but the peculiar features of the time made it quiteimpossible for him to leave his command, even on so great a temptation;and a paragraph consequently found its way into the papers, verylaudatory of his Royal Highness's military energy and attention. MrsO'Kelly and her daughters received a very warm invitation, which theywere delighted to accept. Sophy and Augusta were in the seventh heavenof happiness, for they were to form a portion of the fair bevy ofbridesmaids appointed to attend Fanny Wyndham to the altar. Frankrather pished and poohed at all these preparations of grandeur; he feltthat when the ceremony took place he would look like the ornamentalcalf in the middle of it; but, on the whole, he bore his martyrdompatiently. 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 occupationand he delighted in it. Lady Selina performed her portion of the workwith exemplary patience and attention. She wrote all the orders tothe tradesmen, and all the invitations; she even condescended togive advice to Fanny about her dress; and to Griffiths, about thearrangement of the rooms and tables. But poor Lady Cashel worked thehardest of all, --her troubles had no end. Had she known what she wasabout to encounter, when she undertook the task of superintending thearrangements for her niece's wedding, she would never have attemptedit: she would never have entered into negotiations with thattreacherous Murray--that man cook in Dublin--but have allowed MrsRichards 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 Princeindulged in by Lord Cashel. She did not dare to say as much to herhusband, but she confessed to Griffiths that she was delighted when sheheard His Royal Highness would not come. She was sure his coming wouldnot make dear Fanny a bit happier, and she really would not have knownwhat to do with him after the married people were gone. 

Frank received two letters from Dot Blake during his stay at GreyAbbey. In the former he warmly congratulated him on his approachingnuptials, and strongly commended him on his success in having arrangedmatters. "You never could have forgiven yourself, " he said, "had youallowed Miss Wyndham's splendid fortune to slip through your hands. Iknew you were not the man to make a vain boast of a girl's love, and Iwas therefore sure that you might rely on her affection. I only fearedyou might let the matter go too far. You know I strongly advised younot to marry twenty thousand pounds. I am as strongly of opinion thatyou would be a fool to neglect to marry six times as much. You see Istill confine myself to the money part of the business, as though thelady herself were of no value. I don't think so, however; only I knowyou never would have lived happily without an easy fortune. " And thenhe spoke of Brien Boru, and informed Lord Ballindine that that nowcelebrated nag was at the head of the list of the Derby horses; thatit was all but impossible to get any odds against him at all;--thatthe whole betting world were talking of nothing else; that threeconspiracies had been detected, the object of which was to make himsafe--that is, to make him very unsafe to his friends; that Scott'sforeman had been offered two thousand to dose him; and that Scotthimself slept in the stable with him every night, to prevent anythinglike 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 inLondon. "

 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, inspite of the very decided opinion he had expressed on the subject, whenhe was endeavouring to throw him on one side. 

"My dear Ballindine, " he said, "I wish you joy with all my heart: amost magnificent animal, I'm told, is Brien, and still partly your ownproperty, you say. Well; it's a great triumph to beat those Englishlads 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 yourmind--should you ever run horses again--take my advice, and stick tothe 'Paddy Whack' strain. There's no beating the real 'Paddy Whack'blood. "

On the 21st of May, 1844, Lord Ballindine and Fanny Wyndham weremarried. The bishop "turned 'em off iligant, " as a wag said in theservants' hall. There was a long account of the affair in the "MorningPost" of the day; there were eight bridesmaids, all of whom, it wasafterwards remarked, were themselves married within two years of thetime; an omen which was presumed to promise much continued happiness toLord and Lady Ballindine, and all belonging to them. 

Murray, the man cook, did come down from Dublin, just in time; but hebehaved very badly. He got quite drunk on the morning of the wedding. He, however, gave Richards an opportunity of immortalising herself. Shebehaved, on the trying occasion, so well, that she is now confirmedin her situation; and Lady Cashel has solemnly declared that she willnever again, on any account, be persuaded to allow a man cook to enterthe house. 

Lady Selina--she would not officiate as one of the bridesmaids--isstill unmarried; but her temper is not thereby soured, nor her lifeembittered. She is active, energetic, and good as ever: and, as ever, cold, hard, harsh, and dignified. Lord Kilcullen has hardly been heardof since his departure from Grey Abbey. It is known that he is livingat 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 andburied he could not give less trouble to the people of Grey Abbey. 

No change has occurred, or is likely to take place, in the earlhimself--nor is any desirable. How could he change for the better? Howcould he bear his honours with more dignity, or grace his high positionwith more decorum? Every year since the marriage of his niece, he hassent Lord and Lady Ballindine an invitation to Grey Abbey; but therehas always been some insuperable impediment to the visit. A child hadjust 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 veryunfortunate, but Lord and Lady Ballindine were never able to get as faras Grey Abbey. 

Great improvements have been effected at Kelly's Court. Old buildingshave been pulled down, and additions built up; a great many thousandyoung trees have been planted, and some miles of new roads and walksconstructed. The place has quite an altered appearance; and, thoughConnaught is still Connaught, and County Mayo is the poorest part ofit, Lady Ballindine does not find Kelly's Court unbearable. She hasthree children already, and doubtless will have many more. Her nursery, therefore, prevents her from being tormented by the weariness of thefar west. 

Lord Ballindine himself is very happy. He still has the hounds, andmaintains, in the three counties round him, the sporting pre-eminence, which has for so many years belonged to his family. But he has norace-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 thehunting-season. 

Sophy O'Kelly married a Blake, and Augusta married a Dillon; and, asthey both live within ten miles of Kelly's Court. And their husbandsare related to all the Blakes and all the Dillons; and as Ballindinehimself is the head of all the Kellys, there is a rather strong clan ofthem. About five-and-twenty cousins muster together in red coats andtop-boots, every Tuesday and Friday during the hunting-season. It wouldhardly be wise, in that country, to quarrel with a Kelly, a Dillon, ora Blake. 

XL. CONCLUSION

We must now return to Dunmore, and say a few parting words of theKellys and Anty Lynch; and then our task will be finished. 

It will be remembered that that demon of Dunmore, Barry Lynch, has beenmade to vanish: like Lord Kilcullen, he has gone abroad; he has settledhimself at an hotel at Boulogne, and is determined to enjoy himself. Arrangements have been made about the property, certainly not verysatisfactory to Barry, because they are such as make it necessary forhim to pay his own debts; but they still leave him sufficient to allowof his indulging in every vice congenial to his taste; and, if hedoesn't get fleeced by cleverer rogues than himself--which, however, will probably be the case--he will have quite enough to last him tillhe has drunk himself to death. 

After his departure, there was nothing to delay Anty's marriage, buther own rather slow recovery. She has no other relatives to ask, noother friends to consult. Now that Barry was gone she was entirelyher own mistress, and was quite willing to give up her dominion overherself to Martin Kelly. She had, however, been greatly shaken; not byillness only, but by fear also--her fears of Barry and for Barry. Shestill dreamed while asleep, and thought while awake, of that horridnight when he crept up to her room and swore that he would murder her. This, and what she had suffered since, had greatly weakened her, and itwas some time before Doctor Colligan would pronounce her convalescent. At last, however, the difficulties were overcome; all arrangements werecompleted. Anty was well; the property was settled; Martin wasimpatient; and the day was fixed. 

There was no bishop, no duchess, no man-cook, at the wedding-partygiven on the occasion by Mrs Kelly; nevertheless, it was, in its way, quite as grand an affair as that given by the countess. The widowopened her heart, and opened her house. Her great enemy, Barry Lynch, was gone--clean beaten out of the field--thoroughly vanquished; as faras Ireland was concerned, annihilated; and therefore, any one else inthe three counties was welcome to share her hospitality. Oh, the excessof delight the widow experienced in speaking of Barry to one of hergossips, as the "poor misfortunate crature!" Daly, the attorney, wasespecially invited, and he came. Moylan also was asked, but he stayedaway. Doctor Colligan was there, in great feather; had it not been forhim, there would probably have been no wedding at all. It would havebeen a great thing if Lord Ballindine could have been got to gracethe party, though only for ten minutes; but he was at that time inSwitzerland with his own bride, so he could not possibly do so. 

"Well, ma'am, " said Mrs Costelloe, the grocer's wife, from Tuam, anold friend of the widow, who had got into a corner with her to have alittle chat, and drink half-a-pint of porter before the ceremony, --"andI'm shure I wish you joy of the marriage. Faux, I'm tould it's nigh tofive 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 Anty Lynch; "I don't know so much about luck: Martin wasvery well as he was; his poor father didn't lave him that way that heneed be looking to a wife for mains, the Lord be praised. "

"And that's thrue, too, Mrs Kelly, " said the other; "but Miss Anty'sfortune ain't a bad step to a young man, neither. Why, there won'tbe a young gintleman within tin--no, not within forty miles, morerespectable than Martin Kelly; that is, regarding mains. "

"And you needn't stop there, Ma'am, neither; you may say the very sameregarding characther, too--and family, too, glory be to the Virgin. I'dlike to know where some of their ancesthers wor, when the Kellys ofould 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, MrsKelly, that Martin will live up in the big house yonder?"

"Where should a man live thin, Mrs Costelloe, when he gets married, butjist in his own house? Why for should he not live there?"

"That's thrue agin, to be shure: but yet, only to think Martin--livingin 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 saythere was an honest man living there, which wor niver the case as longas any of his own breed was in it--barring Anty, I main; she's honestand thrue, the Lord be good to her, the poor thing. But the porter'snot to your liking, Mrs Costelloe--you're not tasting it at all thismorning. "

No one could have been more humble and meek than was Anty herself, inthe midst of her happiness. She had no idea of taking on herself theairs of a fine lady, or the importance of an heiress; she had no wishto be thought a lady; she had no wish for other friends than those ofher husband, and his family. She had never heard of her brother's lasthorrible proposal to Doctor Colligan, and of the manner in which hisconsent to her marriage had been obtained; nor did Martin intend thatshe should hear it. She had merely been told that her brother had foundthat 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 tobe sent to him by a person appointed in the neighbourhood to receiveit. Anty, however, before signing her own settlement, was particularlycareful that nothing should be done, injurious to her brother'sinterest, and that no unfair advantage should be taken of his absence. 

Martin, too, was quiet enough on the occasion. It was arranged thathe and his wife, and at any rate one of his sisters, should live atDunmore House; and that he should keep in his own hands the farm nearDunmore, 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. Hewould 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 hewould be a fool to build a house on another man's ground, when he had avery 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 thehouse, always felt an inclination to shirk in at the back-way. 

But, though neither the widow nor Martin triumphed aloud at theirworldly prosperity, the two girls made up for their quiescence. Theywere full of nothing else; their brother's fine house--Anty's greatfortune; 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 whohad made up the match; that Martin would never have thought of it butfor her, --nor Anty either, for the matter of that. 

"And will your mother be staying down at the shop always, the same asiver?" said Matilda Nolan, the daughter of the innkeeper at Tuam. 

"'Deed she says so, then, " said Jane, in a tone of disappointment; forher 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?" saidMatilda. "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 hadenough of the nasty place, and now Martin has a dacent house to putover our heads, and mainly through my mains I may say, I don't see whyI'm to be mewing myself up in such a hole as this. There's room for herup in Dunmore House, and wilcome, too; let her come up there. Av shemains to demain herself by sticking down here, she may stay by herselffor me. "

"But you'll take your turn, Meg?" said Jane. 

"It'll be a very little turn, then, " said Meg; "I'm sick of the nastyould place; fancy coming down here, Matilda, to the tobacco andsugar, after living up there a month or so, with everything nice andcomfortable! 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 forgood and all; but no; she says she'll never live in any one's housethat isn't her own. "

"I'm not so, any way, " said Jane; "I'd be glad enough to live inanother person's house av I liked it. "

"I'll go bail you would, my dear, " said Matilda; "willingenough--especially John Dolan's. "

"Oh! av I iver live in that it'll be partly my own, you know; andmay-be a girl might do worse. "

"That's thrue, dear, " said Matilda; "but John Dolan's not so soft as totake any girl just as she stands. What does your mother say about themoney part of the business?"

And so the two friends put their heads together, to arrange anotherwedding, if possible. 

Martin and Anty did not go to visit Switzerland, or Rome, as soon asthey were married; but they took a bathing-lodge at Renvill, nearGalway, and with much difficulty, persuaded Mrs Kelly to allow both herdaughters to accompany them. And very merry they all were. Anty soonbecame a different creature from what she ever had been: she learnedto be happy and gay; to laugh and enjoy the sunshine of the world. Shehad always been kind to others, and now she had round her those whowere kind and affectionate to her. Her manner of life was completelychanged: indeed, life itself was an altered thing to her. It was so newto her to have friends; to be loved; to be one of a family who regardedand looked up to her. She hardly knew herself in her new happiness. 

They returned to Dunmore in the early autumn, and took up theirresidence at Sim Lynch's big house, as had been arranged. Martin wasvery 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 findhimself quite at home in his own parlour. 

Many attempts were made to induce the widow to give up the inn, andshift her quarters to the big house, but in vain. She declared that, ould as she was, she wouldn't think of making herself throublesome toyoung folks; who, may-be, afther a bit, would a dail sooner have herroom than her company: that she had always been misthress, and mostlymasther too, in her own house, glory be to God; and that she meant tobe so still; and that, poor as the place was, she meant to call it herown. She didn't think herself at all fit company for people who livedin grand houses, and had their own demesnes, and gardens, and the restof it; she had always lived where money was to be made, and she didn'tsee the sense of going, in her old age, to a place where the only workwould be how to spend it. Some folks would find it was a dail asier toscatther it than it wor to put it together. All this she said and agreat deal more, which had her character not been known, would have ledpeople to believe that her son was a spendthrift, and that he and Antywere commencing life in an expensive way, and without means. But then, the widow Kelly _was_ known, and her speeches were only taken at theirvalue. 

She so far relaxed, however, that she spent every Sunday at the house;on which occasions she invariably dressed herself with all the grandeurshe was able to display, and passed the whole afternoon sitting ona sofa, with her hands before her, trying to look as became a ladyenjoying herself in a fine drawing-room. Her Sundays were certainly notthe comfort to her, which they had been when spent at the inn; but theymade her enjoy, with a keener relish, the feeling of perfectsovereignty when she returned to her own domains. 

I have nothing further to tell of Mr and Mrs Kelly. I believe DoctorColligan has been once called in on an interesting occasion, if nottwice; so it is likely that Dunmore House will not be left without anheir. 

I have also learned, on inquiry, that Margaret and Jane Kelly have botharranged their own affairs to their own satisfaction.