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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



IV. THE DUNMORE INN

Anty Lynch was not the prettiest, or the youngest girl in Connaught; nor would Martin have affirmed her to be so, unless he had been very much inebriated indeed. However young she might have been once, she was never pretty; but, in all Ireland, there was not a more single-hearted, 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 own value, and unelated by her newly acquired wealth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was once the property of the O'Kellys; but, in those times the landed proprietors thought but little of the towns; and now it is parcelled out among different owners, some of whom would think it folly to throw away a penny on the place, and others of whom have not a penny to throw away. It consists of a big street, two little streets, and a few very little lanes. There is a Court-house, where the barrister sits twice a year; a Barrack, once inhabited by soldiers, but now given up to the police; a large slated chapel, not quite finished; a few shops for soft goods; half a dozen shebeen-houses [11], ruined by Father Mathew; a score of dirty cabins offering "lodging and enthertainment", as announced on the window-shutters; Mrs. Kelly's inn and grocery-shop; and, last though not least, Simeon Lynch's new, staring house, built just at the edge of the town, on the road to Roscommon, which is dignified with the name of Dunmore House. The people of most influence in the village were Mrs. Kelly of the inn, and her two sworn friends, the parish priest and his curate. The former, Father Geoghegan, lived about three miles out of Dunmore, near Toneroe; and his curate, Father Pat Connel, inhabited one of the small houses in the place, very little better in appearance than those which offered accommodation to travellers and trampers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



V. A LOVING BROTHER

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

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

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

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

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

"What d'ye mean, you ruffian?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What schame, Barry?"

"Well—what schame, if you like that better."

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

"Well, go on—at laist—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anty replied nothing, but continued sobbing violently.

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

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

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

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

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

Barry was rather frightened at the noise, and, moreover, the word "murder" quelled him. But when he found, after a moment's pause, that the servants had not heard, or had not heeded his sister, he determined to carry on his game, now that he 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 gag you. It's a great deal I'm asking, indeed—that, when I'm your only guardian, my advice should be asked for before you throw away your money on a low ruffian. You're more fit for a mad-house than to be any man's wife; and, by Heaven, that's where I'll put you, if you don't give me the promise I ask! Will you swear you'll marry no one without my leave?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



VI. THE ESCAPE

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

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

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

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

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

"And where are ye going now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it Kate thin, ma'am?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You didn't see that, Biddy?"

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

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

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

"Don't be cursing, Biddy."

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

"But, is she much hurt, Biddy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hush, Biddy—don't be saying such things," said the widow, who had a great idea of carrying on the war on her own premises, but who felt seriously afraid of Barry now that she was in his house, "don't be saying such things, to frighthen her. But you'll be asier there than here," she continued, to Anty; "and there's nothin like having things asy. So, get up alanna [12], and we'll have you warm and snug down there in no time."

[FOOTNOTE 12: alanna—my child]

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

[FOOTNOTE 13: bosthoon—a worthless fellow]

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a sound sleep Anty got up, much strengthened and refreshed, and found the two Kelly girls ready to condole with, or congratulate her, according to her mood and spirits. In spite of their mother's caution, they were quite prepared for gossiping, as soon as Anty showed the slightest inclination that way; and, though she at first was afraid to talk about her brother, and was even, from kindly feeling, unwilling to do so, the luxury of such an opportunity of unrestrained confidence overcame her; and, before the three had been sitting together for a couple of hours, she had described the whole interview, as well as the last drunken midnight visit of Barry's to her own bed-room, which, to her imagination, was the most horrible of all the horrors of the night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



VII. MR BARRY LYNCH MAKES A MORNING CALL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who told you, you fool?"

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

"And where's Judy?"

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

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

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

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

But breaking the furniture, though it was what the widow predicted of him, wouldn't in any way mend matters, or assist him in getting out of his difficulties. What was he to do? He couldn't live on L200 a-year; he couldn't remain in Dunmore, to be known by every one as Martin Kelly's brother-in-law; he couldn't endure the thoughts of dividing the property with such "a low-born huxtering blackguard", as he called him over and over again. He couldn't stay there, to be beaten by him in the course of legal proceedings, or to give him up amicable possession of what ought to have been—what should have been his—what he looked upon as his own. He came back, and sat down again over the fire, contemplating the debris of the fender, and turning all these miserable circumstances over in his mind. After remaining there till five o'clock, and having fortified himself with sundry glasses of wine, he formed his resolution. He would make one struggle more; he would first go down to the widow, and claim his sister, as a poor simple young woman, inveigled away from her natural guardian; and, if this were unsuccessful, as he felt pretty sure it would be, he would take proceedings to prove her a lunatic. If he failed, he might still delay, and finally put off the marriage; and he was sure he could get some attorney to put him in the way of doing it, and to undertake the work for him. His late father's attorney had been a fool, in not breaking the will, or at any rate trying it, and he would go to Daly. Young Daly, he knew, was a sharp fellow, and wanted practice, and this would just suit him. And then, if at last he found that nothing could be done by this means, if his sister and the property must go from him, he would compromise the matter with the bridegroom, he would meet him half way, and, raising what money he could on his share of the estate, give leg bail to his creditors, and go to some place abroad, where tidings of Dunmore would never reach him. What did it matter what people said? he should never hear it. He would make over the whole property to Kelly, on getting a good life income out of it. Martin was a prudent fellow, and would jump at such a plan. As he thought of this, he even began to wish that it was done; he pictured to himself the easy pleasures, the card-tables, the billiard-rooms, and cafes of some Calais or Boulogne; pleasures which he had never known, but which had been so glowingly described to him; and he got almost cheerful again as he felt that, in any way, there might be bright days yet in store for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you done, now, Misther Barry?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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