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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dunmore House, Feb. 1844.

My dear Sir,

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

I am, dear Sir, Your faithful servant,

BARRY LYNCH.

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

J. Daly, Esq., Solicitor, Tuam.

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



VIII. MR MARTIN KELLY RETURNS TO DUNMORE

We will now return to Martin Kelly. I have before said that as soon as he had completed his legal business,—namely, his instructions for the settlement of Anty Lynch's property, respecting which he and Lord Ballindine had been together to the lawyer's in Clare Street,—he started for home, by the Ballinasloe canal-boat, and reached that famous depot of the fleecy tribe without adventure. I will not attempt to describe the tedium of that horrid voyage, for it has been often described before; and to Martin, who was in no ways fastidious, it was not so unendurable as it must always be to those who have been accustomed to more rapid movement. Nor yet will I attempt to put on record the miserable resources of those, who, doomed to a twenty hours' sojourn in one of these floating prisons, vainly endeavour to occupy or amuse their minds. But I will advise any, who from ill-contrived arrangements, or unforeseen misfortune, [15] may find themselves on board the Ballinasloe canal-boat, to entertain no such vain dream. The vis inertiae [16] of patient endurance, is the only weapon of any use in attempting to overcome the lengthened ennui of this most tedious transit. Reading is out of the question. I have tried it myself, and seen others try it, but in vain. The sense of the motion, almost imperceptible, but still perceptible; the noises above you; the smells around you; the diversified crowd, of which you are a part; at one moment the heat this crowd creates; at the next, the draught which a window just opened behind your ears lets in on you; the fumes of punch; the snores of the man under the table; the noisy anger of his neighbour, who reviles the attendant sylph; the would-be witticisms of a third, who makes continual amorous overtures to the same overtasked damsel, notwithstanding the publicity of his situation; the loud complaints of the old lady near the door, who cannot obtain the gratuitous kindness of a glass of water; and the baby-soothing lullabies of the young one, who is suckling her infant under your elbow. These things alike prevent one from reading, sleeping, or thinking. All one can do is to wait till the long night gradually wears itself away, and reflect that,

Time and the hour run through the longest day [17].

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

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

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

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

Martin, however, made no complaints, and felt no misery. He made great play at the eternal half-boiled leg of mutton, floating in a bloody sea of grease and gravy, which always comes on the table three hours after the departure from Porto Bello. He, and others equally gifted with the dura ilia messorum [18], swallowed huge collops [19] of the raw animal, and vast heaps of yellow turnips, till the pity with which a stranger would at first be inclined to contemplate the consumer of such unsavoury food, is transferred to the victim who has to provide the meal at two shillings a head. Neither love nor drink—and Martin had, on the previous day, been much troubled with both—had affected his appetite; and he ate out his money with the true persevering prudence of a Connaught man, who firmly determines not to be done.

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

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

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

In the hotel yard he found a car already prepared for a journey; and, on giving his order for a similar vehicle for his own use, was informed, by the disinterested ostler, that the horse then being harnessed, was to take Mr Daly, the attorney, to Tuam, [20] and that probably that gentleman would not object to join him, Martin, in the conveyance. Martin, thinking it preferable to pay fourpence rather than sixpence a mile for his jaunt, acquiesced in this arrangement, and, as he had a sort of speaking acquaintance with Mr Daly, whom he rightly imagined would not despise the economy which actuated himself, he had his carpet-bag put into the well of the car, and, placing himself on it, he proceeded to the attorney's door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Barry Lynch's."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But does mother know she's here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



IX. MR DALY, THE ATTORNEY

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

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

The truth was, that, as the time of the man's visit had drawn nearer, Barry had become more and more embarrassed; and now that the attorney had absolutely come, his employer felt himself unable to explain the business before dinner. "These fellows are so confoundedly sharp—I shall never be up to him till I get a tumbler of punch on board," said he to himself, comforting himself with the reflection; "besides, I'm never well able for anything till I get a little warmed. We'll get along like a house on fire when we've got the hot water between us." The true meaning of all which was, that he hadn't the courage to make known his villanous schemes respecting his sister till he was half drunk; and, in order the earlier to bring about this necessary and now daily consummation, he sneaked downstairs and took a solitary glass of brandy to fortify himself for entertaining the attorney.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About five, I believe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed, I never did, then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And Miss Lynch is going to marry him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yesterday morning, about four o'clock."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who'd prove it!"

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

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

"Why—she never had any mind to be out of."

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

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

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

"To be sure she is."

"And she is engaged to this young man?"

"She is."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



X. DOT BLAKE'S ADVICE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about?" said Lord Ballindine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Confound the horse," answered Frank; "come here, Dot, a minute. I want to speak to you."

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

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

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

"Why, did you hear anything?"

"Nothing but what you've told me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"With matrimony as the winning-post?"

"You know I wish to marry Fanny Wyndham."

"And the sooner the better—is that it?"

"Of course. She'll be of age now, in a few days," replied Lord Ballindine.

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

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

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

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

"You'll what?—thrash him?"

"Indeed, I'd like nothing better!"

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

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

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

"And what shall I do now?"

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

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

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

"And should I not ask to see Fanny?"

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

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

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

"But about Brien Boru, and the Derby?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it against the Repealers?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



XI. THE EARL OF CASHEL

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

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

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

This old castle, now used as a cow-shed, is the only record of antiquity at Grey Abbey; and yet the ancient family of the Greys have lived there for centuries. The first of them who possessed property in Ireland, obtained in the reign of Henry II, grants of immense tracts of land, stretching through Wicklow, Kildare, and the Queen's and King's Counties; and, although his descendants have been unable to retain, through the various successive convulsions which have taken place in the interior of Ireland since that time, anything like an eighth of what the family once pretended to claim, the Earl of Cashel, their present representative, has enough left to enable him to consider himself a very great man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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