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

He wanted to see the widow, Martin, and Anty, and if possible to see them, at first, separately; and fortune so far favoured him that, as he got off the car, he saw our hero standing at the inn door.

"Ah! Mr Daly," said he, coming up to the car and shaking hands with the attorney, for Daly put out his hand to him—"how are you again?—I suppose you're going up to the house? They say you're Barry's right hand man now. Were you coming into the inn?"

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

"To me!" said Martin.

"Yes, to you, Martin Kelly: isn't that quare?" and then he gave directions to the driver to put up the horse, and bring the car round again in an hour's time. "D' you remember my telling you, the day we came into Dunmore on the car together, that I was going up to the house?"

"Faith I do, well; it's not so long since."

"And do you mind my telling you, I didn't know from Adam what it was for, that Barry Lynch was sending for me?"

"And I remember that, too."

"And that I tould you, that when I did know I shouldn't tell you?"

"Begad you did, Mr Daly; thim very words."

"Why then, Martin, I tould you what wasn't thrue, for I'm come all the way from Tuam, this minute, to tell you all about it."

Martin turned very red, for he rightly conceived that when an attorney came all the way from Tuam to talk to him, the tidings were not likely to be agreeable.

"And is it about Barry Lynch's business?"

"It is."

"Then it's schames there's divil a doubt of that."

"It is schames, as you say, Martin," said Daly, slapping him on the shoulder—"fine schames—no less than a wife with four hundred a-year! Wouldn't that be a fine schame?"

"'Deed it would, Mr Daly, av' the wife and the fortune were honestly come by."

"And isn't it a hundred pities that I must come and upset such a pretty schame as that? But, for all that, it's thrue. I'm sorry for you, Martin, but you must give up Anty Lynch."

"Give her up, is it? Faith I haven't got her to give up, worse luck."

"Nor never will, Martin; and that's worse luck again."

"Well, Mr Daly, av' that's all you've come to say, you might have saved yourself car-hire. Miss Lynch is nothing to me, mind; how should she be? But av' she war, neither Barry Lynch—who's as big a rogue as there is from this to hisself and back again—nor you, who, I take it, ain't rogue enough to do Barry's work, wouldn't put me off it."

"Well, Martin; thank 'ee for the compliment. But now, you know what I've come about, and there's no joke in it. Of course I don't want you to tell me anything of your plans; but, as Mr Lynch's lawyer, I must tell you so much as this of his:—that, if his sister doesn't lave the inn, and honestly assure him that she'll give up her intention of marrying you, he's determined to take proceedings." He then fumbled in his pocket, and, bringing out the two notices, handed to Martin the one addressed to him. "Read that, and it'll give you an idea what we're afther. And when I tell you that Moylan owns, and will swear to it too, that he was present when all the plans were made, you'll see that we're not going to sea without wind in our sails."

"Well—I'm shot av' I know the laist in the world what all this is about!" said Martin, as he stood in the street, reading over the legally-worded letter—"'conspiracy!'—well that'll do, Mr Daly; go on—'enticing away from her home!'—that's good, when the blackguard nearly knocked the life out of her, and mother brought her down here, from downright charity, and to prevent murdher—'wake intellects!'—well, Mr Daly, I didn't expect this kind of thing from you: begorra, I thought you were above this!—wake intellects! faith, they're a dale too sthrong, and too good—and too wide awake too, for Barry to get the betther of her that way. Not that I'm in the laist in life surprised at anything he'd do; but I thought that you, Mr Daly, wouldn't put your hands to such work as that."

Daly felt the rebuke, and felt it strongly, too; but now that he was embarked in the business, he must put the best face he could upon it. Still it was a moment or two before he could answer the young farmer.

"Why," he said—"why did you put your hands to such a dirty job as this, Martin?—you were doing well, and not in want—and how could you let anyone persuade you to go and sell yourself to, an ugly ould maid, for a few hundred pounds? Don't you know, that if you were married to her this minute, you'd have a lawsuit that'd go near to ruin you before you could get possession of the property?"

"Av' I'm in want of legal advice, Mr Daly, which thank God, I'm not, nor likely to be—but av' I war, it's not from Barry Lynch's attorney I'd be looking for it."

"I'd be sorry to see you in want of it, Martin; but if you mane to keep out of the worst kind of law, you'd better have done with Anty Lynch. I'd a dale sooner be drawing up a marriage settlement between you and some pretty girl with five or six hundred pound fortune, than I'd be exposing to the counthry such a mane trick as this you're now afther, of seducing a poor half-witted ould maid, like Anty Lynch, into a disgraceful marriage."

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

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

"But av' he's nothing betther for you to do, than to send you here bally-ragging and calling folks out of their name, he must have a sight more money to spare than I give him credit for; and you must be a dale worse off than your neighbours thought you, to do it for him."

"That'll do," said Mr Daly, knocking at the door of the inn; "only, remember, Mr Kelly, you've now received notice of the steps which my client feels himself called upon to take."

Martin turned to go away, but then, reflecting that it would be as well not to leave the women by themselves in the power of the enemy, he also waited at the door till it was opened by Katty.

"Is Miss Lynch within?" asked Daly.

"Go round to the shop, Katty," said Martin, "and tell mother to come to the door. There's a gentleman wanting her."

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

"Do as I bid you, you born ideot, and don't stand gaping there," shouted Martin to the girl, who immediately ran off towards the shop.

"I might as well warn you, Mr Kelly, that, if Miss Lynch is denied to me, the fact of her being so denied will be a very sthrong proof against you and your family. In fact, it amounts to an illegal detention of her person, in the eye of the law." Daly said this in a very low voice, almost a whisper.

"Faith, the law must have quare eyes, av' it makes anything wrong with a young lady being asked the question whether or no she wishes to see an attorney, at eleven in the morning."

"An attorney!" whispered Meg to Jane and Anty at the top of the stairs.

"Heaven and 'arth," said poor Anty, shaking and shivering—"what's going to be the matter now?"

"It's young Daly," said Jane, stretching forward and peeping clown the stairs: "I can see the curl of his whiskers."

By this time the news had reached Mrs Kelly, in the shop, "that a sthrange gentleman war axing for Miss Anty, but that she warn't to be shown to him on no account;" so the widow dropped her tobacco knife, flung off her dirty apron, and, having summoned Jane and Meg to attend to the mercantile affairs of the establishment—turned into the inn, and met Mr Daly and her son still standing at the bottom of the stairs.

The widow curtsied ceremoniously, and wished Mr. Daly good morning, and he was equally civil in his salutation.

"Mr Daly's going to have us all before the assizes, mother. We'll never get off without the treadmill, any way: it's well av' the whole kit of us don't have to go over the wather at the queen's expense."

"The Lord be good to us;" said the widow, crossing herself. What's the matter, Mr Daly?"

"Your son's joking, ma'am. I was only asking to see Miss Lynch, on business."

"Step upstairs, mother, into the big parlour, and don't let's be standing talking here where all the world can hear us."

"And wilcome, for me, I'm shure"—said the widow, stroking down the front of her dress with the palms of her hands, as she walked upstairs—"and wilcome too for me I'm very shure. I've said or done nothing as I wish to consail, Mr Daly. Will you be plazed to take a chair?" and the widow sat down herself on a chair in the middle of the room, with her hands folded over each other in her lap, as if she was preparing to answer questions from that time to a very late hour in the evening.

"And now, Mr Daly—av' you've anything to say to a poor widdy like me, I'm ready."

"My chief object in calling, Mrs Kelly, was to see Miss Lynch. Would you oblige me by letting Miss Lynch know that I'm waiting to see her on business."

"Maybe it's a message from her brother, Mr Daly?" said Mrs Kelly.

"You had better go in to Miss Lynch, mother," said Martin, "and ask her av' it's pleasing to her to see Mr Daly. She can see him, in course, av' she likes."

"I don't see what good 'll come of her seeing him," rejoined the widow. "With great respect to you, Mr Daly, and not maning to say a word agin you, I don't see how Anty Lynch 'll be the betther for seeing ere an attorney in the counthry."

"I don't want to frighten you, ma'am," said Daly; "but I can assure you, you will put yourself in a very awkward position if you refuse to allow me to see Miss Lynch."

"Ah, mother!" said Martin, "don't have a word to say in the matther at all, one way or the other. Just tell Anty Mr Daly wishes to see her—let her come or not, just as she chooses. What's she afeard of, that she shouldn't hear what anyone has to say to her?"

The widow seemed to be in great doubt and perplexity, and continued whispering with Martin for some time, during which Daly remained standing with his back to the fire. At length Martin said, "Av' you've got another of them notices to give my mother, Mr Daly, why don't you do it?"

"Why, to tell you the thruth," answered the attorney, "I don't want to throuble your mother unless it's absolutely necessary; and although I have the notice ready in my pocket, if I could see Miss Lynch, I might be spared the disagreeable job of serving it on her."

"The Holy Virgin save us!" said the widow; "an' what notice is it at all, you're going to serve on a poor lone woman like me?"

"Be said by me, mother, and fetch Anty in here. Mr Daly won't expect, I suppose, but what you should stay and hear what it is he has to say?"

"Both you and your mother are welcome to hear all that I have to say to the lady," said Daly; for he felt that it would be impossible for him to see Anty alone.

The widow unwillingly got up to fetch her guest. When she got to the door, she turned round, and said, "And is there a notice, as you calls it, to be sarved on Miss Lynch?"

"Not a line, Mrs Kelly; not a line, on my honour. I only want her to hear a few words that I'm commissioned by her brother to say to her."

"And you're not going to give her any paper—nor nothing of that sort at all?"

"Not a word, Mrs Kelly."

"Ah, mother," said Martin, "Mr Daly couldn't hurt her, av' he war wishing, and he's not. Go and bring her in."

The widow went out, and in a few minutes returned, bringing Anty with her, trembling from head to foot. The poor young woman had not exactly heard what had passed between the attorney and the mother and her son, but she knew very well that his visit had reference to her, and that it was in some way connected with her brother. She had, therefore, been in a great state of alarm since Meg and Jane had left her alone. When Mrs Kelly came into the little room where she was sitting, and told her that Mr Daly had come to Dunmore on purpose to see her, her first impulse was to declare that she wouldn't go to him; and had she done so, the widow would not have pressed her. But she hesitated, for she didn't like to refuse to do anything which her friend asked her; and when Mrs Kelly said, "Martin says as how the man can't hurt you, Anty, so you'd betther jist hear what it is he has to say," she felt that she had no loophole of escape, and got up to comply.

"But mind, Anty," whispered the cautious widow, as her hand was on the parlour door, "becase this Daly is wanting to speak to you, that's no rason you should be wanting to spake to him; so, if you'll be said by me, you'll jist hould your tongue, and let him say on."

Fully determined to comply with this prudent advice, Anty followed the old woman, and, curtseying at Daly without looking at him, sat herself down in the middle of the old sofa, with her hands crossed before her.

"Anty," said Martin, making great haste to speak, before Daly could commence, and then checking himself as he remembered that he shouldn't have ventured on the familiarity of calling her by her Christian name in Daly's presence—"Miss Lynch, I mane—as Mr Daly here has come all the way from Tuam on purpose to spake to you, it wouldn't perhaps be manners in you to let him go back without hearing him. But remember, whatever your brother says, or whatever Mr Daly says for him—and it's all—one you're still your own mistress, free to act and to spake, to come and to go; and that neither the one nor the other can hurt you, or mother, or me, nor anybody belonging to us."

"God knows," said Daly, "I want to have no hand in hurting any of you; but, to tell the truth, Martin, it would be well for Miss Lynch to have a better adviser than you or she may get herself, and, what she'll think more of, she'll get her friends—maning you, Mrs Kelly, and your family—into a heap of throubles."

"Oh, God forbid, thin!" exclaimed Anty.

"Niver mind us, Mr Daly," said the widow. "The Kellys was always able to hould their own; thanks be to glory."

"Well, I've said my say, Mr Daly," said Martin, "and now do you say your'n: as for throubles, we've all enough of thim; but your own must have been bad, when you undhertook this sort of job for Barry Lynch."

"Mind yourself, Martin, as I told you before, and you'll about have enough to do.—Miss Lynch, I've been instructed by your brother to draw up an indictment against Mrs Kelly and Mr Kelly, charging them with conspiracy to get possession of your fortune."

"A what!" shouted the widow, jumping up from her chair—"to rob Anty Lynch of her fortune! I'd have you to know, Mr Daly, I wouldn't demane myself to rob the best gentleman in Connaught, let alone a poor unprotected young woman, whom I've—"

"Whist, mother—go asy," said Martin. "I tould you that that was what war in the paper he gave me; he'll give you another, telling you all about it just this minute."

"Well, the born ruffian! Does he dare to accuse me of wishing to rob his sister! Now, Mr Daly, av' the blessed thruth is in you this minute, don't your own heart know who it is, is most likely to rob Anty Lynch?—Isn't it Barry Lynch himself is thrying to rob his own sisther this minute? ay, and he'd murdher her too, only the heart within him isn't sthrong enough."

"Ah, mother! don't be saying such things," said Martin; "what business is that of our'n? Let Barry send what messages he plazes; I tell you it's all moonshine; he can't hurt the hair of your head, nor Anty's neither. Go asy, and let Mr Daly say what he has to say, and have done with it."

"It's asy to say 'go asy'—but who's to sit still and be tould sich things as that? Rob Anty Lynch indeed!"

"If you'll let me finish what I have to say, Mrs Kelly, I think you'll find it betther for the whole of us," said Daly.

"Go on thin, and be quick with it; but don't talk to dacent people about robbers any more. Robbers indeed! they're not far to fitch; and black robbers too, glory be to God."

"Your brother, Miss Lynch, is determined to bring this matter before a jury at the assizes, for the sake of protecting you and your property."

"Protecthing Anty Lynch!—is it Barry? The Holy Virgin defind her from sich prothection! a broken head the first moment the dhrink makes his heart sthrong enough to sthrike her!"

"Ah, mother! you're a fool," exclaimed Martin: "why can't you let the man go on?—ain't he paid for saying it? Well, Mr Daly, begorra I pity you, to have such things on your tongue; but go on, go on, and finish it."

"Your brother conceives this to be his duty," continued Daly, rather bothered by the manner in which he had to make his communication, "and it is a duty which he is determined to go through with."

"Duty!" said the widow, with a twist of her nose, and giving almost a whistle through her lips, in a manner which very plainly declared the contempt she felt for Barry's ideas of duty.

"With this object," continued Daly, "I have already handed to Martin Kelly a notice of what your brother means to do; and I have another notice prepared in my pocket for his mother. The next step will be to swear the informations before a magistrate, and get the committals made out; Mrs Kelly and her son will then have to give bail for their appearance at the assizes."

"And so we can," said the widow; "betther bail than e'er a Lynch or Daly—not but what the Dalys is respictable—betther bail, any way, than e'er a Lynch in Galway could show, either for sessions or 'sizes, by night or by day, winter or summer."

"Ah, mother! you don't understhand: he's maning that we're to be tried in the dock, for staling Anty's money."

"Faix, but that'd be a good joke! Isn't Anty to the fore herself to say who's robbed her? Take an ould woman's advice, Mr Daly, and go back to Tuam: it ain't so asy to put salt on the tail of a Dunmore bird."

"And so I will, Mrs Kelly," said Daly; "but you must let me finish what I have to tell Miss Lynch.—This will be a proceeding most disagreeable to your brother's feelings."

"Failings, indeed!" muttered the widow; "faix, I b'lieve his chief failing at present's for sthrong dhrink!"

"—But he must go on with it, unless you at once lave the inn, return to your own home, and give him your promise that you will never marry Martin Kelly."

Anty blushed deep crimson over her whole face at the mention of her contemplated marriage; and, to tell the truth, so did Martin.

"Here is the notice," said Daly, taking the paper out of his pocket; "and the matter now rests with yourself. If you'll only tell me that you'll be guided by your brother on this subject, I'll burn the notice at once; and I'll undertake to say that, as far as your property is concerned, your brother will not in the least interfere with you in the management of it."

"And good rason why, Mr Daly," said the widow—"jist becase he can't."

"Well, Miss Lynch, am I to tell your brother that you are willing to oblige him in this matter?"

Whatever effect Daly's threats may have had on the widow and her son, they told strongly upon Anty; for she sat now the picture of misery and indecision. At last she said: "Oh, Lord defend me! what am I to do, Mrs Kelly?"

"Do?" said Martin; "why, what should you do—but just wish Mr Daly good morning, and stay where you are, snug and comfortable?"

"Av' you war to lave this, Anty, and go up to Dunmore House afther all that's been said and done, I'd say Barry was right, and that Ballinasloe Asylum was the fitting place for you," said the widow.

"The blessed virgin guide and prothect me," said Anty, "for I want her guidance this minute. Oh, that the walls of a convent was round me this minute—I wouldn't know what throuble was!"

"And you needn't know anything about throuble," said Martin, who didn't quite like his mistress's allusion to a convent. "You don't suppose there's a word of thruth in all this long story of Mr Daly's?—He knows,—and I'll say it out to his face—he knows Barry don't dare carry on with sich a schame. He knows he's only come here to frighten you out of this, that Barry may have his will on you again."

"And God forgive him his errand here this day," said the widow, "for it was a very bad one."

"If you will allow me to offer you my advice, Miss Lynch," said Daly, "you will put yourself, at any rate for a time, under your brother's protection."

"She won't do no sich thing," said the widow. "What! to be locked into the parlour agin—and be nigh murdhered? holy father!"

"Oh, no," said Anty, at last, shuddering in horror at the remembrance of the last night she passed in Dunmore House, "I cannot go back to live with him, but I'll do anything else, av' he'll only lave me, and my kind, kind friends, in pace and quiet."

"Indeed, and you won't, Anty," said the widow; "you'll do nothing for him. Your frinds—that's av' you mane the Kellys—is very able to take care of themselves."

"If your brother, Miss Lynch, will lave Dunmore House altogether, and let you have it to yourself, will you go and live there, and give him the promise not to marry Martin Kelly?"

"Indeed an' she won't," said the widow. "She'll give no promise of the kind. Promise, indeed! what for should she promise Barry Lynch whom she will marry, or whom she won't?"

"Raily, Mrs Kelly, I think you might let Miss Lynch answer for herself."

"I wouldn't, for all the world thin, go to live at Dunmore House," said Anty.

"And you are determined to stay in this inn here?"

"In course she is—that's till she's a snug house of her own," said the widow.

"Ah, mother!" said Martin, "what for will you be talking?"

"And you're determined," repeated Daly, "to stay here?"

"I am," faltered Anty.

"Then I have nothing further to do than to hand you this, Mrs Kelly"—and he offered the notice to the widow, but she refused to touch it, and he consequently put it down on the table. "But it is my duty to tell you, Miss Lynch, that the gentry of this counthry, before whom you will have to appear, will express very great indignation at your conduct in persevering in placing poor people like the Kellys in so dreadful a predicament, by your wilful and disgraceful obstinacy."

Poor Anty burst into tears. She had been for some time past trying to restrain herself, but Daly's last speech, and the horrible idea of the gentry of the country browbeating and frowning at her, completely upset her, and she hid her face on the arm of the sofa, and sobbed aloud.

"Poor people like the Kellys!" shouted the widow, now for the first time really angry with Daly—"not so poor, Mr Daly, as to do dirthy work for anyone. I wish I could say as much this day for your mother's son! Poor people, indeed! I suppose, now, you wouldn't call Barry Lynch one of your poor people; but in my mind he's the poorest crature living this day in county Galway. Av' you've done now, Mr Daly, you've my lave to be walking; and the less you let the poor Kellys see of you, from this time out, the betther."

When Anty's sobs commenced, Martin had gone over to her to comfort her, "Ah, Anty, dear," he whispered to her, "shure you'd not be minding what such a fellow as he'd be saying to you?—shure he's jist paid for all this—he's only sent here by Barry to thry and frighten you,"—but it was of no avail: Daly had succeeded at any rate in making her miserable, and it was past the power of Martin's eloquence to undo what the attorney had done.

"Well, Mr Daly," he said, turning round sharply, "I suppose you have done here now, and the sooner you turn your back on this place the betther—An' you may take this along with you. Av' you think you've frightened my mother or me, you're very much mistaken."

"Yes," said Daly, "I have done now, and I am sorry my business has been so unpleasant. Your mother, Martin, had betther not disregard that notice. Good morning, Miss Lynch: good morning, Mrs Kelly; good morning, Martin;" and Daly took up his hat, and left the room.

"Good morning to you, Mr Daly," said Martin: "as I've said before, I'm sorry to see you've taken to this line of business."

As soon as the attorney was gone, both Martin and his mother attempted to console and re-assure poor Anty, but they did not find the task an easy one. "Oh, Mrs Kelly," she said, as soon as she was able to say anything, "I'm sorry I iver come here, I am: I'm sorry I iver set my foot in the house!"

"Don't say so, Anty, dear," said the widow. "What'd you be sorry for—an't it the best place for you?"

"Oh! but to think that I'd bring all these throubles on you! Betther be up there, and bear it all, than bring you and yours into law, and sorrow, and expense. Only I couldn't find the words in my throat to say it, I'd 've tould the man that I'd 've gone back at once. I wish I had—indeed, Mrs Kelly, I wish I had."

"Why, Anty," said Martin, "you an't fool enough to believe what Daly's been saying? Shure all he's afther is to frighthen you out of this. Never fear: Barry can't hurt us a halfporth, though no doubt he's willing enough, av' he had the way."

"I wish I was in a convent, this moment," said Anty. "Oh! I wish I'd done as father asked me long since. Av' the walls of a convent was around me, I'd niver know what throubles was."

"No more you shan't now," said Martin: "Who's to hurt you? Come, Anty, look up; there's nothing in all this to vex you."

But neither son nor mother were able to soothe the poor young woman. The very presence of an attorney was awful to her; and all the jargon which Daly had used, of juries, judges, trials, and notices, had sounded terribly in her ears. The very names of such things were to her terrible realities, and she couldn't bring herself to believe that her brother would threaten to make use of such horrible engines of persecution, without having the power to bring them into action. Then, visions of the lunatic asylum, into which he had declared that he would throw her, flitted across her, and made her whole body shiver and shake; and again she remembered the horrid glare of his eye, the hot breath, and the frightful form of his visage, on the night when he almost told her that he would murder her.

Poor Anty had at no time high or enduring spirits, but such as she had were now completely quelled. A dreadful feeling of coming evil—a foreboding of misery, such as will sometimes overwhelm stronger minds than Anty's, seemed to stifle her; and she continued sobbing till she fell into hysterics, when Meg and Jane were summoned to her assistance. They sat with her for above an hour, doing all that kindness and affection could suggest; but after a time Anty told them that she had a cold, sick feeling within herself, that she felt weak and ill, and that she'd sooner go to bed. To bed they accordingly took her; and Sally brought her tea, and Katty lighted a fire in her room, and Jane read to her an edifying article from the lives of the Saints, and Meg argued with her as to the folly of being frightened. But it was all of no avail; before night, Anty was really ill.

The next morning, the widow was obliged to own to herself that such was the case. In the afternoon, Doctor Colligan was called in; and it was many, many weeks before Anty recovered from the effects of the attorney's visit.



XX. VERY LIBERAL

When the widow left the parlour, after having placed her guest in the charge of her daughters, she summoned her son to follow her down stairs, and was very careful not to leave behind her the notice which Daly had placed on the table. As soon as she found herself behind the shutter of her little desk, which stood in the shop-window, she commenced very eagerly spelling it over. The purport of the notice was, to inform her that Barry Lynch intended immediately to apply to the magistrates to commit her and her son, for conspiring together to inveigle Anty into a marriage; and that the fact of their having done so would be proved by Mr Moylan, who was prepared to swear that he had been present when the plan had been arranged between them. The reader is aware that whatever show of truth there might be for this accusation, as far as Martin and Moylan himself were concerned, the widow at any rate was innocent; and he can conceive the good lady's indignation at the idea of her own connection, Moylan, having been seduced over to the enemy. Though she had put on a bold front against Daly, and though she did not quite believe that Barry was in earnest in taking proceedings against her, still her heart failed her as she read the legal technicalities of the papers she held in her hand, and turned to her son for counsel in considerable tribulation.

"But there must be something in it, I tell you," said she. "Though Barry Lynch, and that limb o' the divil, young Daly, 'd stick at nothin in the way of lies and desait, they'd niver go to say all this about Moylan, unless he'd agree to do their bidding."

"That's like enough, mother: I dare say Moylan has been talked over—bought over rather; for he's not one of them as'd do mischief for nothin."

"And does the ould robber mane to say that I—. As I live, I niver as much as mentioned Anty's name to Moylan, except jist about the agency!"

"I'm shure you didn't, mother."

"And what is it then he has to say agin us?"

"Jist lies; that's av' he were called on to say anything; but he niver will be. This is all one of Barry's schames to frighten you, and get Anty turned out of the inn."

"Thin Master Barry doesn't know the widdy Kelly, I can tell him that; for when I puts my hand to a thing, I mane to pull through wid it. But tell me—all this'll be costing money, won't, it? Attorneys don't bring thim sort of things about for nothing," and she gave a most contemptuous twist to the notice.

"Oh, Barry must pay for that."

"I doubt that, Martin: he's not fond of paying, the mane, dirthy blackguard. I tell you what, you shouldn't iver have let Daly inside the house: he'll make us pay for the writing o' thim as shure as my name's Mary Kelly: av' he hadn't got into the house, he couldn't've done a halfporth."

"I tell you, mother, it wouldn't have done not to let him see Anty. They'd have said we'd got her shut up here, and wouldn't let any one come nigh her."

"Well, Martin, you'll see we'll have to pay for it. This comes of meddling with other folks! I wonder how I was iver fool enough to have fitched her down here!—Good couldn't come of daling with such people as Barry Lynch."

"But you wouldn't have left her up there to be murdhered?"

"She's nothin' to me, and I don't know as she's iver like to be."

"May-be not."

"But, tell me, Martin—was there anything said between you and Moylan about Anty before she come down here?"

"How, anything said, mother?"

"Why, was there any schaming betwixt you?"

"Schaming?—when I want to schame, I'll not go shares with sich a fellow as Moylan."

"Ah, but was there anything passed about Anty and you getting married? Come now, Martin; I'm in all this throuble along of you, and you shouldn't lave me in the dark. Was you talking to Moylan about Anty and her fortune?"

"Why, thin, I'll jist tell you the whole thruth, as I tould it all before to Mister Frank—that is, Lord Ballindine, up in Dublin; and as I wouldn't mind telling it this minute to Barry, or Daly, or any one else in the three counties. When Moylan got the agency, he come out to me at Toneroe; and afther talking a bit about Anty and her fortune, he let on as how it would be a bright spec for me to marry her, and I won't deny that it was he as first put it into my head. Well, thin, he had schames of his own about keeping the agency, and getting a nice thing out of the property himself, for putting Anty in my way; but I tould him downright I didn't know anything about that; and that 'av iver I did anything in the matter it would be all fair and above board; and that was all the conspiracy I and Moylan had."

"And enough too, Martin," said the widow. "You'll find it's quite enough to get us into throuble. And why wouldn't you tell me what was going on between you?"

"There was nothing going on between us."

"I say there was;—and to go and invaigle me into your schames without knowing a word about it!—It was a murdhering shame of you—and av' I do have to pay for it, I'll never forgive you."

"That's right, mother; quarrel with me about it, do. It was I made you bring Anty down here, wasn't it? when I was up in Dublin all the time."

"But to go and put yourself in the power of sich a fellow as Moylan! I didn't think you were so soft."

"Ah, bother, mother! Who's put themselves in the power of Moylan?"

"I'll moyle him, and spoil him too, the false blackguard, to turn agin the family—them as has made him! I wondher what he's to get for swearing agin us?"—And then, after a pause, she added in a most pathetic voice "oh, Martin, to think of being dragged away to Galway, before the whole counthry, to be made a conspirather of! I, that always paid my way, before and behind, though only a poor widdy! Who's to mind the shop, I wondher?—I'm shure Meg's not able; and there'll be Mary'll be jist nigh her time, and won't be able to come! Martin, you've been and ruined me with your plots and your marriages! What did you want with a wife, I wondher, and you so well off!"—and Mrs Kelly began wiping her eyes, for she was affected to tears at the prospect of her coming misery.

"Av' you take it so to heart, mother, you'd betther give Anty a hint to be out of this. You heard Daly tell her, that was all Barry wanted."

Martin knew his mother tolerably well, or he would not have made this proposition. He understood what the real extent of her sorrow was, and how much of her lamentation he was to attribute to her laudable wish to appear a martyr to the wishes and pleasures of her children.

"Turn her out!" replied she, "no, niver; and I didn't think I'd 've heard you asking me to."

"I didn't ask you, mother,—only anything'd be betther than downright ruin."

"I wouldn't demane myself to Barry so much as to wish her out of this now she's here. But it was along of you she came here, and av' I've to pay for all this lawyer work, you oughtn't to see me at a loss. I'm shure I don't know where your sisthers is to look for a pound or two when I'm gone, av' things goes on this way," and again the widow whimpered.

"Don't let that throuble you, mother: av' there's anything to pay, I won't let it come upon you, any way. But I tell you there'll be nothing more about it."

Mrs Kelly was somewhat quieted by her son's guarantee, and, muttering that she couldn't afford to be wasting her mornings in that way, diligently commenced weighing out innumerable three-halfporths of brown sugar, and Martin went about his own business.

Daly left the inn, after his interview with Anty and the Kellys, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind. In the first place, he knew that he had been signally unsuccessful, and that his want of success had been mainly attributable to his having failed to see Anty alone; and, in the next place, he felt more than ever disgusted with his client. He began to reflect, for the first time, that he might, and probably would, irretrievably injure his character by undertaking, as Martin truly called it, such a very low line of business: that, if the matter were persevered in, every one in Connaught would be sure to hear of Anty's persecution; and that his own name would be so mixed up with Lynch's in the transaction as to leave him no means of escaping the ignominy which was so justly due to his employer. Beyond these selfish motives of wishing to withdraw from the business, he really pitied Anty, and felt a great repugnance at being the means of adding to her troubles; and he was aware of the scandalous shame of subjecting her again to the ill-treatment of such a wretch as her brother, by threatening proceedings which he knew could never be taken.

As he got on the car to return to Tuam, he determined that whatever plan he might settle on adopting, he would have nothing further to do with prosecuting or persecuting either Anty or the Kellys. "I'll give him the best advice I can about it," said Daly to himself; "and if he don't like it he may do the other thing. I wouldn't carry on with this game for all he's worth, and that I believe is not much." He had intended to go direct to Dunmore House from the Kellys, and to have seen Barry, but he would have had to stop for dinner if he had done so; and though, generally speaking, not very squeamish in his society, he did not wish to enjoy another after-dinner tete-a-tete with him—"It's better to get him over to Tuam," thought he, "and try and make him see rason when he's sober: nothing's too hot or too bad for him, when he's mad dhrunk afther dinner."

Accordingly, Lynch was again summoned to Tuam, and held a second council in the attorney's little parlour. Daly commenced by telling him that his sister had seen him, and had positively refused to leave the inn, and that the widow and her son had both listened to the threats of a prosecution unmoved and undismayed. Barry indulged in his usual volubility of expletives; expressed his fixed intention of exterminating the Kellys; declared, with many asseverations, his conviction that his sister was a lunatic; swore, by everything under, in, and above the earth, that he would have her shut up in the Lunatic Asylum in Ballinasloe, in the teeth of the Lord Chancellor and all the other lawyers in Ireland; cursed the shades of his father, deeply and copiously; assured Daly that he was only prevented from recovering his own property by the weakness and ignorance of his legal advisers, and ended by asking the attorney's advice as to his future conduct.

"What the d——l, then, am I to do with the confounded ideot?" said he.

"If you'll take my advice, you'll do nothing."

"What, and let her marry and have that young blackguard brought up to Dunmore under my very nose?"

"I'm very much afraid, Mr Lynch, if you wish to be quit of Martin Kelly, it is you must lave Dunmore. You may be shure he won't."

"Oh, as for that, I've nothing to tie me to Dunmore. I hate the place; I never meant to live there. If I only saw my sister properly taken care of, and that it was put out of her power to throw herself away, I should leave it at once."

"Between you and me, Mr Lynch, she will be taken care of; and as for throwing herself away, she must judge of that herself. Take my word for it, the best thing for you to do is to come to terms with Martin Kelly, and to sell out your property in Dunmore. You'll make much better terms before marriage than you would afther, it stands to rason."

Barry was half standing, and half sitting on the small parlour table, and there he remained for a few minutes, meditating on Daly's most unpleasant proposal. It was a hard pill for him to swallow, and he couldn't get it down without some convulsive grimaces. He bit his under lip, till the blood came through it, and at last said,

"Why, you've taken this thing up, Daly, as if you were to be paid by the Kellys instead of by me! I can't understand it, confound me if I can!"

Daly turned very red at the insinuation. He was within an ace of seizing Lynch by the collar, and expelling him in a summary way from his premises, a feat which he was able to perform; and willing also, for he was sick of his client; but he thought of it a second time, and restrained himself.

"Mr Lynch," he said, after a moment or two, "that's the second time you've made an observation of that kind to me; and I'll tell you what; if your business was the best in the county, instead of being as bad a case as was ever put into a lawyer's hands, I wouldn't stand it from you. If you think you can let out your passion against me, as you do against your own people, you'll find your mistake out very soon; so you'd betther mind what you're saying."

"Why, what the devil did I say?" said Lynch, half abashed.

"I'll not repeat it—and you hadn't betther, either. And now, do you choose to hear my professional advice, and behave to me as you ought and shall do? or will you go out of this and look out for another attorney? To tell you the truth, I'd jist as lieve you'd take your business to some one else."

Barry's brow grew very black, and he looked at Daly as though he would much like to insult him again if he dared. But he did not dare. He had no one else to look to for advice or support; he had utterly estranged from him his father's lawyer; and though he suspected that Daly was not true to him, he felt that he could not break with him. He was obliged, therefore, to swallow his wrath, though it choked him, and to mutter something in the shape of an apology.

It was a mutter: Daly heard something about its being only a joke, and not expecting to be taken up so d—— sharp; and, accepting these sounds as an amende honorable [32], again renewed his functions as attorney.

[FOOTNOTE 32: amende honorable—(French) apology]

"Will you authorise me to see Martin Kelly, and to treat with him? You'll find it the cheapest thing you can do; and, more than that, it'll be what nobody can blame you for."

"How treat with him?—I owe him nothing—I don't see what I've got to treat with him about. Am I to offer him half the property on condition he'll consent to marry my sister? Is that what you mean?"

"No: that's not what I mean; but it'll come to much the same thing in the end. In the first place, you must withdraw all opposition to Miss Lynch's marriage; indeed, you must give it your direct sanction; and, in the next place, you must make an amicable arrangement with Martin about the division of the property."

"What—coolly give him all he has the impudence to ask?—throw up the game altogether, and pitch the whole stakes into his lap?—Why, Daly, you—"

"Well, Mr Lynch, finish your speech," said Daly, looking him full in the face.

Barry had been on the point of again accusing the attorney of playing false to him, but he paused in time; he caught Daly's eye, and did not dare to finish the sentence which he had begun.

"I can't understand you, I mean," said he; "I can't understand what you're after: but go on; may-be you're right, but I can't see, for the life of me. What am I to get by such a plan as that?"

Barry was now cowed and frightened; he had no dram-bottle by him to reassure him, and he became, comparatively speaking, calm and subdued. Indeed, before the interview was over he fell into a pitiably lachrymose tone, and claimed sympathy for the many hardships he had to undergo through the ill-treatment of his family.

"I'll try and explain to you, Mr Lynch, what you'll get by it. As far as I can understand, your father left about eight hundred a-year between the two—that's you and your sisther; and then there's the house and furniture. Nothing on earth can keep her out of her property, or prevent her from marrying whom she plases. Martin Kelly, who is an honest fellow, though sharp enough, has set his eye on her, and before many weeks you'll find he'll make her his wife. Undher these circumstances, wouldn't he be the best tenant you could find for Dunmore? You're not fond of the place, and will be still less so when he's your brother-in-law. Lave it altogether, Mr Lynch; give him a laise of the whole concern, and if you'll do that now at once, take my word for it you'll get more out of Dunmore than iver you will by staying here, and fighting the matther out."

"But about the debts, Daly?"

"Why, I suppose the fact is, the debts are all your own, eh?"

"Well—suppose they are?"

"Exactly so: personal debts of your own. Why, when you've made some final arrangement about the property, you must make some other arrangement with your creditors. But that's quite a separate affair; you don't expect Martin Kelly to pay your debts, I suppose?"

"But I might get a sum of money for the good-will, mightn't I?"

"I don't think Martin's able to put a large sum down. I'll tell you what I think you might ask; and what I think he would give, to get your good-will and consent to the match, and to prevent any further difficulty. I think he'd become your tenant, for the whole of your share, at a rent of five-hundred a year; and maybe he'd give you three hundred pounds for the furniture and stock, and things about the place. If so, you should give him a laise of three lives."

There was a good deal in this proposition that was pleasing to Barry's mind: five hundred a-year without any trouble in collecting it; the power of living abroad in the unrestrained indulgence of hotels and billiard rooms; the probable chance of being able to retain his income and bilk his creditors; the prospect of shaking off from himself the consequences of a connection with the Kellys, and being for ever rid of Dunmore encumbrances. These things all opened before his eyes a vista of future, idle, uncontrolled enjoyment, just suited to his taste, and strongly tempted him at once to close with Daly's offer. But still, he could hardly bring himself to consent to be vanquished by his own sister; it was wormwood to him to think that after all she should be left to the undisturbed enjoyment of her father's legacy. He had been brow-beaten by the widow, insulted by young Kelly, cowed and silenced by the attorney whom he had intended to patronise and convert into a creature of his own: he could however have borne and put up with all this, if he could only have got his will of his sister; but to give up to her, who had been his slave all his life—to own, at last, that he had no power over her, whom he had always looked upon as so abject, so mean a thing; to give in, of his own accord, to the robbery which had been committed on him by his own father; and to do this, while he felt convinced as he still did, that a sufficiently unscrupulous attorney could save him from such cruel disgrace and loss, was a trial to which he could hardly bring himself to submit, crushed and tamed as he was.

He still sat on the edge of the parlour table, and there he remained mute, balancing the pros and cons of Daly's plan. Daly waited a minute or two for his answer, and, finding that he said nothing, left him alone for a time, to make up his mind, telling him that he would return in about a quarter of an hour. Barry never moved from his position; it was an important question he had to settle, and so he felt it, for he gave up to the subject his undivided attention. Since his boyhood he had looked forward to a life of ease, pleasure, and licence, and had longed for his father's death that he might enjoy it. It seemed now within his reach; for his means, though reduced, would still be sufficient for sensual gratification. But, idle, unprincipled, brutal, castaway wretch as Barry was, he still felt the degradation of inaction, when he had such stimulating motives to energy as unsatisfied rapacity and hatred for his sister: ignorant as he was of the meaning of the word right, he tried to persuade himself that it would be wrong in him to yield.

Could he only pluck up sufficient courage to speak his mind to Daly, and frighten him into compliance with his wishes, he still felt that he might be successful—that he might, by some legal tactics, at any rate obtain for himself the management of his sister's property. But this he could not do: he felt that Daly was his master; and though he still thought that he might have triumphed had he come sufficiently prepared, that is, with a considerable quantum of spirits inside him, he knew himself well enough to be aware that he could do nothing without this assistance; and, alas, he could not obtain it there. He had great reliance in the efficacy of whiskey; he would trust much to a large dose of port wine; but with brandy he considered himself invincible.

He sat biting his lip, trying to think, trying to make up his mind, trying to gain sufficient self-composure to finish his interview with Daly with some appearance of resolution and self-confidence, but it was in vain; when the attorney returned, his face still plainly showed that he was utterly unresolved, utterly unable to resolve on anything.

"Well, Mr Lynch," said Daly, "will you let me spake to Kelly about this, or would you rather sleep on the matther?"

Barry gave a long sigh—"Wouldn't he give six hundred, Daly? he'd still have two hundred clear, and think what that'd be for a fellow like him!"

"You must ask him for it yourself then; I'll not propose to him any such thing. Upon my soul, he'll be a great fool to give the five hundred, because he's no occasion to meddle with you in the matther at all, at all. But still I think he may give it; but as for asking for more—at any rate I won't do it; you can do what you like, yourself."

"And am I to sell the furniture, and everything—horses, cattle, and everything about the place—for three hundred pounds?"

"Not unless you like it, you ain't, Mr Lynch; but I'll tell you this—if you can do so, and do do so, it'll be the best bargain you ever made:—mind, one-half of it all belongs to your sisther."

Barry muttered an oath through his ground teeth; he would have liked to scratch the ashes of his father from their resting-place, and wreak his vengeance on them, whenever this degrading fact was named to him.

"But I want the money, Daly," said he: "I couldn't get afloat unless I had more than that: I couldn't pay your bill, you know, unless I got a higher figure down than that. Come, Daly, you must do something for me; you must do something, you know, to earn the fees," and he tried to look facetious, by giving a wretched ghastly grin.

"My bill won't be a long one, Mr Lynch, and you may be shure I'm trying to make it as short as I can. And as for earning it, whatever you may think, I can assure you I shall never have got money harder. I've now given you my best advice; if your mind's not yet made up, perhaps you'll have the goodness to let me hear from you when it is?" and Daly walked from the fire towards the door, and placed his hand upon the handle of it.

This was a hint which Barry couldn't misunderstand. "Well, I'll write to you," he said, and passed through the door. He felt, however, that it was useless to attempt to trust himself to his own judgment, and he turned back, as Daly passed into his office—"Daly," he said, "step out one minute: I won't keep you a second." The attorney unwillingly lifted up the counter, and came out to him. "Manage it your own way," said he; "do whatever you think best; but you must see that I've been badly used—infernally cruelly treated, and you ought to do the best you can for me. Here am I, giving away, as I may say, my own property to a young shopkeeper, and upon my soul you ought to make him pay something for it; upon my soul you ought, for it's only fair!"

"I've tould you, Mr Lynch, what I'll propose to Martin Kelly; if you don't think the terms fair, you can propose any others yourself; or you're at liberty to employ any other agent you please."

Barry sighed again, but he yielded. He felt broken-hearted, and unhappy, and he longed to quit a country so distasteful to him, and relatives and neighbours so ungrateful; he longed in his heart for the sweet, easy haunts of Boulogne, which he had never known, but of which he had heard many a glowing description from congenial spirits whom he knew. He had heard enough of the ways and means of many a leading star in that Elysium, to be aware that, with five hundred a-year, unembarrassed and punctually paid, he might shine as a prince indeed. He would go at once to that happy foreign shore, where the memory of no father would follow him, where the presence of no sister would degrade and irritate him, where billiard-tables were rife, and brandy cheap; where virtue was easy, and restraint unnecessary; where no duties would harass him, no tenants upbraid him, no duns persecute him. There, carefully guarding himself against the schemes of those less fortunate followers of pleasure among whom he would be thrown in his social hours, he would convert every shilling of his income to some purpose of self-enjoyment, and live a life of luxurious abandonment. And he need not be altogether idle, he reflected within himself afterwards, as he was riding home: he felt that he was possessed of sufficient energy and talent to make himself perfectly master of a pack of cards, to be a proficient over a billiard-table, and even to get the upper hand of a box of dice. With such pursuits left to him, he might yet live to be talked of, feared, and wealthy; and Barry's utmost ambition would have carried him no further.

As I said before, he yielded to the attorney, and commissioned him fully to treat with Martin Kelly in the manner proposed by himself. Martin was to give him five hundred a-year for his share of the property, and three hundred pounds for the furniture, &c.; and Barry was to give his sister his written and unconditional assent to her marriage; was to sign any document which might be necessary as to her settlement, and was then to leave Dunmore for ever. Daly made him write an authority for making such a proposal, by which he bound himself to the terms, should they be acceded to by the other party.

"But you must bear in mind," added Daly, as his client for the second time turned from the door, "that I don't guarantee that Martin Kelly will accept these terms: it's very likely he may be sharp enough to know that he can manage as well without you as he can with you. You'll remember that, Mr Lynch."

"I will—I will, Daly; but look here—if he bites freely—and I think he will, and if you find you could get as much as a thousand out of him, or even eight hundred, you shall have one hundred clear for yourself."

This was Barry's last piece of diplomacy for that day. Daly vouchsafed him no answer, but returned into his office, and Barry mounted his horse, and returned home not altogether ill-pleased with his prospects, but still regretting that he should have gone about so serious a piece of business, so utterly unprepared.

These regrets rose stronger, when his after-dinner courage returned to him as he sate solitary over his fire. "I should have had him here," said he to himself, "and not gone to that confounded cold hole of his. After all, there's no place for a cock to fight on like his own dunghill; and there's nothing able to carry a fellow well through a tough bit of jobation [33] with a lawyer like a stiff tumbler of brandy punch. It'd have been worth a couple of hundred to me, to have had him out here—impertinent puppy! Well, devil a halfpenny I'll pay him!" This thought was consolatory, and he began again to think of Boulogne.

[FOOTNOTE 33: jobation—a tedious session; scolding]



XXI. LORD BALLINDINE AT HOME

Two days after the last recorded interview between Lord Ballindine and his friend, Dot Blake, the former found himself once more sitting down to dinner with his mother and sisters, the Honourable Mrs O'Kelly and the Honourable Misses O'Kelly; at least such were the titular dignities conferred on them in County Mayo, though I believe, strictly speaking, the young ladies had no claim to the appellation.

Mrs O'Kelly was a very small woman, with no particularly developed character, and perhaps of no very general utility. She was fond of her daughters, and more than fond of her son, partly because he was so tall and so handsome, and partly because he was the lord, the head of the family, and the owner of the house. She was, on the whole, a good-natured person, though perhaps her temper was a little soured by her husband having, very unfairly, died before he had given her a right to call herself Lady Ballindine. She was naturally shy and reserved, and the seclusion of O'Kelly's Court did not tend to make her less so; but she felt that the position and rank of her son required her to be dignified; and consequently, when in society, she somewhat ridiculously aggravated her natural timidity with an assumed rigidity of demeanour. She was, however, a good woman, striving, with small means, to do the best for her family; prudent and self-denying, and very diligent in looking after the house servants.

Her two daughters had been, at the instance of their grandfather, the courtier, christened Augusta and Sophia, after the two Princesses of that name, and were now called Guss and Sophy: they were both pretty, good-natured girls—one with dark brown and the other light brown hair: they both played the harp badly, sung tolerably, danced well, and were very fond of nice young men. They both thought Kelly's Court rather dull; but then they had known nothing better since they had grown up, and there were some tolerably nice people not very far off, whom they occasionally saw: there were the Dillons, of Ballyhaunis, who had three thousand a-year, and spent six; they were really a delightful family—three daughters and four sons, all unmarried, and up to anything: the sons all hunted, shot, danced, and did everything that they ought to do—at least in the eyes of young ladies; though some of their more coldly prudent acquaintances expressed an opinion that it would be as well if the three younger would think of doing something for themselves; but they looked so manly and handsome when they breakfasted at Kelly's Court on a hunt morning, with their bright tops, red coats, and hunting-caps, that Guss and Sophy, and a great many others, thought it would be a shame to interrupt them in their career. And then, Ballyhaunis was only eight miles from Kelly's Court; though they were Irish miles, it is true, and the road was not patronised by the Grand Jury; but the distance was only eight miles, and there were always beds for them when they went to dinner at Peter Dillon's. Then there were the Blakes of Castletown. To be sure they could give no parties, for they were both unmarried; but they were none the worse for that, and they had plenty of horses, and went out everywhere. And the Blakes of Morristown; they also were very nice people; only unfortunately, old Blake was always on his keeping, and couldn't show himself out of doors except on Sundays, for fear of the bailiffs. And the Browns of Mount Dillon, and the Browns of Castle Brown; and General Bourke of Creamstown. All these families lived within fifteen or sixteen miles of Kelly's Court, and prevented the O'Kellys from feeling themselves quite isolated from the social world. Their nearest neighbours, however, were the Armstrongs, and of them they saw a great deal.

The Reverend Joseph Armstrong was rector of Ballindine, and Mrs O'Kelly was his parishioner, and the only Protestant one he had; and, as Mr Armstrong did not like to see his church quite deserted, and as Mrs O'Kelly was, as she flattered herself, a very fervent Protestant, they were all in all to each other.

Ballindine was not a good living, and Mr Armstrong had a very large family; he was, therefore, a poor man. His children were helpless, uneducated, and improvident; his wife was nearly worn out with the labours of bringing them forth and afterwards catering for them; and a great portion of his own life was taken up in a hard battle with tradesmen and tithe-payers, creditors, and debtors. Yet, in spite of the insufficiency of his two hundred a-year to meet all or half his wants, Mr Armstrong was not an unhappy man. At any moment of social enjoyment he forgot all his cares and poverty, and was always the first to laugh, and the last to cease to do so. He never refused an invitation to dinner, and if he did not entertain many in his own house, it was his fortune, and not his heart, that prevented him from doing so. He could hardly be called a good clergyman, and yet his remissness was not so much his own fault as that of circumstances. How could a Protestant rector be a good parish clergyman, with but one old lady and her daughters, for the exercise of his clerical energies and talents? He constantly lauded the zeal of St. Paul for proselytism; but, as he himself once observed, even St. Paul had never had to deal with the obstinacy of an Irish Roman Catholic. He often regretted the want of work, and grieved that his profession, as far as he saw and had been instructed, required nothing of him but a short service on every Sunday morning, and the celebration of the Eucharist four times a-year; but such were the facts; and the idleness which this want of work engendered, and the habits which his poverty induced, had given him a character as a clergyman, very different from that which the high feelings and strict principles which animated him at his ordination would have seemed to ensure. He was, in fact, a loose, slovenly man, somewhat too fond of his tumbler of punch; a little lax, perhaps, as to clerical discipline, but very staunch as to doctrine. He possessed no industry or energy of any kind; but he was good-natured and charitable, lived on friendly terms with all his neighbours, and was intimate with every one that dwelt within ten miles of him, priest and parson, lord and commoner.

Such was the neighbourhood of Kelly's Court, and among such Lord Ballindine had now made up his mind to remain a while, till circumstances should decide what further steps he should take with regard to Fanny Wyndham. There were a few hunting days left in the season, which he intended to enjoy; and then he must manage to make shift to lull the time with shooting, fishing, farming, and nursing his horses and dogs.

His mother and sisters had heard nothing of the rumour of the quarrel between Frank and Fanny, which Mat Tierney had so openly alluded to at Handicap Lodge; and he was rather put out by their eager questions on the subject. Nothing was said about it till the servant withdrew, after dinner, but the three ladies were too anxious for information to delay their curiosity any longer.

"Well, Frank," said the elder sister, who was sitting over the fire, close to his left elbow—(he had a bottle of claret at his right)—"well, Frank, do tell us something about Fanny Wyndham; we are so longing to hear; and you never will write, you know."

"Everybody says it's a brilliant match," said the mother. "They say here she's forty thousand pounds: I'm sure I hope she has, Frank."

"But when is it to be?" said Sophy. "She's of age now, isn't she? and I thought you were only waiting for that. I'm sure we shall like her; come, Frank, do tell us—when are we to see Lady Ballindine?"

Frank looked rather serious and embarrassed, but did not immediately make any reply.

"You haven't quarrelled, have you, Frank?" said the mother.

"The match isn't off—is it?" said Guss.

"Miss Wyndham has just lost her only brother," said he; "he died quite suddenly in London about ten days since; she was very much attached to him."

"Good gracious, how shocking!" said Sophy.

"I'm sorry," said Guss.

"Why, Frank," said their mother, now excited into absolute animation; "his fortune was more than double hers, wasn't it?—who'll have it now?"

"It was, mother; five times as much as hers, I believe."

"Gracious powers! and who has it now? Why don't you tell me, Frank?"

"His sister Fanny."

"Heavens and earth!—I hope you're not going to let her quarrel with you, are you? Has there been anything between you? Have there been any words between you and Lord Cashel? Why don't you tell me, Frank, when you know how anxious I am?"

"If you must know all about it, I have not had any words, as you call them, with Fanny Wyndham; but I have with her guardian. He thinks a hundred and twenty thousand pounds much too great a fortune for a Connaught viscount. However, I don't think so. It will be for time to show what Fanny thinks. Meanwhile, the less said about it the better; remember that, girls, will you?"

"Oh, we will—we won't say a word about it; but she'll never change her mind because of her money, will she?"

"That's what would make me love a man twice the more," said Guss; "or at any rate show it twice the stronger."

"Frank," said the anxious mother, "for heaven's sake don't let anything stand between you and Lord Cashel; think what a thing it is you'd lose! Why; it'd pay all the debts, and leave the property worth twice what it ever was before. If Lord Cashel thinks you ought to give up the hounds, do it at once, Frank; anything rather than quarrel with him. You could get them again, you know, when all's settled."

"I've given up quite as much as I intend for Lord Cashel."

"Now, Frank, don't be a fool, or you'll repent it all your life: what does it signify how much you give up to such a man as Lord Cashel? You don't think, do you, that he objects to our being at Kelly's Court? Because I'm sure we wouldn't stay a moment if we thought that."

"Mother, I wouldn't part with a cur dog out of the place to please Lord Cashel. But if I were to do everything on earth at his beck and will, it would make no difference: he will never let me marry Fanny Wyndham if he can help it; but, thank God, I don't believe he can."

"I hope not—I hope not. You'll never see half such a fortune again."

"Well, mother, say nothing about it one way or the other, to anybody. And as you now know how the matter stands, it's no good any of us talking more about it till I've settled what I mean to do myself."

"I shall hate her," said Sophy, "if her getting all her brother's money changes her; but I'm sure it won't." And so the conversation ended.

Lord Ballindine had not rested in his paternal halls the second night, before he had commenced making arrangements for a hunt breakfast, by way of letting all his friends know that he was again among them. And so missives, in Guss and Sophy's handwriting, were sent round by a bare-legged little boy, to all the Mounts, Towns, and Castles, belonging to the Dillons, Blakes, Bourkes, and Browns of the neighbourhood, to tell them that the dogs would draw the Kelly's Court covers at eleven o'clock on the following Tuesday morning, and that the preparatory breakfast would be on the table at ten. This was welcome news to the whole neighbourhood. It was only on the Sunday evening that the sportsmen got the intimation, and very busy most of them were on the following Monday to see that their nags and breeches were all right—fit to work and fit to be seen. The four Dillons, of Ballyhaunis, gave out to their grooms a large assortment of pipe-clay and putty-powder. Bingham Blake, of Castletown, ordered a new set of girths to his hunting saddle; and his brother Jerry, who was in no slight degree proud of his legs, but whose nether trappings were rather the worse from the constant work of a heavy season, went so far as to go forth very early on the Monday morning to excite the Ballinrobe tailor to undertake the almost impossible task of completing him a pair of doeskin by the Tuesday morning. The work was done, and the breeches home at Castletown by eight—though the doeskin had to be purchased in Tuam, and an assistant artist taken away from his mother's wake, to sit up all night over the seams. But then the tailor owed a small trifle of arrear of rent for his potato-garden, and his landlord was Jerry Blake's cousin-german [34]. There's nothing carries one further than a good connexion, thought both Jerry and the tailor when the job was finished.

[FOOTNOTE 34: cousin-german—first cousin]

Among the other invitations sent was one to Martin Kelly,—not exactly worded like the others, for though Lord Ballindine was perhaps more anxious to see him than anyone else, Martin had not yet got quite so high in the ladder of life as to be asked to breakfast at Kelly's Court. But the fact that Frank for a moment thought of asking him showed that he was looking upwards in the world's estimation. Frank wrote him a note himself, saying that the hounds would throw off at Kelly's Court, at eleven; that, if he would ride over, he would be sure to see a good hunt, and that he, Lord Ballindine, had a few words to say to him on business, just while the dogs were being put into the cover. Martin, as usual, had a good horse which he was disposed to sell, if, as he said, he got its value; and wrote to say he would wait on Lord Ballindine at eleven. The truth was, Frank wanted to borrow money from him.

Another note was sent to the Glebe, requesting the Rector to come to breakfast and to look at the hounds being thrown off. The modest style of the invitation was considered as due to Mr Armstrong's clerical position, but was hardly rendered necessary by his habits; for though the parson attended such meetings in an old suit of rusty black, and rode an equally rusty-looking pony, he was always to be seen, at the end of the day, among those who were left around the dogs.

On the Tuesday morning there was a good deal of bustle at Kelly's Court. All the boys about the place were collected in front of the house, to walk the gentlemen's horses about while the riders were at breakfast, and earn a sixpence or a fourpenny bit; and among them, sitting idly on the big steppingstone placed near the door, was Jack the fool, who, for the day, seemed to have deserted the service of Barry Lynch.

And now the red-coats flocked up to the door, and it was laughable to see the knowledge of character displayed by the gossoons in the selection of their customers. One or two, who were known to be "bad pays," were allowed to dismount without molestation of any kind, and could not even part with their steeds till they had come to an absolute bargain as to the amount of gratuity to be given. Lambert Brown was one of these unfortunate characters—a younger brother who had a little, and but a very little money, and who was determined to keep that. He was a miserable hanger-on at his brother's house, without profession or prospects; greedy, stingy, and disagreeable; endowed with a squint, and long lank light-coloured hair: he was a bad horseman, always craning and shirking in the field, boasting and lying after dinner; nevertheless, he was invited and endured because he was one of the Browns of Mount Dillon, cousin to the Browns of Castle Brown, nephew to Mrs Dillon the member's wife, and third cousin of Lord Ballaghaderrin.

He dismounted in the gravel circle before the door, and looked round for someone to take his horse; but none of the urchins would come to him. At last he caught hold of a little ragged boy whom he knew, from his own side of the country, and who had come all the way there, eight long Irish miles, on the chance of earning sixpence and seeing a hunt.

"Here, Patsy, come here, you born little divil," and he laid hold of the arm of the brat, who was trying to escape from him—"come and hold my horse for me—and I'll not forget you."

"Shure, yer honer, Mr Lambert, I can't thin, for I'm afther engaging myself this blessed minute to Mr Larry Dillon, only he's jist trotted round to the stables to spake a word to Mick Keogh."

"Don't be lying, you little blackguard; hould the horse, and don't stir out of that."

"Shure how can I, Mr Lambert, when I've been and guv my word to Mr Larry?" and the little fellow put his hands behind him, that he might not be forced to take hold of the reins.

"Don't talk to me, you young imp, but take the horse. I'll not forget you when I come out. What's the matter with you, you fool; d'ye think I'd tell you a lie about it?"

Patsy evidently thought he would; for though he took the horse almost upon compulsion, he whimpered as he did so, and said:

"Shure, Mr Lambert, would you go and rob a poor boy of his chances?—I come'd all the way from Ballyglass this blessed morning to 'arn a tizzy, and av' I doesn't get it from you this turn, I'll—" But Lambert Brown had gone into the house, and on his return after breakfast he fully justified the lad's suspicion, for he again promised him that he wouldn't forget him, and that he'd see him some day at Mr Dillon's.

"Well, Lambert Brown," said the boy, as that worthy gentleman rode off, "it's you're the raal blackguard—and it's well all the counthry knows you: sorrow be your bed this night; it's little the poor'll grieve for you, when you're stretched, or the rich either, for the matther of that."

Very different was the reception Bingham Blake got, as he drove up with his tandem and tax-cart: half-a-dozen had kept themselves idle, each in the hope of being the lucky individual to come in for Bingham's shilling.

"Och, Mr Bingham, shure I'm first," roared one fellow.

But the first, as he styled himself, was soon knocked down under the wheels of the cart by the others.

"Mr Blake, thin—Mr Blake, darlint—doesn't ye remimber the promise you guv me?"

"Mr Jerry, Mr Jerry, avick,"—this was addressed to the brother—"spake a word for me; do, yer honour; shure it was I come all the way from Teddy Mahony's with the breeches this morning, God bless 'em, and the fine legs as is in 'em."

But they were all balked, for Blake had his servant there.

"Get out, you blackguards!" said he, raising his tandem whip, as if to strike them. "Get out, you robbers! Are you going to take the cart and horses clean away from me? That mare'll settle some of ye, if you make so free with her! she's not a bit too chary of her hind feet. Get out of that, I tell you;" and he lightly struck with the point of his whip the boy who had Lambert Brown's horse.

"Ah, Mr Bingham," said, the boy, pretending to rub the part very hard, "you owe me one for that, anyhow, and it's you are the good mark for it, God bless you."

"Faix," said another, "one blow from your honour is worth two promises from Lambert Brown, any way."

There was a great laugh at this among the ragged crew, for Lambert Brown was still standing on the doorsteps: when he heard this sally, however, he walked in, and the different red-coats and top-boots were not long in crowding after him.

Lord Ballindine received them in the same costume, and very glad they all seemed to see him again. When an Irish gentleman is popular in his neighbourhood, nothing can exceed the real devotion paid to him; and when that gentleman is a master of hounds, and does not require a subscription, he is more than ever so.

"Welcome back, Ballindine—better late than never; but why did you stay away so long?" said General Bourke, an old gentleman with long, thin, flowing grey hairs, waving beneath his broad-brimmed felt hunting-hat. "You're not getting so fond of the turf, I hope, as to be giving up the field for it? Give me the sport where I can ride my own horse myself; not where I must pay a young rascal for doing it for me, and robbing me into the bargain, most likely."

"Quite right, General," said Frank; "so you see I've given up the Curragh, and come down to the dogs again."

"Yes, but you've waited too long, man; the dogs have nearly done their work for this year. I'm sorry for it; the last day of the season is the worst day in the year to me. I'm ill for a week after it."

"Well, General, please the pigs, we'll be in great tune next October. I've as fine a set of puppies to enter as there is in Ireland, let alone Connaught. You must come down, and tell me what you think of them."

"Next October's all very well for you young fellows, but I'm seventy-eight. I always make up my mind that I'll never turn out another season, and it'll be true for me this year. I'm hunting over sixty years, Ballindine, in these three counties. I ought to have had enough of it by this time, you'll say."

"I'll bet you ten pounds," said Bingham Blake, "that you hunt after eighty."

"Done with you Bingham," said the General, and the bet was booked.

General Bourke was an old soldier, who told the truth in saying that he had hunted over the same ground sixty years ago. But he had not been at it ever since, for he had in the meantime seen a great deal of hard active service, and obtained high military reputation. But he had again taken kindly to the national sport of his country, on returning to his own estate at the close of the Peninsular War; and had ever since attended the meets twice a week through every winter, with fewer exceptions than any other member of the hunt. He always wore top-boots—of the ancient cut, with deep painted tops and square toes, drawn tight up over the calf of his leg; a pair of most capacious dark-coloured leather breeches, the origin of which was unknown to any other present member of the hunt, and a red frock coat, very much soiled by weather, water, and wear. The General was a rich man, and therefore always had a horse to suit him. On the present occasion, he was riding a strong brown beast, called Parsimony, that would climb over anything, and creep down the gable end of a house if he were required to do so. He was got by OEconomy; those who know county Mayo know the breed well.

They were now all crowded into the large dining-room at Kelly's Court; about five-and-twenty redcoats, and Mr Armstrong's rusty black. In spite of his shabby appearance, however, and the fact that the greater number of those around him were Roman Catholics, he seemed to be very popular with the lot; and his opinion on the important subject of its being a scenting morning was asked with as much confidence in his judgment, as though the foxes of the country were peculiarly subject to episcopalian jurisdiction.

"Well, then, Peter," said he, "the wind's in the right quarter. Mick says there's a strong dog-fox in the long bit of gorse behind the firs; if he breaks from that he must run towards Ballintubber, and when you're once over the meering [5] into Roscommon, there's not an acre of tilled land, unless a herd's garden, between that and—the deuce knows where all—further than most of you'll like to ride, I take it."

[FOOTNOTE 35: meering—a well-marked boundary, such as a ditch or fence, between farms, fields, bogs, etc]

"How far'll you go yourself, Armstrong? Faith, I believe it's few of the crack nags'll beat the old black pony at a long day."

"Is it I?" said the Parson, innocently. "As soon as I've heard the dogs give tongue, and seen them well on their game, I'll go home. I've land ploughing, and I must look after that. But, as I was saying, if the fox breaks well away from the gorse, you'll have the best run you've seen this season; but if he dodges back into the plantation, you'll have enough to do to make him break at all; and when he does, he'll go away towards Ballyhaunis, through as cross a country as ever a horse put a shoe into."

And having uttered this scientific prediction, which was listened to with the greatest deference by Peter Dillon, the Rev. Joseph Armstrong turned his attention to the ham and tea.

The three ladies were all smiles to meet their guests; Mrs O'Kelly, dressed in a piece of satin turk, came forward to shake hands with the General, but Sophy and Guss kept their positions, beneath the coffee-pot and tea-urn, at each end of the long table, being very properly of opinion that it was the duty of the younger part of the community to come forward, and make their overtures to them. Bingham Blake, the cynosure on whom the eyes of the beauty of county Mayo were most generally placed, soon found his seat beside Guss, rather to Sophy's mortification; but Sophy was good-natured, and when Peter Dillon placed himself at her right hand, she was quite happy, though Peter's father was still alive, and Bingham's had been dead this many a year and Castletown much in want of a mistress.

"Now, Miss O'Kelly," said Bingham, "do let me manage the coffee-pot; the cream-jug and sugar-tongs will be quite enough for your energies."

"Indeed and I won't, Mr Blake; you're a great deal too awkward, and a great deal too hungry. The last hunt-morning you breakfasted here you threw the coffee-grouts into the sugar-basin, when I let you help me."

"To think of your remembering that!—but I'm improved since then. I've been taking lessons with my old aunt at Castlebar."

"You don't mean you've really been staying with Lady Sarah?"

"Oh, but I have, though. I was there three days; made tea every night; washed the poodle every morning, and clear-starched her Sunday pelerine, with my own hands on Saturday evening."

"Oh, what a useful animal! What a husband you'll make, when you're a little more improved!"

"Shan't I? As you're so fond of accomplishments, perhaps you'll take me yourself by-and-by?"

"Why, as you're so useful, maybe I may."

"Well, Lambert," said Lord Ballindine, across the table, to the stingy gentleman with the squint, "are you going to ride hard to-day?"

"I'll go bail I'm not much behind, my lord," said Lambert; "if the dogs go, I'll follow."

"I'll bet you a crown, Lambert," said his cousin, young Brown of Mount Brown, "the dogs kill, and you don't see them do it."

"Oh, that may be, and yet I mayn't be much behind."

"I'll bet you're not in the next field to them."

"Maybe you'll not be within ten fields yourself."

"Come, Lambert, I'll tell you what—we'll ride together, and I'll bet you a crown I pound you before you're over three leaps."

"Ah, now, take it easy with yourself," said Lambert; "there are others ride better than you."

"But no one better than yourself; is that it, eh?"

"Well, Jerry, how do the new articles fit?" said Nicholas Dillon.

"Pretty well, thank you: they'd be a deal more comfortable though, if you'd pay for them."

"Did you hear, Miss O'Kelly, what Jerry Blake did yesterday?" said Nicholas Dillon aloud, across the table.

"Indeed, I did not," said Guss—"but I hope, for the sake of the Blakes in general, he didn't do anything much amiss?"

"I'll tell you then," continued Nicholas. "A portion of his ould hunting-dress—I'll not specify what, you know—but a portion, which he'd been wearing since the last election, were too shabby to show: well, he couldn't catch a hedge tailor far or near, only poor lame Andy Oulahan, who was burying his wife, rest her sowl, the very moment Jerry got a howld of him. Well, Jerry was wild that the tailors were so scarce, so he laid his hands on Andy, dragged him away from the corpse and all the illigant enthertainment of the funeral, and never let him out of sight till he'd put on the last button."

"Oh, Mr Blake!" said Guss, "you did not take the man away from his dead wife?"

"Indeed I did not, Miss O'Kelly: Andy'd no such good chance; his wife's to the fore this day, worse luck for him. It was only his mother he was burying."

"But you didn't take him away from his mother's funeral?"

"Oh, I did it according to law, you know. I got Bingham to give me a warrant first, before I let the policeman lay a hand on him."

"Now, General, you've really made no breakfast at all," said the hospitable hostess: "do let Guss give you a hot cup of coffee."

"Not a drop more, Mrs O'Kelly. I've done more than well; but, if you'll allow me, I'll just take a crust of bread in my pocket."

"And what would you do that for?—you'll be coming back to lunch, you know."

"Is it lunch, Mrs O'Kelly, pray don't think of troubling yourself to have lunch on the table. Maybe we'll be a deal nearer Creamstown than Kelly's Court at lunch time. But it's quite time we were off. As for Bingham Blake, from the look of him, he's going to stay here with your daughter Augusta all the morning."

"I believe then he'd much sooner be with the dogs, General, than losing his time with her."

"Are you going to move at all, Ballindine," said the impatient old sportsman. "Do you know what time it is?—it'll be twelve o'clock before you have the dogs in the cover."

"Very good time, too, General: men must eat, you know, and the fox won't stir till we move him. But come, gentlemen, you seem to be dropping your knives and forks. Suppose we get into our saddles?"

And again the red-coats sallied out. Bingham gave Guss a tender squeeze, which she all but returned, as she bade him take care and not go and kill himself. Peter Dillon stayed to have a few last words with Sophy, and to impress upon her his sister Nora's message, that she and her sister were to be sure to come over on Friday to Ballyhaunis, and spend the night there.

"We will, if we're let, tell Nora," said Sophy; "but now Frank's at home, we must mind him, you know."

"Make him bring you over: there'll be a bed for him; the old house is big enough, heaven knows."

"Indeed it is. Well, I'll do my best; but tell Nora to be sure and get the fiddler from Hollymount. It's so stupid for her to be sitting there at the piano while we're dancing."

"I'll manage that; only do you bring Frank to dance with her," and another tender squeeze was given—and Peter hurried out to the horses.

And now they were all gone but the Parson. "Mrs O'Kelly," said he, "Mrs Armstrong wants a favour from you. Poor Minny's very bad with her throat; she didn't get a wink of sleep last night."

"Dear me—poor thing; Can I send her anything?"

"If you could let them have a little black currant jelly, Mrs Armstrong would be so thankful. She has so much to think of, and is so weak herself, poor thing, she hasn't time to make those things."

"Indeed I will, Mr Armstrong. I'll send it down this morning; and a little calf's foot jelly won't hurt her. It is in the house, and Mrs Armstrong mightn't be able to get the feet, you know. Give them my love, and if I can get out at all to-morrow, I'll go and see them."

And so the Parson, having completed his domestic embassy for the benefit of his sick little girl, followed the others, keen for the hunt; and the three ladies were left alone, to see the plate and china put away.



XXII. THE HUNT

Though the majority of those who were in the habit of hunting with the Kelly's Court hounds had been at the breakfast, there were still a considerable number of horsemen waiting on the lawn in front of the house, when Frank and his friends sallied forth. The dogs were collected round the huntsman, behaving themselves, for the most part, with admirable propriety; an occasional yelp from a young hound would now and then prove that the whipper [36] had his eye on them, and would not allow rambling; but the old dogs sat demurely on their haunches, waiting the well-known signal for action. There they sat, as grave as so many senators, with their large heads raised, their heavy lips hanging from each side of their jaws, and their deep, strong chests expanded so as to show fully their bone, muscle, and breeding.

[FOOTNOTE 36: whipper—an officer of the hunt whose duty was to help the hunstman control the hounds]

Among the men who had arrived on the lawn during breakfast were two who certainly had not come together, and who had not spoken since they had been there. They were Martin Kelly and Barry Lynch. Martin was dressed just as usual, except that he had on a pair of spurs, but Barry was armed cap-a-pie [37]. Some time before his father's death he had supplied himself with all the fashionable requisites for the field,—not because he was fond of hunting, for he was not,—but in order to prove himself as much a gentleman as other people. He had been out twice this year, but had felt very miserable, for no one spoke to him, and he had gone home, on both occasions, early in the day; but he had now made up his mind that he would show himself to his old schoolfellow in his new character as an independent country gentleman; and what was more, he was determined that Lord Ballindine should not cut him.

[FOOTNOTE 37: cap-a-pie—from head to foot]

He very soon had an opportunity for effecting his purpose, for the moment that Frank got on his horse, he unintentionally rode close up to him.

"How d'ye do, my lord?—I hope I see your lordship well?" said Barry, with a clumsy attempt at ease and familiarity. "I'm glad to find your lordship in the field before the season's over."

"Good morning, Mr Lynch," said Frank, and was turning away from him, when, remembering that he must have come from Dunmore, he asked, "did you see Martin Kelly anywhere?"

"Can't say I did, my lord," said Barry, and he turned away completely silenced, and out of countenance.

Martin had been talking to the huntsman, and criticizing the hounds. He knew every dog's name, character, and capabilities, and also every horse in Lord Ballindine's stable, and was consequently held in great respect by Mick Keogh and his crew.

And now the business began. "Mick," said the lord, "we'll take them down to the young plantation, and bring them back through the firs and so into the gorse. If the lad's lying there, we must hit him that way."

"That's thrue for yer honer, my lord;" and he started off with his obedient family.

"You're wrong, Ballindine," said the Parson; "for you'll drive him up into the big plantation, and you'll be all day before you make him break; and ten to one they'll chop him in the cover."

"Would you put them into the gorse at once then?"

"Take 'em gently through the firs; maybe he's lying out—and down into the gorse, and then, if he's there, he must go away, and into a tip-top country too—miles upon miles of pasture—right away to Ballintubber,"

"That's thrue, too, my lord: let his Rivirence alone for understandhing a fox," said Mick, with a wink.

The Parson's behests were obeyed. The hounds followed Mick into the plantation, and were followed by two or three of the more eager of the party, who did not object to receiving wet boughs in their faces, or who delighted in riding for half an hour with their heads bowed close down over their saddle-bows. The rest remained with the whipper, outside.

"Stay a moment here, Martin," said Lord Ballindine. "They can't get away without our seeing them, and I want to speak a few words to you."

"And I want particularly to spake to your lordship," said Martin; "and there's no fear of the fox! I never knew a fox lie in those firs yet."

"Nor I either, but you see the Parson would have his way. I suppose, if the priest were out, and he told you to run the dogs through the gooseberry-bushes, you'd do it?"

"I'm blessed if I would, my lord! Every man to his trade. Not but what Mr Armstrong knows pretty well what he's about."

"Well but, Martin, I'll tell you what I want of you. I want a little money, without bothering those fellows up in Dublin; and I believe you could let me have it; at any rate, you and your mother together. Those fellows at Guinness's are stiff about it, and I want three hundred pounds, without absolutely telling them that they must give it me. I'd give you my bill for the amount at twelve months, and, allow you six per cent.; but then I want it immediately. Can you let me have it?"

"Why, my lord," said Martin, after pausing awhile and looking very contemplative during the time, "I certainly have the money; that is, I and mother together; but—"