The Kellys and the O’Kellys by Anthony Trollope (page 6)

“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–“

“Oh, if you’ve any doubt about it–or if it puts you out, don’t do it.”

“Divil a doubt on ‘arth, my lord; but I’ll tell you I was just going to ask your lordship’s advice about laying out the same sum in another way, and I don’t think I could raise twice that much.”

“Very well, Martin; if you’ve anything better to do with your money, I’m sure I’d be sorry to take it from you.”

“That’s jist it, my lord. I don’t think I can do betther–but I want your advice about it.”

“My advice whether you ought to lend me three hundred pounds or not! Why, Martin, you’re a fool. I wouldn’t ask you to lend it me, if I thought you oughtn’t to lend it.”

“Oh–I’m certain sure of that, my lord; but there’s an offer made me, that I’d like to have your lordship’s mind about. It’s not much to my liking, though; and I think it’ll be betther for me to be giving you the money,” and then Martin told his landlord the offer which had been made to him by Daly, on the part of Barry Lynch. “You see, my lord,” he concluded by saying, “it’d be a great thing to be shut of Barry entirely out of the counthry, and to have poor Anty’s mind at ase about it, should she iver live to get betther; but thin, I don’t like to have dailings with the divil, or any one so much of his colour as Barry Lynch.”

“This is a very grave matter, Martin, and takes some little time to think about. To tell the truth, I forgot your matrimonial speculation when I asked for the money. Though I want the cash, I think you should keep it in your power to close with Barry: no, you’d better keep the money by you.”

“After all, the ould woman could let me have it on the security of the house, you know, av’ I did take up with the offer. So, any way, your lordship needn’t be balked about the cash.”

“But is Miss Lynch so very ill, Martin?”

“‘Deed, and she is, Mr Frank; very bad intirely. Doctor Colligan was with her three times yestherday.”

“And does Barry take any notice of her now she’s ill?”

“Why, not yet he didn’t; but then, we kept it from him as much as we could, till it got dangerous like. Mother manes to send Colligan to him to-day, av’ he thinks she’s not betther.”

“If she were to die, Martin, there’d be an end of it all, wouldn’t there?”

“Oh, in course there would, my lord”–and then he added, with a sigh, “I’d be sorry she’d die, for, somehow, I’m very fond of her, quare as it’ll seem to you. I’d be very sorry she should die.”

“Of course you would, Martin; and it doesn’t seem queer at all.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking about the money, then, my lord; I was only thinking of Anty herself: you don’t know what a good young woman she is–it’s anything but herself she’s thinking of always.”

“Did she make any will?”

“Deed she didn’t, my lord: nor won’t, it’s my mind.”

“Ah! but she should, after all that you and your mother’ve gone through. It’d be a thousand pities that wretch Barry got all the property again.”

“He’s wilcome to it for the Kellys, av’ Anty dies. But av’ she lives he shall niver rob a penny from her. Oh, my lord! we wouldn’t put sich a thing as a will into her head, and she so bad, for all the money the ould man their father iver had. But, hark! my lord–that’s Gaylass, I know the note well, and she’s as true as gould: there’s the fox there, just inside the gorse, as the Parson said”–and away they both trotted, to the bottom of the plantation, from whence the cheering sound of the dog’s voices came, sharp, sweet, and mellow.

Yes; the Parson was as right as if he had been let into the fox’s confidence overnight, and had betrayed it in the morning. Gaylass was hardly in the gorse before she discovered the doomed brute’s vicinity, and told of it to the whole canine confraternity. Away from his hiding-place he went, towards the open country, but immediately returned into the covert, for he saw a lot of boys before him, who had assembled with the object of looking at the hunt, but with the very probable effect of spoiling it; for, as much as a fox hates a dog, he fears the human race more, and will run from an urchin with a stick into the jaws of his much more fatal enemy.

“As long as them blackguards is there, a hollowing, and a screeching, divil a fox in all Ireland’d go out of this,” said Mick to his master.

“Ah, boys,” said Frank, riding up, “if you want to see a hunt, will you keep back!”

“Begorra we will, yer honer,” said one.

“Faix–we wouldn’t be afther spiling your honer’s divarsion, my lord, on no account,” said another.

“We’ll be out o’ this althogether, now this blessed minute,” said a third, but still there they remained, each loudly endeavouring to banish the others.

At last, however, the fox saw a fair course before him, and away he went; and with very little start, for the dogs followed him out of the covert almost with a view.

And now the men settled themselves to the work, and began to strive for the pride of place, at least the younger portion of them: for in every field there are two classes of men. Those who go out to get the greatest possible quantity of riding, and those whose object is to get the least. Those who go to work their nags, and those who go to spare them. The former think that the excellence of the hunt depends on the horses; the latter, on the dogs. The former go to act, and the latter to see. And it is very generally the case that the least active part of the community know the most about the sport.

They, the less active part above alluded to, know every high-road and bye-road; they consult the wind, and calculate that a fox won’t run with his nose against it; they remember this stream and this bog, and avoid them; they are often at the top of eminences, and only descend when they see which way the dogs are going; they take short cuts, and lay themselves out for narrow lanes; they dislike galloping, and eschew leaping; and yet, when a hard-riding man is bringing up his two hundred guinea hunter, a minute or two late for the finish, covered with foam, trembling with his exertion, not a breath left in him–he’ll probably find one of these steady fellows there before him, mounted on a broken-down screw, but as cool and as fresh as when he was brought out of the stable; and what is, perhaps, still more amazing, at the end of the day, when the hunt is canvassed after dinner, our dashing friend, who is in great doubt whether his thoroughbred steeplechaser will ever recover his day’s work, and who has been personally administering warm mashes and bandages before he would venture to take his own boots off, finds he does not know half as much about the hunt, or can tell half as correctly where the game went, as our, quiet-going friend, whose hack will probably go out on the following morning under the car, with the mistress and children. Such a one was Parson Armstrong; and when Lord Ballindine and most of the others went away after the hounds, he coolly turned round in a different direction, crept through a broken wall into a peasant’s garden, and over a dunghill, by the cabin door into a road, and then trotted along as demurely and leisurely as though he were going to bury an old woman in the next parish.

Frank was, generally speaking, as good-natured a man as is often met, but even he got excited and irritable when hunting his own pack. All masters of hounds do. Some one was always too forward, another too near the dogs, a third interfering with the servants, and a fourth making too much noise.

“Confound it, Peter,” he said, when they had gone over a field or two, and the dogs missed the scent for a moment, “I thought at any rate you knew better than to cross the dogs that way.”

“Who crossed the dogs?” said the other–“what nonsense you’re talking: why I wasn’t out of the potato-field till they were nearly all at the next wall.”

“Well, it may be nonsense,” continued Frank; “but when I see a man riding right through the hounds, and they hunting, I call that crossing them.”

“Hoicks! tally”–hollowed some one–“there’s Graceful has it again–well done, Granger! Faith, Frank, that’s a good dog! if he’s not first, he’s always second.”

“Now, gentlemen, steady, for heaven’s sake. Do let the dogs settle to their work before you’re a-top of them. Upon my soul, Nicholas Brown, it’s ridiculous to see you!”

“It’d be a good thing if he were half as much in a hurry to get to heaven,” said Bingham Blake.

“Thank’ee,” said Nicholas; “go to heaven yourself. I’m well enough where I am.”

And now they were off again. In the next field the whole pack caught a view of the fox just as he was stealing out; and after him they went, with their noses well above the ground, their voices loud and clear, and in one bevy.

Away they went: the game was strong; the scent was good; the ground was soft, but not too soft; and a magnificent hunt they had; but there were some misfortunes shortly after getting away. Barry Lynch, wishing, in his ignorance, to lead and show himself off, and not knowing how–scurrying along among the dogs, and bothered at every leap, had given great offence to Lord Ballindine. But, not wishing to speak severely to a man whom he would not under any circumstances address in a friendly way, he talked at him, and endeavoured to bring him to order by blowing up others in his hearing. But this was thrown away on Barry, and he continued his career in a most disgusting manner; scrambling through gaps together with the dogs, crossing other men without the slightest reserve, annoying every one, and evidently pluming himself on his performance. Frank’s brow was getting blacker and blacker. Jerry Blake and young Brown were greatly amusing themselves at the exhibition, and every now and then gave him a word or two of encouragement, praising his mare, telling how well he got over that last fence, and bidding him mind and keep well forward. This was all new to Barry, and he really began to feel himself in his element;–if it hadn’t been for those abominable walls, he would have enjoyed himself. But this was too good to last, and before very long he made a _faux pas_, which brought down on him in a torrent the bottled-up wrath of the viscount.

They had been galloping across a large, unbroken sheep-walk, which exactly suited Barry’s taste, and he had got well forward towards the hounds. Frank was behind, expostulating with Jerry Blake and the others for encouraging him, when the dogs came to a small stone wall about two feet and a half high. In this there was a broken gap, through which many of them crept. Barry also saw this happy escape from the grand difficulty of jumping, and, ignorant that if he rode the gap at all, he should let the hounds go first, made for it right among them, in spite of Frank’s voice, now raised loudly to caution him. The horse the man rode knew his business better than himself, and tried to spare the dogs which were under his feet; but, in getting out, he made a slight spring, and came down on the haunches of a favourite young hound called “Goneaway”; he broke the leg close to the socket, and the poor beast most loudly told his complaint.

This was too much to be borne, and Frank rode up red with passion; and a lot of others, including the whipper, soon followed.

“He has killed the dog!” said he. “Did you ever see such a clumsy, ignorant fool? Mr Lynch, if you’d do me the honour to stay away another day, and amuse yourself in any other way, I should be much obliged.”

“It wasn’t my fault then,” said Barry.

“Do you mean to give me the lie, sir?” replied Frank.

“The dog got under the horse’s feet. How was I to help it?”

There was a universal titter at this, which made Barry wish himself at home again, with his brandy-bottle.

“Ah! sir,” said Frank; “you’re as fit to ride a hunt as you are to do anything else which gentlemen usually do. May I trouble you to make yourself scarce? Your horse, I see, can’t carry you much farther, and if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go home, before you’re ridden over yourself. Well, Martin, is the bone broken?”

Martin had got off his horse, and was kneeling down beside the poor hurt brute. “Indeed it is, my lord, in two places. You’d better let Tony kill him; he has an awful sprain in the back, as well; he’ll niver put a foot to the ground again.”

“By heavens, that’s too bad! isn’t it Bingham? He was, out and out, the finest puppy we entered last year.”

“What can you expect,” said Bingham, “when such fellows as that come into a field? He’s as much business here as a cow in a drawing-room.”

“But what can we do?–one can’t turn him off the land; if he chooses to come, he must.”

“Why, yes,” said Bingham, “if he will come he must. But then, if he insists on doing so, he may be horsewhipped; he may be ridden over; he may be kicked; and he may be told that he’s a low, vulgar, paltry scoundrel; and, if he repeats his visits, that’s the treatment he’ll probably receive.”

Barry was close to both the speakers, and of course heard, and was intended to hear, every word that was said. He contented himself, however, with muttering certain inaudible defiances, and was seen and heard of no more that day.

The hunt was continued, and the fox was killed; but Frank and those with him saw but little more of it. However, as soon as directions were given for the death of poor Goneaway, they went on, and received a very satisfactory account of the proceedings from those who had seen the finish. As usual, the Parson was among the number, and he gave them a most detailed history, not only of the fox’s proceedings during the day, but also of all the reasons which actuated the animal, in every different turn he took.

“I declare, Armstrong,” said Peter Dillon, “I think you were a fox yourself, once! Do you remember anything about it?”

“What a run he would give!” said Jerry; “the best pack that was ever kennelled wouldn’t have a chance with him.”

“Who was that old chap,” said Nicholas Dillon, showing off his classical learning, “who said that dead animals always became something else?–maybe it’s only in the course of nature for a dead fox to become a live parson.”

“Exactly: you’ve hit it,” said Armstrong; “and, in the same way, the moment the breath is out of a goose it becomes an idle squireen [38], and, generally speaking, a younger brother.”

[FOOTNOTE 38: squireen–diminutive of squire; a minor Irish gentleman given to “putting on airs” or imitating the manners and haughtiness of men of greater wealth]

“Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Nick,” said Jerry; “and take care how you meddle with the Church again.”

“Who saw anything of Lambert Brown?” said another; “I left him bogged below there at Gurtnascreenagh, and all he could do, the old grey horse wouldn’t move a leg to get out for him.”

“Oh, he’s there still,” said Nicholas. “He was trying to follow me, and I took him there on purpose. It’s not deep, and he’ll do no hurt: he’ll keep as well there, as anywhere else.”

“Nonsense, Dillon!” said the General–“you’ll make his brother really angry, if you go on that way. If the man’s a fool, leave him in his folly, but don’t be playing tricks on him. You’ll only get yourself into a quarrel with the family.”

“And how shall we manage about the money, my lord?” said Martin, as he drew near the point at which he would separate from the rest, to ride towards Dunmore. “I’ve been thinking about it, and there’s no doubt about having it for you on Friday, av that’ll suit.”

“That brother-in-law of yours is a most unmitigated blackguard, isn’t he, Martin?” said Frank, who was thinking more about poor Goneaway than the money.

“He isn’t no brother-in-law of mine yet, and probably niver will be, for I’m afeard poor Anty’ll go. But av he iver is, he’ll soon take himself out of the counthry, and be no more throuble to your lordship or any of us.”

“But to think of his riding right a-top of the poor brute, and then saying that the dog got under his horse’s feet! Why, he’s a fool as well as a knave. Was he ever out before?”

“Well, then, I believe he was, twice this year; though I didn’t see him myself.”

“Then I hope this’ll be the last time: three times is quite enough for such a fellow as that.”

“I don’t think he’ll be apt to show again afther what you and Mr Bingham said to him. Well, shure, Mr Bingham was very hard on him!”

“Serve him right; nothing’s too bad for him.”

“Oh, that’s thrue for you, my lord: I don’t pity him one bit. But about the money, and this job of my own. Av it wasn’t asking too much, it’d be a great thing av your lordship’d see Daly.”

It was then settled that Lord Ballindine should ride over to Dunmore on the following Friday, and if circumstances seemed to render it advisable, that he and Martin should go on together to the attorney at Tuam.

XXIII. DOCTOR COLLIGAN

Doctor Colligan, the Galen of Dunmore, though a practitioner of most unprepossessing appearance and demeanour, was neither ignorant nor careless. Though for many years he had courted the public in vain, his neighbours had at last learned to know and appreciate him; and, at the time of Anty’s illness, the inhabitants of three parishes trusted their corporeal ailments to his care, with comfort to themselves and profit to him. Nevertheless, there were many things about Doctor Colligan not calculated to inspire either respect or confidence. He always seemed a little afraid of his patient, and very much afraid of his patient’s friends: he was always dreading the appearance at Dunmore of one of those young rivals, who had lately established themselves at Tuam on one side, and Hollymount on the other; and, to prevent so fatal a circumstance, was continually trying to be civil and obliging to his customers. He would not put on a blister, or order a black dose, without consulting with the lady of the house, and asking permission of the patient, and consequently had always an air of doubt and indecision. Then, he was excessively dirty in his person and practice: he carried a considerable territory beneath his nails; smelt equally strongly of the laboratory and the stable; would wipe his hands on the patient’s sheets, and wherever he went left horrid marks of his whereabouts: he was very fond of good eating and much drinking, and would neglect the best customer that ever was sick, when tempted by the fascination of a game of loo. He was certainly a bad family-man; for though he worked hard for the support of his wife and children, he was little among them, paid them no attention, and felt no scruple in assuring Mrs C. that he had been obliged to remain up all night with that dreadful Mrs Jones, whose children were always so tedious; or that Mr Blake was so bad after his accident that he could not leave him for a moment; when, to tell the truth, the Doctor had passed the night with the cards in his hands, and a tumbler of punch beside him.

He was a tall, thick-set, heavy man, with short black curly hair; was a little bald at the top of his head; and looked always as though he had shaved himself the day before yesterday, and had not washed since. His face was good-natured, but heavy and unintellectual. He was ignorant of everything but his profession, and the odds on the card-table or the race-course. But to give him his due, on these subjects he was not ignorant; and this was now so generally known that, in dangerous cases, Doctor Colligan had been sent for, many, many miles.

This was the man who attended poor Anty in her illness, and he did as much for her as could be done; but it was a bad case, and Doctor Colligan thought it would be fatal. She had intermittent fever, and was occasionally delirious; but it was her great debility between the attacks which he considered so dangerous.

On the morning after the hunt, he told Martin that he greatly feared she would go off, from exhaustion, in a few days, and that it would be wise to let Barry know the state in which his sister was. There was a consultation on the subject between the two and Martin’s mother, in which it was agreed that the Doctor should go up to Dunmore House, and tell Barry exactly the state of affairs.

“And good news it’ll be for him,” said Mrs Kelly; “the best he heard since the ould man died. Av he had his will of her, she’d niver rise from the bed where she’s stretched. But, glory be to God, there’s a providence over all, and maybe she’ll live yet to give him the go-by.”

“How you talk, mother,” said Martin; “and what’s the use? Whatever he wishes won’t harum her; and maybe, now she’s dying, his heart’ll be softened to her. Any way, don’t let him have to say she died here, without his hearing a word how bad she was.”

“Maybe he’d be afther saying we murdhered her for her money,” said the widow, with a shudder.

“He can hardly complain of that, when he’ll be getting all the money himself. But, however, it’s much betther, all ways, that Doctor Colligan should see him.”

“You know, Mrs Kelly,” said the Doctor, “as a matter of course he’ll be asking to see his sister.”

“You wouldn’t have him come in here to her, would you?–Faix, Doctor Colligan, it’ll be her death out right at once av he does.”

“It’d not be nathural, to refuse to let him see her,” said the Doctor; “and I don’t think it would do any harm: but I’ll be guided by you, Mrs Kelly, in what I say to him.”

“Besides,” said Martin, “I know Anty would wish to see him: he is her brother; and there’s only the two of ’em.”

“Between you be it,” said the widow; “I tell you I don’t like it. You neither of you know Barry Lynch, as well as I do; he’d smother her av it come into his head.”

“Ah, mother, nonsense now; hould your tongue; you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Well; didn’t he try to do as bad before?”

“It wouldn’t do, I tell you,” continued Martin, “not to let him see her; that is, av Anty wishes it.”

It ended in the widow being sent into Anty’s room, to ask her whether she had any message to send to her brother. The poor girl knew how ill she was, and expected her death; and when the widow told her that Doctor Colligan was going to call on her brother, she said that she hoped she should see Barry once more before all was over.

“Mother,” said Martin, as soon as the Doctor’s back was turned, “you’ll get yourself in a scrape av you go on saying such things as that about folk before strangers.”

“Is it about Barry?”

“Yes; about Barry. How do you know Colligan won’t be repating all them things to him?”

“Let him, and wilcome. Shure wouldn’t I say as much to Barry Lynch himself? What do I care for the blagguard?–only this, I wish I’d niver heard his name, or seen his foot over the sill of the door. I’m sorry I iver heard the name of the Lynches in Dunmore.”

“You’re not regretting the throuble Anty is to you, mother?”

“Regretting? I don’t know what you mane by regretting. I don’t know is it regretting to be slaving as much and more for her than I would for my own, and no chance of getting as much as thanks for it.”

“You’ll be rewarded hereafther, mother; shure won’t it all go for charity?”

“I’m not so shure of that,” said the widow. “It was your schaming to get her money brought her here, and, like a poor wake woman, as I was, I fell into it; and now we’ve all the throuble and the expinse, and the time lost, and afther all, Barry’ll be getting everything when she’s gone. You’ll see, Martin; we’ll have the wake, and the funeral, and the docthor and all, on us–mind my words else. Och musha, musha! what’ll I do at all? Faix, forty pounds won’t clear what this turn is like to come to; an’ all from your dirthy undherhand schaming ways.”

In truth, the widow was perplexed in her inmost soul about Anty; torn and tortured by doubts and anxieties. Her real love of Anty and true charity was in state of battle with her parsimony; and then, avarice was strong within her; and utter, uncontrolled hatred of Barry still stronger. But, opposed to these was dread of some unforeseen evil–some tremendous law proceedings: she had a half-formed idea that she was doing what she had no right to do, and that she might some day be walked off to Galway assizes. Then again, she had an absurd pride about it, which often made her declare that she’d never be beat by such a “scum of the ‘arth” as Barry Lynch, and that she’d fight it out with him if it cost her a hundred pounds; though no one understood what the battle was which she was to fight.

Just before Anty’s illness had become so serious, Daly called, and had succeeded in reconciling both Martin and the widow to himself; but he had not quite made them agree to his proposal. The widow, indeed, was much averse to it. She wouldn’t deal with such a Greek as Barry, even in the acceptance of a boon. When she found him willing to compromise, she became more than ever averse to any friendly terms; but now the whole ground was slipping from under her feet. Anty was dying: she would have had her trouble for nothing; and that hated Barry would gain his point, and the whole of his sister’s property, in triumph.

Twenty times the idea of a will had come into her mind, and how comfortable it would be if Anty would leave her property, or at any rate a portion of it, to Martin. But though the thoughts of such a delightful arrangement kept her in a continual whirlwind of anxiety, she never hinted at the subject to Anty. As she said to herself, “a Kelly wouldn’t demane herself to ask a brass penny from a Lynch.” She didn’t even speak to her daughters about it, though the continual twitter she was in made them aware that there was some unusual burthen on her mind.

It was not only to the Kellys that the idea occurred that Anty in her illness might make a will. The thoughts of such a catastrophe had robbed Barry of half the pleasure which the rumours of his sister’s dangerous position had given him. He had not received any direct intimation of Anty’s state, but had heard through the servants that she was ill–very ill–dangerously–“not expected,” as the country people call it; and each fresh rumour gave him new hopes, and new life. He now spurned all idea of connexion with Martin; he would trample on the Kellys for thinking of such a thing: he would show Daly, when in the plenitude of his wealth and power, how he despised the lukewarmness and timidity of his councils. These and other delightful visions were floating through his imagination; when, all of a sudden, like a blow, like a thunderbolt, the idea of _a will_ fell as it were upon him with a ton weight. His heart sunk low within him; he became white, and his jaw dropped. After all, there were victory and triumph, plunder and wealth, _his_ wealth, in the very hands of his enemies! Of course the Kellys would force her to make a will, if she didn’t do it of her own accord; if not, they’d forge one. There was some comfort in that thought: he could at any rate contest the will, and swear that it was a forgery.

He swallowed a dram, and went off, almost weeping to Daly.

“Oh, Mr Daly, poor Anty’s dying: did you hear, Mr Daly–she’s all but gone?” Yes; Daly had been sorry to hear that Miss Lynch was very ill. “What shall I do,” continued Barry, “if they say that she’s left a will?”

“Go and hear it read. Or, if you don’t like to do that yourself, stay away, and let me hear it.”

“But they’ll forge one! They’ll make out what they please, and when she’s dying, they’ll make her put her name to it; or they’ll only just put the pen in her hand, when she’s not knowing what she’s doing. They’d do anything now, Daly, to get the money they’ve been fighting for so hard.”

“It’s my belief,” answered the attorney, “that the Kellys not only won’t do anything dishonest, but that they won’t even take any unfair advantage of you. But at any rate you can do nothing. You must wait patiently; you, at any rate, can take no steps till she’s dead.”

“But couldn’t she make a will in my favour? I know she’d do it if I asked her–if I asked her now–now she’s going off, you know. I’m sure she’d do it. Don’t you think she would?”

“You’re safer, I think, to let it alone,” said Daly, who could hardly control the ineffable disgust he felt.

“I don’t know that,” continued Barry. “She’s weak, and ‘ll do what she’s asked: besides, _they’ll_ make her do it. Fancy if, when she’s gone, I find I have to share everything with those people!” And he struck his forehead and pushed the hair off his perspiring face, as he literally shook with despair. “I must see her, Daly. I’m quite sure she’ll make a will if I beg her; they can’t hinder me seeing my own, only, dying sister; can they, Daly? And when I’m once there, I’ll sit with her, and watch till it’s all over. I’m sure, now she’s ill, I’d do anything for her.”

Daly said nothing, though Barry paused for him to reply. “Only about the form,” continued he, “I wouldn’t know what to put. By heavens, Daly! you must come with me. You can be up at the house, and I can have you down at a minute’s warning.” Daly utterly declined, but Barry continued to press him. “But you must, Daly; I tell you I know I’m right. I know her so well–she’ll do it at once for the sake–for the sake of–You know she is my own sister, and all that–and she thinks so much of that kind of thing. I’ll tell you what, Daly; upon my honour and soul,” and he repeated the words in a most solemn tone, “if you’ll draw the will, and she signs it, so that I come in for the whole thing–and I know she will I’ll make over fifty–ay, seventy pounds a year for you for ever and ever. I will, as I live.”

The interview ended by the attorney turning Barry Lynch into the street, and assuring him that if he ever came into his office again, on any business whatsoever, he would unscrupulously kick him out. So ended, also, the connexion between the two; for Daly never got a farthing for his labour. Indeed, after all that had taken place, he thought it as well not to trouble his _ci-devant_ client with a bill. Barry went home, and of course got drunk.

When Doctor Colligan called on Lynch, he found that he was not at home. He was at that very moment at Tuam, with the attorney. The doctor repeated his visit later in the afternoon, but Barry had still not returned, and he therefore left word that he would call early after breakfast the following morning. He did so; and, after waiting half an hour in the dining-room, Barry, only half awake and half dressed, and still half drunk, came down to him.

The doctor, with a long face, delivered his message, and explained to him the state in which his sister was lying; assured him that everything in the power of medicine had been and should be done; that, nevertheless, he feared the chance of recovery was remote; and ended by informing him that Miss Lynch was aware of her danger, and had expressed a wish to see him before it might be too late. Could he make it convenient to come over just now–in half an hour–or say an hour?–said the doctor, looking at the red face and unfinished toilet of the distressed brother.

Barry at first scarcely knew what reply to give. On his return from Tuam, he had determined that he would at any rate make his way into his sister’s room, and, as he thought to himself, see what would come of it. In his after-dinner courage he had further determined, that he would treat the widow and her family with a very high hand, if they dared to make objection to his seeing his sister; but now, when the friendly overture came from Anty herself, and was brought by one of the Kelly faction, he felt himself a little confounded, as though he rather dreaded the interview, and would wish to put it off for a day or two.

“Oh, yes–certainly, Doctor Colligan; to be sure–that is–tell me, doctor, is she really so bad?”

“Indeed, Mr Lynch, she is very weak.”

“But, doctor, you don’t think there is any chance–I mean, there isn’t any danger, is there, that she’d go off at once?”

“Why, no, I don’t think there is; indeed, I have no doubt she will hold out a fortnight yet.”

“Then, perhaps, doctor, I’d better put it off till to-morrow; I’ll tell you why: there’s a person I wish–“

“Why, Mr Lynch, to-day would be better. The fever’s periodical, you see, and will be on her again to-morrow–“

“I beg your pardon, Doctor Colligan,” said Barry, of a sudden remembering to be civil,–“but you’ll take a glass of wine?”

“Not a drop, thank ye, of anything.”

“Oh, but you will;” and Barry rang the bell and had the wine brought. “And you expect she’ll have another attack to-morrow?”

“That’s a matter of course, Mr Lynch; the fever’ll come on her again to-morrow. Every attack leaves her weaker and weaker, and we fear she’ll go off, before it leaves her altogether.”

“Poor thing!” said Barry, contemplatively.

“We had her head shaved,” said the doctor.

“Did you, indeed!” answered Barry. “She was my favourite sister, Doctor Colligan–that is, I had no other.”

“I believe not,” said Doctor Colligan, looking sympathetic.

“Take another glass of wine, doctor?–now do,” and he poured out another bumper.

“Thank’ee, Mr Lynch, thank’ee; not a drop more. And you’ll be over in an hour then? I’d better go and tell her, that she may be prepared, you know,” and the doctor returned to the sick room of his patient.

Barry remained standing in the parlour, looking at the glasses and the decanter, as though he were speculating on the manner in which they had been fabricated. “She may recover, after all,” thought he to himself. “She’s as strong as a horse–I know her better than they do. I know she’ll recover, and then what shall I do? Stand to the offer Daly made to Kelly, I suppose!” And then he sat down close to the table, with his elbow on it, and his chin resting on his hand; and there he remained, full of thought. To tell the truth, Barry Lynch had never thought more intensely than he did during those ten minutes. At last he jumped up suddenly, as though surprised at what had been passing within himself; he looked hastily at the door and at the window, as though to see that he had not been watched, and then went upstairs to dress himself, preparatory to his visit to the inn.

XXIV. ANTY LYNCH’S BED-SIDE SCENE THE FIRST

Anty had borne her illness with that patience and endurance which were so particularly inherent in her nature. She had never complained; and had received the untiring attentions and care of her two young friends, with a warmth of affection and gratitude which astonished them, accustomed as they had been in every little illness to give and receive that tender care with which sickness is treated in affectionate families. When ill, they felt they had a right to be petulant, and to complain; to exact, and to be attended to: they had been used to it from each other, and thought it an incidental part of the business. But Anty had hitherto had no one to nurse her, and she looked on Meg and Jane as kind ministering angels, emulous as they were to relieve her wants and ease her sufferings.

Her thin face had become thinner, and was very pale; her head had been shaved close, and there was nothing between the broad white border of her nightcap and her clammy brow and wan cheek. But illness was more becoming to Anty than health; it gave her a melancholy and beautiful expression of resignation, which, under ordinary circumstances, was wanting to her features, though not to her character. Her eyes were brighter than they usually were, and her complexion was clear, colourless, and transparent. I do not mean to say that Anty in her illness was beautiful, but she was no longer plain; and even to the young Kellys, whose feelings and sympathies cannot be supposed to have been of the highest order, she became an object of the most intense interest, and the warmest affection.

“Well, doctor,” she said, as Doctor Colligan crept into her room, after the termination of his embassy to Barry; “will he come?”

“Oh, of course he will; why wouldn’t he, and you wishing it? He’ll be here in an hour, Miss Lynch. He wasn’t just ready to come over with me.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Anty, who felt that she had to collect her thoughts before she saw him; and then, after a moment, she added, “Can’t I take my medicine now, doctor?”

“Just before he comes you’d better have it, I think. One of the girls will step up and give it you when he’s below. He’ll want to speak a word or so to Mrs Kelly before he comes up.”

“Spake to me, docthor!” said the widow, alarmed. “What’ll he be spaking to me about? Faix, I had spaking enough with him last time he was here.”

“You’d better just see him, Mrs Kelly,” whispered the, doctor. “You’ll find him quiet enough, now; just take him fair and asy; keep him downstairs a moment, while Jane gives her the medicine. She’d better take it just before he goes to her, and don’t let him stay long, whatever you do. I’ll be back before the evening’s over; not that I think that she’ll want me to see her, but I’ll just drop in.”

“Are you going, doctor?” said Anty, as he stepped up to the bed. He told her he was. “You’ve told Mrs Kelly, haven’t you, that I’m to see Barry alone?”

“Why, I didn’t say so,” said the doctor, looking at the widow; “but I suppose there’ll be no harm–eh, Mrs Kelly?”

“You must let me see him alone, dear Mrs Kelly!”

“If Doctor Colligan thinks you ought, Anty dear, I wouldn’t stay in the room myself for worlds.”

“But you won’t keep him here long, Miss Lynch–eh? And you won’t excite yourself?–indeed, you mustn’t. You’ll allow them fifteen minutes, Mrs Kelly, not more, and then you’ll come up;” and with these cautions, the doctor withdrew.

“I wish he was come and gone,” said the widow to her elder daughter. “Well; av I’d known all what was to follow, I’d niver have got out of my warm bed to go and fetch Anty Lynch down here that cowld morning! Well, I’ll be wise another time. Live and larn they say, and it’s thrue, too.”

“But, mother, you ain’t wishing poor Anty wasn’t here?”

“Indeed, but I do; everything to give and nothin to get–that’s not the way I have managed to live. But it’s not that altogether, neither. I’m not begrudging Anty anything for herself; but that I’d be dhriven to let that blagguard of a brother of hers into the house, and that as a frind like, is what I didn’t think I’d ever have put upon me!”

Barry made his appearance about an hour after the time at which they had begun to expect him; and as soon as Meg saw him, one of them flew upstairs, to tell Anty and give her her tonic. Barry had made himself quite a dandy to do honour to the occasion of paying probably a parting visit to his sister, whom he had driven out of her own house to die at the inn. He had on his new blue frock-coat, and a buff waistcoat with gilt buttons, over which his watch-chain was gracefully arranged. His pantaloons were strapped clown very tightly over his polished boots; a shining new silk hat was on one side of his head; and in his hand he was dangling an ebony cane. In spite, however, of all these gaudy trappings, he could not muster up an easy air; and, as he knocked, he had that look proverbially attributed to dogs who are going to be hung.

Sally opened the door for him, and the widow, who had come out from the shop, made him a low courtesy in the passage.

“Oh–ah–yes–Mrs Kelly, I believe?” said Barry.

“Yes, Mr Lynch, that’s my name; glory be to God!”

“My sister, Miss Lynch, is still staying here, I believe?”

“Why, drat it, man; wasn’t Dr Colligan with you less than an hour ago, telling you you must come here, av you wanted to see her?”

“You’ll oblige me by sending up the servant to tell Miss Lynch I’m here.”

“Walk up here a minute, and I’ll do that errand for you myself.–Well,” continued she, muttering to herself “for him to ax av she war staying here, as though he didn’t know it! There niver was his ditto for desait, maneness and divilry!”

A minute or two after the widow had left him, Barry found himself by his sister’s bed-side, but never had he found himself in a position for which he was less fitted, or which was less easy to him. He assumed, however, a long and solemn face, and crawling up to the bed-side, told his sister, in a whining voice, that he was very glad to see her.

“Sit down, Barry, sit down,” said Anty, stretching out her thin pale hand, and taking hold of her brother’s.

Barry did as he was told, and sat down. “I’m so glad to see you, Barry,” said she: “I’m so very glad to see you once more–” and then after a pause, “and it’ll be the last time, Barry, for I’m dying.”

Barry told her he didn’t think she was, for he didn’t know when he’d seen her looking better.

“Yes, I am, Barry: Doctor Colligan has said as much; and I should know it well enough myself, even if he’d never said a word. We’re friends now, are we not?–Everything’s forgiven and forgotten, isn’t it, Barry?”

Anty had still hold of her brother’s hand, and seemed desirous to keep it. He sat on the edge of his chair, with his knees tucked in against the bed, the very picture of discomfort, both of body and mind.

“Oh, of course it is, Anty,” said he; “forgive and forget; that was always my motto. I’m sure I never bore any malice–indeed I never was so sorry as when you went away, and–“

“Ah, Barry,” said Anty; “it was better I went then; may-be it’s all better as it is. When the priest has been with me and given me comfort, I won’t fear to die. But there are other things, Barry, I want to spake to you about.”

“If there’s anything I can do, I’m sure I’d do it: if there’s anything at all you wish done.–Would you like to come up to the house again?”

“Oh no, Barry, not for worlds.”

“Why, perhaps, just at present, you are too weak to move; only wouldn’t it be more comfortable for you to be in your own house? These people here are all very well, I dare say, but they must be a great bother to you, eh?–so interested, you know, in everything they do.”

“Ah! Barry, you don’t know them.”

Barry remembered that he would be on the wrong tack to abuse the Kellys. “I’m sure they’re very nice people,” said he; “indeed I always thought so, and said so–but they’re not like your own flesh and blood, are they, Anty?–and why shouldn’t you come up and be–“

“No, Barry,” said she; “I’ll not do that; as they’re so very, very kind as to let me stay here, I’ll remain till–till God takes me to himself. But they’re not my flesh and blood”–and she turned round and looked affectionately in the face of her brother–“there are only the two of us left now; and soon, very soon you’ll be all alone.” Barry felt very uncomfortable, and wished the interview was over: he tried to say something, but failed, and Anty went on–“when that time comes, will you remember what I say to you now?–When you’re all alone, Barry; when there’s nothing left to trouble you or put you out–will you think then of the last time you ever saw your sister, and–“

“Oh, Anty, sure I’ll be seeing you again!”

“No, Barry, never again. This is the last time we shall ever meet, and think how much we ought to be to each other! We’ve neither of us father or mother, husband or wife.–When I’m gone you’ll be alone: will you think of me then–and will you remember, remember every day–what I say to you now?”

“Indeed I will, Anty. I’ll do anything, everything you’d have me. Is there anything you’d wish me to give to any person?”

“Barry,” she continued, “no good ever came of my father’s will.”–Barry almost jumped off his chair as he heard his sister’s words, so much did they startle him; but he said nothing.–“The money has done me no good, but the loss of it has blackened your heart, and turned your blood to gall against me. Yes, Barry–yes–don’t speak now, let me go on;–the old man brought you up to look for it, and, alas, he taught you to look for nothing else; it has not been your fault, and I’m not blaming you–I’m not maning to blame you, my own brother, for you are my own”–and she turned round in the bed and shed tears upon his hand, and kissed it.–“But gold, and land, will never make you happy,–no, not all the gold of England, nor all the land the old kings ever had could make you happy, av the heart was bad within you. You’ll have it all now, Barry, or mostly all. You’ll have what you think the old man wronged you of; you’ll have it with no one to provide for but yourself, with no one to trouble you, no one to thwart you. But oh, Barry, av it’s in your heart that that can make you happy–there’s nothing before you but misery–and death–and hell.” Barry shook like a child in the clutches of its master–“Yes, Barry; misery and death, and all the tortures of the damned. It’s to save you from this, my own brother, to try and turn your heart from that foul love of money, that your sister is now speaking to you from her grave.–Oh, Barry! try and cure it. Learn to give to others, and you’ll enjoy what you have yourself.–Learn to love others, and then you’ll know what it is to be loved yourself. Try, try to soften that hard heart. Marry at once, Barry, at once, before you’re older and worse to cure; and you’ll have children, and love them; and when you feel, as feel you must, that the money is clinging round your soul, fling it from you, and think of the last words your sister said to you.”

The sweat was now running down the cheeks of the wretched man, for the mixed rebuke and prayer of his sister had come home to him, and touched him; but it was neither with pity, with remorse, nor penitence. No; in that foul heart there was no room, even for remorse; but he trembled with fear as he listened to her words, and, falling on his knees, swore to her that he would do just as she would have him.

“If I could but think,” continued she, “that you would remember what I am saying–“

“Oh, I will, Anty: I will–indeed, indeed, I will!”

“If I could believe so, Barry–I’d die happy and in comfort, for I love you better than anything on earth;” and again she pressed his hot red hand–“but oh, brother! I feel for you:–you never kneel before the altar of God–you’ve no priest to move the weight of sin from your soul–and how heavy that must be! Do you remember, Barry; it’s but a week or two ago and you threatened to kill me for the sake of our father’s money? you wanted to put me in a mad-house; you tried to make me mad with fear and cruelty; me, your sister; and I never harmed or crossed you. God is now doing what you threatened; a kind, good God is now taking me to himself, and you will get what you so longed for without more sin on your conscience; but it’ll never bless you, av you’ve still the same wishes in your heart, the same love of gold–the same hatred of a fellow-creature.”

“Oh, Anty!” sobbed out Barry, who was now absolutely in tears, “I was drunk that night; I was indeed, or I’d never have said or done what I did.”

“And how often are you so, Barry?–isn’t it so with you every night? That’s another thing; for my sake, for your own sake–for God’s sake, give up the dhrink. It’s killing you from day to day, and hour to hour. I see it in your eyes, and smell it in your breath, and hear it in your voice; it’s that that makes your heart so black:–it’s that that gives you over, body and soul, to the devil. I would not have said a word about that night to hurt you now; and, dear Barry, I wouldn’t have said such words as these to you at all, but that I shall never speak to you again. And oh! I pray that you’ll remember them. You’re idle now, always:–don’t continue so; earn your money, and it will be a blessing to you and to others. But in idleness, and drunkenness, and wickedness, it will only lead you quicker to the devil.”

Barry reiterated his promises; he would take the pledge; he would work at the farm; he would marry and have a family; he would not care the least for money; he would pay his debts; he would go to church, or chapel, if Anty liked it better; at any rate, he’d say his prayers; he would remember every word she had said to the last day of his life; he promised everything or anything, as though his future existence depended on his appeasing his dying sister. But during the whole time, his chief wish, his longing desire, was to finish the interview, and get out of that horrid room. He felt that he was mastered and cowed by the creature whom he had so despised, and he could not account for the feeling. Why did he not dare to answer her? She had told him he would have her money: she had said it would come to him as a matter of course; and it was not the dread of losing that which prevented his saying a word in his own defence. No; she had really frightened him: she had made him really feel that he was a low, wretched, wicked creature, and he longed to escape from her, that he might recover his composure.

“I have but little more to say to you, Barry,” she continued, “and that little is about the property. You will have it all, but a small sum of money–“

Here Anty was interrupted by a knock at the door, and the entrance of the widow. She came to say that the quarter of an hour allowed by the doctor had been long exceeded, and that really Mr Barry ought to take his leave, as so much talking would be bad for Anty.

This was quite a god-send for Barry, who was only anxious to be off; but Anty begged for a respite.

“One five minutes longer, dear Mrs Kelly,” said she, “and I shall have done; only five minutes–I’m much stronger now, and really it won’t hurt me.”

“Well, then–mind, only five minutes,” said the widow, and again left them alone.

“You don’t know, Barry–you can never know how good that woman has been to me; indeed all of them–and all for nothing. They’ve asked nothing of me, and now that they know I’m dying, I’m sure they expect nothing from me. She has enough; but I wish to leave something to Martin, and the girls;” and a slight pale blush covered her wan cheeks and forehead as she mentioned Martin’s name. “I will leave him five hundred pounds, and them the same between them. It will be nothing to you, Barry, out of the whole; but see and pay it at once, will you?” and she looked kindly into his face.

He promised vehemently that he would, and told her not to bother herself about a will: they should have the money as certainly as if twenty wills were made. To give Barry his due, at that moment, he meant to be as good as his word. Anty, however, told him that she would make a will; that she would send for a lawyer, and have the matter properly settled.

“And now,” she said, “dear Barry, may God Almighty bless you–may He guide you and preserve you; and may He, above all, take from you that horrid love of the world’s gold and wealth. Good bye,” and she raised herself up in her bed–“good bye, for the last time, my own dear brother; and try to remember what I’ve said to you this day. Kiss me before you go, Barry.”

Barry leaned over the bed, and kissed her, and then crept out of the room, and down the stairs, with the tears streaming down his red cheeks; and skulked across the street to his own house, with his hat slouched over his face, and his handkerchief held across his mouth.

XXV. ANTY LYNCH’S BED-SIDE SCENE THE SECOND

Anty was a good deal exhausted by her interview with her brother, but towards evening she rallied a little, and told Jane, who was sitting with her, that she wanted to say one word in private, to Martin. Jane was rather surprised, for though Martin was in the habit of going into the room every morning to see the invalid, Anty had never before asked for him. However, she went for Martin, and found him.

“Martin,” said she; “Anty wants to see you alone, in private.”

“Me?” said Martin, turning a little red. “Do you know what it’s about?”

“She didn’t say a word, only she wanted to see you alone; but I’m thinking it’s something about her brother; he was with her a long long time this morning, and went away more like a dead man than a live one. But come, don’t keep her waiting; and, whatever you do, don’t stay long; every word she spakes is killing her.”

Martin followed his sister into the sick-room, and, gently taking Anty’s offered hand, asked her in a whisper, what he could do for her. Jane went out; and, to do her justice sat herself down at a distance from the door, though she was in a painful state of curiosity as to what was being said within.

“You’re all too good to me, Martin,” said Anty; “you’ll spoil me, between you, minding every word I say so quick.”

Martin assured her again, in a whisper, that anything and everything they could do for her was only a pleasure.

“Don’t mind whispering,” said Anty; “spake out; your voice won’t hurt me. I love to hear your voices, they’re all so kind and good. But Martin, I’ve business you must do for me, and that at once, for I feel within me that I’ll soon be gone from this.”

“We hope not, Anty; but it’s all with God now–isn’t it? No one knows that betther than yourself.”

“Oh yes, I do know that; and I feel it is His pleasure that it should be so, and I don’t fear to die. A few weeks back the thoughts of death, when they came upon me, nearly killed me; but that feeling’s all gone now.”

Martin did not know what answer to make; he again told her he hoped she would soon get better. It is a difficult task to talk properly to a dying person about death, and Martin felt that he was quite incompetent to do so.

“But,” she continued, after a little, “there’s still much that I want to do,–that I ought to do. In the first place, I must make my will.”

Martin was again puzzled. This was another subject on which he felt himself equally unwilling to speak; he could not advise her not to make one; and he certainly would not advise her to do so.

“Your will, Anty?–there’s time enough for that; you’ll be sthronger you know, in a day or two. Doctor Colligan says so–and then we’ll talk about it.”

“I hope there is time enough, Martin; but there isn’t more than enough; it’s not much that I’ll have to say–“

“Were you spaking to Barry about it this morning?”

“Oh, I was. I told him what I’d do: he’ll have the property now, mostly all as one as av the ould man had left it to him. It would have been betther so, eh Martin?” Anty never doubted her lover’s disinterestedness; at this moment she suspected him of no dirty longing after her money, and she did him only justice. When he came into her room he had no thoughts of inheriting anything from her. Had he been sure that by asking he could have induced her to make a will in his favour, he would not have done so. But still his heart sunk a little within him when he heard her declare that she was going to leave everything back to her brother. It was, however, only for a moment; he remembered his honest determination firmly and resolutely to protect their joint property against any of her brother’s attempts, should he ever marry her; but in no degree to strive or even hanker after it, unless it became his own in a fair, straightforward manner.

“Well, Anty; I think you’re right,” said he. “But wouldn’t it all go to Barry, nathurally, without your bothering yourself about a will, and you so wake.”

“In course it would, at laist I suppose so; but Martin,” and she smiled faintly as she looked up into his face, “I want the two dear, dear girls, and I want yourself to have some little thing to remember me by; and your dear kind mother,–she doesn’t want money, but if I ask her to take a few of the silver things in the house, I’m sure she’ll keep them for my sake. Oh, Martin! I do love you all so very–so very much!” and the warm tears streamed down her cheeks.

Martin’s eyes were affected, too: he made a desperate struggle to repress the weakness, but he could not succeed, and was obliged to own it by rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. “And I’m shure, Anty,” said he, “we all love you; any one must love you who knew you.” And then he paused: he was trying to say something of his own true personal regard for her, but he hardly knew how to express it. “We all love you as though you were one of ourselves–and so you are–it’s all the same–at any rate it is to me.”

“And I would have been one of you, had I lived. I can talk to you more about it now, Martin, than I ever could before, because I know I feel I am dying.”

“But you mustn’t talk, Anty; it wakens you, and you’ve had too much talking already this day.”

“It does me good, Martin, and I must say what I have to say to you. I mayn’t be able again. Had it plazed God I should have lived, I would have prayed for nothing higher or betther than to be one of such a family as yourselves. Had I been–had I been”–and now Anty blushed again, and she also found a difficulty in expressing herself; but she soon got over it, and continued, “had I been permitted to marry you, Martin, I think I would have been a good wife to you. I am very, very sure I would have been an affectionate one.”

“I’m shure you would–I’m shure you would, Anty. God send you may still: av you war only once well again there’s nothing now to hindher us.”

“You forget Barry,” Anty said, with a shudder. “But it doesn’t matther talking of that now”–Martin was on the point of telling her that Barry had agreed, under certain conditions, to their marriage: but, on second thoughts, he felt it would be useless to do so; and Anty continued,

“I would have done all I could, Martin. I would have loved you fondly and truly. I would have liked what you liked, and, av I could, I would’ve made your home quiet and happy. Your mother should have been my mother, and your sisthers my sisthers.”

“So they are now, Anty–so they are now, my own, own Anty–they love you as much as though they were.”

“God Almighty bless them for their goodness, and you too, Martin. I cannot tell you, I niver could tell you, how I’ve valued your honest thrue love, for I know you have loved me honestly and thruly; but I’ve always been afraid to spake to you. I’ve sometimes thought you must despise me, I’ve been so wake and cowardly.”

“Despise you, Anty?–how could I despise you, when I’ve always loved you?”

“But now, Martin, about poor Barry–for he is poor. I’ve sometimes thought, as I’ve been lying here the long long hours awake, that, feeling to you as I do, I ought to be laving you what the ould man left to me.”

“I’d be sorry you did, Anty. I’ll not be saying but what I thought of that when I first looked for you, but it was never to take it from you, but to share it with you, and make you happy with it.”

“I know it, Martin: I always knew it and felt it.”

“And now, av it’s God’s will that you should go from us, I’d rather Barry had the money than us. We’ve enough, the Lord be praised; and I wouldn’t for worlds it should be said that it war for that we brought you among us; nor for all County Galway would I lave it to Barry to say, that when you were here, sick, and wake, and dying, we put a pen into your hand to make you sign a will to rob him of what should by rights be his.”

“That’s it, dear Martin; it wouldn’t bless you if you had it; it can bless no one who looks to it alone for a blessing. It wouldn’t make you happy–it would make you miserable, av people said you had that which you ought not to have. Besides, I love my poor brother; he is my brother, my only real relation; we’ve lived all our lives together; and though he isn’t what he should be, the fault is not all his own, I should not sleep in my grave, av I died with his curse upon me; as I should, av he found, when I am gone, that I’d willed the property all away. I’ve told him he’d have it all–nearly all; and I’ve begged him, prayed to him, from my dying bed, to mend his ways; to try and be something betther in the world than what I fear he’s like to be. I think he minded what I said when he was here, for death-bed words have a solemn sound to the most worldly; but when I’m gone he’ll be all alone, there’ll be no one to look afther him. Nobody loves him–no one even likes him; no one will live with him but those who mane to rob him; and he will be robbed, and plundered, and desaved, when he thinks he’s robbing and desaving others.” Anty paused, more for breath than for a reply, but Martin felt that he must say something.

“Indeed, Anty, I fear he’ll hardly come to good. He dhrinks too much, by all accounts; besides, he’s idle, and the honest feeling isn’t in him.”

“It’s thrue, dear Martin; it’s too thrue. Will you do me a great great favour, Martin”–and she rose up a little and turned her moist clear eye full upon him–“will you show your thrue love to your poor Anty, by a rale lasting kindness, but one that’ll be giving you much much throuble and pain? Afther I’m dead and gone–long long after I’m in my cold grave, will you do that for me, Martin?”.

“Indeed I will, Anty,” said Martin, rather astonished, but with a look of solemn assurance; “anything that I can do, I will: you needn’t dread my not remembering, but I fear it isn’t much that I can do for you.”

“Will you always think and spake of Barry–will you always act to him and by him, and for him, not as a man whom you know and dislike, but as my brother–your own Anty’s only brother?–Whatever he does, will you thry to make him do betther? Whatever troubles he’s in, will you lend him your hand? Come what come may to him, will you be his frind? He has no frind now. When I’m gone, will you be a frind to him?”

Martin was much confounded. “He won’t let me be his frind,” he said; “he looks down on us and despises us; he thinks himself too high to be befrinded by us. Besides, of all Dunmore he hates us most.”

“He won’t when he finds you haven’t got the property from him: but frindship doesn’t depend on letting–rale frindship doesn’t. I don’t want you to be dhrinking, and ating, and going about with him. God forbid!–you’re too good for that. But when you find he wants a frind, come forward, and thry and make him do something for himself. You can’t but come together; you’ll be the executhor in the will; won’t you, Martin? and then he’ll meet you about the property; he can’t help it, and you must meet then as frinds. And keep that up. If he insults you, forgive it or my sake; if he’s fractious and annoying, put up with it for my sake; for my sake thry to make him like you, and thry to make others like him.” Martin felt that this would be impossible, but he didn’t say so–“No one respects him now, but all respect you. I see it in people’s eyes and manners, without hearing what they say. Av you spake well of him–at any rate kindly of him, people won’t turn themselves so against him. Will you do all this, for my sake?”

Martin solemnly promised that, as far as he could, he would do so; that, at any rate as far as himself was concerned, he would never quarrel with him.

“You’ll have very, very much to forgive,” continued Anty; “but then it’s so sweet to forgive; and he’s had no fond mother like you; he has not been taught any duties, any virtues, as you have. He has only been taught that money is the thing to love, and that he should worship nothing but that. Martin, for my sake, will you look on him as a brother?–a wicked, bad, castaway brother; but still as a brother, to be forgiven, and, if possible, redeemed?”

“As I hope for glory in Heaven, I will,” said Martin; “but I think he’ll go far from this; I think he’ll quit Dunmore.”

“Maybe he will; perhaps it’s betther he should; but he’ll lave his name behind him. Don’t be too hard on that, and don’t let others; and even av he does go, it’ll not be long before he’ll want a frind, and I don’t know anywhere he can go that he’s likely to find one. Wherever he may go, or whatever he may do, you won’t forget he was my brother; will you, Martin? You won’t forget he was your own Anty’s only brother.”

Martin again gave her his solemn word that he would, to the best of his ability, act as a friend and brother to Barry.

“And now about the will.” Martin again endeavoured to dissuade her from thinking about a will just at present.

“Ah! but my heart’s set upon it,” she said; “I shouldn’t be happy unless I did it, and I’m sure you don’t want to make me unhappy, now. You must get me some lawyer here, Martin; I’m afraid you’re not lawyer enough for that yourself.”

“Indeed I’m not, Anty; it’s a trade I know little about.”

“Well; you must get me a lawyer; not to-morrow, for I know I shan’t be well enough; but I hope I shall next day, and you may tell him just what to put in it. I’ve no secrets from you.” And she told him exactly what she had before told her brother. “That’ll not hurt him,” she continued; “and I’d like to think you and the dear girls should accept something from me.”

Martin then agreed to go to Daly. He was on good terms with them all now, since making the last offer to them respecting the property; besides, as Martin said, “he knew no other lawyer, and, as the will was so decidedly in Barry’s favour, who was so proper to make it as Barry’s own lawyer?”

“Good-bye now, Martin,” said Anty; “we shall be desperately scolded for talking so long; but it was on my mind to say it all, and I’m betther now it’s all over.”

“Good night, dear Anty,” said Martin, “I’ll be seeing you to-morrow.”

“Every day, I hope, Martin, till it’s all over. God bless you, God bless you all–and you above all. You don’t know, Martin–at laist you didn’t know all along, how well, how thruly I’ve loved you. Good night,” and Martin left the room, as Barry had done, in tears. But he had no feeling within him of which he had cause to be ashamed. He was ashamed, and tried to hide his face, for he was not accustomed to be seen with the tears running down his cheeks; but still he had within him a strong sensation of gratified pride, as he reflected that he was the object of the warmest affection to so sweet a creature as Anty Lynch.

“Well, Martin–what was it she wanted?” said his mother, as she met him at the bottom of the stairs.

“I couldn’t tell you now, mother,” said he; “but av there was iver an angel on ‘arth, it’s Anty Lynch.” And saying so, he pushed open the door and escaped into the street.

“I wondher what she’s been about now?” said the widow, speculating to herself–“well, av she does lave it away from Barry, who can say but what she has a right to do as she likes with her own?–and who’s done the most for her, I’d like to know?”–and pleasant prospects of her son’s enjoying an independence flitted before her mind’s eye. “But thin,” she continued, talking to herself, “I wouldn’t have it said in Dunmore that a Kelly demaned hisself to rob a Lynch, not for twice all Sim Lynch ever had. Well–we’ll see; but no good ‘ll ever come of meddling with them people. Jane, Jane,” she called out, at the top of her voice, “are you niver coming down, and letting me out of this?–bad manners to you.”

Jane answered, in the same voice, from the parlour upstairs, “Shure, mother, ain’t I getting Anty her tay?”

“Drat Anty and her tay!–Well, shure, I’m railly bothered now wid them Lynches!–Well, glory be to God, there’s an end to everything–not that I’m wishing her anywhere but where she is; she’s welcome, for Mary Kelly.”

XXVI. LOVE’S AMBASSADOR

Two days after the hunt in which poor Goneaway was killed by Barry’s horse, Ballindine received the following letter from his friend Dot Blake.

Limmer’s Hotel, 27th March, 1844.

Dear Frank,

I and Brien, and Bottom, crossed over last Friday night, and, thanks to the God of storms, were allowed to get quietly through it. The young chieftain didn’t like being boxed on the quay a bit too well; the rattling of the chains upset him, and the fellows there are so infernally noisy and awkward, that I wonder he was ever got on board. It’s difficult to make an Irishman handy, but it’s the very devil to make him quiet. There were four at his head, and three at his tail, two at the wheel, turning, and one up aloft, hallooing like a demon in the air; and when Master Brien showed a little aversion to this comic performance, they were going to drag him into the box _bon gre, mal gre_, till Bottom interposed and saved the men and the horse from destroying each other.

We got safe to Middleham on Saturday night, the greatest part of the way by rail. Scott has a splendid string of horses. These English fellows do their work in tiptop style, only they think more of spending money than they do of making it. I waited to see him out on Monday, when he’d got a trot, and he was as bright as though he’d never left the Curragh. Scott says he’s a little too fine; but you know of course he must find some fault. To give Igoe his due, he could not be in better condition, and Scott was obliged to own that, _considering where he came from_, he was very well. I came on here on Tuesday, and have taken thirteen wherever I could get it, and thought the money safe. I have got a good deal on, and won’t budge till I do it at six to one; and I’m sure I’ll bring him to that. I think he’ll rise quickly, as he wants so little training, and as his qualities must be at once known now he’s in Scott’s stables; so if you mean to put any more on you had better do it at once.

So much for the stables. I left the other two at home, but have one of my own string here, as maybe I’ll pick up a match: and now I wish to let you know a report that I heard this morning–at least a secret, which bids fair to become a report. It is said that Kilcullen is to marry F—- W—-, and that he has already paid Heaven only knows how many thousand pounds of debt with her money; that the old earl has arranged it all, and that the beautiful heiress has reluctantly agreed to be made a viscountess. I’m very far from saying that I believe this; but it may suit you to know that I heard the arrangement mentioned before two other persons, one of whom was Morris;–strange enough this, as he was one of the set at Handicap Lodge when you told them that the match with yourself was still on. I have no doubt the plan would suit father and son; you best know how far the lady may have been likely to accede. At any rate, my dear Frank, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll not sit quiet till she does marry some one. You can’t expect she’ll wear the willow for you very long, if you do nothing yourself. Write to her by post, and write to the earl by the same post, saying you have done so. Tell her in the sweetest way you can, that you cannot live without seeing her, and getting your _conge_ [39], if _conge_ it is to be, from her own dear lips; and tell him, in as few words, as you please, that you mean to do yourself the honour of knocking at his door on such and such a day–and do it.

[FOOTNOTE 39: conge–(French) dismissal, notice to quit]

By the bye, Kilcullen certainly returns to Ireland immediately. There’s been the devil’s own smash among him and the Jews. He has certainly been dividing money among them; but not near enough, by all accounts, to satisfy the half of them. For the sake of your reputation, if not of your pocket, don’t let him walk off with the hundred and thirty thousand pounds. They say it’s not a penny less.

Very faithfully yours,

W. BLAKE.

Shall I do anything for you here about Brien? I think I might still get you eleven to one, but let me hear at once.

As Frank read the first portion of this epistle, his affection for his poor dear favourite nag returned in full force, and he felt all the pangs of remorse for having parted with him; but when he came to the latter part, to Lord Kilcullen’s name, and the initials by which his own Fanny was designated, he forgot all about horse and owner; became totally regardless of thirteen, eleven, and six to one, and read on hastily to the end; read it all again–then closed the letter, and put it in his pocket, and remained for a considerable time in silent contemplation, trying to make up his mind what he would do.

Nobody was with him as he opened his post-bag, which he took from the messenger as the boy was coming up to the house; he therefore read his letter alone, on the lawn, and he continued pacing up and down before the house with a most perturbed air, for half an hour.

Kilcullen going to marry Fanny Wyndham! So, that was the cause of Lord Cashel’s singular behaviour–his incivility, and refusal to allow Frank to see his ward. “What! to have arranged it all in twenty-four hours,” thought Frank to himself; “to have made over his ward’s money to his son, before her brother, from whom she inherited it, was in his grave: to determine at once to reject an accepted suitor for the sake of closing on the poor girl’s money–and without the slightest regard for her happiness, without a thought for her welfare! And then, such lies,” said the viscount, aloud, striking his heel into the grass in his angry impetuosity; “such base, cruel lies!–to say that she had authorised him, when he couldn’t have dared to make such a proposal to her, and her brother but two days dead. Well; I took him for a stiff-necked pompous fool, but I never thought him such an avaricious knave.” And Fanny, too–could Fanny have agreed, so soon, to give her hand to another? She could not have transferred her heart. His own dear, fond Fanny! A short time ago they had been all in all to each other; and now so completely estranged as they were! However, Dot was right; up to this time Fanny might be quite true to him; indeed, there was not ground even for doubting her, for it was evident that no reliance was to be placed in Lord Cashel’s asseverations. But still he could not expect that she should continue to consider herself engaged, if she remained totally neglected by her lover. He must do something, and that at once; but there was very great difficulty in deciding what that something was to be. It was easy enough for Dot to say, first write, and then go. If he were to write, what security was there that his letter would be allowed to reach Fanny? and, if he went, how much less chance was there that he would be allowed to see her. And then, again to be turned out of the house! again informed, by that pompous scheming earl, that his visits there were not desired. Or, worse still, not to be admitted; to be driven from the door by a footman who would well know for what he came! No; come what come might, he would never again go to Grey Abbey; at least not unless he was specially and courteously invited thither by the owner; and then it should only be to marry his ward, and take her from the odious place, never to return again.

“The impudent impostor!” continued Frank to himself; “to pretend to suspect me, when he was himself hatching his dirty, mercenary, heartless schemes!”