When Lord Cashel had seen Frank over the mat which lay outside his study door, and that there was a six foot servitor to open any other door through which he might have to pass, he returned to his seat, and, drawing his chair close to the fire, began to speculate on Fanny and her discarded lover.
He was very well satisfied with himself, and with hi own judgment and firmness in the late conversation. It was very evident that Frank had heard of Harry Wyndham’s death, and of Fanny’s great accession of wealth; that he had immediately determined that the heiress was no longer to be neglected, and that he ought to strike while the iron was hot: hence his visit to Grey Abbey. His pretended ignorance of the young man’s death, when he found he could not see Miss Wyndham, was a ruse; but an old bird like Lord Cashel was not to be caught with chaff. And then, how indelicate of him to come and press his suit immediately after news of so distressing a nature had reached Miss Wyndham! How very impolitic, thought Lord Cashel, to show such a hurry to take possession of the fortune! How completely he had destroyed his own game. And then, other thoughts passed through his mind. His ward had now one hundred thousand pounds clear, which was, certainly, a great deal of ready money. Lord Cashel had no younger sons; but his heir, Lord Kilcullen, was an expensive man, and owed, he did not exactly know, and was always afraid to ask, how much. He must marry soon, or he would be sure to go to the devil. He had been living with actresses and opera-dancers quite long enough for his own respectability; and, if he ever intended to be such a pattern to the country as his father, it was now time for him to settle down. And Lord Cashel bethought himself that if he could persuade his son to marry Fanny Wyndham and pay his debts with her fortune (surely he couldn’t owe more than a hundred thousand pounds?) he would be able to give them a very handsome allowance to live on.
To do Lord Cashel justice, we must say that he had fully determined that it was his duty to break off the match between Frank and his ward, before he heard of the accident which had so enriched her. And Fanny herself, feeling slighted and neglected knowing how near to her her lover was, and that nevertheless he never came to see her hearing his name constantly mentioned in connection merely with horses and jockeys had been induced to express her acquiescence in her guardian’s views, and to throw poor Frank overboard. In all this the earl had been actuated by no mercenary views, as far as his own immediate family was concerned. He had truly and justly thought that Lord Ballindine, with his limited fortune and dissipated habits, was a bad match for his ward; and he had, consequently, done his best to break the engagement. There could, therefore, he thought, be nothing unfair in his taking advantage of the prudence which he had exercised on her behalf. He did not know, when he was persuading her to renounce Lord Ballindine, that, at that moment, her young, rich, and only brother, was lying at the point of death. He had not done it for his own sake, or Lord Kilcullen’s; there could, therefore, be nothing unjust or ungenerous in their turning to their own account the two losses, that of her lover and her brother, which had fallen on Miss Wyndham at the same time. If he, as her guardian, would have been wrong to allow Lord Ballindine to squander her twenty thousands, he would be so much the more wrong to let him make ducks and drakes of five times as much. In this manner he quieted his conscience as to his premeditated absorption of his ward’s fortune. It was true that Lord Kilcullen was a heartless rou?, whereas Lord Ballindine was only a thoughtless rake; but then, Lord Kilcullen would be an earl, and a peer of parliament, and Lord Ballindine was only an Irish viscount. It was true that, in spite of her present anger, Fanny dearly loved Lord Ballindine, and was dearly loved by him; and that Lord Kilcullen was not a man to love or be loved; but then, the Kelly’s Court rents what were they to the Grey Abbey rents? Not a twentieth part of them! And, above all, Lord Kilcullen’s vices were filtered through the cleansing medium of his father’s partiality, and Lord Ballindine’s faults were magnified by the cautious scruples of Fanny’s guardian.
The old man settled, therefore, in his own mind, that Fanny should be his dear daughter, and the only difficulty he expected to encounter was with his hopeful son. It did not occur to him that Fanny might object, or that she could be other than pleased with the arrangement. He determined, however, to wait a little before the tidings of her future destiny should be conveyed to her, although no time was to be lost in talking over the matter with Lord Kilcullen. In the meantime, it would be necessary for him to tell Fanny of Lord Ballindine’s visit; and the wily peer was glad to think that she could not but be further disgusted at the hurry which her former lover had shown to renew his protestations of affection, as soon as the tidings of her wealth had reached him. However, he would say nothing on that head: he would merely tell her that Lord Ballindine had called, had asked to see her, and had been informed of her determination to see him no more.
He sat, for a considerable time, musing over the fire, and strengthening his resolution; and then he stalked and strutted into the drawing-room, where the ladies were sitting, to make his communication to Miss Wyndham.
Miss Wyndham, and her cousin, Lady Selina Grey, the only unmarried daughter left on the earl’s hands, were together. Lady Selina was not in her premi?re jeunesse, and, in manner, face, and disposition, was something like her father: she was not, therefore, very charming; but his faults were softened down in her; and what was pretence in him, was, to a certain degree, real in her. She had a most exaggerated conception of her own station and dignity, and of what was due to her, and expected from her. Because her rank enabled her to walk out of a room before other women, she fancied herself better than them, and entitled to be thought better. She was plain, red-haired, and in no ways attractive; but she had refused the offer of a respectable country gentleman, because he was only a country gentleman, and then flattered herself that she owned the continuance of her maiden condition to her high station, which made her a fit match only for the most exalted magnates of the land. But she was true, industrious, and charitable; she worked hard to bring her acquirements to that pitch which she considered necessary to render her fit for her position; she truly loved her family, and tried hard to love her neighbours, in which she might have succeeded but for the immeasurable height from which she looked down on them. She listened, complacently, to all those serious cautions against pride, which her religion taught her, and considered that she was obeying its warnings, when she spoke condescendingly to those around her. She thought that condescension was humility, and that her self-exaltation was not pride, but a proper feeling of her own and her family’s dignity.
Fanny Wyndham was a very different creature. She, too, was proud, but her pride was of another, if not of a less innocent cast; she was proud of her own position; but it was as Fanny Wyndham, not as Lord Cashel’s niece, or anybody’s daughter. She had been brought out in the fashionable world, and liked, and was liked by, it; but she felt that she owed the character which three years had given her, to herself, and not to those around her. She stood as high as Lady Selina, though on very different grounds. Any undue familiarity would have been quite as impossible with one as with the other. Lady Selina chilled intruders to a distance; Fanny Wyndham’s light burned with so warm a flame, that butterflies were afraid to trust their wings within its reach. She was neither so well read, nor so thoughtful on what she did read, as her friend; but she could turn what she learned to more account, for the benefit of others. The one, in fact, could please, and the other could not.
Fanny Wyndham was above the usual height; but she did not look tall, for her figure was well-formed and round, and her bust full. She had dark-brown hair, which was never curled, but worn in plain braids, fastened at the back of her head, together with the long rich folds which were collected there under a simple comb. Her forehead was high, and beautifully formed, and when she spoke, showed the animation of her character. Her eyes were full and round, of a hazel colour, bright and soft when she was pleased, but full of pride and displeasure when her temper was ruffled, or her dignity offended. Her nose was slightly retrouss?, but not so much so as to give to her that pertness, of which it is usually the index. The line of her cheeks and chin was very lovely: it was this which encouraged her to comb back that luxuriant hair, and which gave the greatest charm to her face. Her mouth was large, too large for a beauty, and therefore she was not a regular beauty; but, were she talking to you, and willing to please you, you could hardly wish it to be less. I cannot describe the shade of her complexion, but it was rich and glowing; and, though she was not a brunette, I believe that in painting her portrait, an artist would have mixed more brown than other colours.
At the time of which I am now speaking, she was sitting, or rather lying, on a sofa, with her face turned towards her cousin, but her eyes fixed on vacancy. As might have been expected, she was thinking of her brother, and his sudden death; but other subjects crowded with that into her mind, and another figure shared with him her thoughts. She had been induced to give her guardian an unqualified permission to reject, in her name, any further intercourse with Frank; and though she had doubtless been induced to do so by the distressing consciousness that she had been slighted by him, she had cheated herself into the belief that prudence had induced her to do so. She felt that she was not fitted to be a poor man’s wife, and that Lord Ballindine was as ill suited for matrimonial poverty. She had, therefore, induced herself to give him up; maybe she was afraid that if she delayed doing so, she might herself be given up. Now, however, the case was altered; though she sincerely grieved for her brother, she could not but recollect the difference which his death made in her own position; she was now a great heiress, and, were she to marry Lord Ballindine, if she did not make him a rich man, she would, at any rate, free him from all embarrassment.
Besides, could she give him up now? now that she was rich? He would first hear of her brother’s death and her wealth, and then would immediately be told that she had resolved to reject him. Could she bear that she should be subjected to the construction which would fairly be put upon her conduct, if she acted in this manner? And then, again, she felt that she loved him; and she did love him, more dearly than she was herself aware. She began to repent of her easy submission to her guardian’s advice, and to think how she could best unsay what she had already said. She had lost her brother; could she afford also to lose her lover? She had had none she could really love but those two. And the tears again came to her eyes, and Lady Selina saw her, for the twentieth time that morning, turn her face to the back of the sofa, and heard her sob.
Lady Selina was sitting at one of the windows, over her carpet-work frame. She had talked a great deal of sound sense to Fanny that morning, about her brother, and now prepared to talk some more. Preparatory to this, she threw back her long red curls from her face, and wiped her red nose, for it was February.
‘Fanny, you should occupy yourself, indeed you should, my dear. It’s no use your attempting your embroidery, for your mind would still wander to him that is no more. You should read; indeed you should. Do go on with Gibbon. I’ll fetch it for you, only tell me where you were.’
‘I could not read, Selina; I could not think about what I read, more than about the work.’
‘But you should try, Fanny the very attempt would be work to your mind: besides, you would be doing your duty. Could all your tears bring him back to you? Can all your sorrow again restore him to his friends? No! and you have great consolation, Fanny, in reflecting that your remembrance of your brother is mixed with no alloy. He had not lived to be contaminated by the heartless vices of that portion of the world into which he would probably have been thrown; he had not become dissipated extravagant and sensual. This should be a great consolation to you.’ It might be thought that Lady Selina was making sarcastic allusions to her own brother and to Fanny’s lover; but she meant nothing of the kind. Her remarks were intended to be sensible, true, and consolatory; and they at any rate did no harm, for Fanny was thinking of something else before she had half finished her speech.
They had both again been silent for a short time, when the door opened, and in came the earl. His usual pomposity of demeanour was somewhat softened by a lachrymose air, which, in respect to his ward’s grief, he put on as he turned the handle of the door; and he walked somewhat more gently than usual into the room.
‘Well, Fanny, how are you now?’ he said, as he crept up to her. ‘You shouldn’t brood over these sad thoughts. Your poor brother has gone to a better world; we shall always think of him as one who had felt no sorrow, and been guilty of but few faults. He died before he had wasted his fortune and health, as he might have done this will always be a consolation.’
It was singular how nearly alike were the platitudes of the daughter and the father. The young man had not injured his name, or character, in the world, and had left his money behind him: and, therefore, his death was less grievous!
Fanny did not answer, but she sat upright on the sofa as he came up to her and he then sat down beside her.
‘Perhaps I’m wrong, Fanny, to speak to you on other subjects so soon after the sad event of which we heard last night; but, on the whole, I think it better to do so. It is good for you to rouse yourself, to exert yourself to think of other things; besides it will be a comfort to you to know that I have already done, what I am sure you strongly wished to have executed at once.’
It was not necessary for the guardian to say anything further to induce his ward to listen. She knew that he was going to speak about Lord Ballindine, and she was all attention.
‘I shall not trouble, you, Fanny, by speaking to you now, I hope?’
‘No;’ said Fanny, with her heart palpitating. ‘If it’s anything I ought to hear, it will be no trouble to me.’
‘Why, my dear, I do think you ought to know, without loss of time that Lord Ballindine has been with me this morning.’
Fanny blushed up to her hair not with shame, but with emotion as to what was coming next.
‘I have had a long conversation with him,’ continued the earl, ‘in the book-room, and I think I have convinced him that it is for your mutual happiness’ he paused, for he couldn’t condescend to tell a lie; but in his glib, speechifying manner, he was nearly falling into one ‘mutual happiness’ was such an appropriate prudential phrase that he could not resist the temptation; but he corrected himself ‘at least, I think I have convinced him that it is impossible that he should any longer look upon Miss Wyndham as his future wife.’
Lord Cashel paused for some mark of approbation. Fanny saw that she was expected to speak, and, therefore, asked whether Lord Ballindine was still in the house. She listened tremulously for his answer; for she felt that if her lover were to be rejected, he had a right, after what had passed between them, to expect that she should, in person, express her resolution to him. And yet, if she had to see him now, could she reject him? could she tell him that all the vows that had been made between them were to be as nothing? No! she could only fall on his shoulder, and weep in his arms. But Lord Cashel had managed better than that.
‘No, Fanny; neither he nor I, at the present moment, could expect you could reasonably expect you, to subject yourself to anything so painful as an interview must now have been. Lord Ballindine has left the house I hope, for the last time at least, for many months.’
These words fell cold upon Fanny’s ears, ‘Did he leave any any message for me?’
‘Nothing of any moment; nothing which it can avail to communicate to you: he expressed his grief for your brother’s death, and desired I should tell you how grieved he was that you should be so afflicted.’
‘Poor Harry!’ sobbed Fanny, for it was a relief to cry again, though her tears were more for her lover than her brother. ‘Poor Harry! they were very fond of each other. I’m sure he must have been sorry I’m sure he’d feel it’ and she paused, and sobbed again ‘He had heard of Harry’s death, then?’
When she said this, she had in her mind none of the dirty suspicion that had actuated Lord Cashel; but he guessed at her feelings by his own, and answered accordingly.
‘At first I understood him to say he had; but then, he seemed to wish to express that he had not. My impression, I own, is, that he must have heard of it; the sad news must have reached him.’
Fanny still did not understand the earl. The idea of her lover coming after her money immediately on her obtaining possession of it, never entered her mind; she thought of her wealth as far as it might have affected him, but did not dream of its altering his conduct towards her.
‘And did he seem unhappy about it?’ she continued. ‘I am sure it would make him very unhappy. He could not have loved Harry better if he had been his brother,’ and then she blushed again through her tears, as she remembered that she had intended that they should be brothers.
Lord Cashel did not say anything more on this head; he was fully convinced that Lord Ballindine only looked on the young man’s death as a windfall which he might turn to his own advantage; but he thought it would he a little too strong to say so outright, just at present.
‘It will be a comfort for you to know that this matter is now settled,’ continued the earl, ‘and that no one can attach the slightest blame to you in the matter. Lord Ballindine has shown himself so very imprudent, so very unfit, in every way, for the honour you once intended him, that no other line of conduct was open to you than that which you have wisely pursued.’
This treading on the fallen was too much for Fanny. ‘I have no right either to speak or to think ill of him,’ said she, through her tears; ‘and if any one is ill-treated in the matter it is he. But did be not ask to see me?
‘Surely, Fanny, you would not, at the present moment, have wished to see him!’
‘Oh, no; it is a great relief, under all the circumstances, not having to do so. But was he contented?’
I should be glad that he were satisfied that he shouldn’t think I had treated him harshly, or rudely. Did he appear as if he wished to see me again?’
‘Why, he certainly did ask for a last interview which, anticipating your wishes, I have refused.’
‘But was he satisfied? Did he appear to think that he had been badly treated?’
‘Rejected lovers,’ answered the earl with a stately smile, ‘seldom express much satisfaction with the terms of their rejection; but I cannot say that Lord Ballindine testified any strong emotion.’ He rose from the sofa as he said this, and then, intending to clinch the nail, added as he went to the door ‘— to tell the truth, Fanny, I think Lord Ballindine is much more eager for an alliance with your fair self now, than he was a few days back, when he could never find a moment’s time to leave his horses, and his friend Mr Blake, either to see his intended wife, or to pay Lady Cashel the usual courtesy of a morning visit.’ He then opened the door, and, again closing it, added ‘— I think, however, Fanny, that what has now passed between us will secure you from any further annoyance from him.’
Lord Cashel, in this last speech, had greatly overshot his mark; his object had been to make the separation between his ward and her lover permanent; and, hitherto, he had successfully appealed to her pride and her judgment. Fanny had felt Lord Cashel to be right, when he told her that she was neglected, and that Frank was dissipated, and in debt. She knew she should be unhappy as the wife of a poor nobleman, and she felt that it would break her proud heart to be jilted herself. She had, therefore, though unwillingly, still entirely agreed with her, guardian as to the expediency of breaking off, the match; and, had Lord Cashel been judicious, he might have confirmed her in this resolution; but his last thunderbolt, which had been intended to crush Lord Ballindine, had completely recoiled upon himself. Fanny now instantly understood the allusion, and, raising her face, which was again resting on her hands, looked at him with an indignant glance through her tears.
Lord Cashel, however, had left the room without observing the indignation expressed in Fanny’s eyes; but she was indignant; she knew Frank well enough to be sure that he had come to Grey Abbey that morning with no such base motives as those ascribed to him. He might have heard of Harry’s death, and come there to express his sorrow, and offer that consolation which she felt she could accept from him sooner than from any living creature or, he might have been ignorant of it altogether; but that he should come there to press his suit because her brother was dead immediately after his death was not only impossible; but the person who could say it was possible, must be false and untrue to her. Her uncle could not have believed it himself: he had basely pretended to believe it, that he might widen the breach which he had made.
Fanny was alone, in the drawing-room for her cousin had left it as soon as her father began to talk about Lord Ballindine, and she sat there glowering through her tears for a long time. Had Lord Ballindine been able to know all her thoughts at this moment, he would have felt little doubt as to the ultimate success of his suit.
Lord Cashel firmly believed, when he left the room, that he had shown great tact in discovering Frank’s mercenary schemes, and in laying them open before Fanny; and that she had firmly and finally made up her mind to have nothing more to do with him. He had not long been re-seated in his customary chair in the book-room, before he began to feel a certain degree of horror at the young lord’s baseness, and to think how worthily he had executed his duty as a guardian, in saving Miss Wyndham from so sordid a suitor. From thinking of his duties as a guardian, his mind, not unnaturally, recurred to those which were incumbent on him as a father, and here nothing disturbed his serenity. It is true that, from an appreciation of the lustre which would reflect back upon himself from allowing his son to become a decidedly fashionable young man, he had encouraged him in extravagance, dissipation, and heartless worldliness; he had brought him up to be supercilious, expensive, unprincipled, and useless. But then, he was gentlemanlike, dignified, and sought after; and now, the father reflected, with satisfaction, that, if he could accomplish his well-conceived scheme, he would pay his son’s debts with his ward’s fortune, and, at the same time, tie him down to some degree of propriety and decorum, by a wife. Lord Kilcullen, when about to marry, would be obliged to cashier his opera-dancers and their expensive crews; and, though he might not leave the turf altogether, when married he would gradually he drawn out of turf society, and would doubtless become a good steady family nobleman, like his father. Why, he Lord Cashel himself wise, prudent, and respectable as he was example as he knew himself to be to all peers, English, Irish, and Scotch, had had his horses, and his indiscretions, when he was young. And then he stroked the calves of his legs, and smiled grimly; for the memory of his juvenile vices was pleasant to him.
Lord Cashel thought, as he continued to reflect on the matter, that Lord Ballindine was certainly a sordid schemer; but that his son was a young man of whom he had just reason to be proud, and who was worthy of a wife in the shape of a hundred thousand pounds. And then, he congratulated himself on being the most anxious of guardians and the best of fathers; and, with these comfortable reflections, the worthy peer strutted off, through his ample doors, up his lofty stairs, and away through his long corridors, to dress for dinner. You might have heard his boots creaking till he got inside his dressing-room, but you must have owned that they did so with a most dignified cadence.
It was pleasant enough, certainly, planning all these things; but there would be some little trouble in executing them. In the first place, Lord Kilcullen though a very good son, on the whole, as the father frequently remarked to himself was a little fond of having a will of his own, and maybe, might object to dispense with his dancing-girls. And though there was, unfortunately, but little doubt that the money was indispensably necessary to him, it was just possible that he might insist on having the cash without his cousin. However, the proposal must be made, and, as the operations necessary to perfect the marriage would cause some delay, and the money would certainly be wanted as soon as possible, no time was to be lost. Lord Kilcullen was, accordingly, summoned to Grey Abbey; and, as he presumed his attendance was required for the purpose of talking over some method of raising the wind, he obeyed the summons. I should rather have said of raising a storm, for no gentle puff would serve to watt him through his present necessities.
Down he came, to the great delight of his mother, who thought him by far the finest young man of the day, though he usually slighted, snubbed, and ridiculed her and of his sister, who always hailed with dignified joy the return of the eldest scion of her proud family to the ancestral roof. The earl was also glad to find that no previous engagement detained him; that is, that he so far sacrificed his own comfort as to leave Tattersall’s and the Figuranti of the Opera-House, to come all the way to Grey Abbey, in the county of Kildare. But, though the earl was glad to see his son, he was still a little consternated: the business interview could not be postponed, as it was not to be supposed that Lord Kilcullen would stay long at Grey Abbey during the London season; and the father had yet hardly sufficiently crammed himself for the occasion. Besides, the pressure from without must have been very strong to have produced so immediate a compliance with a behest not uttered in a very peremptory manner, or, generally speaking, to a very obedient child.
On the morning after his arrival, the earl was a little uneasy in his chair during breakfast. It was rather a sombre meal, for Fanny had by no means recovered her spirits, nor did she appear to be it the way to do so. The countess tried to chat a little to her son, but he hardly answered her; and Lady Selina, though she was often profound, was never amusing. Lord Cashel made sundry attempts at general conversation, but as often failed. It was, at last, however, over; and the father requested the son to come with him into the book-room.
When the fire was poked, and the chairs were drawn together over the rug, there were no further preliminaries which could be decently introduced and the earl was therefore forced to commence.
‘Well, Kilcullen, I’m glad you’re come to Grey Abbey. I’m afraid, however, we shan’t induce you to stay with us long, so it’s as well perhaps to settle our business at once. You would, however, greatly oblige your mother, and I’m sure I need not add, myself, if you could make your arrangements so as to stay with us till after Easter. We could then return together.’
‘Till after Easter, my lord! I should be in the Hue and Cry before that time, if I was so long absent from my accustomed haunts. Besides I should only put out your own arrangements, or rather, those of Lady Cashel. There would probably be no room for me in the family coach.’.
‘The family coach won’t go, Lord Kilcullen. I am sorry to say, that the state of my affairs at present renders it advisable that the family should remain at Grey Abbey this season. I shall attend my parliamentary duties alone.’
This was intended as a hit the first at the prodigal son, but Kilcullen was too crafty to allow it to tell. He merely bowed his head, and opened his eyes, to betoken his surprise at such a decision, and remained quiet.
‘Indeed,’ continued Lord Cashel, ‘I did not even intend to have gone myself, but the unexpected death of Harry Wyndham renders it necessary. I must put Fanny’s affairs in a right train. Poor Harry! did you see much of him during his illness?’
‘Why, no I can’t say I did. I’m not a very good hand at doctoring or nursing. I saw him once since he got his commission, glittering with his gold lace like a new weather-cock on a Town Hall. He hadn’t time to polish the shine off.’
‘His death will make a great difference, as far as Fanny is concerned eh?’
‘Indeed it will: her fortune now is considerable; a deuced pretty thing, remembering that it’s all ready money, and that she can touch it the moment she’s of age. She’s entirely off with Ballindine, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, entirely,’ said the earl, with considerable self-complacency; ‘that affair is entirely over.’
‘I’ve stated so everywhere publicly; but I dare say, she’ll give him her money, nevertheless. She’s not the girl to give over a man, if she’s really fond of him.’
‘But, my dear Kilcullen, she has authorised me to give him a final answer, and I have done so. After that, you know, it would be quite impossible for her to to ’
‘You’ll see she’ll marry Lord Ballindine. Had Harry lived, it might have been different; but now she’s got all her brother’s money, she’ll think it a point of honour to marry her poor lover. Besides, her staying this year in the country will be in his favour: she’ll see no one here and she’ll want something to think of. I understand he has altogether thrown himself into Blake’s hands the keenest fellow in Ireland, with as much mercy as a foxhound. He’s a positive fool, is Ballindine.’
‘I’m afraid he is I’m afraid he is. And you may be sure I’m too fond of Fanny that is, I have too much regard for the trust reposed in me, to allow her to throw herself away upon him.’
‘That’s all very well; but what can you do?’
‘Why, not allow him to see her; and I’ve another plan in my head for her.’
‘Ah! but the thing is to put the plan into her head. I’d be sorry to hear of a fine girl like Fanny Wyndham breaking her heart in a half-ruined barrack in Connaught, without money to pay a schoolmaster to teach her children to spell. But I’ve too many troubles of my own to think of just at present, to care much about hers;’ and the son and heir got up, and stood with his back to the fire, and put his arms under his coat-laps. ‘Upon my soul, my lord, I never was so hard up in my life!’
Lord Cashel now prepared himself for action. The first shot was fired, and he must go on with the battle.
‘So I hear, Kilcullen; and yet, during the last four years, you’ve had nearly double your allowance; and, before that, I paid every farthing you owed. Within the last five years, you’ve had nearly forty thousand pounds! Supposing you’d had younger brothers, Lord Kilcullen supposing that I had had six or eight sons instead of only one; what would you have done? How then would you have paid your debts?’
‘Fate having exempted me and your lordship from so severe a curse, I have never turned my mind to reflect what I might have done under such an infliction.’
‘Or, supposing I had chosen, myself, to indulge in those expensive habits, which would have absorbed my income, and left me unable to do more for you, than many other noblemen in my position do for their sons do you ever reflect how impossible it would then have been for me to have helped you out of your difficulties?’
‘I feel as truly grateful for your self-denial in this respect, as I do in that of my non-begotten brethren.’
Lord Cashel saw that he was laughed at, and he looked angry; but he did not want to quarrel with his son, so he continued:
‘Jervis writes me word that it is absolutely necessary that thirty thousand pounds should be paid for you at once; or, that your remaining in London or, in fact, in the country at all, is quite out of the question.’
‘Indeed, my lord, I’m afraid Jervis is right.’
‘Thirty thousand pounds! Are you aware what your income is?’
‘Why, hardly. I know Jervis takes care that I never see much of it.’
‘Do you mean that you don’t receive it?’
‘Oh, I do not at all doubt its accurate payment. I mean to say, that I don’t often have the satisfaction of seeing much of it at the right side of my banker’s book.’
‘Thirty thousand pounds! And will that sum set you completely free in the world?’
‘I am sorry to say it will not nor nearly.’
‘Then, Lord Kilcullen,’ said the earl, with most severe, but still most courteous dignity, ‘may I trouble you to be good enough to tell me what, at the present moment, you do owe?’
‘I’m afraid I could not do so with any accuracy; but it is more than double the sum you have named.’
‘Do you mean, that you have no schedule of your debts? no means of acquainting me with the amount? How can you expect that I can assist you, when you think it too much trouble to make yourself thoroughly acquainted with the state of your own affairs?’
‘A list could certainly be made out, if I had any prospect of being able to settle the amount. If your lordship can undertake to do so at once, I will undertake to hand you a correct list of the sums due, before I leave Grey Abbey. I presume you would not require to know exactly to whom all the items were owing.’
This effrontery was too much, and Lord Cashel was very near to losing his temper.
‘Upon my honour, Kilcullen, you’re cool, very cool. You come upon me to pay, Heaven knows how many thousands more money, I know, than I’m able to raise; and you condescendingly tell me that you will trouble yourself so far as to let me know how much money I am to give you but that I am not to know what is done with it! No; if I am to pay your debts again, I will do it through Jervis.’
‘Pray remember,’ replied Lord Kilcullen, not at all disturbed from his equanimity, ‘that I have not proposed that you should pay my debts without knowing where the money went; and also that I have not yet asked you to pay them at all.’
‘Who, then, do you expect will pay them? I can assure you I should be glad to be relieved from the honour.’
‘I merely said that I had not yet made any proposition respecting them. Of course, I expect your assistance. Failing you, I have no resource but the Jews. I should regret to put the property into their hands; especially as, hitherto, I have not raised money on post obits.’
‘At any rate, I’m glad of that,’ said the father, willing to admit any excuse for returning to his good humour. ‘That would be ruin; and I hope that anything short of that may be may be may be done something with.’
The expression was not dignified, and it pained the earl to make it; but it was expressive, and he didn’t wish at once to say that he had a proposal for paying off his son’s debts. ‘But now, Kilcullen, tell me fairly, in round figures, what do you think you owe? as near as you can guess, without going to pen and paper, you know?’
‘Well, my lord, if you will allow me, I will make a proposition to you. If you will hand over to Mr Jervis fifty thousand pounds, for him to pay such claims as have already been made upon him as your agent, and such other debts as I may have sent in to him: and if you will give myself thirty thousand, to pay such debts as I do not choose to have paid by an agent, I will undertake to have everything settled.’
‘Eighty thousand pounds in four years! Why, Kilcullen, what have you done with it? where has it gone? You have five thousand a-year, no house to keep up, no property to support, no tenants to satisfy, no rates to pay five thousand a-year for your own personal expenses and, in four years, you have got eighty thousand in debt! The property never can stand that, you know. It never can stand at that rate. Why, Kilcullen, what have you done with it?’
‘Mr Crockford has a portion of it, and John Scott has some of it. A great deal of it is scattered rather widely so widely that it would be difficult now to trace it. But, my lord, it has gone. I won’t deny that the greater portion of it has been lost at play, or on the turf. I trust I may, in future, be more fortunate and more cautious.’
‘I trust so. I trust so, indeed. Eighty thousand pounds! And do you think I can raise such a sum as that at a week’s warning?’
‘Indeed, I have no doubt as to your being able to do so: it may be another question whether you are willing.’
‘I am not I am not able,’ said the libelled father. ‘As you know well enough, the incumbrances on the property take more than a quarter of my income.’
‘There can, nevertheless, be no doubt of your being able to have the money, and that at once, if you chose to go into the market for it. I have no doubt but that Mr Jervis could get it for you at once at five per cent.’
‘Four thousand a-year gone for ever from the property! and what security am I to have that the same sacrifice will not be again incurred, after another lapse of four years?’
‘You can have no security, my lord, against my being in debt. You can, however, have every security that you will not again pay my debts, in your own resolution. I trust, however, that I have some experience to prevent my again falling into so disagreeable a predicament. I think I have heard your Lordship say that you incurred some unnecessary expenses yourself in London, before your marriage!’
‘I wish, Kilcullen, that you had never exceeded your income more than I did mine. But it is no use talking any further on this subject. I cannot, and I will not I cannot in justice either to myself or to you, borrow this money for you; nor, if I could, should I think it right to do so.’
‘Then what the devil’s the use of talking about it so long?’ said the dutiful son, hastily jumping up from the chair in which he had again sat down. ‘Did you bring me down to Grey Abbey merely to tell me that you knew of my difficulties, and that you could do nothing to assist me?’
‘Now, don’t put yourself into a passion pray don’t!’ said the father, a little frightened by the sudden ebullition. ‘If you’ll sit down, and listen to me, I’ll tell you what I propose. I did not send for you here without intending to point out to you some method of extricating yourself from your present pecuniary embarrassment; and, if you have any wish to give up your course, of I must say, reckless profusion, and commence that upright and distinguished career, which I still hope to see you take, you will, I think, own that my plan is both a safer and a more expedient one than that which you have proposed. It is quite time for you now to abandon the expensive follies of youth; and,’ Lord Cashel was getting into a delightfully dignified tone, and felt himself prepared for a good burst of common-place eloquence; but his son looked impatient, and as he could not take such liberty with him as he could with Lord Ballindine, he came to the point at once, and ended abruptly by saying, ‘and get married.’
‘For the purpose of allowing my wife to pay my debts?’
‘Why, not exactly that; but as, of course, you could not marry any woman but a woman with a large fortune, that would follow as a matter of consequence.’
‘Your lordship proposes the fortune not as the first object of my affection, but merely as a corollary. But, perhaps, it will be as well that you should finish your proposition, before I make any remarks on the subject.’ And Lord Kilcullen, sat down, with a well-feigned look of listless indifference.
‘Well, Kilcullen, I have latterly been thinking much about you, and so has your poor mother. She is very uneasy that you should still still be unmarried; and Jervis has written to me very strongly. You see it is quite necessary that something should be done or we shall both be ruined. Now, if I did raise this sum and I really could not do it I don’t think I could manage it, just at present; but, even if I did, it would only be encouraging you to go on just in the same way again. Now, if you were to marry, your whole course of life would be altered, and you would become, at the same time, more respectable and more happy.’
‘That would depend a good deal upon circumstances, I should think.’
‘Oh! I am sure you would. You are just the same sort of fellow I was when at your age, and I was much happier after I was married, so I know it. Now, you see, your cousin has a hundred thousand pounds; in fact something more than that.’
‘What? Fanny! Poor Ballindine! So that’s the way with him is it! When I was contradicting the rumour of his marriage with Fanny, I little thought that I was to be his rival! At any rate, I shall have to shoot him first.’
‘You might, at any rate, confine yourself to sense, Lord Kilcullen, when I am taking so much pains to talk sensibly to you, on a subject which, I presume, cannot but interest you.’
‘Indeed, my lord, I’m all attention; and I do intend to talk sensibly when I say that I think you are proposing to treat Ballindine very ill. The world will think well of your turning him adrift on the score of the match being an imprudent one; but it won’t speak so leniently of you if you expel him, as soon as your ward becomes an heiress, to make way for your own son.’
‘You know that I’m not thinking of doing so. I’ve long seen that Lord Ballindine would not make a fitting husband for Fanny long before Harry died.’
‘And you think that I shall?’
‘Indeed I do. I think she will be lucky to get you.’
‘I’m flattered into silence: pray go on.’
‘You will be an earl a peer and a man of property. What would she become if she married Lord Ballindine?’
‘Oh, you are quite right! Go on. I wonder it never occurred to her before to set her cap at me.’
‘Now do be serious. I wonder how you can joke on such a subject, with all your debts. I’m sure I feel them heavy enough, if you don’t. You see Lord Ballindine was refused I may say he was refused before we heard about that poor boy’s unfortunate death. It was the very morning we heard of it, three or four hours before the messenger came, that Fanny had expressed her resolution to declare it off, and commissioned me to tell him so. And, therefore, of course, the two things can’t have the remotest reference to each other.’
‘I see. There are, or have been, two Fanny Wyndhams separate persons, though both wards of your lordship. Lord Ballindine was engaged to the girl who had a brother; but he can have no possible concern with Fanny Wyndham, the heiress, who has no brother.’
‘How can you he so unfeeling? but you may pay your debts in your own way. You won’t ever listen to what I have to say! I should have thought that, as your father, I might have considered myself entitled to more respect from you.’
‘Indeed, my lord, I’m all respect and attention, and I won’t say one more word till you’ve finished.’
‘Well you must see, there can be no objection on the score of Lord Ballindine?’
‘Oh, none at all.’
‘And then, where could Fanny wish for a better match than yourself? it would be a great thing for her, and the match would be, in all things, so so respectable, and just what it ought to be; and your mother would be so delighted, and so should I, and ’
‘Her fortune would so nicely pay all my debts.’
‘Exactly. Of course, I should take care to have your present income five thousand a year settled on her, in the shape of jointure; and I’m sure that would he treating her handsomely. The interest of her fortune would not be more than that.’
‘And what should we live on?’
‘Why, of course, I should continue your present allowance.’
‘And you think that that which I have found so insufficient for myself, would be enough for both of us?’
‘You must make it enough, Kilcullen in order that there may be something left to enable you to keep up your title when I am gone.’
By this time, Lord Kilcullen appeared to be as serious, and nearly as solemn, as his father, and he sat, for a considerable time, musing, till his father said, ‘Well, Kilcullen, will you take my advice?’
‘It’s impracticable, my lord. In the first place, the money must be paid immediately, and considerable delay must occur before I could even offer to Miss Wyndham; and, in the next place, were I to do so, I am sure she would refuse me.’
‘Why; there must be some delay, of course. But I suppose, if I passed my word, through Jervis, for so much of the debts as are immediate, that a settlement might be made whereby they might stand over for twelve months, with interest, of course. As to refusing you, it’s not at all likely: where would she look for a better offer?’
‘I don’t know much of my cousin; but I don’t think she’s exactly the girl to take a man because he’s a good match for her.’
‘Perhaps not. But then, you know, you understand women so well, and would have such opportunities; you would be sure to make yourself agreeable to her, with very little effort on your part.’
‘Yes, poor thing she would be delivered over, ready bound, into the lion’s den.’ And then the young man sat silent again, for some time, turning the matter over in his mind. At last, he said ‘Well, my lord; I am a considerate and a dutiful son, and I will agree to your proposition: but I must saddle it with conditions. I have no doubt that the sum which I suggested should be paid through your agent, could be arranged to be paid in a year, or eighteen months, by your making yourself responsible for it, and I would undertake to indemnify you. But the thirty thousand pounds I must have at once. I must return to London, with the power of raising it there, without delay. This, also, I would repay you out of Fanny’s fortune. I would then undertake to use my best endeavours to effect a union with your ward. But I most positively will not agree to this nor have any hand in the matter, unless I am put in immediate possession of the sum I have named, and unless you will agree to double my income as soon as I am married.’
To both these propositions the earl, at first, refused to accede; but his son was firm. Then, Lord Cashel agreed to put him in immediate possession of the sum of money he required, but would not hear of increasing his income. They argued, discussed, and quarrelled over the matter, for a long time; till, at last, the anxious father, in his passion, told his son that he might go his own way, and that he would take no further trouble to help so unconscionable a child. Lord Kilcullen rejoined by threatening immediately to throw the whole of the property, which was entailed on himself, into the hands of the Jews.
Long they argued and bargained, till each was surprised at the obstinacy of the other. They ended, however, by splitting the difference, and it was agreed, that Lord Cashel was at once to hand over thirty thousand pounds, and to take his son’s bond for the amount; that the other debts were to stand over till Fanny’s money was forthcoming; and that the income of the newly married pair was to be seven thousand five hundred a-year.
‘At least,’ thought Lord Kilcullen to himself, as he good-humouredly shook hands with his father at the termination of the interview ‘I have not done so badly, for those infernal dogs will be silenced, and I shall get the money. I could not have gone back without that. I can go on with the marriage, or not, as I may choose, hereafter. It won’t be a bad speculation, however.’
To do Lord Cashel justice, he did not intend cheating his son, not did he suspect his son of an intention to cheat him. But the generation was deteriorating.
It was delightful to see on what good terms the earl and his son met that evening at dinner. The latter even went so far as to be decently civil to his mother, and was quite attentive to Fanny. She, however, did not seem to appreciate the compliment. It was now a fortnight since she had heard of her brother’s death, and during the whole of that time she had been silent, unhappy, and fretful. Not a word more had been said to her about Lord Ballindine, nor had she, as yet, spoken about him to any one; but she had been thinking about little else, and had ascertained at least, so she thought that she could never be happy, unless she were reconciled to him.
The more she brooded over the subject, the more she felt convinced that such was the case; she could not think how she had ever been induced to sanction, by her name, such an unwarrantable proceeding as the unceremonious dismissal of a man to whom her troth had been plighted, merely because he had not called to see her. As for his not writing, she was aware that Lord Cashel had recommended that, till she was of age, they should not correspond. As she thought the matter over in her own room, long hour after hour, she became angry with herself for having been talked into a feeling of anger for him. What right had she to be angry because he kept horses? She could not expect him to put himself into Lord Cashel’s leading-strings. Indeed, she thought she would have liked him less if he had done so. And now, to reject him just when circumstances put it in her power to enable her to free him from his embarrassments, and live a manner becoming his station! What must Frank think of her? For he could not but suppose that her rejection had been caused by her unexpected inheritance.
In the course of the fortnight, she made up her mind that all Lord Cashel had said to Lord Ballindine should be unsaid but who was to do it? It would be a most unpleasant task to perform; and one which, she was aware, her guardian would be most unwilling to undertake. She fully resolved that she would do it herself, if she could find no fitting ambassador to undertake the task, though that would be a step to which she would fain not be driven. At one time, she absolutely thought of asking her cousin, Kilcullen, about it this was just before his leaving Grey Abbey; he seemed so much more civil and kind than usual. But then, she knew so little of him, and so little liked what she did know: that scheme, therefore, was given up. Lady Selina was so cold, and prudent would talk to her so much about propriety, self-respect, and self-control, that she could not make a confidante of her. No one could talk to Selina on any subject more immediately interesting than a Roman Emperor, or a pattern for worsted-work. Fanny felt that she would not be equal, herself, to going boldly to Lord Cashel, and desiring him to inform Lord Ballindine that he had been mistaken in the view he had taken of his ward’s wishes: no that was impossible; such a proceeding would probably bring on a fit of apoplexy.
There was no one else to whom she could apply, but her aunt. Lady Cashel was a very good-natured old woman, who slept the greatest portion of her time, and knitted through the rest of her existence. She did not take a prominent part in any of the important doings of Grey Abbey; and, though Lord Cashel constantly referred to her, for he thought it respectable to do so, no one regarded her much. Fanny felt, however, that she would neither scold her, ridicule her, nor refuse to listen: to Lady Cashel, therefore, at last, she went for assistance.
Her ladyship always passed the morning after breakfast, in a room adjoining her own bed-room, in which she daily held deep debate with Griffiths, her factotum, respecting household affairs, knitting-needles, and her own little ailments and cossetings. Griffiths, luckily, was a woman of much the same tastes as her ladyship, only somewhat of a more active temperament; and they were most stedfast friends. It was such a comfort to Lady Cashel to have some one to whom she could twaddle!
The morning after Lord Kilcullen’s departure Fanny knocked at her door, and was asked to come in. The countess, as usual, was in her easy chair, with the knitting-apparatus in her lap, and Griffiths was seated at the table, pulling about threads, and keeping her ladyship awake by small talk.
‘I’m afraid I’m disturbing you, aunt,’ said Fanny, ‘but I wanted to speak to you for a minute or two. Good morning, Mrs Griffiths.’
‘Oh, no! you won’t disturb me, Fanny. I was a little busy this morning, for I wanted to finish this side of the You see what a deal I’ve done,’ and the countess lugged up a whole heap of miscellaneous worsted from a basket just under her arm ‘and I must finish it by lady-day, or I shan’t get the other done, I don’t know when. But still, I’ve plenty of time to attend to you.’
‘Then I’ll go down, my lady, and see about getting the syrup boiled,’ said Griffiths. ‘Good morning, Miss Wyndham.’
‘Do; but mind you come up again immediately I’ll ring the bell when Miss Wyndham is going; and pray don’t leave me alone, now.’
‘No, my lady not a moment,’ and Griffiths escaped to the syrup.
Fanny’s heart beat quick and hard, as she sat down on the sofa, opposite to her aunt. It was impossible for any one to be afraid of Lady Cashel, there was so very little about her that could inspire awe; but then, what she had to say was so very disagreeable to say! If she had had to tell her tale out loud, merely to the empty easy chair, it would have been a dreadful undertaking.
‘Well, Fanny, what can I do for you? I’m sure you look very nice in your bombazine; and it’s very nicely made up. Who was it made it for you?’
‘I got it down from Dublin, aunt; from Foley’s.’
‘Oh, I remember; so you told me. Griffiths has a niece makes those things up very well; but then she lives at Namptwich, and one couldn’t send to England for it. I had such a quantity of mourning by me, I didn’t get any made up new; else, I think I must have sent for her.’
‘My dear aunt, I am very unhappy about something, and I want you to help me. I’m afraid, though, it will give you a great deal of trouble.’
‘Good gracious, Fanny! what is it? Is it about poor Harry? I’m sure I grieved about him more than I can tell.’
‘No, aunt: he’s gone now, and time is the only cure for that grief. I know I must bear that without complaining. But, aunt, I feel I think, that is, that I’ve used Lord Ballindine very ill.’
‘Good gracious me, my love! I thought Lord Cashel had managed all that I thought that was all settled. You know, he would keep those horrid horses, and all that kind of thing; and what more could you do than just let Lord Cashel settle it?’
‘Yes, but aunt you see, I had engaged myself to Lord Ballindine, and I don’t think in fact oh, aunt! I did not wish to break my word to Lord Ballindine, and I am very very sorry for what has been done,’ and Fanny was again in tears.
‘But, my dear Fanny,’ said the countess, so far excited as to commence rising from her seat the attempt, however, was abandoned, when she felt the ill effects of the labour to which she was exposing herself ‘but, my dear Fanny what would you have? It’s done, now, you know; and, really, it’s for the best.’
‘Oh, but, dear aunt, I must get somebody to see him. I’ve been thinking about it ever since he was here with. my uncle. I wouldn’t let him think that I broke it all off, merely because because of poor Harry’s money,’ and Fanny sobbed away dreadfully.
‘But you don’t want to marry him!’ said the na?ve countess.
Now, Fanny did want to marry him, though she hardly liked saying so, even to Lady Cashel.
‘You know, I promised him I would,’ said she; ‘and what will he think of me? what must he think of me, to throw him off so cruelly, so harshly, after all that’s past? Oh, aunt! I must see him again.’
‘I know something of human nature,’ replied the aunt, ‘and if you do, I tell you, it will end in your being engaged to him again. You know it’s off now. Come, my dear; don’t think so much about it: I’m sure Lord Cashel wouldn’t do anything cruel or harsh.’
‘Oh, I must see him again, whatever comes of it;’ and then she paused for a considerable time, during which the bewildered old lady was thinking what she could do to relieve her sensitive niece. ‘Dear, dear aunt, I don’t want to deceive you!’ and Fanny, springing up, knelt at her aunt’s feet, and looked up into her face. ‘I do love him I always loved him, and I cannot, cannot quarrel with him.’ And then she burst out crying vehemently, hiding her face in the countess’s lap.
Lady Cashel was quite overwhelmed. Fanny was usually so much more collected than herself, that her present prostration, both of feeling and body, was dreadful to see. Suppose she was to go into hysterics there they would be alone, and Lady Cashel felt that she had not strength to ring the bell.
‘But, my dear Fanny! oh dear, oh dear, this is very dreadful! but, Fanny he’s gone away now. Lift up your face, Fanny, for you frighten me. Well, I’m sure I’ll do anything for you. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind coming back again he always was very good-natured. I’m sure I always liked Lord Ballindine very much only he would have all those horses. But I’m sure, if you wish it, I should be very glad to see him marry you; only, you know, you must wait some time, because of poor Harry; and I’m sure I don’t know how you’ll manage with Lord Cashel.’
‘Dear aunt I want you to speak to Lord Cashel. When I was angry because I thought Frank didn’t come here as he might have done, I consented that my uncle should break off the match: besides, then, you know, we should have had so little between us. But I didn’t know then how well I loved him. Indeed, indeed, aunt, I cannot bring my heart to quarrel with him; and I am quite, quite sure he would never wish to quarrel with me. Will you go to my uncle tell him that I’ve changed my mind; tell him that I was a foolish girl, and did not know my mind. But tell him I must be friends with Frank again.’
‘Well, of course I’ll do what you wish me indeed, I would do anything for you, Fanny, as if you were one of my own; but really, I don’t know Good gracious! What am I to say to him? Wouldn’t it be better, Fanny, if you were to go to him yourself?’
‘Oh, no, aunt; pray do you tell him first. I couldn’t go to him; besides, he would do anything for you, you know. I want you to go to him do, now, dear aunt and tell him not from me, but from yourself how very, very much I that is, how very very but you will know what to say; only Frank must, must come back again.’
‘Well, Fanny, dear, I’ll go to Lord Cashel; or, perhaps, he wouldn’t mind coming here. Ring the bell for me, dear. But I’m sure he’ll be very angry. I’d just write a line and ask Lord Ballindine to come and dine here, and let him settle it all himself, only I don’t think Lord Cashel would like it.’
Griffiths answered the summons, and was despatched to the book-room to tell his lordship that her ladyship would be greatly obliged if he would step upstairs to her for a minute or two; and, as soon as Griffiths was gone on her errand, Fanny fled to her own apartment, leaving her aunt in a very bewilder and pitiable state of mind: and there she waited, with palpitating heart and weeping eyes, the effects of the interview.
She was dreadfully nervous, for she felt certain that she would be summoned before her uncle. Hitherto, she alone, in all the house, had held him in no kind of awe; indeed, her respect for her uncle had not been of the most exalted kind; but now she felt she was afraid of him.
She remained in her room much longer than she thought it would have taken her aunt to explain what she had to say. At last, however, she heard footsteps in the corridor, and Griffiths knocked at the door. Her aunt would be obliged by her stepping into her room. She tried not to look disconcerted, and asked if Lord Cashel were still there. She was told that he was; and she felt that she had to muster up all her courage to encounter him.
When she went into the room, Lady Cashel was still in her easy-chair, but the chair seemed to lend none of its easiness to its owner. She was sitting upright, with her hands on her two knees, and she looked perplexed, distressed, and unhappy. Lord Cashel was standing with his back to the fire-place, and Fanny had never seen his face look so black. He really seemed, for the time, to have given over acting, to have thrown aside his dignity, and to be natural and in earnest.
Lady Cashel began the conversation.
‘Oh, Fanny,’ she said, ‘you must really overcome all this sensitiveness; you really must. I’ve spoken to your uncle, and it’s quite impossible, and very unwise; and, indeed, it can’t be done at all. In fact, Lord Ballindine isn’t, by any means, the sort of person I supposed.’
Fanny knit her brows a little at this, and felt somewhat less humble than she did before. She knew she should get indignant if her uncle abused her lover, and that, if she did, her courage would rise in proportion. Her aunt continued ‘Your uncle’s very kind about it, and says he can, of course, forgive your feeling a little out of sorts just at present; and, I’m sure, so can I, and I’m sure I’d do anything to make you happy; but as for making it all up with Lord Ballindine again, indeed it cannot be thought of, Fanny; and so your uncle will tell you.’
And then Lord Cashel opened his oracular mouth, for the purpose of doing so.
‘Really, Fanny, this is the most unaccountable thing I ever heard of. But you’d better sit down, while I speak to you,’ and Fanny sat down on the sofa. ‘I think I understood you rightly, when you desired me, less than a month ago, to inform Lord Ballindine that circumstances that is, his own conduct obliged you to decline the honour of his alliance. Did you not do so spontaneously, and of your own accord?’
‘Certainly, uncle, I agreed to take your advice; though I did so most unwillingly.’
‘Had I not your authority for desiring him I won’t say to discontinue his visits, for that he had long done but to give up his pretensions to your hand? Did you not authorise me to do so?’
‘I believe I did. But, uncle ’
‘And I have done as you desired me; and now, Fanny, that I have done so now that I have fully explained to him what you taught me to believe were your wishes on the subject, will you tell me for I really think your aunt must have misunderstood you what it is that you wish me to do?’
‘Why, uncle, you pointed out and it was very true then, that my fortune was not sufficient to enable Lord Ballindine to keep up his rank. It is different now, and I am very, very sorry that it is so; but it is different now, and I feel that I ought not to reject Lord Ballindine, because I am so much richer than I was when he when he proposed to me.’
‘Then it’s merely a matter of feeling with you, and not of affection? If I understand you, you are afraid that you should be thought to have treated Lord Ballindine badly?’
‘It’s not only that —’ And then she paused for a few moments, and added, ‘I thought I could have parted with him, when you made me believe that I ought to do so, but I find I cannot.’
‘You mean that you love him?’ and the earl looked very black at his niece. He intended to frighten her out of her resolution, but she quietly answered,
‘Yes, uncle, I do.’
‘And you want me to tell him so, after having banished him from my house?’
Fanny’s eyes again shot fire at the word ‘banished’, but she answered, very quietly, and even with a smile,
‘No, uncle; but I want you to ask him here again. I might tell him the rest myself.’
‘But, Fanny, dear,’ said the countess, ‘your uncle couldn’t do it: you know, he told him to go away before. Besides, I really don’t think he’d come; he’s so taken up with those horrid horses, and that Mr Blake, who is worse than any of ’em. Really, Fanny, Kilcullen says that he and Mr Blake are quite notorious.’
‘I think, aunt, Lord Kilcullen might be satisfied with looking after himself. If it depended on him, he never had a kind word to say for Lord Ballindine.’
‘But you know, Fanny,’ continued the aunt, ‘he knows everybody; and if he says Lord Ballindine is that sort of person, why, it must be so, though I’m sure I’m very sorry to hear it.’
Lord Cashel saw that he could not trust any more to his wife: that last hit about Kilcullen had been very unfortunate; so he determined to put an end to all Fanny’s yearnings after her lover with a strong hand, and said,
‘If you mean, Fanny, after what has passed, that I should go to Lord Ballindine, and give him to understand that he is again welcome to Grey Abbey, I must at once tell you that it is absolutely absolutely impossible. If I had no personal objection to the young man on any prudential score, the very fact of my having already, at your request, desired his absence from my house, would be sufficient to render it impossible. I owe too much to my own dignity, and am too anxious for your reputation, to think of doing such a thing. But when I also remember that Lord Ballindine is a reckless, dissipated gambler I much fear, with no fixed principle, I should consider any step towards renewing the acquaintance between you a most wicked and unpardonable proceeding.’
When Fanny heard her lover designated as a reckless gambler, she lost all remaining feelings of fear at her uncle’s anger, and, standing up, looked him full in the face through her tears.
‘It’s not so, my lord!’ she said, when he had finished. ‘He is not what you have said. I know him too well to believe such things of him, and I will not submit to hear him abused.’
‘Oh, Fanny, my dear!’ said the frightened countess; ‘don’t speak in that way. Surely, your uncle means to act for your own happiness; and don’t you know Lord Ballindine has those horrid horses?’
‘If I don’t mind his horses, aunt, no one else need; but he’s no gambler, and he’s not dissipated I’m sure not half so much so as Lord Kilcullen.’
‘In that, Fanny, you’re mistaken,’ said the earl; ‘but I don’t wish to discuss the matter with you. You must, however, fully understand this: Lord Ballindine cannot be received under this roof. If you regret him, you must remember that his rejection was your own act. I think you then acted most prudently, and I trust it will not be long before you are of the same opinion yourself,’ and Lord Cashel moved to the door as though he had accomplished his part in the interview.
‘Stop one moment, uncle,’ said Fanny, striving hard to be calm, and hardly succeeding. ‘I did not ask my aunt to speak to you on this subject, till I had turned it over and over in my mind, and resolved that I would not make myself and another miserable for ever, because I had been foolish enough not to know my mind. You best know whether you can ask Lord Ballindine to Grey Abbey or not; but I am determined, if I cannot see him here, that I will see him somewhere else,’ and she turned towards the door, and then, thinking of her aunt, she turned back and kissed her, and immediately left the room.
The countess looked up at her husband, quite dumbfounded, and he seemed rather distressed himself. However, he muttered something about her being a hot-headed simpleton and soon thinking better about it, and then betook himself to his private retreat, to hold sweet converse with his own thoughts having first rung the bell for Griffiths, to pick up the scattered threads of her mistress’s knitting.
Lord Cashel certainly did not like the look of things. There was a determination in Fanny’s eye, as she made her parting speech, which upset him rather, and which threw considerable difficulties in the way of Lord Kilcullen’s wooing. To be sure, time would do a great deal: but then, there wasn’t so much time to spare. He had already taken steps to borrow the thirty thousand pounds, and had, indeed, empowered his son to receive it: he had also pledged himself for the other fifty; and then, after all, that perverse fool of a girl would insist on being in love with that scapegrace, Lord Ballindine! This, however, might wear away, and he would take very good care that she should hear of his misdoings. It would be very odd if, after all, his plans were to be destroyed, and his arrangements disconcerted by his own ward, and niece especially when he designed so great a match for her!
He could not, however, make himself quite comfortable, though he had great confidence in his own diplomatic resources.
Lord Ballindine left Grey Abbey, and rode homewards, towards Handicap Lodge, in a melancholy and speculative mood. His first thoughts were all of Harry Wyndham. Frank, as the accepted suitor of his sister, had known him well and intimately, and had liked him much; and the poor young fellow had been much attached to him. He was greatly shocked to hear of his death. It was not yet a month since he had seen him shining in all the new-blown splendour of his cavalry regimentals, and Lord Ballindine was unfeignedly grieved to think how short a time the lad had lived to enjoy them. His thoughts, then, naturally turned to his own position, and the declaration which Lord Cashel had made to him respecting himself. Could it be absolutely true that Fanny had determined to give him up altogether? After all her willing vows, and assurances of unalterable affection, could she be so cold as to content herself with sending him a formal message, by her uncle, that she did not wish to see him again? Frank argued with himself that it was impossible; he was sure he knew her too well. But still, Lord Cashel would hardly tell him a downright lie, and he had distinctly stated that the rejection came from Miss Wyndham herself.
Then, he began to feel indignant, and spurred his horse, and rode a little faster, and made a few resolutions as to upholding his own dignity. He would run after neither Lord Cashel nor his niece; he would not even ask her to change her mind, since she had been able to bring herself to such a determination as that expressed to him. But he would insist on seeing her; she could not refuse that to him, after what had passed between them, and he would then tell her what he thought of her, and leave her for ever. But no; he would do nothing to vex her, as long as she was grieving for her brother. Poor Harry! she loved him so dearly! Perhaps, after all, his sudden rejection was, in some manner, occasioned by this sad event, and would be revoked as her sorrow grew less with time. And then, for the first time, the idea shot across his mind, of the wealth Fanny must inherit by her brother’s death.
It certainly had a considerable effect on him, for he breathed slow awhile, and was some little time before he could entirely realise the conception that Fanny was now the undoubted owner of a large fortune. ‘That is it,’ thought he to himself, at last; ‘that sordid earl considers that he can now be sure of a higher match for his niece, and Fanny has allowed herself to be persuaded out of her engagement: she has allowed herself to. be talked into the belief that it was her duty to give up a poor man like me.’ And then, he felt very angry again. ‘Heavens!’ said he to himself ‘is it possible she should be so servile and so mean? Fanny Wyndham, who cared so little for the prosy admonitions of her uncle, a few months since, can she have altered her disposition so completely? Can the possession of her brother’s money have made so vile a change in her character? Could she be the same Fanny who had so entirely belonged to him, who had certainly loved him truly once? Perish her money I he had sought her from affection alone; he had truly and fondly loved her; he had determined to cling to her, in spite of the advice of his friends! And then, he found himself deserted and betrayed by her, because circumstances had given her the probable power of making a better match!’
Such were Lord Ballindine’s thoughts; and he flattered himself with the reflection that he was a most cruelly used, affectionate, and disinterested lover. He did not, at the moment, remember that it was Fanny’s twenty thousand pounds which had first attracted his notice; and that he had for a considerable time wavered, before he made up his mind to part with himself at so low a price. It was not to be expected that he should remember that, just at present; and he rode on, considerably out of humour with all the world except himself.
As he got near to Handicap Lodge, however, the genius of the master-spirit of that classic spot came upon him, and he began to bethink himself that It ‘would be somewhat foolish of him to give up the game just at present. He reflected that a hundred thousand pounds would work a wondrous change and improvement at Kelly’s Court and that, if he was before prepared to marry Fanny Wyndham in opposition to the wishes of her guardian, he should now be doubly determined to do so, even though all Grey Abbey had resolved to the contrary. The last idea in his mind, as he got off his horse at his friend’s door was, as to what Dot Blake would think, and say, of the tidings he brought home with him?
It was dark when he reached Handicap Lodge, and, having first asked whether Mr Blake was in, and heard that he was dressing for dinner, he went to perform the same operation himself. When he came down, full of his budget, and quite ready, as usual, to apply to Dot for advice, he was surprised, and annoyed, to find two other gentlemen in the room, together with Blake. What a bore! to have to make one of a dinner-party of four, and the long protracted rubber of shorts which would follow it, when his mind was so full of other concerns! However, it was not to be avoided.
The guests were, the fat, good-humoured, ready-witted Mat Tierney, and a little Connaught member of Parliament, named Morris, who wore a wig, played a very good rubber of whist, and knew a good deal about selling hunters. He was not very bright, but he told one or two good stories of his own adventures in the world, which he repeated oftener than was approved of by his intimate friends; and he drank his wine plentifully and discreetly for, if he didn’t get a game of cards after consuming a certain quantum, he invariably went to sleep.
There was something in the manner in which the three greeted him, on entering the room, which showed him that they had been speaking of him and his affairs. Dot was the first to address him.
‘Well, Frank, I hope I am to wish you joy. I hope you’ve made a good morning’s work of it?’
Frank looked rather distressed: before he could answer, however, Mat Tierney said,
‘Well, Ballindine, upon my soul I congratulate you sincerely, though, of course, you’ve seen nothing at Grey Abbey but tears and cambric handkerchiefs. I’m very glad, now, that what Kilcullen told me wasn’t true. He left Dublin for London yesterday, and I suppose he won’t hear of his cousin’s death before he gets there.’
‘Upon my honour, Lord Ballindine,’ said the horse-dealing member, ‘you are a lucky fellow. I believe old Wyndham was a regular golden nabob, and I suppose, now, you’ll touch the whole of his gatherings.’
Dot and his guests had heard of Harry Wyndham’s death, and Fanny’s accession of fortune; but they had not heard that she had rejected her lover, and that he had been all but turned out of her guardian’s house. Nor did he mean to tell them; but he did not find himself pleasantly situated in having to hear their congratulations and listen to their jokes, while he himself felt that the rumour which he had so emphatically denied to Mat Tierney, only two days since, had turned out to be true.
Not one of the party made the slightest reference to the poor brother from whom Fanny’s new fortune had come, except as the lucky means of conveying it to her. There was no regret even pretended for his early death, no sympathy expressed with Fanny’s sorrow. And there was, moreover, an evident conviction in the minds of all the three, that Frank, of course, looked on the accident as a piece of unalloyed good fortune a splendid windfall in his way, unattended with any disagreeable concomitants. This grated against his feelings, and made him conscious that he was not yet heartless enough to be quite fit for, the society in which he found himself.
The party soon went into the dining-room; and Frank at first got a little ease, for Fanny Wyndham seemed to be forgotten in the willing devotion which was paid to Blake’s soup; the interest of the fish, also, seemed to be absorbing; and though conversation became more general towards the latter courses, still it was on general subjects, as long as the servants were in the room. But, much to his annoyance, his mistress again came on the tapis, together with the claret.
‘You and Kilcullen don’t hit it of together eh, Ballindine?’ said Mat.
‘We never quarrelled,’ answered Frank; ‘we never, however, were very intimate.’
‘I wonder at that, for you’re both fond of the turf. There’s a large string of his at Murphy’s now, isn’t there, Dot?’
‘Too many, I believe,’ said Blake. ‘If you’ve a mind to be a purchaser, you’ll find him a very pleasant fellow especially if you don’t object to his own prices.’
‘Faith I’ll not trouble him,’ said Mat; ‘I’ve two of them already, and a couple on the turf and a couple for the saddle are quite enough to suit me. But what the deuce made him say, so publicly, that your match was off, Ballindine? He couldn’t have heard of Wyndham’s death at the time, or I should think he was after the money himself.’
‘I cannot tell; he certainly had not my authority,’ said Frank.
‘Nor the lady’s either, I hope.’
‘You had better ask herself, Tierney; and, if she rejects me, maybe she’ll take you.’
‘There’s a speculation for you,’ said Blake; ‘you don’t think yourself too old yet, I hope, to make your fortune by marriage? and, if you don’t, I’m sure Miss Wyndham can’t.’
‘I tell you what, Dot, I admire Miss Wyndham much, and I admire a hundred thousand pounds more. I don’t know anything I admire more than a hundred thousand pounds, except two; but, upon my word, I wouldn’t take the money and the lady together.’
‘Well, that’s kind of him, isn’t it, Frank? So, you’ve a chance left, yet.’
‘Ah! but you forget Morris,’ said Tierney; ‘and there’s yourself, too. If Ballindine is not to be the lucky man, I don’t see why either of you should despair.’
‘Oh! as for me, I’m the devil. I’ve a tail, only I don’t wear it, except on state occasions; and I’ve horns and hoofs, only people can’t see them. But I don’t see why Morris should not succeed: he’s the only one of the four that doesn’t own a racehorse, and that’s much in his favour. What do you say, Morris?’
‘I’d have no objection,’ said the member; ‘except that I wouldn’t like to stand in Lord Ballindine’s way.’
‘Oh! he’s the soul of good-nature. You wouldn’t take it ill of him, would you, Frank?’
‘Not the least,’ said Frank, sulkily; for he didn’t like the conversation, and he didn’t know how to put a stop to it.
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving him a line of introduction to Lord Cashel,’ said Mat.
‘But, Morris,’ aid Blake, ‘I’m afraid your politics would go against you. A Repealer would never go down at Grey Abbey.’
‘Morris’ll never let his politics harm him,’ said Tierney. ‘Repeal’s a very good thing the other side of the Shannon; or one might, carry it as far as Conciliation Hall, if one was hard pressed, and near an election. Were you ever in Conciliation Hall yet, Morris?’
‘No, Mat; but I’m going next Thursday. Will you go with me?’
‘Faith, I will not: but I think you should go; you ought to do something for your country, for you’re a patriot. I never was a public man.’
‘Well, when I can do any good for my country, I’ll go there. Talking of that, I saw O’Connell in town yesterday, and I never saw him looking so well. The verdict hasn’t disturbed him much. I wonder what steps the Government will take now? They must be fairly bothered. I don’t think they dare imprison him.’
‘Not dare!’ said Blake ‘and why not? When they had courage to indict him, you need not fear but what they’ll dare to go on with a strong hand, now they have a verdict.’
‘I’ll tell you what, Dot; if they imprison the whole set,’ said Mat, ‘and keep them in prison for twelve months, every Catholic in Ireland will be a Repealer by the end of that time.’
‘And why shouldn’t they all be Repealers?’ said Morris. ‘It seems to me that it’s just as natural for us to be Repealers, as it is for you to be the contrary.’
‘I won’t say they don’t dare to put them in prison,’ continued Mat; ‘but I will say they’ll be great fools to do it. The Government have so good an excuse for not doing so: they have such an easy path out of the hobble. There was just enough difference of opinion among the judges just enough irregularity in the trial, such as the omissions of the names from the long panel to enable them to pardon the whole set with a good grace.’
‘If they did,’ said Blake, ‘the whole high Tory party in this country peers and parsons would be furious. They’d lose one set of supporters, and wouldn’t gain another. My opinion is, they’ll lock the whole party up in the stone jug for some time, at least.’
‘Why,’ said Tierney, ‘their own party could not quarrel with them for not taking an advantage of a verdict, as to the legality of which there is so much difference of opinion even among the judges. I don’t know much about these things, myself; but, as far as I can understand, they would have all been found guilty of high treason a few years back, and probably have been hung or beheaded; and if they could do that now, the country would be all the quieter. But they can’t: the people will have their own way; and if they want the people to go easy, they shouldn’t put O’Connell into prison. Rob them all of the glories of martyrdom, and you’d find you’ll cut their combs and stop their crowing.’
‘It’s not so easy to do that now, Mat,’ said Morris. ‘You’ll find that the country will stick to O’Connell, whether he’s in prison or out of it; but Peel will never dare to put him there. They talk of the Penitentiary; but I’ll tell you what, if they put him there, the people of Dublin won’t leave one stone upon another; they’d have it all down in a night.’
‘You forget, Morris, how near Richmond barracks are to the Penitentiary.’
‘No, I don’t. Not that I think there’ll be any row of the kind, for I’ll bet a hundred guineas they’re never put in prison at all.’
‘Done,’ said Dot, and his little book was out ‘put that down, Morris, and I’ll initial it: a hundred guineas, even, that O’Connell is not in prison within twelve months of this time.’
‘Very well: that is, that he’s not put there and kept there for six months, in consequence of the verdict just given at the State trials.’
‘No, my boy; that’s not it. I said nothing about being kept there six months. They’re going to try for a writ of error, or what the devil they call it, before the peers. But I’ll bet you a cool hundred he is put in prison before twelve months are over, in consequence of the verdict. If he’s locked up there for one night, I win. Will you take that?’
‘Well, I will,’ said Morris; and they both went to work at their little books.
‘I was in London,’ said Mat, ‘during the greater portion of the trial and it’s astonishing what unanimity of opinion there was at the club that the whole set would be acquitted. I heard Howard make bet, at the Reform Club, that the only man put in prison would be the Attorney-General.’
‘He ought to have included the Chief Justice,’ said Morris. ‘By the bye, Mat, is that Howard the brother of the Honourable and Riverind Augustus?’
‘Upon my soul, I don’t know whose brother he is. Who is the Riverind Augustus?’
‘Morris wants to tell a story, Mat,’ said Blake; ‘don’t spoil him, now.’
‘Indeed I don’t,’ said the member: ‘I never told it to any one till I mentioned it to you the other day. It only happened the other day, but it is worth telling.’
‘Out with it, Morris,’ said Mat, ‘it isn’t very long, is it? because, if it is, we’ll get Dot to give us a little whiskey and hot water first. I’m sick of the claret.’
‘Just as you like, Mat,’ and Blake rang the bell, and the hot water was brought.
‘You know Savarius O’Leary,’ said Morris, anxious to tell his story, ‘eh, Tierney?’
‘What, Savy, with the whiskers?’ said Tierney, ‘to be sure I do. Who doesn’t know Savy?’
‘You know him, don’t you, Lord Ballindine?’ Morris was determined everybody should listen to him.
‘Oh yes, I know him; he comes from County Mayo his property’s close to mine; that is, the patch of rocks and cabins which he has managed to mortgage three times over, and each time for more than its value which he still calls the O’Leary estate.’
‘Well; some time ago that is, since London began to fill, O’Leary was seen walking down Regent Street, with a parson. How the deuce he’d ever got hold of the parson, or the parson of him, was never explained; but Phil Mahon saw him, and asked him who his friend in the white choker was. “Is it my friend in black, you mane?” says Savy, “thin, my frind was the Honourable and the Riverind Augustus Howard, the Dane.” “Howard the Dane,” said Mahon, “how the duce did any of the Howards become Danes?” “Ah, bother!” said Savy, “it’s not of thim Danes he is; it’s not the Danes of Shwaden I mane, at all, man; but a rural Dane of the Church of England.”
Mat Tierney laughed heartily at this, and even Frank forgot that his dignity had been hurt, and that he meant to be sulky; and he laughed also: the little member was delighted with his success, and felt himself encouraged to persevere.
‘Ah, Savy’s a queer fellow, if you knew him,’ he continued, turning to Lord Ballindine, ‘and, upon my soul, lie’s no fool. Oh, if you knew him as well ’
‘Didn’t you hear Ballindine say he was his next, door neighbour in Mayo?’ said Blake, ‘or, rather, next barrack neighbour; for they dispense with doors in Mayo eh, Frank? and their houses are all cabins or barracks.’
‘Why, we certainly don’t pretend to all the Apuleian luxuries of Handicap Lodge; but we are ignorant enough to think ourselves comfortable, and swinish enough to enjoy our pitiable state.’
‘I beg ten thousand pardons, my dear fellow. I didn’t mean to offend your nationality. Castlebar, we must allow, is a fine provincial city though Killala’s the Mayo city, I believe; and Claremorris, which is your own town I think, is, as all admit, a gem of Paradise: only it’s a pity so many of the houses have been unroofed lately. It adds perhaps to the picturesque effect, but it must, I should think, take away from the comfort.’
‘Not a house in Claremorris belongs to me,’ said Lord Ballindine, again rather sulky, ‘or ever did to any of my family. I would as soon own Claremorris, though, as I would Castleblakeney. Your own town is quite as shattered-looking a place.’
‘That’s quite true but I have some hopes that Castleblakeney will be blotted out of the face of creation before I come into possession.’
‘But I was saying about Savy O’Leary,’ again interposed Morris, ‘did you ever hear what he did?’ But Blake would not allow his guest the privilege of another story. ‘If you encourage Morris,’ said he, “we shall never get our whist,’ and with that he rose from the table and walked away into the next room. They played high. Morris always played high if he could, for he made money by whist. Tierney was not a gambler by profession; but the men he lived among all played, and he, therefore, got into the way of it, and played the game well, for he was obliged to do so in his own defence. Blake was an adept at every thing of the kind; and though the card-table was not the place where his light shone brightest, still he was quite at home at it.
As might be supposed, Lord Ballindine did not fare well among the three. He played with each of them, one after the other, and lost with them all. Blake, to do him justice, did not wish to see his friend’s money go into the little member’s pocket, and, once or twice, proposed giving up; but Frank did not second the proposal, and Morris was inveterate. The consequence was that, before the table was broken up, Lord Ballindine had lost a sum of money which he could very ill spare, and went to bed in a very unenviable state of mind, in spite of the brilliant prospects on which his friends congratulated him.
The next morning, at breakfast, when Frank was alone with Blake, he explained to him how matters really stood at Grey Abbey. He told him how impossible he had found it to insist, on seeing Miss Wyndham so soon after her brother’s death, and how disgustingly disagreeable, stiff and repulsive the earl had been; and, by degrees, they got to talk of other things, and among them, Frank’s present pecuniary miseries.
‘There can be no doubt, I suppose,’ said Dot, when Frank had consoled himself by anathematising the earl for ten minutes, ‘as to the fact of Miss Wyndham’s inheriting her brother’s fortune?’
‘Faith, I don’t know; I never thought about her fortune if you’ll believe me. I never even remembered that her brother’s death would in any way affect her in the way of money, until after I left Grey Abbey.’
‘Oh, I can believe you capable of anything in the way of imprudence.’
‘Ah, but, Dot, to think of that pompous fool who sits and caws in that dingy book-room of his, with as much wise self-confidence as an antiquated raven to think of him insinuating that I had come there looking for Harry Wyndham’s money; when, as you know, I was as ignorant of the poor fellow’s death as Lord Cashel was himself a week ago. Insolent blackguard! I would never, willingly, speak another word to him, or put my foot inside that infernal door of his, if it were to get ten times all Harry Wyndham’s fortune.’
‘Then, if I understand you, you now mean to relinquish your claims to Miss Wyndham’s hand.’
‘No; I don’t believe she ever sent the message her uncle gave me. I don’t see why I’m to give her up, just because she’s got this money.’
‘Nor I, Frank, to tell the truth; especially considering how badly you want it yourself. But I don’t think quarrelling with the uncle is the surest way to get the niece.’
‘But, man, he quarrelled with me.’
‘It takes two people to quarrel. If he quarrelled with you, do you be the less willing to come to loggerheads with him.’
‘Wouldn’t it be the best plan, Dot, to carry her off?’
‘She wouldn’t go, my boy: rope ladders and post-chaises are out of fashion.’
‘But if she’s really fond of me and, upon my honour, I don’t believe I’m flattering myself in thinking that she is why the deuce shouldn’t she marry me, malgr? Lord Cashel? She must be her own mistress in a week or two. By heavens, I cannot stomach that fellow’s arrogant assumption of superiority.’
‘It will be much more convenient for her to marry you bon gr? Lord Cashel, whom you may pitch to the devil, in any way you like best, as soon as you have Fanny Wyndham at Kelly’s Court. But, till that happy time, take my advice, and submit to the cawing. Rooks and ravens are respectable birds, just because they do look so wise. It’s a great thing to look wise; the doing so does an acknowledged fool, like Lord Cashel, very great credit.’
‘But what ought I to do? I can’t go to the man’s house when he told me expressly not to do so.’
‘Oh, yes, you can: not immediately, but by and by in a month or six weeks. I’ll tell you what I should do, in your place; and remember, Frank, I’m quite in earnest now, for it’s a very different thing playing a game for twenty thousand pounds, which, to you, joined to a wife, would have been a positive irreparable loss, and starting for five or six times that sum, which would give you an income on which you might manage to live.’
‘Well, thou sapient counsellor but, I tell you beforehand, the chances are ten to one I shan’t follow your plan.’
‘Do as you like about that: you shan’t, at any rate, have me to blame. I would in the first place, assure myself that Fanny inherited her brother’s money.’
‘There’s no doubt about that. Lord Cashel said as much.’
‘Make sure of it however. A lawyer’ll do that for you, with very little trouble. Then, take your name off the turf at once; it’s worth your while to do it now. You may either do it by a bona fide sale of the horses, or by running them in some other person’s name. Then, watch your opportunity, call at Grey Abbey, when the earl is not at home, and manage to see some of the ladies. If you can’t do that, if you can’t effect an entr?e, write to Miss Wyndham; don’t be too lachrymose, or supplicatory, in your style, but ask her to give you a plain answer personally, or in her own handwriting.’
‘And if she declines the honour?’
‘If, as you say and as I believe, she loves, or has loved you, I don’t think she’ll do so. She’ll submit to a little parleying, and then she’ll capitulate. But it will be much better that you should see her, if possible, without writing at all.’
‘I don’t like the idea of calling at Grey Abbey. I wonder whether they’ll go to London this season?’
‘If they do, you can go after them. The truth is simply this, Ballindine; Miss Wyndham will follow her own fancy in the matter, in spite of her guardian; but, if you make no further advances to her, of course she can make none to you. But I think the game is in your own hand. You haven’t the head to play it, or I should consider the stakes as good as won.’
‘But then, about these horses, Dot. I wish I could sell them, out and out, at once.’
‘You’ll find it very difficult to get anything like the value for a horse that’s well up for the Derby. You see, a purchaser must make up his mind to so much outlay: there’s the purchase-money, and expense of English training, with so remote a chance of any speedy return.’
‘But you said you’d advise me to sell them.’
‘That’s if you can get a purchaser or else run them in another name. You may run them in my name, if you like it; but Scott must understand that I’ve nothing whatever to do with the expense.’
‘Would you not buy them yourself, Blake?’
‘No. I would not.’
‘Why not?’
‘If I gave you anything like the value for them, the bargain would not suit me; and if I got them for what they’d be worth to me, you’d think, and other people would say, that I’d robbed you.’
Then followed a lengthened and most intricate discourse on the affairs of the stable. Frank much wanted his friend to take his stud entirely off his hands, but this Dot resolutely refused to do. In the course of conversation, Frank owned that the present state of his funds rendered it almost impracticable for him to incur the expense of sending his favourite, Brien Boru, to win laurels in England. He had lost nearly three hundred pounds the previous evening which his account at his banker’s did not enable him to pay; his Dublin agent had declined advancing him more money at present, and his tradesmen were very importunate. In fact, he was in a scrape, and Dot must advise him how to extricate himself from it.
‘I’ll tell you the truth, Ballindine,’ said he; ‘as far as I’m concerned myself, I never will lend money, except where I see, as a matter of business, that it is a good speculation to do so. I wouldn’t do it for my father.’
‘Who asked you?’ said Frank, turning very red, and looking very angry.
‘You did not, certainly; but I thought you might, and you would have been annoyed when I refused you; now, you have the power of being indignant, instead. However, having said so much, I’ll tell you what I think you should do, and what I will do to relieve you, as far as the horses are concerned. Do you go down to Kelly’s Court, and remain there quiet for a time. You’ll be able to borrow what money you absolutely want down there, if the Dublin fellows actually refuse; but do with as little as you can. The horses shall run in my name for twelve months. If they win, I will divide with you at the end of the year the amount won, after deducting their expenses. If they lose, I will charge you with half the amount lost, including the expenses. Should you not feel inclined, at the end of the year, to repay me this sum, I will then keep the horses, instead, or sell them at Dycer’s, if you like it better, and hand you the balance if there be any. What do you say to this? You will be released from all trouble, annoyance, and expense, and the cattle will, I trust, be in good hands.’
‘That is to say, that, for one year, you are to possess one half of whatever value the horses may be?’
‘Exactly: we shall be partners for one year.’
‘To make that fair,’ said Frank, ‘you ought to put into the concern three horses, as good and as valuable as my three.’
‘Yes; and you ought to bring into the concern half the capital to be expended in their training; and knowledge, experience, and skill in making use of them, equal to mine. No, Frank; you’re mistaken if you think that I can afford to give up my time, merely for the purpose of making an arrangement to save you from trouble.’
‘Upon my word, Dot,’ answered the other, ‘you’re about the coolest hand I ever met! Did I ask you for your precious time, or anything else? You’re always afraid that you’re going to be done. Now, you might make a distinction between me and some of your other friends, and remember that I am not in the habit of doing anybody.’
‘Why, I own I don’t think it very likely that I, or indeed anyone else, should suffer much from you in that way, for your sin is not too much sharpness.’
‘Then why do you talk about what you can afford to do?’
‘Because it’s necessary. I made a proposal which you thought an unfair one. You mayn’t believe me, but it is a most positive fact, that my only object in making that proposal was, to benefit you. You will find it difficult to get rid of your horses on any terms; and yet, with the very great stake before you in Miss Wyndham’s fortune, it would be foolish in you to think of keeping them; and, on this account, I thought in what manner. I could take them from you. If they belong to my stables I shall consider myself bound to run them to the best advantage, and ’
‘Well, well for heaven’s sake don’t speechify about it.’
‘Stop a moment, Frank, and listen, for I must make you understand. I must make you see that I am not taking advantage of your position, and trying to rob my own friend in my own house. I don’t care what most people say of me, for in my career I must expect people to lie of me. I must, also, take care of myself. But I do wish you to know, that though I could not disarrange my schemes for you, I would not take you in.’
‘Why, Dot how can you go on so? I only thought I was taking a leaf out of your book, by being careful to make the best bargain I could.’
‘Well, as I was saying I would run the horses to the best advantage especially Brien, for the Derby: by doing so, my whole book would be upset: I should have to bet all round again and, very likely, not be able to get the bets I want. I could not do this without a very strong interest in the horse. Besides, you remember that I should have to go over with him to England myself, and that I should be obliged to be in England a great deal at a time when my own business would require me here.’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Frank, ‘you’re going on as though it were necessary to defend yourself. I never accused you of anything.’
‘Never mind whether you did or no. You understand me now: if it will suit you, you can take my offer, but I should be glad to know at once.’
While this conversation was going on, the two young men had left the house, and sauntered out into Blake’s stud-yard. Here were his stables, where he kept such horses as were not actually in the trainer’s hands and a large assortment of aged hunters, celebrated timber-jumpers, brood mares, thoroughbred fillies, cock-tailed colts, and promising foals. They were immediately joined by Blake’s stud groom, who came on business intent, to request a few words with his master; which meant that Lord Ballindine was to retreat, as it was full time for his friend to proceed to his regular day’s work. Blake’s groom was a very different person in appearance, from the sort of servant in the possession of which the fashionable owner of two or three horses usually rejoices. He had no diminutive top boots; no loose brown breeches, buttoned low beneath the knee; no elongated waistcoat with capacious pockets; no dandy coat with remarkably short tail. He was a very ugly man of about fifty, named John Bottom, dressed somewhat like a seedy gentleman; but he understood his business well, and did it; and was sufficiently wise to know that he served his own pocket best, in the long run, by being true to his master, and by resisting the numerous tempting offers which were made to him by denizens of the turf to play foul with his master’s horses. He was, therefore, a treasure to Blake; and he knew it, and valued himself accordingly.
‘Well, John,’ said his master, ‘I suppose I must desert Lord Ballindine again, and obey your summons. Your few words will last nearly till dinner, I suppose?’
‘Why, there is a few things, to be sure, ‘ll be the better for being talked over a bit, as his lordship knows well enough. I wish we’d as crack a nag in our stables, as his lordship.’
‘Maybe we may, some day; one down and another come on, you know; as the butcher-boy said.’
‘At any rate, your horses don’t want bottom’ said Frank.
He he he! laughed John, or rather tried to do so. He had laughed at that joke a thousand times; and, in the best of humours, he wasn’t a merry man.
‘Well, Frank,’ said Blake, ‘the cock has crowed; I must away. I suppose you’ll ride down to Igoe’s, and see Brien: but think of what I’ve said, and,’ he added, whispering ‘remember that I will do the best I can for the animals, if you put them into my stables. They shall be made second to nothing, and shall only and always run to win.’
So, Blake and John Bottom walked off to the box tables and home paddocks.
Frank ordered his horse, and complied with his friend’s suggestion, by riding down to Igoe’s. He was not in happy spirits as he went; he felt afraid that his hopes, with regard to Fanny, would be blighted; and that, if he persevered in his suit, he would only be harassed, annoyed, and disappointed. He did not see what steps he could take, or how he could manage to see her. It would be impossible for him to go to Grey Abbey, after having been, as he felt, turned out by Lord Cashel. Other things troubled him also. What:should he now do with himself? It was true that he could go down to his own house; but everyone at Kelly’s Court expected him to bring with him a bride and a fortune; and, instead of that, he would have to own that he had been jilted, and would be reduced to the disagreeable necessity of borrowing money from his own tenants. And then, that awful subject, money took possession of him. What the deuce was he to do? What a fool he had been, to be seduced on to the turf by such a man as Blake! And then, he expressed a wish to himself that Blake had been a long way off before he ever saw him. There he was, steward of the Curragh, the owner of the best horse in Ireland, and absolutely without money to enable him to carry on the game till he could properly retreat from it!
Then he was a little unfair upon his friend: he accused him of knowing his position, and wishing to take advantage of it; and, by the time he had got to Igoe’s, his mind was certainly not in a very charitable mood towards poor Dot. He had, nevertheless, determined to accept his offer, and to take a last look at the three Milesians.
The people about the stables always made a great fuss with Lord Ballindine, partly because he was one of the stewards, and partly because he was going to run a crack horse for the Derby in England; and though, generally speaking, he did not care much for personal complimentary respect, he usually got chattered and flattered into good humour at Igoe’s.
‘Well, my lord,’ said a sort of foreman, or partner, or managing man, who usually presided over the yard, ‘I think we’ll be apt to get justice to Ireland on the downs this year. That is, they’ll give us nothing but what we takes from ’em by hard fighting, or running, as the case may be.’
‘How’s Brien looking this morning, Grady?’
‘As fresh as a primrose, my lord, and as clear as crystal: he’s ready, this moment, to run through any set of three years old as could be put on the Curragh, anyway.’
‘I’m afraid you’re putting him on too forward.’
‘Too forrard, is it, my lord? not a bit. He’s a hoss as naturally don’t pick up flesh; though he feeds free, too. He’s this moment all wind and bottom, though, as one may say, he’s got no training. He’s niver been sthretched yet. Faith it’s thrue I’m telling you, my lord.’
‘I know Scott doesn’t like getting horses, early in the season, that are too fine too much drawn up; he thinks they lose power by it, and so they do; it’s the distance that kills them, at the Derby. It’s so hard to get a young horse to stay the distance.’
‘That’s thrue, shure enough, my lord; and there isn’t a gentleman this side the wather, anyway, undherstands thim things betther than your lordship.’
‘Well, Grady, let’s have a look at the young chieftain: he’s all right about the lungs, anyway.’
‘And feet too, my lord; niver saw a set of claner feet with plates on: and legs too! If you were to canter him down the road, I don’t think he’d feel it; not that I’d like to thry, though.’
‘Why, he’s not yet had much to try them.’
‘Faix, he has, my lord: didn’t he win the Autumn Produce Stakes?’
‘The only thing he ever ran for.’
‘Ah, but I tell you, as your lordship knows very well no one betther that it’s a ticklish thing to bring a two year old to the post, in anything like condition with any running in him at all, and not hurt his legs.’
‘But I think he’s all right eh, Grady?’
‘Right? your lordship knows he’s right. I wish he may be made righter at John Scott’s, that’s all. But that’s unpossible.’
‘Of course, Grady, you think he might be trained here, as well as at the other side of the water?’
‘No, I don’t, my lord: quite different. I’ve none of thim ideas at all, and never had, thank God. I knows what we can do, and I knows what they can do breed a hoss in Ireland, train him in the North of England, and run him in the South; and he’ll do your work for you, and win your money, steady and shure.’
‘And why not run in the North, too?’
‘They’re too ‘cute, my lord: they like to pick up the crumbs themselves small blame to thim in that matther. No; a bright Irish nag, with lots of heart, like Brien Boru, is the hoss to stand on for the Derby; where all run fair and fair alike, the best wins; but I won’t say but he’ll be the betther for a little polishing at Johnny Scott’s.’
‘Besides, Grady, no horse could run immediately after a sea voyage. Do you remember what a show we made of Peter Simple at Kilrue?’
‘To be shure I does, my lord: besides, they’ve proper gallops there, which we haven’t and they’ve betther manes of measuring horses: why, they can measure a horse to half a pound, and tell his rale pace on a two-mile course, to a couple of seconds. Take the sheets off, Larry, and let his lordship run his hand over him. He’s as bright as a star, isn’t he?’
‘I think you’re getting him too fine. I’m sure Scott’ll say so.’
‘Don’t mind him, my lord. He’s not like one of those English cats, with jist a dash of speed about ’em, and nothing more brutes that they put in training half a dozen times in as many months. Thim animals pick up a lot of loose, flabby flesh in no time, and loses it in less; and, in course, av’ they gets a sweat too much, there’s nothin left in ’em; not a hapoth. Brien’s a different guess sort of animal from that.’
‘Were you going to have him out, Grady?’
‘Why, we was not that is, only just for walking exercise, with his sheets on: but a canter down the half mile slope, and up again by the bushes won’t go agin him.’
‘Well, saddle him then, and let Pat get up.’
‘Yes, my lord’; and Brien was saddled by the two men together, with much care and ceremony; and Pat was put up ‘and now, Pat,’ continued Grady, ‘keep him well in hand down the slope don’t let him out at all at all, till you come to the turn: when you’re fairly round the corner, just shake your reins the laste in life, and when you’re halfway up the rise, when the lad begins to snort a bit, let him just see the end of the switch just raise it till it catches his eye; and av’ he don’t show that he’s disposed for running, I’m mistaken. We’ll step across to the bushes, my lord, and see him come round.’
Lord Ballindine and the managing man walked across to the bushes accordingly, and Pat did exactly as he was desired. It was a pretty thing to see the beautiful young animal, with his sleek brown coat shining like a lady’s curls, arching his neck, and throwing down his head, in his impatience to start. He was the very picture of health and symmetry; when he flung up his head you’d think the blood was running from his nose, his nostrils were so ruddy bright. He cantered off in great impatience, and fretted and fumed because the little fellow on his back would be the master, and not let him have his play down the slope, and round the corner by the trees. It was beautiful to watch him, his motions were so easy, so graceful. At the turn he answered to the boy’s encouragement, and mended his pace, till again he felt the bridle, and then, as the jock barely moved his right arm, he bounded up the rising ground, past the spot where Lord Ballindine and the trainer were standing, and shot away till he was beyond the place where he knew his gallop ordinarily ended. As Grady said, he hadn’t yet been stretched; he had never yet tried his own pace, and he had that look so beautiful in a horse when running, of working at his ease, and much within his power.
‘He’s a beautiful creature,’ said Lord Ballindine, as he mournfully reflected that he was about to give up to Dot Blake half the possession of his favourite, and the whole of the nominal title. It was such a pity he should be so hampered; the mere ?clat of possessing such a horse was so great a pleasure; ‘He is a fine creature,’ said he, ‘and, I am sure, will do well.’
‘Your lordship may say that: he’ll go precious nigh to astonish the Saxons, I think. I suppose the pick-up at the Derby’ll be nigh four thousand this year.’
‘I suppose it will something like that.’
‘Well; I would like a nag out of our stables to do the trick on the downs, and av’ we does it iver, it’ll be now. Mr Igoe’s standing a deal of cash on him. I wonder is Mr Blake standing much on him, my lord?’
‘You’d be precious deep, Grady, if you could find what he’s doing in that way.’
‘That’s thrue for you, my lord; but av’ he, or your lordship, wants to get more on, now’s the time. I’ll lay twenty thousand pounds this moment, that afther he’s been a fortnight at Johnny Scott’s the odds agin him won’t be more than ten to one, from that day till the morning he comes out on the downs.’
‘I dare say not.’
‘I wondher who your lordship’ll put up?’
‘That must depend on Scott, and what sort of a string he has running. He’s nothing, as yet, high in the betting, except Hardicanute.’
‘Nothing, my lord; and, take my word for it, that horse is ownly jist run up for the sake of the betting; that’s not his nathural position. Well, Pat, you may take the saddle off. Will your lordship see the mare out today?’
‘Not today, Grady. Let’s see, what’s the day she runs?’
‘The fifteenth of May, my lord. I’m afraid Mr Watts’ Patriot’ll be too much for her; that’s av’ he’ll run kind; but he don’t do that always. Well, good morning to your lordship.’
‘Good morning, Grady;’ and Frank rode back towards Handicap Lodge.
He had a great contest with himself on his road home. He had hated the horses two days since, when he was at Grey Abbey, and had hated himself, for having become their possessor; and now he couldn’t bear the thought of parting with them. To be steward of the Curragh to own the best horse of the year and to win the Derby, were very pleasant things in themselves; and for what was he going to give over all this glory, pleasure and profit, to another? To please a girl who had rejected him, even jilted him, and to appease an old earl who had already turned him out of his house! No, he wouldn’t do it. By the time that he was half a mile from Igoe’s stables he had determined that, as the girl was gone it would be a pity to throw the horses after her; he would finish this year on the turf; and then, if Fanny Wyndham was still her own mistress after Christmas, he would again ask her her mind. ‘If she’s a girl of spirit,’ he said to himself ‘and nobody knows better than I do that she is, she won’t like me the worse for having shown that I’m not to be led by the nose by a pompous old fool like Lord Cashel,’ and he rode on, fortifying himself in this resolution, for the second half mile. ‘But what the deuce should he do about money?’ There was only one more half mile before he was again at Handicap Lodge. Guinness’s people had his title-deeds, and he knew he had twelve hundred a year after paying the interest of the old incumbrances. They hadn’t advanced him much since he came of age; certainly not above five thousand pounds; and it surely was very hard he could not get five or six hundred pounds when he wanted it so much; it was very hard that he shouldn’t be able to do what he liked with his own, like the Duke of Newcastle. However, the money must be had: he must pay Blake and Tierney the balance of what they had won at whist, and the horse couldn’t go over the water till the wind was raised. If he was driven very hard he might get something from Martin Kelly. These unpleasant cogitations brought him over the third half mile, and he rode through the gate of Handicap Lodge in a desperate state of indecision.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Dot,’ he said, when he met his friend coming in from his morning’s work; ‘and I’m deuced sorry to do it, for I shall be giving you the best horse of his year, and something tells me he’ll win the Derby.’
‘I suppose “something” means old Jack Igoe, or that blackguard Grady,’ said Dot. ‘But as to his winning, that’s as it may be. You know the chances are sixteen to one he won’t.’
‘Upon my honour I don’t think they are.’
‘Will you take twelve to one?’
‘Ah! youk now, Dot, I’m not now wanting to bet on the horse with you. I was only saying that I’ve a kind of inward conviction that he will win.’
‘My dear Frank,’ said the other, ‘if men selling horses could also sell their inward convictions with them, what a lot of articles of that description there would be in the market! But what were you going to say you’d do?’
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll agree to your terms providing you’ll pay half the expenses of the horses since the last race each of them ran. You must see that would be only fair, supposing the horses belonged to you, equally with me, ever since that time.’
‘It would be quite fair, no doubt, if I agreed to it: it would be quite fair also if I agreed to give you five hundred pounds; but I will do neither one nor the other.’
‘But look here, Dot Brien ran for the Autumn Produce Stakes last October, and won them: since then he has done nothing to reimburse me for his expense, nor yet has anything been taken out of him by running. Surely, if you are to have half the profits, you should at any rate pay half the expenses?’
‘That’s very well put, Frank; and if you and I stood upon equal ground, with an arbiter between us by whose decision we were bound to abide, and to whom the settlement of the question was entrusted, your arguments would, no doubt, be successful, but ’
‘Well that’s the fair way of looking at it.’
‘But, as I was going to say, that’s not the case. We are neither of us bound to take any one’s decision; and, therefore, any terms which either of us chooses to accept must be fair. Now I have told you my terms the lowest price, if you like to call it so at which I will give your horses the benefit of my experience, and save you from their immediate pecuniary pressure; and I will neither take any other terms, nor will I press these on you.’
‘Why, Blake, I’d sooner deal with all the Jews of Israel —’
‘Stop, Frank: one word of abuse, and I’ll wash my hands of the matter altogether.’
‘Wash away then, I’ll keep the horses, though I have to sell my hunters and the plate at Kelly’s Court into the bargain.’
‘I was going to add only your energy’s far too great to allow of a slow steady man like me finishing his sentence I was going to say that, if you’re pressed for money as you say, and if it will be any accommodation, I will let you have two hundred and fifty pounds at five per cent. on the security of the horses; that is, that you will be charged with that amount, and the interest, in the final closing of the account at the end of the year, before the horses are restored to you.’
Had an uninterested observer been standing by he might have seen with half an eye that Blake’s coolness was put on, and that his indifference to the bargain was assumed. This offer of the loan was a second bid, when he found the first was likely to be rejected: it was made, too, at the time that he was positively declaring that he would make none but the first offer. Poor Frank! he was utterly unable to cope with his friend at the weapons with which they were playing, and he was consequently most egregiously plundered. But it was in an affair of horse-flesh, and the sporting world, when it learned the terms on which the horses were transferred from Lord Ballindine’s name to that of Mr Blake, had not a word of censure to utter against the latter. He was pronounced to be very wide awake, and decidedly at the top of his profession; and Lord Ballindine was spoken of, for a week, with considerable pity and contempt.
When Blake mentioned the loan Frank got up, and stood with his back to the fire; then bit his lips, and walked twice up and down the room, with his hands in his pockets, and then he paused, looked out of the window, and attempted to whistle: then he threw himself into an armchair, poked out both his legs as far as he could, ran his fingers through his hair, and set to work hard to make up his mind. But it was no good; in about five minutes he found he could not do it; so he took out his purse, and, extracting half-a-crown, threw it up to the ceiling, saying,
‘Well, Dot head or harp? If you’re right, you have them.’
‘Harp,’ cried Dot.
They both examined the coin. ‘They’re yours,’ said Frank, with much solemnity; ‘and now you’ve got the best horse yes, I believe the very best horse alive, for nothing.’
‘Only half of him, Frank.’
‘Well,’ said Frank; ‘it’s done now, I suppose.’
‘Oh, of course it is,’ said Dot: ‘I’ll draw out the agreement, and give you a cheque for the money to-night.’
And so he did; and Frank wrote a letter to Igoe, authorizing him to hand over the horses to Mr Blake’s groom, stating that he had sold them for so ran his agreement with Dot and desiring that his bill for training, &c., might be forthwith forwarded to Kelly’s Court. Poor Frank! he was ashamed to go to take a last look at his dear favourites, and tell his own trainer that he had sold his own horses.
The next morning saw him, with his servant, on the Ballinasloe coach, travelling towards Kelly’s Court; and, also, saw Brien Boru, Granuell, and Finn M’Goul led across the downs, from Igoe’s stables to Handicap Lodge.
The handsome sheets, hoods, and rollers, in which they had hitherto appeared, and on which the initial B was alone conspicuous, were carefully folded up, and they were henceforth seen in plainer, but as serviceable apparel, labelled W. B.
‘Will you give fourteen to one against Brien Boru?’ said Viscount Avoca to Lord Tathenham Corner, about ten days after this, at Tattersall’s.
‘I will,’ said Lord Tathenham.
‘In hundreds?’ said the sharp Irishman.
‘Very well,’ said Lord Tathenham; and the bet was booked.
‘You didn’t know, I suppose,’ said the successful viscount, ‘that Dot Blake has bought Brien Boru?
‘And who the devil’s Dot Blake?’ said Lord Tathenham.
‘Oh! you’ll know before May’s over,’ said the viscount.
It will be remembered that the Tuam attorney, Daly, dined with Barry Lynch, at Dunmore House, on the same evening that Martin Kelly reached home after his Dublin excursion; and that, on that occasion, a good deal of interesting conversation took place after dinner. Barry, however, was hardly amenable to reason at that social hour, and it was not till the following morning that he became thoroughly convinced that it would be perfectly impossible for him to make his sister out a lunatic to the satisfaction of the Chancellor.
He then agreed to abandon the idea, and, in lieu of it, to indict, or at any rate to threaten to indict, the widow Kelly and her son for a conspiracy, and an attempt to inveigle his sister Anty into a disgraceful marriage, with the object of swindling her out of her property.
‘I’ll see Moylan, Mr Lynch,’ said Daly; ‘and if I can talk him over, I think we might succeed in frightening the whole set of them, so far as to prevent the marriage. Moylan must know that if your sister was to marry young Kelly, there’d be an end to his agency; but we must promise him something, Mr Lynch.’
‘Yes; I suppose we must pay him, before we get anything out of him.’
‘No, not before but he must understand that he will get something, if he makes himself useful. You must let me explain to him that if the marriage is prevented, you will make no objection to his continuing to act as Miss Lynch’s agent; and I might hint the possibility of his receiving the rents on the whole property.’
‘Hint what you like, Daly, but don’t tie me down to the infernal ruffian. I suppose we can throw him overboard afterwards, can’t we?’
‘Why, not altogether, Mr Lynch. If I make him a definite promise, I shall expect you to keep to it.’
‘Confound him! but tell me, Daly; what is it he’s to do? and what is it we’re to do?’
‘Why, Mr Lynch, it’s more than probable, I think, that this plan of Martin Kelly’s marrying your sisther may have been talked over between the ould woman, Moylan, and the young man; and if so, that’s something like a conspiracy. If I could worm that out of him, I think I’d manage to frighten them.’
‘And what the deuce had I better do? You see, there was a bit of a row between us. That is, Anty got frightened when I spoke to her of this rascal, and then she left the house. Couldn’t you make her understand that she’d be all right if she’d come to the house again?’
While Barry Lynch had been sleeping off the effects of the punch, Daly had been inquiring into the circumstances under which Anty had left the house, and he had pretty nearly learned the truth; he knew, therefore, how much belief to give to his client’s representation.
‘I don’t think,’ said he, ‘that your sister will be likely to come back at present; she will probably find herself quieter and easier at the inn. You see, she has been used to a quiet life.’
‘But, if she remains there, she can marry that young ruffian any moment she takes it into her head to do so. There’s always some rogue of a priest ready to do a job of that sort.’
‘Exactly so, Mr Lynch. Of course your sister can marry whom she pleases, and when she pleases, and neither you nor any one else can prevent her; but still ’
‘Then what the devil’s the use of my paying you to come here and tell me that?’
‘That’s your affair: I didn’t come without being sent for. But I was going to tell you that, though we can’t prevent her from marrying if she pleases, we may make her afraid to do so. You had better write her a kind, affectionate note, regretting what has taken place between you, and promising to give her no molestation of any kind, if she will return to her own house and keep a copy of this letter. Then I will see Moylan; and, if I can do anything with him, it will be necessary that you should also see him. You could come over to Tuam, and meet him in my office; and then I will try and force an entrance into the widow’s castle, and, if possible, see your sister, and humbug the ould woman into a belief that she has laid herself open to criminal indictment.. We might even go so far as to have notices served on them; but, if they snap their fingers at us, we can do nothing further. My advice in that case would be, that you should make the best terms in your power with Martin Kelly.’
‘And let the whole thing go! I’d sooner Why, Daly, I believe you’re as bad as Blake! You’re afraid of these huxtering thieves!’
‘If you go on in that way, Mr Lynch, you’ll get no professional gentleman to act with you. I give you my best advice; it you don’t like it, you needn’t follow it; but you won’t get a solicitor in Connaught to do better for you than what I’m proposing.’
‘Confusion!’ muttered Barry, and he struck the hot turf in the grate a desperate blow with the tongs which he had in his hands, and sent the sparks and bits of fire flying about the hearth.
‘The truth is, you see, your sister’s in her full senses; there’s the divil a doubt of that; the money’s her own, and she can marry whom she pleases. All that we can do is to try and make the Kellys think they have got into a scrape.’
‘But this letter What on earth am I to say to her?’
‘I’ll just put down what I would say, were I you; and if you like you can copy it.’ Daly then wrote the following letter
‘My Dear Anty,
Before taking other steps, which could not fail of being very disagreeable to you and to others, I wish to point out to you how injudiciously you are acting in leaving your own house; and to try to induce you to do that which will be most beneficial to yourself, and most conducive to your happiness and respectability. If you will return to Dunmore House, I most solemnly promise to leave you unmolested. I much regret that my violence on Thursday should have annoyed you, but I can assure you it was attributable merely to my anxiety on your account. Nothing, however, shall induce me to repeat it. But you must be aware that a little inn is not a fit place for you to be stopping at; and I am obliged to tell you that I have conclusive evidence of a conspiracy having been formed, by the family with whom you are staying, to get possession of your money; and that this conspiracy was entered into very shortly after the contents of my father’s will had been made public. I must have this fact proved at the Assizes, and the disreputable parties to it punished, unless you will consent, at any rate for a time, to put yourself under the protection of your brother.
‘In the meantime pray believe me, dear Anty, in spite of appearances,
‘Your affectionate brother,
‘BARRY LYNCH.’
It was then agreed that this letter should be copied and signed by Barry, and delivered by Terry on the following morning, which was Sunday. Daly then returned to Tuam, with no warm admiration for his client.
In the meantime the excitement at the inn, arising from Anty’s arrival and Martin’s return, was gradually subsiding. These two important events, both happening on the same day, sadly upset the domestic economy of Mrs Kelly’s establishment. Sally had indulged in tea almost to stupefaction, and Kattie’s elfin locks became more than ordinarily disordered. On the following morning, however, things seemed to fall, a little more into their places: the widow was, as usual, behind her counter; and if her girls did not give her as much assistance as she desired of them, and as much as was usual with them, they were perhaps excusable, for they could not well leave their new guest alone on the day after her coming to them.
Martin went out early to Toneroe; doubtless the necessary labours of the incipient spring required him at the farm but I believe that if his motives were analysed, he hardly felt himself up to a t?te-…-t?te with his mistress, before he had enjoyed a cool day’s consideration of the extraordinary circumstances which had brought her into the inn as his mother’s guest. He, moreover, wished to have a little undisturbed conversation with Meg, and to learn from her how Anty might be inclined towards him just at present. So Martin spent his morning among his lambs and his ploughs; and was walking home, towards dusk, tired enough, when he met Barry Lynch, on horseback, that hero having come out, as usual, for his solitary ride, to indulge in useless dreams of the happy times he w0uld have, were his sister only removed from her tribulations in this world. Though Martin had never been on friendly terms with his more ambitious neighbour, there had never, up to this time, been any quarrel between them, and he therefore just muttered ‘Good morning, Mr Lynch,’ as he passed him on the road.
Barry said nothing, and did not appear to see him as he passed; but. some idea struck him as soon as he had passed, and he pulled in his horse and hallooed out ‘Kelly!’ and, as Martin stopped, he added, ‘Come here a moment I want to speak to you.’
‘Well, Mr Barry, what is it?’ said the other, returning. Lynch paused, and evidently did not know whether to speak or let it alone. At last he said, ‘Never mind I’ll get somebody else to say what I was going to say. But you’d better look sharp what you’re about, my lad, or you’ll find yourself in a scrape that you don’t dream of.’
‘And is that all you called me back for?’ said Martin.
‘That’s all I mean to say to you at present.’
‘Well then, Mr Lynch, I must say you’re very good, and I’m shure I will look sharp enough. But, to my thinking, d’you know, you want looking afther yourself a precious dale more than I do,’ and then he turned to proceed homewards, but said, as he was going ‘Have you any message for your sisther, Mr Lynch?’
‘By —! my young man, I’ll make you pay for what you’re doing,’ answered Barry.
‘I know you’ll be glad to hear she’s pretty well: she’s coming round from the thratement she got the other night; though, by all accounts, it’s a wondher she’s alive this moment to tell of it.’
Barry did not attempt any further reply, but rode on, sorry enough that he had commenced the conversation. Martin got home in time for a snug tea with Anty and his sisters, and succeeded in prevailing on the three to take each. a glass of punch; and, before Anty went to bed he began to find himself more at his ease with her, and able to call her by her Christian name without any disagreeable emotion. He certainly had a most able coadjutor in Meg. She made room on the sofa for him between herself and his mistress, and then contrived that the room should be barely sufficient, so that Anty was rather closely hemmed up in one corner: moreover, she made Anty give her opinion as to Martin’s looks after his metropolitan excursion, and tried hard to make Martin pay some compliments to Anty’s appearance. But in this she failed, although she gave him numerous opportunities.
However, they passed. the evening very comfortably quite sufficiently so to make Anty feel that the kindly, humble friendship of the inn was infinitely preferable to the. miserable grandeur of Dunmore House; and it is probable that all the lovemaking in the world would not have operated so strongly in Martin’s favour as this feeling. Meg, however, was not satisfied, for as soon as she had seen Jane and Anty into the bedroom she returned to her brother, and lectured him as to his lukewarm manifestations of affection.
‘Martin,’ said she, returning into the little sitting-room, and carefully shutting the door after her, ‘you’re the biggest bosthoon of a gandher I ever see, to be losing your opportunities with Anty this way! I b’lieve it’s waiting you are for herself to come forward to you. Do you think a young woman don’t expect something more from a lover than jist for you to sit by her, and go on all as one as though she was one of your own sisthers? Av’ once she gets out of this before the priest has made one of the two of you, mind, I tell you, it’ll be all up with you. I wondher, Martin, you haven’t got more pluck in you!’
‘Oh! bother, Meg. You’re thinking of nothing but kissing and slobbhering. Anty’s not the same as you and Jane, and doesn’t be all agog for such nonsense!’
‘I tell you, Martin, Anty’s a woman; and, take my word for it, what another girl likes won’t come amiss to her. Besides, why don’t you spake to her?’
‘Spake? why, what would you have me spake?’
‘Well, Martin, you’re a fool. Have you, or have you not, made up your mind to marry Anty?’
‘To be shure I will, av’ she’ll have me.’
‘And do you expect her to have you without asking?’
‘Shure, you know, didn’t I ask her often enough?’
‘Ah, but you must do more than jist ask her that way. She’ll never make up her mind to go before the priest, unless you say something sthronger to her. Jist tell her, plump out, you’re ready and willing, and get the thing done before Lent. What’s to hindher you? shure, you know,’ she added, in a whisper, ‘you’ll not get sich a fortune as Anty’s in your way every day. Spake out, man, and don’t be afraid of her: take my word she won’t like you a bit the worse for a few kisses.’
Martin promised to comply with his sister’s advice, and to sound Anty touching their marriage on the following morning after mass.
On the Sunday morning, at breakfast, the widow proposed to Anty that she should go to mass with herself and her daughters; but Anty trembled so violently at the idea of showing herself in public, after her escape from Dunmore House, that the widow did not press her to do so, although afterwards she expressed her disapprobation of Anty’s conduct to her own girls.
‘I don’t see what she has to be afeard of,’ said she, ‘in going to get mass from her own clergyman in her own chapel. She don’t think, I suppose, that Barry Lynch’d dare come in there to pull her out; before the blessed altar, glory be to God.’
‘Ah but, mother, you know, she has been so frighted.’
‘Frighted, indeed! She’ll get over these tantrums, I hope, before Sunday next, or I know where I’ll wish her again.’
So Anty was left at home, and the rest of the family went to mass. When the women returned, Meg manoeuvred greatly, and, in fine, successfully, that no one should enter the little parlour to interrupt the wooing she intended should take place there. She had no difficulty with Jane, for she told her what her plans were; and though her less energetic sister did not quite agree in the wisdom of her designs, and pronounced an opinion that it would be ‘better to let things settle down a bit,’ still she did not presume to run counter to Meg’s views; but Meg had some work to dispose of her mother. It would not have answered at all, as Meg had very well learned herself, to caution her mother not to interrupt Martin in his love-making, for the widow had no charity for such follies. She certainly expected her daughters to get married, and wished them to be well and speedily settled; but she watched anything like a flirtation on their part as closely as a cat does a mouse. If any young man ere in the house, she’d listen to the fall of his footsteps with the utmost care; and when she had reason to fear that there was anything like a lengthened t?te-…-t?te upstairs, she would steal on the pair, if possible, unawares, and interrupt, without the least reserve, any billing and cooing which might be going on, sending the delinquent daughter to her work, and giving a glower at the swain, which she expected might be sufficient to deter him from similar offences for some little time.
The girls, consequently, were taught to be on the alert to steal about on tiptoe, to elude their mother’s watchful ear, to have recourse to a thousand little methods of deceiving her, and to baffle her with her own weapons. The mother, if she suspected that any prohibited frolic was likely to be carried on, at a late hour, would tell her daughters that she was going to bed, and would shut herself up for a couple of hours in her bedroom, and then steal out eavesdropping, peeping through key-holes and listening at door-handles; and the daughters, knowing their mother’s practice, would not come forth till the listening and peeping had been completed, and till they had ascertained, by some infallible means, that the old woman was between the sheets.
Each party knew the tricks of the other; and yet, taking it all in all, the widow got on very well with her children, and everybody said what a good mother she had been: she was accustomed to use deceit, and was therefore not disgusted by it in others. Whether the system of domestic manners which I have described is one likely to induce to sound restraint and good morals is a question which I will leave to be discussed by writers on educational points.
However Meg managed it, she did contrive that her mother should not go near the little parlour this Sunday morning, and Anty was left alone, to receive her. lover’s visit. I regret to say that he was long in paying it. He loitered about the chapel gates before he came home; and seemed more than usually willing to talk to anyone about anything. At last, however, just as Meg was getting furious, he entered the inn.
‘Why, Martin, you born ideot av’ she ain’t waiting for you this hour and more!’
‘Thim that’s long waited for is always welcome when they do come,’ replied Martin.
‘Well afther all I’ve done for you! Are you going in now? cause, av’ you don’t, I’ll go and tell her not to be tasing herself about you. I’ll neither be art or part in any such schaming.’
‘Schaming, is it, Meg? Faith, it’d be a clever fellow’d beat you at that,’ and, without waiting for his sister’s sharp reply, he walked into the little room where Anty was sitting.
‘So, Anty, you wouldn’t come to mass?’ he began.
‘Maybe I’ll go next Sunday,’ said she.
‘It’s a long time since you missed mass before, I’m thinking.’
‘Not since the Sunday afther father’s death.’
‘It’s little you were thinking then how soon you’d be stopping down here with us at the inn.’
‘That’s thrue for you, Martin, God knows.’ At this point of the conversation Martin stuck fast: he did not know Rosalind’s recipe for the difficulty a man feels, when lie finds himself gravelled for conversation with his mistress; so he merely scratched his head, and thought hard to find what he’d say next. I doubt whether the conviction, which was then strong on his mind, that Meg was listening at the keyhole to every word that passed, at all assisted him in the operation. At last, some Muse came to his aid, and he made out another sentence.
‘It was very odd my finding you down here, all ready before me, wasn’t it?’
‘ ‘Deed it was: your mother was a very good woman to me that morning, anyhow.’
‘And tell me now, Anty, do you like the inn?’
‘ ‘Deed I do but it’s quare, like.’
‘How quare?’
‘Why, having Meg and Jane here: I wasn’t ever used to anyone to talk to, only just the servants.’
‘You’ll have plenty always to talk to now eh, Anty?’ and Martin tried a sweet look at his lady love.
‘I’m shure I don’t know. Av’ I’m only left quiet, that’s what I most care about.’
‘But, Anty, tell me you don’t want always to be what you call quiet?’
‘Oh! but I do why not?’
‘But you don’t mane, Anty, that you wouldn’t like to have some kind of work to do some occupation, like?’
‘Why, I wouldn’t like to be idle; but a person needn’t be idle because they’re quiet.’
‘And that’s thrue, Anty.’ And Martin broke down again.
‘There’d be a great crowd in chapel, I suppose?’ said Anty.
‘There was a great crowd.’
‘And what was father Geoghegan preaching about?’
‘Well, then, I didn’t mind. To tell the truth, Anty, I came out most as soon as the preaching began; only I know he told the boys to pray that the liberathor might be got out of his throubles; and so they should not that there’s much to throuble him, as far as the verdict’s concerned.’
‘Isn’t there then? I thought they made him out guilty?’
‘So they did, the false ruffians: but what harum’ll that do? they daren’t touch a hair of his head!’
Politics, however, are riot a favourable introduction to love-making: so Martin felt, and again gave up the subject, in the hopes that he might find something better. ‘What a fool the man is!’ thought Meg to herself, at the door ‘if I had a lover went on like that, wouldn’t I pull his ears!’
Martin got up walked across the room looked out of the little window felt very much ashamed of himself, and, returning, sat himself down on the sofa.
‘Anty,’ he said, at last, blushing nearly brown as he spoke; ‘Were you thinking of what I was spaking to you about before I went to Dublin?’
Anty blushed also, now. ‘About what?’ she said.
‘Why, just about you and me making a match of it. Come, Anty, dear, what’s the good of losing time? I’ve been thinking of little else; and, after what’s been between us, you must have thought the matther over too, though you do let on to be so innocent. Come, Anty, now that you and mother’s so thick, there can be nothing against it.’
‘But indeed there is, Martin, a great dale against it though I’m sure it’s good of you to be thinking of me. There’s so much against it, I think we had betther be of one mind, and give it over at once.’
‘And what’s to hinder us marrying, Anty, av’ yourself is plazed? Av’ you and I, and mother are plazed, sorrow a one that I know of has a word to say in the matther.’
‘But Barry don’t like it!’
‘And, afther all, are you going to wait for what Barry likes? You didn’t wait for what was plazing to Barry Lynch when you came down here; nor I yet did mother when she went up and fetched you down at five in the morning, dreading he’d murdher you outright. And it was thrue for her, for he would, av’ he was let, the brute. And are you going to wait for what he likes?’
‘Whatever he’s done, he’s my brother; and there’s only the two of us.’
‘But it’s not that, Anty don’t you know it’s not that? Isn’t it because you’re afraid of him? because he threatened and frightened you? And what on ‘arth could he do to harum you av’ you was the wife of of a man who’d, anyway, not let Barry Lynch, or anyone else, come between you and your comfort and aise?’
‘But you don’t know how wretched I’ve been since he spoke to me about about getting myself married: you don’t know what I’ve suffered; and I’ve a feeling that good would never come of it.’
‘And, afther all, are you going to tell me now, that I may jist go my own way? Is that to be your answer, and all I’m to get from you?’
‘Don’t be angry with me, Martin. I’m maning to do everything for the best.’
‘Maning? what’s the good of maning? Anyways, Anty, let me have an answer, for I’ll not be making a fool of myself any longer. Somehow, all the boys here, every sowl in Dunmore, has it that you and I is to be married and now, afther promising me as you did ’
‘Oh, I never promised, Martin.’
‘It was all one as a promise and now I’m to be thrown overboard. And why? because Barry Lynch got dhrunk, and frightened you. Av’ I’d seen the ruffian striking you, I think I’d ‘ve been near putting it beyond him to strike another woman iver again.’
‘Glory be to God that you wasn’t near him that night,’ said Anty, crossing herself. ‘It was bad enough, but av’ the two of you should ever be set fighting along of me, it would kill me outright.’
‘But who’s talking of fighting, Anty, dear?’ and Martin drew a little nearer to her ‘— who’s talking of fighting? I never wish to spake another word to Barry the longest day that ever comes. Av’ he’ll get out of my way, I’ll go bail he’ll not find me in his.’
‘But he wouldn’t get out of your way, nor get out of mine, av’ you and I got married: he’d be in our way, and we’d be in his, and nothing could iver come of it but sorrow and misery, and maybe bloodshed.’
‘Them’s all a woman’s fears. Av’ you an I were once spliced by the priest, God bless him, Barry wouldn’t trouble Dunmore long afther.’
‘That’s another rason, too. Why should I be dhriving him out of his own house? you know he’s a right to the house, as well as I.’
‘Who’s talking of dhriving him out? Faith, he’d be welcome to stay there long enough for me! He’d go, fast enough, without dhriving, though; you can’t say the counthry wouldn’t have a good riddhance of him. But never mind that, Anty: it wasn’t about Barry, one way or the other, I was thinking, when I first asked you to have me; nor it wasn’t about myself altogether, as I could let you know; though, in course, I’m not saying but that myself’s as dear to myself as another, an’ why not? But to tell the blessed truth, I was thinking av’ you too; and that you’d be happier and asier, let alone betther an’ more respecthable, as an honest man’s wife, as I’d make you, than being mewed up there in dread of your life, never daring to open your mouth to a Christian, for fear of your own brother, who niver did, nor niver will lift a hand to sarve you, though he wasn’t backward to lift it to sthrike you, woman and sisther though you were. Come, Anty, darlin,’ he added, after a pause, during which he managed to get his arm behind her back, though he couldn’t be said to have it fairly round her waist ‘Get quit of all these quandaries, and say at once, like an honest girl, you’ll do what I’m asking and what no living man can hindher you from or say against it. Or else jist fairly say you won’t, and I’ll have done with it.’
Anty sat silent, for she didn’t like to say she wouldn’t; and she thought of her brother’s threats, and was afraid to say she would. Martin advanced a little in his proceedings, however, and now succeeded in getting his arm round her waist and, having done so, he wasn’t slow in letting her feel its pressure. She made an attempt, with her hand, to disengage herself certainly not a successful, and, probably, not a very energetic attempt, when the widow’s step was heard on the stairs. Martin retreated from his position on the sofa, and Meg from hers outside the door, and Mrs Kelly entered the room, with Barry’s letter in her hand, Meg following, to ascertain the cause of the unfortunate interruption.
‘Anty, here’s a letter for ye,’ began the widow. ‘Terry’s brought it down from the house, and says it’s from Misther Barry. I b’lieve he was in the right not to bring it hisself.’
‘A letther for me, Mrs Kelly? what can he be writing about? I don’t just know whether I ought to open it or no;’ and Anty trembled, as she turned the epistle over and over again in her hands.
‘What for would you not open it? The letther can’t hurt you, girl, whatever the writher might do.’
Thus encouraged, Anty broke the seal, and made herself acquainted with the contents of the letter which Daly had dictated; but she then found, that her difficulties had only just commenced. Was she to send an answer, and if so, what answer? And if she sent none, what notice ought she to take of it? The matter was one evidently too weighty to be settled by her own judgment, so she handed the letter to be read, first by the widow, and then by Martin, and lastly by the two girls, who, by this time, were both in the room.
‘Well, the dethermined impudence of that blackguard!’ exclaimed Mrs Kelly. ‘Conspiracy! av’ that don’t bang Banagher! What does the man mean by “conspiracy,” eh, Martin?’
‘Faith, you must ask himself that, mother; and then it’s ten to one he can’t tell you.’
‘I suppose,’ said Meg, ‘he wants to say that we’re all schaming to rob Anty of her money only he daren’t, for the life of him, spake it out straight forrard.’
‘Or, maybe,’ suggested Jane, ‘he wants to bring something agen us like this affair of O’Connell’s only he’ll find, down here, that he an’t got Dublin soft goods to deal wid.’
Then followed a consultation, as to the proper steps to be taken in the matter.
The widow advised that father Geoghegan should be sent for to indite such a reply as a Christian ill-used woman should send to so base a letter. Meg, who was very hot on the subject, and who had read-of some such proceeding in a novel, was for putting up in a blank envelope the letter itself, and returning it to Barry by the hands of Jack, the ostler; at the same time, she declared that ‘No surrender’ should be her motto. Jane was of opinion that ‘Miss Anastasia Lynch’s compliments to Mr Barry Lynch, and she didn’t find herself strong enough to move to Dunmore House at present,’ would answer all purposes, and be, on the whole, the safest course. While Martin pronounced that ‘if Anty would be led by him, she’d just pitch the letter behind the fire an’ take no notice of it, good, bad, or indifferent.’
None of these plans pleased Anty, for, as she remarked, ‘After all, Barry was her brother, and blood was thickher than wather.’ So, after much consultation, pen, ink, and paper were procured, and the following letter was concocted between them, all the soft bits having been great stumbling-blocks, in which, however, Anty’s quiet perseverance carried the point, in opposition to the wishes of all the Kellys. The words put in brackets were those peculiarly objected to.
Dunmore Inn. February, l844.
DEAR BARRY,
I (am very sorry I) can’t come back to the house, at any rate just at present. I am not very sthrong in health, and there are kind female friends about me here, which you know there couldn’t be up at the house.’ Anty herself, in the original draft inserted ‘ladies,’ but the widow’s good sense repudiated the term, and insisted on the word ‘females’: Jane suggested that ‘females’ did not sound quite respectful. alone, and Martin thought that Anty might call them ‘female friends,’ which was consequently done. ‘Besides, there are reasons why I’m quieter here, till things are a little more settled. I will forgive (and forget) all that happened up at the house between us’ ‘Why, you can’t forget it,’ said Meg. ‘Oh, I could, av’ he was kind to me. I’d forget it all in a week av’ he was kind to me,’ answered Anty ‘(and I will do nothing particular without first letting you know).’ They were all loud against this paragraph, but they could not carry their point. ‘I must tell you, dear Barry, that you are very much mistaken about the people of this house: they are dear, kind friends to me, and, wherever I am, I must love them to the last day of my life but indeed I am, and hope you believe so,
Your affectionate sister,
ANASTASIA LYNCH.
When the last paragraph was read over Anty’s shoulder, Meg declared she was a dear, dear creature: Jane gave her a big kiss, and began crying; even the widow put the corner of her apron to her eye, and Martin, trying to look manly and unconcerned, declared that he was ‘quite shure they all loved her, and they’d be brutes and bastes av’ they didn’t!’
The letter, as given above, was finally decided on; written, sealed, and despatched by Jack, who was desired to be very particular to deliver it at the front door, with Miss Lynch’s love, which was accordingly done. All the care, however, which had been bestowed on it did not make it palatable to Barry, who was alone when he received it, and merely muttered, as he read it, ‘Confound her, low-minded slut! friends, indeed! what business has she with friends, except such as I please? if I’d the choosing of her friends, they’d be a strait waistcoat, and the madhouse doctor. Good Heaven! that half my property no, but two-thirds of it should belong to her I the stupid, stiff-necked robber!’
These last pleasant epithets had reference to his respected progenitor.
On the same evening, after tea, Martin endeavoured to make a little further advance with Anty, for he felt that he had been interrupted just as she was coming round; but her nerves were again disordered, and he soon found that if he pressed her now, he should only get a decided negative, which he might find it very difficult to induce her to revoke.
Anty’s letter was sent off early on the Monday morning at least, as early as Barry now ever managed to do anything to the attorney at Tuam, with strong injunctions that no time was to be lost in taking further steps, and with a request that Daly would again come out to Dunmore. This, however, he did not at present think it expedient to do. So he wrote to Barry, begging him to come into Tuam on the Wednesday, to meet Moylan, whom he, Daly, would, if possible, contrive to see on the intervening day.
‘Obstinate puppy!’ said Barry to himself ‘if he’d had the least pluck in life he’d have broken the will, or at least made the girl out a lunatic. But a Connaught lawyer hasn’t half the wit or courage now that he used to have.’ However, he wrote a note to Daly, agreeing to his proposal, and promising to be in Tuam at two o’clock on the Wednesday.
On the following day Daly saw Moylan, and had a long conversation with him. The old man held out for a long time, expressing much indignation at being supposed capable of joining in any underhand agreement for transferring Miss Lynch’s property to his relatives the Kellys, and declaring that he would make public to every one in Dunmore and Tuam the base manner in which Barry Lynch was treating his sister. Indeed, Moylan kept to his story so long and so firmly that the young attorney was nearly giving him up; but at last he found his weak side.
‘Well, Mr Moylan,’ he said, ‘then I can only say your own conduct is very disinterested and I might even go so far as to say that you appear to me foolishly indifferent to your own concerns. Here’s the agency of the whole property going a-begging: the rents, I believe, are about a thousand a-year: you might be recaving them all by jist a word of your mouth, and that only telling the blessed truth; and here, you’re going to put the whole thing into the hands of young Kelly; throwing up even the half of the business you have got!’
‘Who says I’m afther doing any sich thing, Mr Daly?’
‘Why, Martin Kelly says so. Didn’t as many as four or five persons hear him say, down at Dunmore, that divil a one of the tenants’d iver pay a haporth of the November rents to anyone only jist to himself? There was father Geoghegan heard him, an Doctor Ned Blake.’
‘Maybe he’ll find his mistake, Mr Daly.’
‘Maybe he will, Mr Moylan. Maybe we’ll put the whole affair into the courts, and have a regular recaver over the property, under the Chancellor. People, though they’re ever so respectable in their way and I don’t mane to say a word against the Kellys, Mr Moylan, for they were always friends of mine but people can’t be allowed to make a dead set at a property like this, and have it all their own way, like the bull in the china-shop. I know there has been an agreement made, and that, in the eye of the law, is a conspiracy. I positively know that an agreement has been made to induce Miss Lynch to become Martin Kelly’s wife; and I know the parties to it, too; and I also know that an active young fellow like him wouldn’t be paying an agent to get in his rents; and I thought, if Mr Lynch was willing to appoint you his agent, as well as his sister’s, it might be worth your while to lend us a hand to settle this affair, without forcing us to stick people into a witness-box whom neither I nor Mr Lynch ’
‘But what the devil can I ’
‘Jist hear me out, Mr Moylan; you see, if they once knew the Kellys I mane that you wouldn’t lend a hand to this piece of iniquity ’
‘Which piece of iniquity, Mr Daly? for I’m entirely bothered.’
‘Ah, now, Mr Moylan, none of your fun: this piece of iniquity of theirs, I say; for I can call it no less. If they once knew that you wouldn’t help ’em, they’d be obliged to drop it all; the matter’d never have to go into court at all, and you’d jist step into the agency fair and aisy; and, into the bargain, you’d do nothing but an honest man’s work.’
The old man broke down, and consented to ‘go agin the Kellys,’ as he somewhat ambiguously styled his apostasy, provided the agency was absolutely promised to him; and he went away with the understanding that he was to come on the following day and meet Mr Lynch.
At two o’clock, punctual to the time of his appointment, Moylan was there, and was kept waiting an hour in Daly’s little parlour. At the end of this time Barry came in, having invigorated his courage and spirits with a couple of glasses of brandy. Daly had been for some time on the look-out for him, for he wished to say a few words to him in private, and give him his cue before lie took him into the room where Moylan was sitting. This could not well be done in the office, for it was crowded. It would, I think, astonish a London attorney in respectable practice, to see the manner in which his brethren towards the west of Ireland get through their work. Daly’s office was open to all the world; the front door of the house, of which he rented the ground floor, was never closed, except at night; nor was the door of the office, which opened immediately into the hail.
During the hour that Moylan was waiting in the parlour, Daly was sitting, with his hat on, upon a high stool, with his feet resting on a small counter which ran across the room, smoking a pipe: a boy, about seventeen years of age, Daly’s clerk, was filling up numbers of those abominable formulas of legal persecution in which attorneys deal, and was plying his trade as steadily as though no February blasts were blowing in on him through the open door, no sounds of loud and boisterous conversation were rattling in his ears. The dashing manager of one of the branch banks in the town was sitting close to the little stove, and raking out the turf ashes with the office rule, while describing a drinking-bout that had taken place on the previous Sunday at Blake’s of Blakemount; he had a cigar in his mouth, and was searching for a piece of well-kindled turf, wherewith to light it. A little fat oily shopkeeper in the town, who called himself a woollen merchant, was standing with the raised leaf of the counter in his hand, roaring with laughter at the manager’s story. Two frieze coated farmers, outside the counter, were stretching across it, and whispering very audibly to Daly some details of litigation which did not appear very much to interest him; and a couple of idle blackguards were leaning against the wall, ready to obey any behest of the attorney’s which might enable them to earn a sixpence without labour, and listening with all their, ears to the different interesting topics of conversation which might be broached in the inner office.
‘Here’s the very man I’m waiting for, at last,’ said Daly, when, from his position on the stool, he saw, through the two open doors, the bloated red face of Barry Lynch approaching; and, giving an impulse to his body by a shove against the wall behind him, he raised himself on to the counter, and, assisting himself by a pull at the collar of the frieze coat of the farmer who was in the middle of his story, jumped to the ground, and met his client at the front door.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Lynch,’ said he as soon as he had shaken hands with him, ‘but will you just step up to my room a minute, for I want to spake to you;’ and he took him up into his bed-room, for he hadn’t a second sitting-room. ‘You’ll excuse my bringing you up here, for the office was full, you see, and Moylan’s in the parlour.’
‘The d l he is! He came round then, did he, eh, Daly?’
‘Oh, I’ve had a terrible hard game to play with him. I’d no idea he’d be so tough a customer, or make such a good fight; but I think I’ve managed him.’
‘There was a regular plan then, eh, Daly? Just as I said. It was a regular planned scheme among them?’
‘Wait a moment, and you’ll know all about it, at least as much as I know myself; and, to tell the truth, that’s devilish little. But, if we manage to break off the match, and get your sister clane out of the inn there, you must give Moylan your agency, at any rate for two or three years.’
‘You haven’t promised that?’
‘But I have, though. We can do nothing without it: it was only when I hinted that, that the old sinner came round.’
‘But what the deuce is it he’s to do for us, after all?’
‘He’s to allow us to put him forward as a bugbear, to frighten the Kellys with: that’s all, and, if we can manage that, that’s enough. But come down now. I only wanted to warn you that, if you think the agency is too high a price to pay for the man’s services, whatever they may be, you must make up your mind to dispense with them.’
‘Well,’ answered Barry, as he followed the attorney downstairs, ‘I can’t understand what you’re about; but I suppose you must be right;’ and they went into the little parlour where Moylan was sitting.
Moylan and Barry Lynch had only met once, since the former had been entrusted to receive Anty’s rents, on which occasion Moylan had been grossly insulted by her brother. Barry, remembering the meeting, felt very awkward at the idea of entering into amicable conversation with him, and crept in at the door like a whipped dog. Moylan was too old to feel any such compunctions, and consequently made what he intended to be taken as a very complaisant bow to his future patron. He was an ill-made, ugly, stumpy man, about fifty; with a blotched face, straggling sandy hair, and grey shaggy whiskers. He wore a long brown great coat, buttoned up to his chin, and this was the only article of wearing apparel visible upon him: in his hands he twirled a shining new four-and-fourpenny hat.
As soon as their mutual salutations were over, Daly commenced his business.
‘There is no doubt in the world, Mr Lynch,’ said he, addressing Barry, ‘that a most unfair attempt has been made by this family to get possession of your sister’s property a most shameful attempt, which the law will no doubt recognise as a misdemeanour. But I think we shall be able to stop their game without any law at all, which will save us the annoyance of putting Mr Moylan here, and other respectable witnesses, on the table. Mr Moylan says that very soon afther your father’s will was made known ’
‘Now, Mr Daly shure I niver said a word in life at all about the will,’ said Moylan, interrupting him.
‘No, you did not: I mane, very soon afther you got the agency ’
‘Divil a word I said about the agency, either.’
‘Well, well; some time ago he says that, some time ago, he and Martin Kelly were talking over your sister’s affairs; I believe the widow was there, too.’
‘Ah, now, Mr Daly why’d you be putting them words into my mouth? sorrow a word of the kind I iver utthered at all.’
‘What the deuce was it you did say, then?’
‘Faix, I don’t know that I said much, at all.’
‘Didn’t you say, Mr Moylan, that Martin Kelly was talking to you about marrying Anty, some six weeks ago?’
‘Maybe I did; he was spaking about it.’
‘And, if you were in the chair now, before a jury, wouldn’t you swear that there was a schame among them to get Anty Lynch married to Martin Kelly? Come, Mr Moylan, that’s all we want to know: if you can’t say as much as that for us now, just that we may let the Kellys know what sort of evidence we could bring against them, if they push us, we must only have you and others summoned, and see what you’ll have to say then.’
‘Oh, I’d say the truth, Mr Daly divil a less and I’d do as much as that now; but I thought Mr Lynch was wanting to say something about the property?’
‘Not a word then I’ve to say about it,’ said Barry, ‘except that I won’t let that robber, young Kelly, walk off with it, as long as there’s law in the land.’
‘Mr Moylan probably meant about the agency,’ observed Daly.
Barry looked considerably puzzled, and turned to the attorney for assistance. ‘He manes,’ continued Daly, ‘that he and the Kellys are good friends, and it wouldn’t be any convenience to him just to say anything that wouldn’t be pleasing to them, unless we could make him independent of them: isn’t that about the long and the short of it, Mr Moylan?’
‘Indepindent of the Kellys, is it, Mr Daly? Faix, thin, I’m teetotally indepindent of them this minute, and mane to continue so, glory be to God. Oh, I’m not afeard to tell the thruth agin ere a Kelly in Galway or Roscommon and, av’ that was all, I don’t see why I need have come here this day. When I’m called upon in the rigular way, and has a rigular question put me before the Jury, either at Sessions or ‘Sizes, you’ll find I’ll not be bothered for an answer, and, av’ that’s all, I b’lieve I may be going,’ and he made a movement towards the door.
‘Just as you please, Mr Moylan,’ said Daly; ‘and you may be sure that you’ll not be long without an opportunity of showing how free you are with your answers. But, as a friend, I tell you you’ll be wrong to lave this room till you’ve had a little more talk with Mr Lynch and myself. I believe I mentioned to you Mr Lynch was looking out for someone to act as agent over his portion of the Dunmore property?’
Barry looked as black as thunder, but he said nothing.
‘You war, Mr Daly. Av’ I could accommodate Mr Lynch, I’m shure I’d be happy to undhertake the business.’
‘I believe, Mr Lynch,’ said Daly, turning to the other, ‘I may go so far as to promise Mr Moylan the agency of the whole property, provided Miss Lynch is induced to quit the house of the Kellys? Of course, Mr Moylan, you can see that as long as Miss Lynch is in a position of unfortunate hostility to her brother, the same agent could not act for both; but I think my client is inclined to put his property under your management, providing his sister returns to her own home. I believe I’m stating your wishes, Mr Lynch.’
‘Manage it your own way,’ said Barry, ‘for I don’t see what you’re doing. If this man can do anything for me, why, I suppose I must pay him for it; and if so, your plan’s as good a way of paying him as another.’
The attorney raised his hat with his hand, and scratched his head: he was afraid that Moylan would have again gone off in a pet at Lynch’s brutality, but the old man sat quite quiet. He wouldn’t have much minded what was said to him, as long as he secured the agency.
‘You see, Mr Moylan,’ continued Daly, ‘you can have the agency. Five per cent. upon the rents is what my client ’
‘No, Daly Five per cent! I’m shot if I do!’ exclaimed Barry.
‘I’m gething twenty-five pounds per annum from Miss Anty, for her half, and I wouldn’t think of collecting the other for less,’ declared Moylan.
And then a long battle followed on this point, which it required all Daly’s tact and perseverance to adjust. The old man was pertinacious, and many whispers had to be made into Barry’s ear before the matter could be settled. It was, however, at last agreed that notice was to be served on the Kellys, of Barry Lynch’s determination to indict them for a conspiracy; that Daly was to see the widow, Martin, and, if possible, Anty, and tell them all that Moylan was prepared to prove that such a conspiracy had been formed care was also to be taken that copies of the notices so served should be placed in Anty’s hands. Moylan, in the meantime, agreed to keep out of the way, and undertook, should he be unfortunate enough to encounter any of the family of the Kellys, to brave the matter out by declaring that ‘av’ he war brought before the Judge and Jury he couldn’t do more than tell the blessed thruth, and why not?’ In reward for this, he was to be appointed agent over the entire property the moment that Miss Lynch left the inn, at which time he was to receive a document, signed by Barry, undertaking to retain him in the agency for four years certain, or else to pay him a hundred pounds when it was taken from him.
These terms having been mutually agreed to, and Barry having, with many oaths, declared that he was a most shamefully ill-used man, the three separated. Moylan skulked off to one of his haunts in the town; Barry went to the bank, to endeavour to get a bill discounted; and Daly returned to his office, to prepare the notices for the unfortunate widow and her son.
Daly let no grass grow under his feet, for early on the following morning he hired a car, and proceeded to Dunmore, with the notices in his pocket. His feelings were not very comfortable on his journey, for he knew that he was going on a bad errand, and he was not naturally either a heartless or an unscrupulous man, considering that he was a provincial attorney; but he was young in business, and poor, and he could not afford to give up a client. He endeavoured to persuade himself that it certainly was a wrong thing for Martin Kelly to marry such a woman as Anty Lynch, and that Barry had some show of justice on his side; but he could not succeed. He knew that Martin was a frank, honourable fellow, and that a marriage with him would be the very thing most likely to make Anty happy; and he was certain, moreover, that, however anxious Martin might naturally be to secure the fortune, he would take no illegal or even unfair steps to do so. He felt that his client was a ruffian of the deepest die: that his sole object was to rob his sister, and that he had no case which it would be possible even to bring before a jury. His intention now was, merely to work upon the timidity and ignorance of Anty and the other females, and to frighten them with a bugbear in the shape of a criminal indictment; and Daly felt that the work he was about was very, very dirty work. Two or three times on the road, he had all but made up his mind to tear the letters he had in his pocket, and to drive at once to Dunmore House, and tell Barry Lynch that he would do nothing further in the case. And he would have done so, had he not reflected that he had gone so far with Moylan, that he could not recede, without leaving it in the old rogue’s power to make the whole matter public.
As he drove down the street of Dunmore, he endeavoured to quiet his conscience, by reflecting that he might still do much to guard Anty from the ill effects of her brother’s rapacity; and that at any rate he would not see her property taken from her, though she might he frightened out of he matrimonial speculation.
He wanted to see the widow, Martin, and Anty, and if possible to see them, at first, separately; and fortune so far favoured him that, as he got off the car, he saw our hero standing at the inn door.
‘Ah! Mr Daly,’ said he, coming up to the car and shaking hands with the attorney, for Daly put out his hand to him ‘how are you again? I suppose you’re going up to the house? They say you’re Barry’s right hand man now. Were you coming into the inn?’
‘Why, I will step in just this minute; but I’ve a word I want to spake to you first.’
‘To me!’ said Martin.
‘Yes, to you, Martin Kelly: isn’t that quare?’ and then he gave directions to the driver to put up the horse, and bring the car round again in an hour’s time. ‘D’ you remember my telling you, the day we came into Dunmore on the car together, that I was going up to the house?’
‘Faith I do, well; it’s not so long since.’
‘And do you mind my telling you, I didn’t know from Adam what it was for, that Barry Lynch was sending for me?’
‘And I remember that, too.’
‘And that I tould you, that when I did know I shouldn’t tell you?’
‘Begad you did, Mr Daly; thim very words.’
‘Why then, Martin, I tould you what wasn’t thrue, for I’m come all the way from Tuam, this minute, to tell you all about it.’
Martin turned very red, for he rightly conceived that when an attorney came all the way from Tuam to talk to him, the tidings were not likely to be agreeable.
‘And is it about Barry Lynch’s business?’
‘It is.’
‘Then it’s schames there’s divil a doubt of that.’
‘It is schames, as you say, Martin,’ said Daly, slapping him on the shoulder ‘fine schames no less than a wife with four hundred a-year! Wouldn’t that be a fine schame?’
‘ ‘Deed it would, Mr Daly, av’ the wife and the fortune were honestly come by.’
‘And isn’t it a hundred pities that I must come and upset such a pretty schame as that? But, for all that, it’s thrue. I’m sorry for you, Martin, but you must give up Anty Lynch.’
‘Give her up, is it? Faith I haven’t got her to give up, worse luck.’
‘Nor never will, Martin; and that’s worse luck again.’
‘Well, Mr Daly, av’ that’s all you’ve come to say, you might have saved yourself car-hire. Miss Lynch is nothing to me, mind; how should she be? But av’ she war, neither Barry Lynch who’s as big a rogue as there is from this to hisself and back again nor you, who, I take it, ain’t rogue enough to do Barry’s work, wouldn’t put me off it.’
‘Well, Martin; thank ‘ee for the compliment. But now, you know what I’ve come about, and there’s no joke in it. Of course I don’t want you to tell me anything of your plans; but, as Mr Lynch’s lawyer, I must tell you so much as this of his: that, if his sister doesn’t lave the inn, and honestly assure him that she’ll give up her intention of marrying you, he’s determined to take proceedings.’ He then fumbled in his pocket, and, bringing out the two notices, handed to Martin the one addressed to him. ‘Read that, and it’ll give you an idea what we’re afther. And when I tell you that Moylan owns, and will swear to it too, that he was present when all the plans were made, you’ll see that we’re not going to sea without wind in our sails.’
‘Well I’m shot av’ I know the laist in the world what all this is about!’ said Martin, as he stood in the street, reading over the legally-worded letter ‘“conspiracy!” well that’ll do, Mr Daly; go on “enticing away from her home! “ that’s good, when the blackguard nearly knocked the life out of her, and mother brought her down here, from downright charity, and to prevent murdher “wake intellects!” well, Mr Daly, I didn’t expect this kind of thing from you: begorra, I thought you were above this! wake intellects! faith, they’re a dale too sthrong, and too good and too wide awake too, for Barry to get the betther of her that way. Not that I’m in the laist in life surprised at anything he’d do; but I thought that you, Mr Daly, wouldn’t put your hands to such work as that.’
Daly felt the rebuke, and felt it strongly, too; but now that he was embarked in the business, he must put the best face he could upon it. Still it was a moment or two before he could answer the young farmer.
‘Why,’ he said ‘why did you put your hands to such a dirty job as this, Martin? you were doing well, and not in want and how could you let anyone persuade you to go and sell yourself to, an ugly ould maid, for a few hundred pounds? Don’t you know, that if you were married to her this minute, you’d have a lawsuit that’d go near to ruin you before you could get possession of the property?’
‘Av’ I’m in want of legal advice, Mr Daly, which thank God, I’m not, nor likely to be but av’ I war, it’s not from Barry Lynch’s attorney I’d be looking for it.’
‘I’d be sorry to see you in want of it, Martin; but if you mane to keep, out of the worst kind of law, you’d better have done with Anty Lynch. I’d a dale sooner be drawing up a marriage settlement between you and some pretty girl with five or six hundred pound fortune, than I’d be exposing to the counthry such a mane trick as this you’re now afther, of seducing a poor half-witted ould maid, like Anty Lynch, into a disgraceful marriage.’
‘Look here, Mr Daly,’ said the other; ‘you’ve hired yourself out to Barry Lynch,, and you must do his work, I suppose, whether it’s dirthy or clane; and you know yourself, as well as I can tell you, which it’s likely to be ’
‘That’s my concern; lave that to me; you’ve quite enough to do to mind yourself.’
‘But av’ he’s nothing betther for you to do, than to send you here bally-ragging and calling folks out of their name, he must have a sight more money to spare than I give him credit for; and you must be a dale worse off than your neighbours thought you, to do it for him.’
‘That’ll do,’ said Mr Daly, knocking at the door of the inn; ‘only, remember, Mr Kelly, you’ve now received notice of the steps which my client feels himself called upon to take.’
Martin turned to go away, but then, reflecting that it would be as well not to leave the women by themselves in the power of the enemy, he also waited at the door till it was opened by Katty.
‘Is Miss Lynch within?’ asked Daly.
‘Go round to the shop, Katty,’ said Martin, ‘and tell mother to come to the door. There’s a gentleman wanting her.’
‘It was Miss Lynch I asked for,’ said Daly, still looking to the girl for an answer.
‘Do as I bid you, you born idiot, and don’t stand gaping there,’ shouted Martin to the girl, who immediately ran off towards the shop.
‘I might as well warn you, Mr Kelly, that, if Miss Lynch is denied to me, the fact of her being so denied will be a very sthrong proof against you and your family. In fact, it amounts to an illegal detention of her person, in the eye of the law.’ Daly said this in a very low voice, almost a whisper.
‘Faith, the law must have quare eyes, av’ it makes anything wrong with a young lady being asked the question whether or no she wishes to see an attorney, at eleven in the morning.’
‘An attorney!’ whispered Meg to Jane and Anty at the top of the stairs.
‘Heaven and ‘arth,’ said poor Anty, shaking and shivering ‘what’s going to be the matter now?’
‘It’s young Daly,’ said Jane, stretching forward and peeping clown the stairs: ‘I can see the curl of his whiskers.’
By this time the news had reached Mrs Kelly, in the shop, ‘that a sthrange gentleman war axing for Miss Anty, but that she warn’t to be shown to him on no account;’ so the widow dropped her tobacco knife, flung off her dirty apron, and, having summoned Jane and Meg to attend to the mercantile affairs of the establishment turned into the inn, and met Mr Daly and her son still standing at the bottom of the stairs
The widow curtsied ceremoniously, and wished Mr. Daly good morning, and he was equally civil in his salutation.
‘Mr Daly’s going to have us all before the assizes, mother. We’ll never get off without the treadmill, any way: it’s well av’ the whole kit of us don’t have to go over the wather at the queen’s expense.’
‘The Lord be good to us;’ said the widow, crossing herself. What’s the matter, Mr Daly?’
‘Your son’s joking, ma’am. I was only asking to see Miss Lynch, on business.’
‘Step upstairs, mother, into the big parlour, and don’t let’s be standing talking here where all the world can hear us.’
‘And wilcome, for me, I’m shure’ said the widow, stroking down the front of her dress with the palms of her hands, as she walked upstairs ‘and wilcome too for me I’m very shure. I’ve said or done nothing as I wish to consail, Mr Daly. Will you be plazed to take a chair?’ and the widow sat down herself on a chair in the middle of the room, with her hands folded over each other in her lap, as if she was preparing to answer questions from that time to a very late hour in the evening.
‘And now, Mr Daly av’ you’ve anything to say to a poor widdy like me, I’m ready.’
‘My chief object in calling, Mrs Kelly, was to see Miss Lynch. Would you oblige me by letting Miss Lynch know that I’m waiting to see her on business.’
‘Maybe it’s a message from her brother, Mr Daly?’ said Mrs Kelly.
‘You had better go in to Miss Lynch, mother,’ said Martin, ‘and ask her av’ it’s pleasing to her to see Mr Daly. She can see him, in course, av’ she likes.’
‘I don’t see what good’ll come of her seeing him,’ rejoined the widow. ‘With great respect to you, Mr Daly, and not maning to say a word agin you, I don’t see how Anty Lynch’ll be the betther for seeing ere an attorney in the counthry.’
‘I don’t want to frighten you, ma’am,’ said Daly; ‘but I can assure you, you will put yourself in a very awkward position if you refuse to allow me to see Miss Lynch.’
‘Ah, mother!’ said Martin, ‘don’t have a word to say in the matther at all, one way or the other. Just tell Anty Mr Daly wishes to see her let her come or not, just as she chooses. What’s she afeard of, that she shouldn’t hear what anyone has to say to her?’
The widow seemed to be in great doubt and perplexity, and continued whispering with Martin for some time, during which Daly remained standing with his back to the fire. At length Martin said, ‘Av’ you’ve got another of them notices to give my mother, Mr Daly, why don’t you do it?’
‘Why, to tell you the thruth,’ answered the attorney, ‘I don’t want to throuble your mother unless it’s absolutely necessary; and although I have the notice ready in my pocket, if I could see Miss Lynch, I might be spared the disagreeable job of serving it on her.’
‘The Holy Virgin save us!’ said the widow; ‘an’ what notice is it at all; you’re going to serve on a poor lone woman like me?’
‘Be said by me, mother, and fetch Anty in here. Mr Daly won’t expect, I suppose, but what you, should stay and hear what it is he has to say?’
‘Both you and your mother are welcome to hear all that I have to say to the lady,’ said Daly; for he felt that it would be impossible for him to see Anty alone.
The widow unwillingly got up to fetch her guest. When she got to the door, she turned round, and said, ‘And is there a notice, as you calls it, to be sarved on Miss Lynch?’
‘Not a line, Mrs Kelly; not a line, on my honour. I only want her to hear a few words that I’m commissioned by her brother to say to her.’
‘And you’re not going to give her any paper nor nothing of that sort at all?’
‘Not a word, Mrs Kelly.’
‘Ah, mother,’ said Martin, ‘Mr Daly couldn’t hurt her, av’ he war wishing, and he’s not. Go and bring her in.’
The widow went out, and in a few minutes returned, bringing Anty with her, trembling from head to foot. The poor young woman had not exactly heard what had passed between the attorney and the mother and her son, but she knew very well that his visit had reference to her, and that it was in some way connected with her brother. She had, therefore, been in a great state of alarm since Meg and Jane had left her alone. When Mrs Kelly came into the little room where she was sitting, and told her that Mr Daly had come to Dunmore on purpose to see her, her first impulse was to declare that she wouldn’t go to him; and had she done so, the widow would not have pressed her. But she hesitated, for she didn’t like to refuse to do anything which her friend asked her; and when Mrs Kelly said, ‘Martin says as how the man can’t hurt you, Anty, so you’d betther jist hear what it is he has to say,’ she felt that she had no loophole of escape, and got up to comply.
‘But mind, Anty,’ whispered the cautious widow, as her hand was on the parlour door, ‘becase this Daly is wanting to speak to you, that’s no rason you should be wanting to spake to him; so, if you’ll be said by me, you’ll jist hould your tongue, and let him say on.’
Fully determined to comply with this prudent advice, Anty followed the old woman, and, curtseying at Daly without looking at him, sat herself down in the middle of the old sofa, with her hands crossed before her.
‘Anty,’ said Martin, making great haste to speak, before Daly could commence, and then checking himself as he remembered that he shouldn’t have ventured on the familiarity of calling her by her Christian name in Daly’s presence ‘Miss Lynch, I mane as Mr Daly here has come all the way from Tuam on purpose to spake to you, it wouldn’t perhaps be manners in you to let him go back without hearing him. But remember, whatever your brother says, or whatever Mr Daly says for him and it’s all one you’re still your own mistress, free to act and to spake, to come and to go; and that neither the one nor the other can hurt you, or mother, or me, nor anybody belonging to us.’
‘God knows,’ said Daly, ‘I want to have no hand in hurting any of you; but, to tell the truth, Martin, it would be well for Miss Lynch to have a better adviser than you or she may get herself, and, what she’ll think more of, she’ll get her friends maning you, Mrs Kelly, and your family into a heap of throubles.’
‘Oh, God forbid, thin!’ exclaimed Anty.
‘Niver mind us, Mr Daly,’ said the widow. ‘The Kellys was always able to hould their own; thanks be to glory.’
‘Well, I’ve said my say, Mr Daly,’ said Martin, ‘and now do you say your’n: as for throubles, we’ve all enough of thim; but your own must have been bad, when you undhertook this sort of job for Barry Lynch.’
‘Mind yourself, Martin, as I told you before, and you’ll about have enough to do. Miss Lynch, I’ve been instructed by your brother to draw up an indictment against Mrs Kelly and Mr Kelly, charging them with conspiracy to get possession of your fortune.’
‘A what!’ shouted the widow, jumping up from her chair ‘to rob Anty Lynch of her fortune! I’d have you to know, Mr Daly, I wouldn’t demane myself to rob the best gentleman in Connaught, let alone a poor unprotected young woman, whom I’ve ’
‘Whist, mother go asy,’ said Martin. ‘I tould you that that was what war in the paper he gave me; he’ll give you another, telling you all about it just this minute.’
‘Well, the born ruffian! Does he dare to accuse me of wishing to rob his sister! Now, Mr Daly, av’ the blessed thruth is in you this minute, don’t your own heart know who it is, is most likely to rob Anty Lynch? Isn’t it Barry Lynch himself is thrying to rob his own sisther this minute? ay, and he’d murdher her too, only the heart within him isn’t sthrong enough.’
‘Ah, mother! don’t be saying such things,’ said Martin; ‘what business is that of our’n? Let Barry send what messages he plazes; I tell you it’s all moonshine; he can’t hurt the hair of your head, nor Anty’s neither. Go asy, and let Mr Daly say what he has to say, and have done with it.’
‘It’s asy to say “go asy” but who’s to sit still and be tould sich things as that? Rob Anty Lynch indeed!’
‘If you’ll let me finish what I have to say, Mrs Kelly, I think you’ll find it betther for the whole of us,’ said Daly.
‘Go on thin, and be quick with it; but don’t talk to dacent people about robbers any more. Robbers indeed! they’re not far to fitch; and black robbers too, glory be to God.’
‘Your brother, Miss Lynch, is determined to bring this matter before a jury at the assizes, for the sake of protecting you and your property.’
‘Protecthing Anty Lynch! is it Barry? The Holy Virgin defind her from sich prothection! a broken head the first moment the dhrink makes his heart sthrong enough to sthrike her!’
‘Ah, mother! you’re a fool,’ exclaimed Martin: ‘why can’t you let the man go on? ain’t he paid for saying it? Well, Mr Daly, begorra I pity you, to have such things on your tongue; but go on, go on, and finish it.’
‘Your brother conceives this to be his duty,’ continued Daly, rather bothered by the manner in which he had to make his communication, ‘and it is a duty which he is determined to go through with.’
‘Duty!’ said the widow, with a twist of her nose, and giving almost a whistle through her lips, in a manner which very plainly declared the contempt she felt for Barry’s ideas of duty.
‘With this object,’ continued Daly, ‘I have already handed to Martin Kelly a notice of what your brother means to do; and I have another notice prepared in my pocket for his mother. The next step will be to swear the informations before a magistrate, and get the committals made out; Mrs Kelly and her son will then have to give bail for their appearance at the assizes.’
‘And so we can,’ said the widow; ‘betther bail than e’er a Lynch or Daly not but what the Dalys is respictable betther bail, any way, than e’er a Lynch in Galway could show, either for sessions or ‘sizes, by night or by day, winter or summer.’
‘Ah, mother! you don’t understhand: he’s maning that we’re to be tried in the dock, for staling Anty’s money.’
‘Faix, but that’d be a good joke! Isn’t Anty to the fore herself to say who’s robbed her? Take an ould woman’s advice, Mr Daly, and go back to Tuam: it ain’t so asy to put salt on the tail of a Dunmore bird.’
‘And so I will, Mrs Kelly,’ said Daly; ‘but you must let me finish what I have to tell Miss Lynch. This will be a proceeding most disagreeable to your brother’s feelings.’
‘Failings, indeed!’ muttered the widow; ‘faix, I b’lieve his chief failing at present’s for sthrong dhrink!’
‘ But he must go on with it, unless you at once lave the inn, return to your own home, and give him pour promise that you will never marry Martin Kelly.’
Anty blushed deep crimson over her whole face at the mention of her contemplated marriage; and, to tell the truth, so did Martin.
‘Here is the notice,’ said Daly, taking the paper out of his pocket; ‘and the matter now rests with yourself. If you’ll only tell me that you’ll be guided by your brother on this subject, I’ll burn the notice at once; and I’ll undertake to say that, as far as your property is concerned, your brother will not in the least interfere with you in the management of it.’
‘And good rason why, Mr Daly,’ said the widow ‘jist becase he can’t.’
‘Well, Miss Lynch, am I to tell your brother that you are willing to oblige him in this matter?’
Whatever effect Daly’s threats may have had on the widow and her son, they told strongly upon Anty; for she sat now the picture of misery and indecision. At last she said: ‘Oh, Lord defend me! what am I to do, Mrs Kelly?’
‘Do?’ said Martin; ‘why, what should you do but just wish Mr Daly good morning, and stay where you are, snug and comfortable?’
‘Av’ you war to lave this, Anty, and go up to Dunmore House afther all that’s been said and done, I’d say Barry was right, and that Ballinasloe Asylum was the fitting place for you,’ said the widow.
‘The blessed virgin guide and prothect me,’ said Anty, ‘for I want her guidance this minute. Oh, that the walls of a convent was round me this minute I wouldn’t know what throuble was!’
‘And you needn’t know anything about throuble,’ said Martin, who didn’t quite like his mistress’s allusion to a convent. ‘You don’t suppose there’s a word of thruth in all this long story of Mr Daly’s? He knows and I’ll say it out to his face he knows Barry don’t dare carry on with sich a schame. He knows he’s only come here to frighten, you out of this, that Barry may have his will on you again.’
‘And God forgive him his errand here this day,’ said the widow, ‘for it was a very bad one.’
‘If you will allow me to offer you my advice, Miss Lynch,’ said Daly, ‘you will put yourself, at any rate for a time; under your brother’s protection.’
‘She won’t do no sich thing,’ said the widow. ‘What! to be locked into the parlour agin and be nigh murdhered? holy father!’
‘Oh, no,’ said Anty, at last, shuddering in horror at the remembrance of the last night she passed in Dunmore House, ‘I cannot go back to live with him, but I’ll do anything else, av’ he’ll only lave me, and my kind, kind friends, in pace and quiet.’
‘Indeed, and you won’t, Anty,’ said the widow; ‘you’ll do nothing for him. Your frinds that’s av’ you mane the Kellys is very able to take care of themselves.’
‘If your brother, Miss Lynch, will lave Dunmore House altogether, and let you have it to yourself, will you go and live there, and give him the promise not to marry Martin Kelly?’
‘Indeed an’ she won’t,’ said the widow. ‘She’ll give no promise of the kind. Promise, indeed! what for should she promise Barry Lynch whom she will marry, or whom she won’t?’
‘Raily, Mrs Kelly, I think you might let Miss Lynch answer for herself.’
‘I wouldn’t, for all the world thin, go to live at Dunmore House,’ said Anty.
‘And you are determined to stay in this inn here?’
‘In course she is that’s till she’s a snug house of her own,’ said the widow.
‘Ah, mother!’ said Martin, ‘what for will you be talking?’
‘And you’re determined,’ repeated Daly, ‘to stay here?’
‘I am,’ faltered Anty.
‘Then I have nothing further to do than to hand you this, Mrs Kelly’ and he offered the notice to the widow, but she refused to touch it, and he consequently put it down on the table. ‘But it is my duty to tell you, Miss Lynch, that the gentry of this counthry, before whom you will have to appear, will express very great indignation at your conduct in persevering in placing poor people like the Kellys in so dreadful a predicament, by your wilful and disgraceful obstinacy.’
Poor Anty burst into tears. She had been for some time past trying to restrain herself, but Daly’s last speech, and the horrible idea of the gentry of the country browbeating and frowning at her, completely upset her, and she hid her face on the arm of the sofa, and sobbed aloud.
‘Poor people like the Kellys!’ shouted the widow, now for the first time really angry with Daly ‘not so poor, Mr Daly, as to do dirthy work for anyone. I wish I could say as much this day for your mother’s son! Poor people, indeed! I suppose, now, you wouldn’t call Barry Lynch one of your poor people; but in my mind he’s the poorest crature living this day in county Galway. Av’ you’ve done now, Mr Daly, you’ve my lave to be walking; and the less you let the poor Kellys see of you, from this time out, the betther.’
When Anty’s sobs commenced, Martin had gone over to her to comfort her, ‘Ah, Anty, dear,’ he whispered to her, ‘shure you’d not be minding what such a fellow as he’d be saying to you? shure he’s jist paid for all this he’s only sent here by Barry to thry and frighten you,’ but it was of no avail: Daly had succeeded at any rate in making her miserable, and it was past the power of Martin’s eloquence to undo what the attorney had done.
‘Well, Mr Daly,’ he said, turning round sharply, ‘I suppose you have done here now, and the sooner you turn your back on this place the betther An’ you may take this along with you. Av’ you think you’ve frightened my mother or me, you’re very much mistaken.’
‘Yes,’ said Daly, ‘I have done now, and I am sorry my business has been so unpleasant. Your mother, Martin, had betther not disregard that notice. Good morning, Miss Lynch: good morning, Mrs Kelly; good morning, Martin;’ and Daly took up his hat, and left the room.
‘Good morning to you, Mr Daly,’ said Martin: ‘as I’ve said before, I’m sorry to see you’ve taken to this line of business.’
As soon as the attorney was gone, both Martin and his mother attempted to console and re-assure poor Anty, but they did not find the task an easy one. ‘Oh, Mrs Kelly,’ she said, as soon as she was able to say anything, ‘I’m sorry I iver come here, I am: I’m sorry I iver set my foot in the house!’
‘Don’t say so, Anty, dear,’ said the widow. ‘What’d you be sorry for an’t it the best place for you?’
‘Oh! but to think that I’d bring all these throubles on you! Betther be up there, and bear it all, than bring you and yours into law, and sorrow, and expense. Only I couldn’t find the words in my throat to say it, I’d ‘ve tould the man that I’d ‘ve gone back at once. I wish I had indeed, Mrs Kelly, I wish I had.’
‘Why, Anty,’ said Martin, ‘you an’t fool enough to believe what Daly’s been saying? Shure all he’s afther is to frighthen you, out of this. Never fear: Barry can’t hurt us a halfporth, though no doubt he’s willing enough, av’ he had the way.’
‘I wish I was in a convent, this moment,’ said Anty. ‘Oh! I wish I’d done as father asked me long since. Av’ the walls of a convent was around me, I’d niver know what throubles was.’
‘No more you shan’t now,’ said Martin: ‘Who’s to hurt you? Come, Anty, look up; there’s nothing in all this to vex you.’
But neither son nor mother were able to soothe the poor young woman. The very presence of an attorney was awful to her; and all the jargon which Daly had used, of juries, judges, trials, and notices, had sounded terribly in her ears. The very names of such things were to her terrible realities, and she couldn’t bring herself to believe that her brother would threaten to make use of such horrible engines of persecution, without having the power to bring them into action. Then, visions of the lunatic asylum, into which he had declared that he would throw her, flitted across her, and made her whole body shiver and shake; and again she remembered the horrid glare of his eye, the hot breath, and the frightful form of his visage, on the night when he almost told her that he would murder her.
Poor Anty had at no time high or enduring spirits, but such as she had were now completely quelled. A dreadful feeling of coming evil a foreboding of misery, such as will sometimes overwhelm stronger minds than Anty’s, seemed to stifle her; and she continued sobbing till she fell into hysterics, when Meg and Jane were summoned to her assistance. They sat with her for above an hour, doing all that kindness and affection could suggest; but after a time Anty told them that she had a cold, sick feeling within herself, that she felt weak and ill, and that she’d sooner go to bed. To bed they accordingly took her; and Sally brought her tea, and Katty lighted a fire in her room, and Jane read to her an edifying article from the lives of the Saints, and Meg argued with her as to the folly of being frightened. But it was all of no avail; before night, Anty was really ill.
The next morning, the widow was obliged to own to herself that such was the case. In the afternoon, Doctor Colligan was called in; and it was many, many weeks before Anty recovered from the effects of the attorney’s visit.
When the widow left the parlour, after having placed her guest in the charge of her daughters, she summoned her son to follow her down stairs, and was very careful not to 1eave behind her the notice which Daly had placed on the table. As soon as she found herself behind the shutter of her little desk, which stood in the shop-window, she commenced very eagerly spelling it over. The purport of the notice was, to inform her that Barry Lynch intended immediately to apply to the magistrates to commit her and her son, for conspiring together to inveigle Anty into a marriage; and that the fact of their having done so would be proved by Mr Moylan, who was prepared to swear that he had been present when the plan had been arranged between them. The reader is aware that whatever show of truth there might be for this accusation, as far as Martin and Moylan himself were concerned, the widow at any rate was innocent; and he can conceive the good lady’s indignation at the idea of her own connection, Moylan, having been seduced over to the enemy. Though she had put on a bold front against Daly, and though she did not quite believe that Barry was in earnest in taking proceedings against her, still her heart failed her as she read the legal technicalities of the papers she held in her hand, and turned to her son for counsel in considerable tribulation.
‘But there must be something in it, I tell you,’ said she. ‘Though Barry Lynch, and that limb o’ the divil, young Daly, ‘d stick at nothin in the way of lies and desait, they’d niver go to say all this about Moylan, unless he’d agree to do their bidding.’
‘That’s like enough, mother: I dare say Moylan has been talked over bought over rather; for he’s not one of them as’d do mischief for nothin.’
‘And does the ould robber mane to say that I . As I live, I niver as much as mentioned Anty’s name to Moylan, except jist about the agency!’
‘I’m shure you didn’t, mother.’
‘And what is it then he has to say agin us?’
‘Jist lies; that’s av’ he were called on to say anything; but he niver will be. This is all one of Barry’s schames to frighten you, and get Anty turned out of the inn.’
‘Thin Master Barry doesn’t know the widdy Kelly, I can tell him that; for when I puts my hand to a thing, I mane to pull through wid it. But tell me all this’ll be costing money, won’t, it? Attorneys don’t bring thim sort of things about for nothing,’ and she gave a most contemptuous twist to the notice.
‘Oh, Barry must pay for that.’
‘I doubt that, Martin: he’s not fond of paying, the mane, dirthy blackguard. I tell you what, you shouldn’t iver have let Daly inside the house: he’ll make us pay for the writing o’ thim as shure as my name’s Mary Kelly: av’ he hadn’t got into the house, he couldn’t’ve done a halfporth.’
‘I tell you, mother, it wouldn’t have done not to let him see Anty. They’d have said we’d got her shut up here, and wouldn’t let any one come nigh her.’
‘Well, Martin, you’ll see we’ll have to pay for it. This comes of meddling with other folks! I wonder how I was iver fool enough to have fitched her down here! Good couldn’t come of daling with such people as Barry Lynch.’
‘But you wouldn’t have left her up there to be murdhered?’
‘She’s nothin’ to me, and I don’t know as she’s iver like to be.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘But, tell me, Martin was there anything said between you and Moylan about Anty before she come down here?’
‘How, anything said, mother?’
‘Why, was there any schaming betwixt you?’
‘Schaming? when I want to schame, I’ll not go shares with sich a fellow as Moylan.’
‘Ah, but was there anything passed about Anty and you getting married? Come — now, Martin; I’m in all this throuble along of you, and you shouldn’t lave me in the dark. Was you talking to Moylan about Anty and her fortune?’
‘Why, thin’, I’ll jist tell you the whole thruth, as I tould it all before to Mister Frank that is, Lord Ballindine, up in Dublin; and as I wouldn’t mind telling it this minute to Barry, or Daly, or any one else in the three counties. When Moylan got the agency, he come out to me at Toneroe; and afther talking a bit about Anty and her fortune, he let on bow it would be a bright spec for me to marry her, and I won’t deny that it was he as first put it into my head. Well, thin, he had schames of his own about keeping the agency, and getting a nice thing out of the property himself, for putting Anty in my way; but I tould him downright I didn’t know anything about that; and that ‘av iver I did anything in the matter it would be all fair and above board; and that was all the conspiracy I and Moylan had.’
‘And enough too, Martin,’ said the widow. ‘You’ll find it’s quite enough to get us into throuble. And why wouldn’t you tell me what was going on between you?’
‘There was nothing going on between us.’
‘I say there was; and to go and invaigle me into your schames without knowing a word about it! It was a murdhering shame of you and av’ I do have to pay for it, I’ll never forgive you.’
‘That’s right, mother; quarrel with me about it, do. It was I made you bring Anty down here, wasn’t it? when I was up in Dublin all the time.’
‘But to go and put yourself in the power of sich a fellow as Moylan! I didn’t think you were so soft.’
‘Ah, bother, mother! Who’s put themselves in the power of Moylan?’
‘I’ll moyle him, and spoil him too, the false blackguard, to turn agin the family them as has made him! I wondher what he’s to get for swearing agin us?’ And then, after a pause, she added in a most pathetic voice ‘oh, Martin, to think of being dragged away to Galway, before the whole counthry, to be made a conspirather of! I, that always paid my way, before and behind, though only a poor widdy! Who’s to mind the shop, I wondher? I’m shure Meg’s not able; and there’ll be Mary’ll be jist nigh her time, and won’t be able to come! Martin, you’ve been and ruined me with your plots and your marriages! What did you want with a wife, I wondher, and you so well off! and Mrs Kelly began wiping her eyes, for she was affected to tears at. the prospect of her coming misery.
‘Av’ you take it so to heart, mother, you’d betther give Anty a hint to be out of this. You heard Daly tell her, that was all Barry wanted.’
Martin knew his mother tolerably well, or he would not have made this proposition. He understood what the real extent of her sorrow was, and how much of her lamentation he was to attribute to her laudable wish to appear a martyr to the wishes and pleasures of her children.
‘Turn her out!’ replied she, ‘no, niver; and I didn’t think I’d ‘ve heard you asking me to.’
‘I didn’t ask you, mother, only anything’d be betther than downright ruin.’
‘I wouldn’t demane myself to Barry so much as to wish her out of this now she’s here. But it was along of you she came here, and av’ I’ve to pay for all this lawyer work, you oughtn’t to see me at a loss. I’m shure I don’t know where your sisthers is to look for a pound or two when I’m gone, av’ things goes on this way,’ and again the widow whimpered.
‘Don’t let that throuble you, mother: av’ there’s anything to pay, I won’t let it come upon you, any way. But I tell you there’ll be nothing more about it.’
Mrs Kelly was somewhat quieted by her son’s guarantee, and, muttering that she couldn’t afford to be wasting her mornings in that way, diligently commenced weighing out innumerable three-halfporths of brown sugar, and Martin went about his own business.
Daly left the inn, after his interview with Anty and the Kellys, in anything but a pleasant frame of mind. In the first place, he knew that he had been signally unsuccessful, and that his want of success had been mainly attributable to his having failed to see Anty alone; and, in the next place, he felt more than ever disgusted with his client. He began to reflect, for the first time, that he might, and probably would, irretrievably injure his character by undertaking, as Martin truly called it, such a very low line of business: that, if the matter were persevered in, every one in Connaught would be sure to hear of Anty’s persecution; and that his own name would be so mixed up with Lynch’s in the transaction as to leave him no means of escaping the ignominy which was so justly due to his employer. Beyond these selfish motives of wishing to withdraw from the business, he really pitied Anty, and felt a great repugnance at being the means of adding to her troubles; and he was aware of the scandalous shame of subjecting her again to the ill-treatment of such a wretch as her brother, by threatening proceedings which he knew could never be taken.
As he got on the car to return to Tuam, he determined that whatever plan he might settle on adopting, ‘he would have nothing further to do with prosecuting or persecuting either Anty or the Kellys. ‘I’ll give him the best advice I can about it,’ said Daly to himself; ‘and if he don’t like it he may do the other thing. I wouldn’t carry on with this game for all he’s worth, and that I believe is not much.’ He had intended to go direct to Dunmore House from the Kellys, and to have seen Barry, but he would have had to stop for dinner if he had done so; and though, generally speaking, not very squeamish in his society, he did not wish to enjoy another after-dinner t?te-…-t?te with him ‘It’s better to get him over to Tuam,’ thought he, ‘and try and make him see rason when he’s sober: nothing’s too hot or too bad for him, when he’s mad dhrunk afther dinner.’
Accordingly, Lynch was again summoned to Tuam, and held a second council in the attorney’s little parlour. Daly commenced by telling him that his sister had seen him, and had positively refused to leave the inn, and that the widow and her son had both listened to the threats of a prosecution unmoved and undismayed. Barry indulged in his usual volubility of expletives; expressed his fixed intention of exterminating the Kellys; declared, with many asseverations, his conviction that his sister was a lunatic; swore, by everything under, in, and above the earth, that he would have her shut up in the Lunatic Asylum in Ballinasloe, in the teeth of the Lord Chancellor and all the other lawyers in Ireland; cursed the shades of his father, deeply and copiously; assured Daly that he was only prevented from recovering his own property by the weakness and ignorance of his legal advisers, and ended by asking the attorney’s advice as to his future conduct.
‘What the d l, then, am I to do with the confounded ideot?’ said he.
‘If you’ll take my advice, you’ll do nothing.’
‘What, and let her marry and have that young blackguard brought up to Dunmore under my very nose?’
‘I’m very much afraid, Mr Lynch, if you wish to be quit of Martin Kelly, it is you must lave Dunmore. You may be shure he won’t.’
‘Oh, as for that, I’ve nothing to tie me to Dunmore. I hate the place; I never meant to live there. If I only saw my sister properly taken care of, and that it was put out of her power to throw herself away, I should leave it at once.’
‘Between you and me, Mr Lynch, she will be taken care of; and as for throwing herself away, she must judge of that herself. Take my word for it, the best thing for you to do is to come to terms with Martin Kelly, and to sell out your property in Dun-more. You’ll make much better terms before marriage than you would afther, it stands to rason.’
Barry was half standing, and half sitting on the small parlour table, and there he remained for a few minutes, meditating on Daly’s most unpleasant proposal. It was a hard pill for him to swallow, and he couldn’t get it down without some convulsive grimaces. He bit his under lip, till the blood came through it, and at last said,
‘Why, you’ve taken this thing up, Daly, as if you were to be paid by the Kellys instead of by me! I can’t understand it, confound me if I can!’
Daly turned very red at the insinuation. He was within an ace of seizing Lynch by. the collar, and expelling him in a summary way from his premises, a feat which he was able to perform; and willing also, for he was sick of his client; but he thought of it a second time, and restrained himself.
‘Mr Lynch,’ he said, after a moment or two, ‘that’s the second time you’ve made an observation of that kind to me; and I’ll tell you what; if your business was the best in the county, instead of being as bad a case as was ever put into a lawyer’s hands, I wouldn’t stand it from you. If you think you can let out your passion against me, as you do against your own people, you’ll find your mistake out very soon; so you’d betther mind what you’re saying.’
‘Why, what the devil did I say?’ said Lynch, half abashed.
‘I’ll not repeat it and you hadn’t betther, either. And now, do you choose to hear my professional advice, and behave to me as you ought and shall do? or will you go out of this and look out for another attorney? To tell you the truth, I’d jist as lieve you’d take your business to some one else.’
Barry’s brow grew very black, and he looked at Daly as though he would much like to insult him again if he dared. But he did not dare. He had no one else to look to for advice or support; he had utterly estranged from him his father’s lawyer; and though he suspected that Daly was not true to him, he felt that he could not break with him. He was obliged, therefore, to swallow his wrath, though it choked him, and to mutter something in the shape of an apology.
It was a mutter: Daly heard something about its being only a joke, and not expecting to be taken up so d —— sharp; and, accepting these sounds as an amende honorable, again renewed his functions as attorney.
‘Will you authorise me to see Martin Kelly, and to treat with him? You’ll find it the cheapest thing you can do; and, more than that, it’ll be what nobody can blame you for.’
‘How treat with him? I owe him nothing I don’t see what I’ve got to treat with him about. Am I to offer him half the property on condition he’ll consent to marry my sister? Is that what you mean?’
‘No: that’s not what I mean; but it’ll come to much the same thing in the end. In the first place, you must withdraw all opposition to Miss Lynch’s marriage; indeed, you must give it your direct sanction; and, in the next place, you must make an amicable arrangement with Martin about the division of the property.’
‘What coolly give him all he has the impudence to ask? throw up the game altogether, and pitch the whole stakes into his lap? Why, Daly, you ’
‘Well, Mr Lynch, finish your speech,’ said Daly, looking him full in the face.
Barry had been on the point of again accusing the attorney of playing false to him, but he paused in time; he caught Daly’s eye, and did not dare to finish the sentence which he had begun.
‘I can’t understand you, I mean,’ said he; ‘I can’t understand what you’re after: but go on; maybe you’re right, but I can’t see, for the life of me. What am I to get by such a plan as that?’
Barry was now cowed and frightened; he had no dram-bottle by him to reassure him, and he became, comparatively speaking, calm and subdued. Indeed, before the interview was over he fell into a pitiably lachrymose tone, and claimed sympathy for the many hardships he had to undergo through the ill-treatment of his family.
‘I’ll try and explain to you, Mr Lynch, what you’ll get by it. As far as I can understand, your father left about eight hundred a-year between the two that’s you and your sisther; and then there’s the house and furniture. Nothing on earth can keep her out of her property, or prevent her from marrying whom she plases. Martin Kelly, who is an honest fellow, though sharp enough, has set his eye on her, and before many weeks you’ll find he’ll make her his wife. Undher these circumstances, wouldn’t he be the best tenant you could find for Dunmore? You’re not fond of the place, and will be still less so when he’s your brother-inlaw. Lave it altogether, Mr Lynch; give him a laise of the whole concern, and if you’ll do that now at once, take my word for it you’ll get more out of Dunmore than iver you will by staying here, and fighting the matther out.’
‘But about the debts, Daly?’
‘Why, I suppose the fact is, the debts are all your own, eh?’
‘Well suppose they are?’
‘Exactly so: personal debts of your own. Why, when you’ve made some final arrangement about the property, you must make some other arrangement with your creditors. But that’s quite a separate affair; you don’t expect Martin Kelly to pay your debts, I suppose?’
‘But I might get a sum of money for the good-will, mightn’t 1?’
‘I don’t think Martin’s able to put a large sum down. I’ll tell you what I think you might ask; and what I think he would give, to get your good-will and consent to the match, and to prevent any further difficulty. I think he’d become your tenant, for the whole of your share, at a rent of five-hundred a year; and maybe he’d give you three hundred pounds for the furniture and stock, and things about the place. If so, you should give him a laise of three lives.’
There was a good deal in this proposition that was pleasing to Barry’s mind: five hundred a-year without any trouble in collecting it; the power of living abroad in the unrestrained indulgence of hotels and billiard rooms; the probable chance of being able to retain his income and bilk his creditors; the prospect of shaking off from himself the consequences of a connection with the Kellys, and being for ever rid of Dunmore encumbrances. These things all opened before his eyes a vista of future, idle, uncontrolled enjoyment, just suited to his taste, and strongly tempted him at once to close with Daly’s offer. But still, he could hardly bring himself to consent to be vanquished by his own sister; it was wormwood to him to think that after all she should be left to. the undisturbed enjoyment of her father’s legacy. He had been brow-beaten by the widow, insulted by young Kelly, cowed and silenced by the attorney whom he had intended to patronise and convert into a creature of his own: he could however have borne and put up with all this, if he could only have got his will of his sister; but to give up to her, who had been his slave all his life to own, at last, that he had no power over her, whom he had always looked upon as so abject, so mean a thing; to give in, of his own accord, to the robbery which had been committed on him by his own father; and to do this, while he felt convinced as he still did, that a sufficiently unscrupulous attorney could save him from such cruel disgrace and loss, was a trial to which he could hardly bring himself to submit, crushed and tamed as he was.
He still sat on the edge of the parlour table, and there he remained mute, balancing the pros and cons of Daly’s plan. Daly waited a minute or two for his answer, and, finding that he said nothing, left him alone for a time, to make up his mind, telling him that he would return in about a quarter of an hour. Barry never moved from his position; it was an important question he had to settle, and so he felt it, for he gave up to the subject his undivided attention. Since his boyhood he had looked forward to a life of ease, pleasure, and licence, and had longed for his father’s death that he might enjoy it. It seemed now within his reach; for his means, though reduced, would still be sufficient for sensual gratification. But, idle, unprincipled, brutal, castaway wretch as Barry was, he still felt the degradation of inaction, when he had such stimulating motives to energy as unsatisfied rapacity and hatred for his sister: ignorant as he was of the meaning of the word right, he tried to persuade himself that it would be wrong in him to yield.
Could he only pluck up sufficient courage to speak his mind to Daly, and frighten him into compliance with. his wishes, he still felt that he might be successful that he might, by some legal tactics, at any rate obtain for himself the management of his sister’s property. But this he could not do: he felt that Daly was his master; and though he still thought that he might have triumphed had he come sufficiently prepared, that is, with a considerable quantum of spirits inside him, he knew himself well enough to be aware that he could do nothing without this assistance; and, alas, he could not obtain it there. He had great reliance in the efficacy of whiskey; he would trust much to a large dose of port wine; but with brandy he considered himself invincible.
He sat biting his lip, trying to think, trying to make up his mind, trying to gain sufficient self-composure to finish his interview with Daly with some appearance of resolution and self-confidence, but it was in vain; when the attorney returned, his face still plainly showed that he was utterly unresolved, utterly unable to resolve on anything.
‘Well, Mr Lynch,’ said Daly, ‘will you let me spake to Kelly about this, or would you rather sleep on the matther?’
Barry gave a long sigh ‘Wouldn’t he give six hundred, Daly? he’d still have two hundred clear, and think what that’d be for a fellow like him!’
‘You must ask him for it yourself then; I’ll not propose to him any such thing. Upon my soul, he’ll be a great fool to give the five hundred, because he’s no occasion to meddle with you in the matther at all, at all. But still I think he may give it; but as for asking for more at any rate I won’t do it; you can do what you like, yourself.’
‘And am I to sell the furniture, and everything horses, cattle, and everything about the place for three hundred pounds?’
‘Not unless you like it, you ain’t, Mr Lynch; but I’ll tell you this if you can do so, and do do so, it’ll be the best bargain you ever made mind, one-half of it all belongs to your sisther.’
Barry muttered an oath through his ground teeth; he would have liked to scratch the ashes of his father from their resting-place, and wreak his vengeance on them, whenever this degrading fact was named to him.
‘But I want the money, Daly,’ said he: ‘I couldn’t get afloat unless I had more than that: I couldn’t pay your bill, you know, unless I got a higher figure down than that. Come, Daly, you must do something for me; you must do something, you know, to earn the fees,’ and he tried to look facetious, by giving a wretched ghastly grin.
‘My bill won’t be a long one, Mr Lynch, and you may be shure I’m trying to make it as short as I can. And as for earning it, whatever you may think, I can assure you I shall never have got money harder. I’ve now given you my best advice; if your mind’s not yet made up, perhaps you’ll have the goodness to let me hear from you when it is?’ and Daly walked from the fire towards the door, and placed his hand upon the handle of it.
This was a hint which Barry couldn’t misunderstand. ‘Well, I’ll write to you,’ he said, and passed through the door. He felt, however, that it was useless to attempt to trust himself to his own judgment, and he turned back, as Daly passed into his office ‘Daly,’ he said, ‘step out one minute: I won’t keep you a second.’ The attorney unwillingly lifted up the counter, and came out to him. ‘Manage it your own way,’ said he; ‘do whatever you think best; but you must see that I’ve been badly used infernally cruelly treated, and you ought to do the best you can for me. Here am I, giving away, as I may say, my own property to a young shopkeeper, and upon my soul you ought to make him pay something for it; upon my soul you ought, for it’s only fair!’
‘I’ve tould you, Mr Lynch, what I’ll propose to Martin Kelly; if you don’t think the terms fair, you can propose any others yourself; or you’re at liberty to employ any other agent you please.’
Barry sighed again, but he yielded. He felt broken-hearted, and unhappy, and he longed to quit a country so distasteful to him, and relatives and neighbours so ungrateful; he longed in his heart for the sweet, easy haunts of Boulogne, which he had never known, but of which he had heard many a glowing description from congenial spirits whom he knew. He had heard enough of the ways and means of many a leading star in that Elysium, to be aware that, with five hundred a-year, unembarrassed and punctually paid, he might shine as a prince indeed. He would go at once to that happy foreign shore, where the memory of no father would follow him, where the presence of no sister would degrade and irritate him, where billiard-tables were rife, and brandy cheap; where virtue was easy, and restraint unnecessary; where no duties would harass him, no tenants upbraid him, no duns persecute him. There, carefully guarding himself against the schemes of those less fortunate followers of pleasure among whom he would be thrown in his social hours, he would convert every shilling of his income to some purpose of self-enjoyment, and live a life of luxurious abandonment. And he need not be altogether idle, he reflected within himself afterwards, as he was riding home: he felt that he was possessed of sufficient energy and talent to make himself perfectly master of a pack of cards, to be a proficient over a billiard-table, and even to get the upper hand of a box of dice. With such. pursuits left to him, he might yet live to be talked of, feared, and wealthy; and Barry’s utmost ambition would have carried him no further.
As I said before, he yielded to the attorney, and commissioned him fully to treat with Martin Kelly in the manner proposed by himself. Martin was to give him five hundred a-year for his share of the property, and three hundred pounds for the furniture, &c.; and Barry was to give his sister his written and unconditional assent to her marriage; was to sign any document which might be necessary as to her settlement, and was then to leave Dunmore for ever. Daly made him write an authority for making such a proposal, by which he bound himself to the terms, should they be acceded to by the other party.
‘But you must bear in mind,’ added Daly, as his client for the second time turned from the door, ‘that I don’t guarantee that Martin Kelly will accept these terms: it’s very likely he may be sharp enough to know that he can manage as well without you as he can with you. You’ll remember that, Mr Lynch.’
‘I will I will, Daly; but look here if he bites freely and I think he will, and if you find you could get as much as a thousand out of him, or even eight hundred, you shall have one hundred clear for yourself.’
This was Barry’s last piece of diplomacy for that day. Daly vouchsafed him no answer, but returned into his office, and Barry mounted his horse, and returned home not altogether ill-pleased with his prospects, but still regretting that he should have gone about so serious a piece of business, so utterly unprepared.
These regrets rose stronger, when his after-dinner courage returned to him as he sate solitary over his fire. ‘I should have had him here,’ said he to himself, ‘and not gone to that confounded cold hole of his. After all, there’s no place for a cock to fight on like his own dunghill; and there’s nothing able to carry a fellow well through a tough bit of jobation with a lawyer like a stiff tumbler of brandy punch. It’d have been worth a couple of hundred to me, to have had him out here impertinent puppy! Well, devil a halfpenny I’ll pay him!’ This thought was consolatory, and he began again to think of Boulogne.
Two days after the last recorded interview between Lord Ballindine and his friend, Dot Blake, the former found himself once more sitting down to dinner with his mother and sisters, the Honourable Mrs O’Kelly and the Honourable Misses O’Kelly; at least such were the titular dignities conferred on them in County Mayo, though I believe, strictly speaking, the young ladies had no claim to the appellation.
Mrs O’Kelly was a very small woman, with no particularly developed character, and perhaps of no very general utility. She was fond of her daughters, and more than fond of her son, partly because he was so tall and so handsome, and partly because he was the lord, the head of the family, and the owner of the house. She was, on the whole, a good-natured person, though perhaps her temper was a little soured by her husband having, very unfairly, died before he had given her a right to call herself Lady Ballindine. She was naturally shy and reserved, and the seclusion of O’Kelly’s Court did not tend to make her less so; but she felt that the position and rank of her son required her to be dignified; and consequently, when in society, she somewhat ridiculously aggravated her natural timidity with an assumed rigidity of demeanour. She was, however, a good woman, striving, with small means, to do the best for her family; prudent and self-denying, and very diligent in looking after the house servants.
Her two daughters had been, at the instance of their grandfather, the courtier, christened Augusta and Sophia, after the two Princesses of that name, and were now called Guss and Sophy: they were both pretty, good-natured girls one with dark brown and the other light brown hair: they both played the harp badly, sung tolerably, danced well, and were very fond of nice young men. They both thought Kelly’s Court rather dull; but then they had known nothing better since they had grown up, and there were some tolerably nice people not very far off, whom they occasionally saw: there were the Dillons, of Ballyhaunis, who had three thousand a-year, and spent six; they were really a delightful family three daughters and four sons, all unmarried, and up to anything: the sons all hunted, shot, danced, and did everything that they ought to do at least in the eyes of young ladies; though some of their more coldly prudent acquaintances expressed an opinion that it would be as well if the three younger would think of doing something for themselves; but they looked so manly and handsome when they breakfasted at Kelly’s Court on a hunt morning, with their bright tops, red coats, and hunting-caps, that Guss and Sophy, and a great many others, thought it would be a shame to interrupt them in their career. And then, Ballyhaunis was only eight miles from Kelly’s Court; though they were Irish miles, it is true, and the road was not patronised by the Grand Jury; but the distance was only eight miles, and there were always beds for them when they went to dinner at Peter Dillon’s. Then there were the Blakes of Castletown. To be sure they could give no parties, for they were both unmarried; but they were none the worse for that, and they had plenty of horses, and went out everywhere. And the Blakes of Morristown; they also were very nice people; only unfortunately, old Blake was always on his keeping, and couldn’t show himself out of doors except on Sundays, for fear of the bailiffs. And the Browns of Mount Dillon, and the Browns of Castle Brown; and General Bourke of Creamstown. All these families lived within fifteen or sixteen miles of Kelly’s Court, and prevented the O’Kellys from feeling themselves quite isolated from the social world. Their nearest neighbours, however, were the Armstrongs, and of them they saw a great deal.
The Reverend Joseph Armstrong was rector of Ballindine, and Mrs O’Kelly was his parishioner, and the only Protestant one he had; and, as Mr Armstrong did not like to see his church quite deserted, and as Mrs O’Kelly was, as she flattered herself, a very fervent Protestant, they were all in all to each other.
Ballindine was not a good living, and Mr Armstrong had a very large family; he was, therefore, a poor man. His children were helpless, uneducated, and improvident; his wife was nearly worn out with the labours of bringing them forth and afterwards catering for them and a great portion of his own life was taken up in a hard battle with tradesmen and tithe-payers, creditors, and debtors. Yet, in spite of the insufficiency of his two hundred a-year to meet all or half his wants, Mr Armstrong was not an unhappy man. At any moment of social enjoyment he forgot all his cares and poverty, and was always the first to laugh, and the last to cease to do so. He never refused an invitation to dinner, and if he did not entertain many in his own house, it was his fortune, and not his heart, that prevented him from doing so. He could hardly be called a good clergyman, and yet his remissness was not so much his own fault as that of circumstances. How could a Protestant rector be a good parish clergyman, with but one old lady and her daughters, for the exercise of his clerical energies and talents? He constantly lauded the zeal of St. Paul for proselytism; but, as he himself once observed, even St. Paul had never had to deal with the obstinacy of an Irish Roman Catholic. He often regretted the want of work, and grieved that his profession, as far as he saw and had been instructed, required nothing of him but a short service on every Sunday morning, and the celebration of the Eucharist four times a-year; but such were the facts; and the idleness which this want of work engendered, and the habits which his poverty induced, had given him a character as a clergyman, very different from that which the high feelings and strict principles which animated him at his ordination would have seemed to ensure. He was, in fact, a loose, slovenly man, somewhat too fond of his tumbler of punch; a little lax, perhaps, as to clerical discipline, but very staunch as to doctrine. He possessed no industry or energy of any kind; but he was good-natured and charitable, lived on friendly terms with all his neighbours, and was intimate with every one that dwelt within ten miles of him, priest and parson, lord and commoner.
Such was the neighbourhood of Kelly’s Court, and among such Lord Ballindine had now made up his mind to remain a while, till circumstances should decide what further steps he should take with regard to Fanny Wyndham. There were a few hunting days left in the season, which he intended to enjoy; and then he must manage to make shift to lull the time with shooting, fishing, farming, and nursing his horses and dogs.
His mother and sisters had heard nothing of the rumour of the quarrel between Frank and Fanny, which Mat Tierney had so openly alluded to at Handicap Lodge; and he was rather put out by their eager questions on the subject. Nothing was said about it till the servant withdrew, after dinner, but the three ladies were too anxious for information to delay their curiosity any longer.
‘Well, Frank,’ said the elder sister, who was sitting over the fire, close to his left elbow (he had a bottle of claret at his right) ‘well, Frank, do tell us something about Fanny Wyndham; we are so longing to hear; and you never will write, you know.’
‘Everybody says it’s a brilliant match,’ said the mother. ‘They say here she’s forty thousand pounds: I’m sure I hope she has, Frank.’
‘But when is it to be?’ said Sophy. ‘She’s of age now, isn’t she? and I thought you were only waiting for that. I’m sure we shall like her; come, Frank, do tell us when are we to see Lady Ballindine?’
Frank looked rather serious and embarrassed, but did not immediately make any reply.
‘You haven’t quarrelled, have you, Frank?’ said the mother.
‘The match isn’t off is it?’ said Guss.
‘Miss Wyndham has just lost her only brother,’ said he; ‘he died quite suddenly in London about ten days since; she was very much attached to him.’
‘Good gracious, how shocking!’ said Sophy.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Guss.
‘Why, Frank,’ said their mother, now excited into absolute animation; ‘his fortune was more than double hers, wasn’t it? who’ll have it now?’
‘It was, mother; five times as much as hers, I believe.’
‘Gracious powers! and who has it now? Why don’t you tell me, Frank?’
‘His sister Fanny.’
‘Heavens and earth I hope you’re not going to let her quarrel with you, are you? Has there been anything between you? Have there been any words between you and Lord Cashel? Why don’t you tell me, Frank, when you know how anxious I am?’
‘If you must know all about it, I have not had any words, as you call them, with Fanny Wyndham; but I have with her guardian. He thinks a hundred and twenty thousand pounds much too great a fortune for a Connaught viscount. However, I don’t think so. It will be for time to show what Fanny thinks. Meanwhile, the less said about it the better; remember that, girls, will you?’
‘Oh, we will we won’t say a word about it; but she’ll never change her mind because of her money, will she?’
‘That’s what would make me love a man twice the more,’ said Guss; ‘or at any rate show it twice the stronger.’
‘Frank,’ said the anxious mother, ‘for heaven’s sake don’t let anything stand between you and Lord Cashel; think what a thing it is you’d lose! Why; it’d pay all the debts, and leave the property worth twice what it ever was before. If Lord Cashel thinks you ought to give up the hounds, do it at once, Frank; anything rather than quarrel with him. You could get them again, you know, when all’s settled.’
‘I’ve given up quite as much as I intend for Lord Cashel.’
‘Now, Frank, don’t be a fool, or you’ll repent it all your life: what does it signify how much you give up to such a man as Lord Cashel? You don’t think, do you, that he objects to our being at Kelly’s Court? Because I’m sure we wouldn’t stay a moment if we thought that.’
‘Mother, I wouldn’t part with a cur dog out of the place to please Lord Cashel. But if I were to do everything on earth at his beck and will, it would make no difference: he will never let me marry Fanny Wyndham if he can help it; but, thank God, I don’t believe he can.’
‘I hope not I hope not. You’ll never see half such a fortune again.’
‘Well, mother, say nothing about it one way or the other, to anybody. And as you now know how the matter stands, it’s no good any of us talking more about it till I’ve settled what I mean to do myself.’
‘I shall hate her,’ said Sophy, ‘if her getting all her brother’s money changes her; but I’m sure it won’t.’ And so the conversation ended.
Lord Ballindine had not rested in his paternal halls the second night, before he had commenced making arrangements for a hunt breakfast, by way of letting all his friends know that he was again among them. And so missives, in Guss and Sophy’s handwriting, were sent round by a bare-legged little boy, to all the Mounts, Towns, and Castles, belonging to the Dillons, Blakes, Bourkes, and Browns of the neighbourhood, to tell them that the dogs would draw the Kelly’s Court covers at eleven o’clock on the following Tuesday morning, and that the preparatory breakfast would be on the table at ten. This was welcome news to the whole neighbourhood. It was only on the Sunday evening that the sportsmen got the intimation, and very busy most of them were on the following Monday to see that their nags and breeches were all right fit to work and fit to be seen. The four Dillons, of Ballyhaunis, gave out to their grooms a large assortment of pipe-clay and putty-powder. Bingham Blake, of Castletown, ordered a new set of girths to his hunting saddle; and his brother Jerry, who was in no slight degree proud of his legs, but whose nether trappings were rather the worse from the constant work of a heavy season, went so far as to go forth very early on the Monday morning to excite the Ballinrobe tailor to undertake the almost impossible task of completing him a pair of doeskin by the Tuesday morning. The work was done, and the breeches home at Castletown by eight though the doeskin had to be purchased in Tuam, and an assistant artist taken away from his mother’s wake, to sit up all night over the seams. But then the tailor owed a small trifle of arrear of rent for his potato-garden, and his landlord was Jerry Blake’s cousin german. There’s nothing carries one further than a good connexion, thought both Jerry and the tailor when the job was finished.
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 guy 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 guy 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 Economy; 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 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.’
‘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 today?’
‘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 tomorrow, 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.