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.



XVI. BRIEN BORU

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, malgre [27] 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."

[FOOTNOTE 27: malgre—(French) in spite of; notwithstanding]

"It will be much more convenient for her to marry you bon gre [28] 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."

[FOOTNOTE 28: bon gre—(French) with the consent of]

"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 sha'n't follow your plan."

"Do as you like about that: you sha'n'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 entree, 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 stables 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 eclat 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 to-day?"

"Not to-day, 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.



XVII. MARTIN KELLY'S COURTSHIP

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 tete-a-tete 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 would 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 bed-room 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 were 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 tete-a-tete 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 bed-room, 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 [29] for the difficulty a man feels, when he 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.

[FOOTNOTE 29: Rosalind's recipe—In As You Like It, Act III, Sc. ii, Rosalind, disguised as a young man, instructs Orlando to practice his wooing on her.]

"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 not 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 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.



XVIII. AN ATTORNEY'S OFFICE IN CONNAUGHT

"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, 1844.

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!—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 [30] of the November rents to anyone only jist to himself? There was father Geoghegan heard him, an Doctor Ned Blake."

[FOOTNOTE 30: haporth—half-penny's worth]

"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 d——l 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 he 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 [30]; and Daly returned to his office, to prepare the notices for the unfortunate widow and her son.

[FOOTNOTE 30: bill discounted—A common way for young men to borrow money in nineteenth century Britain was to sign a promissory note (an "I.O.U."), often called a "bill," to repay the loan at a specified time. The lender gave the borrower less than the face value of the note (that is, he "discounted" the note), the difference being the interest. Sometimes these notes were co-signed by a third party, who became responsible for repaying the loan if the borrower defaulted; this is one of the major themes in Trollope's later book Framley Parsonage. Trollope himself was quite familiar with methods of borrowing, having gotten into debt in his youth.]



XIX. MR DALY VISITS THE DUNMORE INN

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.