"Indeed I'm not, Anty; it's a trade I know little about."

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

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

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

"Good night, dear Anty," said Martin, "I'll be seeing you to-morrow."

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

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

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

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

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

"Drat Anty and her tay!--Well, shure, I'm railly bothered now wid them Lynches!--Well, glory be to G.o.d, there's an end to everything--not that I'm wishing her anywhere but where she is; she's welcome, for Mary Kelly."

XXVI. LOVE'S AMBa.s.sADOR

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

Limmer's Hotel, 27th March, 1844.

Dear Frank,

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

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

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

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

By the bye, Kilcullen certainly returns to Ireland immediately.

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

Very faithfully yours,

W. BLAKE.

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

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

n.o.body was with him as he opened his post-bag, which he took from the messenger as the boy was coming up to the house; he therefore read his letter alone, on the lawn, and he continued pacing up and down before the house with a most perturbed air, for half an hour.

Kilcullen going to marry f.a.n.n.y Wyndham! So, that was the cause of Lord Cashel's singular behaviour--his incivility, and refusal to allow Frank to see his ward. "What! to have arranged it all in twenty-four hours,"

thought Frank to himself; "to have made over his ward's money to his son, before her brother, from whom she inherited it, was in his grave: to determine at once to reject an accepted suitor for the sake of closing on the poor girl's money--and without the slightest regard for her happiness, without a thought for her welfare! And then, such lies,"

said the viscount, aloud, striking his heel into the gra.s.s in his angry impetuosity; "such base, cruel lies!--to say that she had authorised him, when he couldn't have dared to make such a proposal to her, and her brother but two days dead. Well; I took him for a stiff-necked pompous fool, but I never thought him such an avaricious knave." And f.a.n.n.y, too--could f.a.n.n.y have agreed, so soon, to give her hand to another? She could not have transferred her heart. His own dear, fond f.a.n.n.y! A short time ago they had been all in all to each other; and now so completely estranged as they were! However, Dot was right; up to this time f.a.n.n.y might be quite true to him; indeed, there was not ground even for doubting her, for it was evident that no reliance was to be placed in Lord Cashel's a.s.severations. But still he could not expect that she should continue to consider herself engaged, if she remained totally neglected by her lover. He must do something, and that at once; but there was very great difficulty in deciding what that something was to be. It was easy enough for Dot to say, first write, and then go. If he were to write, what security was there that his letter would be allowed to reach f.a.n.n.y? and, if he went, how much less chance was there that he would be allowed to see her. And then, again to be turned out of the house! again informed, by that pompous scheming earl, that his visits there were not desired. Or, worse still, not to be admitted; to be driven from the door by a footman who would well know for what he came! No; come what come might, he would never again go to Grey Abbey; at least not unless he was specially and courteously invited thither by the owner; and then it should only be to marry his ward, and take her from the odious place, never to return again.

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

But still the same question recurred,--what was to be done? Venting his wrath on Lord Cashel would not get him out of the difficulty: going was out of the question; writing was of little use. Could he not send somebody else? Some one who could not be refused admittance to f.a.n.n.y, and who might at any rate learn what her wishes and feelings were? He did not like making love by deputy; but still, in his present dilemma, he could think of nothing better. But whom was he to send? Bingham Blake was a man of character, and would not make a fool of himself; but he was too young; he would not be able to make his way to f.a.n.n.y. No--a young unmarried man would not do.--Mat Tierney?--he was afraid of no one, and always cool and collected; but then, Mat was in London; besides, he was a sort of friend of Kilcullen's. General Bourke?

No one could refuse an _entree_ to his venerable grey hairs, and polished manner; besides, his standing in the world was so good, so unexceptionable; but then the chances were he would not go on such an errand; he was too old to be asked to take such a troublesome service; and besides, if asked, it was very probable he would say that he considered Lord Cashel ent.i.tled to his ward's obedience. The rector--the Rev. Joseph Armstrong? He must be the man: there was, at any rate, respectability in his profession; and he had sufficient worldly tact not easily to be thrust aside from his object: the difficulty would be, whether he had a coat sufficiently decent to appear in at Grey Abbey.

After mature consideration he made up his mind that the parson should be his amba.s.sador. He would sooner have confided in Bingham Blake, but an unmarried man would not do. No; the parson must be the man. Frank was, unfortunately, but little disposed to act in any case without advice, and in his anxiety to consult some one as to consulting the parson, returned into the house, to make a clear breast of it to his mother. He found her in the breakfast-room with the two girls, and the three were holding council deep.

"Oh, here's Frank," said Sophy; "we'd better tell him all about it at once--and he'll tell us which she'd like best."

"We didn't mean to tell you," said Guss; "but I and Sophy are going to work two sofas for the drawing-room--in Berlin wool, you know: they'll be very handsome--everybody has them now, you know; they have a splendid pair at Ballyhaunis which Nora and her cousin worked."

"But we want to know what pattern would suit f.a.n.n.y's taste," said Sophy.

"Well; you can't know that," said Frank rather pettishly, "so you'd better please yourselves."

"Oh, but you must know what she likes," continued Guss; "I'm for this,"

and she, displayed a pattern showing forth two gorgeous macaws--each with plumage of the brightest colours. "The colours are so bright, and the feathers will work in so well."

"I don't like anything in worsted-work but flowers," said Sophy; "Nora Dillon says she saw two most beautiful wreaths at that shop in Grafton Street, both hanging from bars, you know; and that would be so much prettier. I'm sure f.a.n.n.y would like flowers best; wouldn't she now, Frank?--Mamma thinks the common cross-bar patterns are nicer for furniture."

"Indeed I do, my dear," said Mrs O'Kelly; "and you see them much more common now in well-furnished drawing-rooms. But still I'd much sooner have them just what f.a.n.n.y would like best. Surely, Frank, you must have heard her speak about worsted-work?"

All this completely disconcerted Frank, and made him very much out of love with his own plan of consulting his mother. He gave the trio some not very encouraging answer as to their good-natured intentions towards his drawing-room, and again left them alone. "Well; there's nothing for it but to send the parson; I don't think he'll make a fool of himself, but then I know he'll look so shabby. However, here goes," and he mounted his nag, and rode off to Ballindine glebe.

The glebe-house was about a couple of miles from Kelly's Court, and it was about half-past four when Lord Ballindine got there. He knocked at the door, which was wide open, though it was yet only the last day of March, and was told by a remarkably slatternly maid-servant, that her master was "jist afther dinner;" that he was stepped out, but was about the place, and could be "fetched in at oncet;"--and would his honour walk in? And so Lord Ballindine was shown into the rectory drawing-room on one side of the pa.s.sage (alias hall), while the attendant of all work went to announce his arrival in the rectory dining-room on the other side. Here Mrs Armstrong was sitting among her numerous progeny, securing the _debris_ of the dinner from their rapacious paws, and endeavouring to make two very unruly boys consume the portions of fat which had been supplied to them with, as they loudly declared, an unfairly insufficient quantum of lean. As the girl was good-natured enough to leave both doors wide open, Frank had the full advantage of the conversation.

"Now, Greg," said the mother, "if you leave your meat that way I'll have it put by for you, and you shall have nothing but potatoes till it's ate."

"Why, mother, it's nothing but tallow; look here; you gave me all the outside part."

"I'll tell your dada, and see what he'll say, if you call the meat tallow; and you're just as bad, Joe; worse if anything--gracious me, here's waste! well, I'll lock it up for you, and you shall both of you eat it to-morrow, before you have a bit of anything else."

Then followed a desperate fit of coughing.

"My poor Minny!" said the mother, "you're just as bad as ever. Why would you go out on the wet gra.s.s?--Is there none of the black currant jam left?"

"No, mother," coughed Minny, "not a bit."