"Greg ate it all," peached Sarah, an elder sister; "I told him not, but he would."

"Greg, I'll have you flogged, and you never shall come from school again. What's that you're saying, Mary?"

"There's a jintleman in the drawing-room as is axing afther masther."

"Gentleman--what gentleman?" asked the lady.

"Sorrow a know I know, ma'am!" said Mary, who was a new importation--"only, he's a dark, sightly jintleman, as come on a horse."

"And did you send for the master?"

"I did, ma'am; I was out in the yard, and bad Patsy go look for him."

"It's Nicholas Dillon, I'll bet twopence," said Greg, jumping up to rush into the other room: "he's come about the black colt, I know."

"Stay where you are, Greg; and don't go in there with your dirty face and fingers;" and, after speculating a little longer, the lady went into the drawing-room herself; though, to tell the truth, her own face and fingers were hardly in a state suitable for receiving company.

Mrs Armstrong marched into the drawing-room with something of a stately air, to meet the strange gentleman, and there she found her old friend Lord Ballindine. Whoever called at the rectory, and at whatever hour the visit might be made, poor Mrs Armstrong was sure to apologise for the confusion in which she was found. She had always just got rid of a servant, and could not get another that suited her; or there was some other commonplace reason for her being discovered _en deshabille_ [40]. However, she managed to talk to Frank for a minute or two with tolerable volubility, till her eyes happening to dwell on her own hands, which were certainly not as white as a lady's should be, she became a little uncomfortable and embarra.s.sed--tried to hide them in her drapery--then remembered that she had on her morning slippers, which were rather the worse for wear; and, feeling too much ashamed of her _tout ensemble_ to remain, hurried out of the room, saying that she would go and see where Armstrong could possibly have got himself to.

She did not appear again to Lord Ballindine.

[FOOTNOTE 40: en deshabille--(French) partly or scantily dressed]

Poor Mrs Armstrong!--though she looked so little like one, she had been brought up as a lady, carefully and delicately; and her lot was the more miserable, for she knew how lamentable were her present deficiencies. When she married a poor curate, having, herself, only a few hundred pounds' fortune, she had made up her mind to a life of comparative poverty; but she had meant even in her poverty to be decent, respectable, and lady-like. Weak health, nine children, an improvident husband, and an income so lamentably ill-suited to her wants, had however been too much for her, and she had degenerated into a slatternly, idle scold.

In a short time the parson came in from his farm, rusty and muddy--rusty, from his clerical dress; muddy from his farming occupations; and Lord Ballindine went into the business of his emba.s.sy.

He remembered, however, how plainly he had heard the threats about the uneaten fat, and not wishing the household to hear all he had to say respecting f.a.n.n.y Wyndham, he took the parson out into the road before the house, and, walking up and down, unfolded his proposal.

Mr Armstrong expressed extreme surprise at the nature of the mission on which he was to be sent; secondly at the necessity of such a mission at all; and thirdly, lastly, and chiefly, at the enormous amount of the heiress's fortune, to lose which he declared would be an unpardonable sin on Lord Ballindine's part. He seemed to be not at all surprised that Lord Cashel should wish to secure so much money in his own family; nor did he at all partic.i.p.ate in the unmeasured reprobation with which Frank loaded the worthy earl's name. One hundred and thirty thousand pounds would justify anything, and he thought of his nine poor children, his poor wife, his poor home, his poor two hundred a-year, and his poor self. He calculated that so very rich a lady would most probably have some interest in the Church, which she could not but exercise in his favour, if he were instrumental in getting her married; and he determined to go. Then the, difficult question as to the wardrobe occurred to him. Besides, he had no money for the road. Those, however, were minor evils to be got over, and he expressed himself willing to undertake the emba.s.sy.

"But, my dear Ballindine; what is it I'm to do?" said he. "Of course you know, I'd do anything for you, as of course I ought--anything that ought to be done; but what is it exactly you wish me to say?"

"You see, Armstrong, that pettifogging schemer told me he didn't wish me to come to his house again, and I wouldn't, even for f.a.n.n.y Wyndham, force myself into any man's house. He would not let me see her when I was there, and I could not press it, because her brother was only just dead; so I'm obliged to take her refusal second hand. Now I don't believe she ever sent the message he gave me. I think he has made her believe that I'm deserting and ill-treating her; and in this way she may be piqued and tormented into marrying Kilcullen."

"I see it now: upon my word then Lord Cashel knows how to play his cards! But if I go to Grey Abbey I can't see her without seeing him."

"Of course not--but I'm coming to that. You see, I have no reason to doubt f.a.n.n.y's love; she has a.s.sured me of it a thousand times. I wouldn't say so to you even, as it looks like boasting, only it's so necessary you should know how the land lies; besides, everybody knew it; all the world knew we were engaged."

"Oh, boasting--it's no boasting at all: it would be very little good my going to Grey Abbey, if she had not told you so."

"Well, I think that if you were to see Lord Cashel and tell him, in your own quiet way, who you are; that you are rector of Ballindine, and my especial friend; and that you had come all the way from County Mayo especially to see Miss Wyndham, that you might hear from herself whatever message she had to send to me--if you were to do this, I don't think he would dare to prevent you from seeing her."

"If he did, of course I would put it to him that you, who were so long received as Miss Wyndham's accepted swain, were at least ent.i.tled to so much consideration at her hands; and that I must demand so much on your behalf, wouldn't that be it, eh?"

"Exactly. I see you understand it, as if you'd been at it all your life; only don't call me her swain."

"Well, I'll think of another word--her beau."

"For Heaven's sake, no!--that's ten times worse."

"Well, her lover?"

"That's at any rate English: but say, her accepted husband--that'll be true and plain: if you do that I think you will manage to see her, and then--"

"Well, then--for that'll be the difficult part."

"Oh, when you see her, one simple word will do: f.a.n.n.y Wyndham loves plain dealing. Merely tell her that Lord Ballindine has not changed his mind; and that he wishes to know from herself, by the mouth of a friend whom he can trust, whether she has changed hers. If she tells you that she has, I would not follow her farther though she were twice as rich as Croesus. I'm not hunting her for her money; but I am determined that Lord Cashel shall not make us both miserable by forcing her into a marriage with his _roue_ of a son."

"Well, Ballindine, I'll go; but mind, you must not blame me if I fail.

I'll do the best I can for you."

"Of course I won't. When will you be able to start?"

"Why, I suppose there's no immediate hurry?" said the parson, remembering that the new suit of clothes must be procured.

"Oh, but there is. Kilcullen will be there at once; and considering how long it is since I saw f.a.n.n.y--three months, I believe--no time should be lost."

"How long is her brother dead?"

"Oh, a month--or very near it."

"Well, I'll go Monday fortnight; that'll do, won't it?"

It was at last agreed that the parson was to start for Grey Abbey on the Monday week following; that he was to mention to no one where he was going; that he was to tell his wife that he was going on business he was not allowed to talk about;--she would be a very meek woman if she rested satisfied with that!--and that he was to present himself at Grey Abbey on the following Wednesday.

"And now," said the parson, with some little hesitation, "my difficulty commences. We country rectors are never rich; but when we've nine children, Ballindine, it's rare to find us with money in our pockets.

You must advance me a little cash for the emergencies of the road."

"My dear fellow! Of course the expense must be my own. I'll send you down a note between this and then; I haven't enough about me now. Or, stay--I'll give you a cheque," and he turned into the house, and wrote him a cheque for twenty pounds.

That'll get the coat into the bargain, thought the rector, as he rather uncomfortably shuffled the bit of paper into his pocket. He had still a gentleman's dislike to be paid for his services. But then, Necessity--how stern she is! He literally could not have gone without it.

XXVII. MR LYNCH'S LAST RESOURCE

On the following morning Lord Ballindine as he had appointed to do, drove over to Dunmore, to settle with Martin about the money, and, if necessary, to go with him to the attorney's office in Tuam. Martin had as yet given Daly no answer respecting Barry Lynch's last proposal; and though poor Anty's health made it hardly necessary that any answer should be given, still Lord Ballindine had promised to see the attorney, if Martin thought it necessary.

The family were all in great confusion that morning, for Anty was very bad--worse than she had ever been. She was in a paroxysm of fever, was raving in delirium, and in such a state that Martin and his sister were occasionally obliged to hold her in bed. Sally, the old servant, had been in the room for a considerable time during the morning, standing at the foot of the bed with a big tea-pot in her hand, and begging in a whining voice, from time to time, that "Miss Anty, G.o.d bless her, might get a dhrink of tay!" But, as she had been of no other service, and as the widow thought it as well that she should not hear what Anty said in her raving, she had been desired to go down-stairs, and was sitting over the fire. She had fixed the big tea-pot among the embers, and held a slop-bowl of tea in her lap, discoursing to Nelly, who with her hair somewhat more than ordinarily dishevelled, in token of grief for Anty's illness, was seated on a low stool, nursing a candle-stick.

"Well, Nelly," said the prophetic Sally, boding evil in her anger--for, considering how long she had been in the family, she had thought herself ent.i.tled to hear Anty's ravings; "mind, I tell you, good won't come of this. The Virgin prothect us from all harum!--it niver war lucky to have sthrangers dying in the house."

"But shure Miss Anty's no stranger."

"Faix thin, her words must be sthrange enough when the likes o' me wouldn't be let hear 'em. Not but what I did hear, as how could I help it? There'll be no good come of it. Who's to be axed to the wake, I'd like to know."

"Axed to the wake, is it? Why, shure, won't there be rashions of ating and lashings of dhrinking? The misthress isn't the woman to spare, and sich a frind as Miss Anty dead in the house. Let 'em ax whom they like."