THE DUNMORE INN
Anty Lynch was _not_ the prettiest, or the youngest girl in Connaught;
nor would Martin have affirmed her to be so, unless he had been very
much inebriated indeed. However young she might have been once, she was
never pretty; but, in all Ireland, there was not a more single-hearted,
simple-minded young woman. I do not use the word simple as foolish;
for, though uneducated, she was not foolish. But she was unaffected,
honest, humble, and true, entertaining a very lowly idea of her own
value, and unelated by her newly acquired wealth.
She had been so little thought of all her life by others, that she had
never learned to think much of herself; she had had but few
acquaintances, and no friends, and had spent her life, hitherto, so
quietly and silently, that her apparent apathy was attributable rather
to want of subjects of excitement, than to any sluggishness of
disposition. Her mother had died early; and, since then, the only case
in which Anty had been called on to exercise her own judgment, was in
refusing to comply with her father’s wish that she should become a nun.
On this subject, though often pressed, she had remained positive,
always pleading that she felt no call to the sacred duties which would
be required, and innocently assuring her father, that, if allowed to
remain at home, she would cause him no trouble, and but little expense.
So she had remained at home, and had inured herself to bear without
grumbling, or thinking that she had cause for grumbling, the petulance
of her father, and the more cruel harshness and ill-humour of her
brother. In all the family schemes of aggrandisement she had been set
aside, and Barry had been intended by the father as the scion on whom
all the family honours were to fall. His education had been expensive,
his allowance liberal, and his whims permitted; while Anty was never
better dressed than a decent English servant, and had been taught
nothing save the lessons she had learnt from her mother, who died when
she was but thirteen.
Mrs Lynch had died before the commencement of Sim’s palmy days. They
had seen no company in her time,—for they were then only rising people;
and, since that, the great friends to whom Sim, in his wealth, had
attached himself, and with whom alone he intended that Barry should
associate, were all of the masculine gender. He gave bachelor
dinner-parties to hard-drinking young men, for whom Anty was well
contented to cook; and when they—as they often, from the effect of
their potations, were perforce obliged to do—stayed the night at
Dunmore House, Anty never showed herself in the breakfast parlour, but
boiled the eggs, made the tea, and took her own breakfast in the
kitchen.
It was not wonderful, therefore, that no one proposed for Anty; and,
though all who knew the Lynches, knew that Sim had a daughter, it was
very generally given out that she was not so wise as her neighbours;
and the father and brother took no pains to deny the rumour. The
inhabitants of the village knew better; the Lynches were very generally
disliked, and the shameful way “Miss Anty was trated,” was often
discussed in the little shops; and many of the townspeople were ready
to aver that, “simple or no, Anty Lynch was the best of the breed,
out-and-out.”
Matters stood thus at Dunmore, when the quarrel before alluded to,
occurred, and when Sim made his will, dividing his property,—and died
before destroying it, as he doubtless would have done, when his passion
was over.
Great was the surprise of every one concerned, and of many who were not
at all concerned, when it was ascertained that Anty Lynch was an
heiress, and that she was now possessed of four hundred pounds a-year
in her own right; but the passion of her brother, it would be
impossible to describe. He soon, however, found that it was too
literally true, and that no direct means were at hand, by which he
could deprive his sister of her patrimony. The lawyer, when he informed
Anty of her fortune and present station, made her understand that she
had an equal right with her brother in everything in the house; and
though, at first, she tacitly acquiesced in his management, she was not
at all simple enough to be ignorant of the rights of possession, or
weak enough to relinquish them.
Barry soon made up his mind that, as she had and must have the
property, all he could now do was to take care that it should revert to
him as her heir; and the measure of most importance in effecting this,
would be to take care that she did not marry. In his first passion,
after his father’s death, he had been rough and cruel to her; but he
soon changed his conduct, and endeavoured to flatter her into docility
at one moment, and to frighten her into obedience in the next.
He soon received another blow which was also a severe one. Moylan, the
old man who proposed the match to Martin, called on him, and showed him
that Anty had appointed him her agent, and had executed the necessary
legal documents for the purpose. Upon this subject he argued for a long
time with his sister,—pointing out to her that the old man would surely
rob her—offering to act as her agent himself—recommending others as
more honest and fitting—and, lastly, telling her that she was an
obstinate fool, who would soon be robbed of every penny she had, and
that she would die in a workhouse at last.
But Anty, though she dreaded her brother, was firm. Wonderful as it may
appear, she even loved him. She begged him not to quarrel with
her,—promised to do everything to oblige him, and answered his wrath
with gentleness; but it was of no avail. Barry knew that her agent was
a plotter—that he would plot against his influence—though he little
guessed then what would be the first step Moylan would take, or how
likely it would be, if really acted on, to lead to his sister’s comfort
and happiness. After this, Barry passed two months of great misery and
vexation. He could not make up his mind what to do, or what final steps
to take, either about the property, his sister, or himself. At first,
he thought of frightening Moylan and his sister, by pretending that he
would prove Anty to be of weak mind, and not fit to manage her own
affairs, and that he would indict the old man for conspiracy; but he
felt that Moylan was not a man to be frightened by such bugbears. Then,
he made up his mind to turn all he had into money, to leave his sister
to the dogs, or any one who might choose to rob her, and go and live
abroad. Then he thought, if his sister should die, what a pity it would
be, he should lose it all, and how he should blame himself, if she were
to die soon after having married some low adventurer; and he reflected;
how probable such a thing would be—how likely that such a man would
soon get rid of her; and then his mind began to dwell on her death, and
to wish for it. He found himself constantly thinking of it, and
ruminating on it, and determining that it was the only event which
could set him right. His own debts would swallow up half his present
property; and how could he bring himself to live on the pitiful
remainder, when that stupid idiot, as he called her to himself, had
three times more than she could possibly want? Morning after morning,
he walked about the small grounds round the house, with his hat over
his eyes, and his hands tossing about the money in his pockets,
thinking of this,—cursing his father, and longing—almost praying for
his sister’s death. Then he would have his horse, and flog the poor
beast along the roads without going anywhere, or having any object in
view, but always turning the same thing over and over in his mind. And,
after dinner, he would sit, by the hour, over the fire, drinking,
longing for his sister’s money, and calculating the probabilities of
his ever possessing it. He began to imagine all the circumstances which
might lead to her death; he thought of all the ways in which persons
situated as she was, might, and often did, die. He reflected, without
knowing that he was doing so, on the probability of robbers breaking
into the house, if she were left alone in it, and of their murdering
her; he thought of silly women setting their own clothes on fire—of
their falling out of window—drowning themselves—of their perishing in a
hundred possible but improbable ways. It was after he had been drinking
a while, that these ideas became most vivid before his eyes, and seemed
like golden dreams, the accomplishment of which he could hardly wish
for. And, at last, as the fumes of the spirit gave him courage, other
and more horrible images would rise to his imagination, and the drops
of sweat would stand on his brow as he would invent schemes by which,
were he so inclined, he could accelerate, without detection, the event
for which he so ardently longed. With such thoughts would he turn into
bed; and though in the morning he would try to dispel the ideas in
which he had indulged overnight, they still left their impression on
his mind;—they added bitterness to his hatred—and made him look on
himself as a man injured by his father and sister, and think that he
owed it to himself to redress his injuries by some extraordinary means.
It was whilst Barry Lynch was giving way to such thoughts as these, and
vainly endeavouring to make up his mind as to what he would do, that
Martin made his offer to Anty. To tell the truth, it was Martin’s
sister Meg who had made the first overture; and, as Anty had not
rejected it with any great disdain, but had rather shown a disposition
to talk about it as a thing just possible, Martin had repeated it in
person, and had reiterated it, till Anty had at last taught herself to
look upon it as a likely and desirable circumstance. Martin had behaved
openly and honourably with regard to the money part of the business;
telling his contemplated bride that it was, of course, her fortune
which had first induced him to think of her; but adding, that he would
also value her and love her for herself, if she would allow him. He
described to her the sort of settlement he should propose, and ended by
recommending an early day for the wedding.
Anty had sense enough to be pleased at his straightforward and honest
manner; and, though she did not say much to himself, she said a great
deal in his praise to Meg, which all found its way to Martin’s ears.
But still, he could not get over the difficulty which he had described
to Lord Ballindine. Anty wanted to wait till her brother should go out
of the country, and Martin was afraid that he would not go; and things
were in this state when he started for Dublin.
The village of Dunmore has nothing about it which can especially
recommend it to the reader. It has none of those beauties of nature
which have taught Irishmen to consider their country as the “first
flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea”. It is a dirty, ragged
little town, standing in a very poor part of the country, with nothing
about it to induce the traveller to go out of his beaten track. It is
on no high road, and is blessed with no adventitious circumstances to
add to its prosperity.
It was once the property of the O’Kellys; but, in those times the
landed proprietors thought but little of the towns; and now it is
parcelled out among different owners, some of whom would think it folly
to throw away a penny on the place, and others of whom have not a penny
to throw away. It consists of a big street, two little streets, and a
few very little lanes. There is a Court-house, where the barrister sits
twice a year; a Barrack, once inhabited by soldiers, but now given up
to the police; a large slated chapel, not quite finished; a few shops
for soft goods; half a dozen shebeen-houses [11], ruined by Father
Mathew; a score of dirty cabins offering “lodging and enthertainment”,
as announced on the window-shutters; Mrs. Kelly’s inn and grocery-shop;
and, last though not least, Simeon Lynch’s new, staring house, built
just at the edge of the town, on the road to Roscommon, which is
dignified with the name of Dunmore House. The people of most influence
in the village were Mrs. Kelly of the inn, and her two sworn friends,
the parish priest and his curate. The former, Father Geoghegan, lived
about three miles out of Dunmore, near Toneroe; and his curate, Father
Pat Connel, inhabited one of the small houses in the place, very little
better in appearance than those which offered accommodation to
travellers and trampers.
Such was, and is, the town of Dunmore in the county of Galway; and I
must beg the reader to presume himself to be present there with me on
the morning on which the two young Kellys went to hear Sheil’s speech.
At about ten o’clock, the widow Kelly and her daughters were busy in
the shop, which occupied the most important part of the ground-floor of
the inn. It was a long, scrambling, ugly-looking house. Next to the
shop, and opening out of it, was a large drinking-room, furnished with
narrow benches and rickety tables; and here the more humble of Mrs.
Kelly’s guests regaled themselves. On the other side of this, was the
hall, or passage of the house; and, next to that again, a large, dingy,
dark kitchen, over which Sally reigned with her teapot dynasty, and in
which were always congregated a parcel of ragged old men, boys, and
noisy women, pretending to be busy, but usually doing but little good,
and attracted by the warmth of the big fire, and the hopes of some
scraps of food and drink.
“For the widow Kelly—God bless her! was a thrue Christhian, and didn’t
begrudge the poor—more power to her—like some upstarts who might live
to be in want yet, glory be to the Almighty!”
The difference of the English and Irish character is nowhere more
plainly discerned than in their respective kitchens. With the former,
this apartment is probably the cleanest, and certainly the most
orderly, in the house. It is rarely intruded into by those unconnected,
in some way, with its business. Everything it contains is under the
vigilant eye of its chief occupant, who would imagine it quite
impossible to carry on her business, whether of an humble or important
nature, if her apparatus was subjected to the hands of the
unauthorised. An Irish kitchen is devoted to hospitality in every sense
of the word. Its doors are open to almost all loungers and idlers; and
the chances are that Billy Bawn, the cripple, or Judy Molloy, the deaf
old hag, are more likely to know where to find the required utensil
than the cook herself. It is usually a temple dedicated to the goddess
of disorder; and, too often joined with her, is the potent deity of
dirt. It is not that things are out of their place, for they have no
place. It isn’t that the floor is not scoured, for you cannot scour dry
mud into anything but wet mud. It isn’t that the chairs and tables look
filthy, for there are none. It isn’t that the pots, and plates, and
pans don’t shine, for you see none to shine. All you see is a grimy,
black ceiling, an uneven clay floor, a small darkened window, one or
two unearthly-looking recesses, a heap of potatoes in the corner, a
pile of turf against the wall, two pigs and a dog under the single
dresser, three or four chickens on the window-sill, an old cock moaning
on the top of a rickety press, and a crowd of ragged garments,
squatting, standing, kneeling, and crouching, round the fire, from
which issues a babel of strange tongues, not one word of which is at
first intelligible to ears unaccustomed to such eloquence.
And yet, out of these unfathomable, unintelligible dens, proceed in due
time dinners, of which the appearance of them gives no promise. Such a
kitchen was Mrs. Kelly’s; and yet, it was well known and attested by
those who had often tried the experiment, that a man need think it no
misfortune to have to get his dinner, his punch, and his bed, at the
widow’s.
Above stairs were two sitting-rooms and a colony of bed-rooms, occupied
indiscriminately by the family, or by such customers as might require
them. If you came back to dine at the inn, after a day’s shooting on
the bogs, you would probably find Miss Jane’s work-box on the table, or
Miss Meg’s album on the sofa; and, when a little accustomed to sojourn
at such places, you would feel no surprise at discovering their dresses
turned inside out, and hanging on the pegs in your bed-room; or at
seeing their side-combs and black pins in the drawer of your
dressing-table.
On the morning in question, the widow and her daughters were engaged in
the shop, putting up pen’norths of sugar, cutting bits of tobacco,
tying bundles of dip candles, attending to chance customers, and
preparing for the more busy hours of the day. It was evident that
something had occurred at the inn, which had ruffled the even tenor of
its way. The widow was peculiarly gloomy. Though fond of her children,
she was an autocrat in her house, and accustomed, as autocrats usually
are, to scold a good deal; and now she was using her tongue pretty
freely. It wasn’t the girls, however, she was rating, for they could
answer for themselves;—and did, when they thought it necessary. But
now, they were demure, conscious, and quiet. Mrs. Kelly was denouncing
one of the reputed sins of the province to which she belonged, and
describing the horrors of “schaming.”
“Them underhand ways,” she declared, “niver come to no good. Av’ it’s
thrue what Father Connel’s afther telling me, there’ll harum come of it
before it’s done and over. Schaming, schaming, and schaming for iver!
The back of my hand to such doings! I wish the tongue had been out of
Moylan’s mouth, the ould rogue, before he put the thing in his head.
Av’ he wanted the young woman, and she was willing, why not take her in
a dacent way, and have done with it. I’m sure she’s ould enough. But
what does he want with a wife like her?—making innimies for himself. I
suppose he’ll be sitting up for a gentleman now—bad cess to them for
gentry; not but that he’s as good a right as some, and a dale more than
others, who are ashamed to put their hand to a turn of work. I hate
such huggery muggery work up in a corner. It’s half your own doing; and
a nice piece of work it’ll be, when he’s got an ould wife and a dozen
lawsuits!—when he finds his farm gone, and his pockets empty; for it’ll
be a dale asier for him to be getting the wife than the money—when he’s
got every body’s abuse, and nothing else, by his bargain!”
It was very apparent that Martin’s secret had not been well kept, and
that the fact of his intended marriage with Anty Lynch was soon likely
to be known to all Dunmore. The truth was, that Moylan had begun to
think himself overreached in the matter—to be afraid that, by the very
measure he had himself proposed, he would lose all share in the great
prize he had put in Martin’s way, and that he should himself be the
means of excluding his own finger from the pie. It appeared to him that
if he allowed this, his own folly would only be equalled by the young
man’s ingratitude; and he determined therefore, if possible, to prevent
the match. Whereupon he told the matter as a secret, to those whom he
knew would set it moving. In a very short space of time it reached the
ears of Father Connel; and he lost none in stepping down to learn the
truth of so important a piece of luck to one of his parishioners, and
to congratulate the widow. Here, however, he was out in his reckoning,
for she declared she did not believe it,—that it wasn’t, and couldn’t
be true; and it was only after his departure that she succeeded in
extracting the truth from her daughters.
The news, however, quickly reached the kitchen and its lazy crowd; and
the inn door and its constant loungers; and was readily and gladly
credited in both places.
Crone after crone, and cripple after cripple, hurried into the shop, to
congratulate the angry widow on “masther Martin’s luck; and warn’t he
worthy of it, the handsome jewel—and wouldn’t he look the gintleman,
every inch of him?” and Sally expatiated greatly on it in the kitchen,
and drank both their healths in an extra pot of tea, and Kate grinned
her delight, and Jack the ostler, who took care of Martin’s horse,
boasted loudly of it in the street, declaring that “it was a good thing
enough for Anty Lynch, with all her money, to get a husband at all out
of the Kellys, for the divil a know any one knowed in the counthry
where the Lynchs come from; but every one knowed who the Kellys wor—and
Martin wasn’t that far from the lord himself.”
There was great commotion, during the whole day, at the inn. Some said
Martin had gone to town to buy furniture; others, that he had done so
to prove the will. One suggested that he’d surely have to fight Barry,
and another prayed that “if he did, he might kill the blackguard, and
have all the fortin to himself, out and out, God bless him!”