A LOVING BROTHER
The great news was not long before it reached the ears of one not
disposed to receive the information with much satisfaction, and this
was Barry Lynch, the proposed bride’s amiable brother. The medium
through which he first heard it was not one likely to add to his good
humour. Jacky, the fool, had for many years been attached to the
Kelly’s Court family; that is to say, he had attached himself to it, by
getting his food in the kitchen, and calling himself the lord’s fool.
But, latterly, he had quarrelled with Kelly’s Court, and had insisted
on being Sim Lynch’s fool, much to the chagrin of that old man; and,
since his death, he had nearly maddened Barry by following him through
the street, and being continually found at the house-door when he went
out. Jack’s attendance was certainly dictated by affection rather than
any mercenary views, for he never got a scrap out of the Dunmore House
kitchen, or a halfpenny from his new patron. But still, he was Barry’s
fool; and, like other fools, a desperate annoyance to his master.
On the day in question, as young Mr. Lynch was riding out of the gate,
about three in the afternoon, there, as usual, was Jack.
“Now yer honour, Mr. Barry, darling, shure you won’t forget Jacky
to-day. You’ll not forget your own fool, Mr. Barry?”
Barry did not condescend to answer this customary appeal, but only
looked at the poor ragged fellow as though he’d like to flog the life
out of him.
“Shure your honour, Mr. Barry, isn’t this the time then to open yer
honour’s hand, when Miss Anty, God bless her, is afther making sich a
great match for the family?—Glory be to God!”
“What d’ye mean, you ruffian?”
“Isn’t the Kellys great people intirely, Mr. Barry? and won’t it be a
great thing for Miss Anty, to be sib to a lord? Shure yer honour’d not
be refusing me this blessed day.”
“What the d–––– are you saying about Miss Lynch?” said Barry, his
attention somewhat arrested by the mention of his sister’s name.
“Isn’t she going to be married then, to the dacentest fellow in
Dunmore? Martin Kelly, God bless him! Ah! there’ll be fine times at
Dunmore, then. He’s not the boy to rattle a poor divil out of the
kitchen into the cold winther night! The Kellys was always the right
sort for the poor.”
Barry was frightened in earnest, now. It struck him at once that Jack
couldn’t have made the story out of his own head; and the idea that
there was any truth in it, nearly knocked him off his horse. He rode
on, however, trying to appear to be regardless of what had been said to
him; and, as he trotted off, he heard the fool’s parting salutation.
“And will yer honour be forgething me afther the news I’ve brought yer?
Well, hard as ye are, Misther Barry, I’ve hot yer now, any way.”
And, in truth, Jack had hit him hard. Of all things that could happen
to him, this would be about the worst. He had often thought, with
dread, of his sister’s marrying, and of his thus being forced to divide
everything—all his spoil, with some confounded stranger. But for her to
marry a shopkeeper’s son, in the very village in which he lived, was
more than he could bear. He could never hold up his head in the county
again. And then, he thought of his debts, and tried to calculate
whether he might get over to France without paying them, and be able to
carry his share of the property with him; and so he went on, pursuing
his wretched, uneasy, solitary ride, sometimes sauntering along at a
snail’s pace, and then again spurring the poor brute, and endeavouring
to bring his mind to some settled plan. But, whenever he did so, the
idea of his sister’s death was the only one which seemed to present
either comfort or happiness.
He made up his mind, at last, to put a bold face on the matter; to find
out from Anty herself whether there was any truth in the story; and, if
there should be,—for he felt confident she would not be able to deceive
him,—to frighten her and the whole party of the Kellys out of what he
considered a damnable conspiracy to rob him of his father’s property.
He got off his horse, and stalked into the house. On inquiry, he found
that Anty was in her own room. He was sorry she was not out; for, to
tell the truth, he was rather anxious to put off the meeting, as he did
not feel himself quite up to the mark, and was ashamed of seeming
afraid of her. He went into the stable, and abused the groom; into the
kitchen, and swore at the maid; and then into the garden. It was a
nasty, cold, February day, and he walked up and down the damp muddy
walks till he was too tired and cold to walk longer, and then turned
into the parlour, and remained with his back to the fire, till the man
came in to lay the cloth, thinking on the one subject that occupied all
his mind—occasionally grinding his teeth, and heaping curses on his
father and sister, who, together, had inflicted such grievous, such
unexpected injuries upon him.
If, at this moment, there was a soul in all Ireland over whom Satan had
full dominion—if there was a breast unoccupied by one good thought—if
there was a heart wishing, a brain conceiving, and organs ready to
execute all that was evil, from the worst motives, they were to be
found in that miserable creature, as he stood there urging himself on
to hate those whom he should have loved—cursing those who were nearest
to him—fearing her, whom he had ill-treated all his life—and striving
to pluck up courage to take such measures as might entirely quell her.
Money was to him the only source of gratification. He had looked
forward, when a boy, to his manhood, as a period when he might indulge,
unrestrained, in pleasures which money would buy; and, when a man, to
his father’s death, as a time when those means would be at his full
command. He had neither ambition, nor affection, in his nature; his
father had taught him nothing but the excellence of money, and, having
fully imbued him with this, had cut him off from the use of it.
He was glad when he found that dinner was at hand, and that he could
not now see his sister until after he had fortified himself with drink.
Anty rarely, if ever, dined with him; so he sat down, and swallowed his
solitary meal. He did not eat much, but he gulped down three or four
glasses of wine; and, immediately on having done so, he desired the
servant, with a curse, to bring him hot water and sugar, and not to
keep him waiting all night for a tumbler of punch, as he did usually.
Before the man had got into the kitchen, he rang the bell again; and
when the servant returned breathless, with the steaming jug, he
threatened to turn him out of the house at once, if he was not quicker
in obeying the orders given him. He then made a tumbler of punch,
filling the glass half full of spirits, and drinking it so hot as to
scald his throat; and when that was done he again rang the bell, and
desired the servant to tell Miss Anty that he wanted to speak to her.
When the door was shut, he mixed more drink, to support his courage
during the interview, and made up his mind that nothing should daunt
him from preventing the marriage, in one way or another. When Anty
opened the door, he was again standing with his back to the fire, his
hands in his pockets, the flaps of his coat hanging over his arms, his
shoulders against the mantel-piece, and his foot on the chair on which
he had been sitting. His face was red, and his eyes were somewhat
blood-shot; he had always a surly look, though, from his black hair,
and large bushy whiskers, many people would have called him good
looking; but now there was a scowl in his restless eyes, which
frightened Anty when she saw it; and the thick drops of perspiration on
his forehead did not add benignity to his face.
“Were you wanting me, Barry?” said Anty, who was the first to speak.
“What do you stand there for, with the door open?” replied her brother,
“d’ you think I want the servants to hear what I’ve got to say?”
“’Deed I don’t know,” said Anty, shutting the door; “but they’ll hear
just as well now av’ they wish, for they’ll come to the kay-hole.”
“Will they, by G––––!” said Barry, and he rushed to the door, which he
banged open; finding no victim outside on whom to exercise his
wrath—“let me catch ’em!” and he returned to his position by the fire.
Anty had sat down on a sofa that stood by the wall opposite the
fireplace, and Barry remained for a minute, thinking how he’d open the
campaign. At last he began:
“Anty, look you here, now. What scheme have you got in your head?—You’d
better let me know, at once.”
“What schame, Barry?”
“Well—what schame, if you like that better.”
“I’ve no schame in my head, that I know of—at laist—” and then Anty
blushed. It would evidently be easy enough to make the poor girl tell
her own secret.
“Well, go on—at laist—”
“I don’t know what you mane, Barry. Av’ you’re going to be badgering me
again, I’ll go away.”
“It’s evident you’re going to do something you’re ashamed of, when
you’re afraid to sit still, and answer a common question. But you must
answer me. I’m your brother, and have a right to know. What’s this
you’re going to do?’ He didn’t like to ask her at once whether she was
going to get married. It might not be true, and then he would only be
putting the idea into her head. ‘Well,—why don’t you answer me? What is
it you’re going to do?”
“Is it about the property you mane, Barry?”
“What a d––––d hypocrite you are! As if you didn’t know what I mean! As
for the property, I tell you there’ll be little left the way you’re
going on. And as to that, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do; so, mind,
I warn you beforehand. You’re not able—that is, you’re too foolish and
weak-headed to manage it yourself; and I mean, as your guardian, to put
it into the hands of those that shall manage it for you. I’m not going
to see you robbed and duped, and myself destroyed by such fellows as
Moylan, and a crew of huxtering blackguards down in Dunmore. And now,
tell me at once, what’s this I hear about you and the Kellys?”
“What Kellys?” said Anty, blushing deeply, and half beside herself with
fear—for Barry’s face was very red, and full of fierce anger, and his
rough words frightened her.
“What Kellys! Did you ever hear of Martin Kelly?—d––––d young robber
that he is!” Anty blushed still deeper—rose a little way from the sofa,
and then sat down again. “Look you here, Anty—I’ll have the truth out
of you. I’m not going to be bamboozled by such an idiot as you. You got
an old man, when he was dying, to make a will that has robbed me of
what was my own, and now you think you’ll play your own low game; but
you’re mistaken! You’ve lived long enough without a husband to do
without one now; and I can tell you I’m not going to see my property
carried off by such a low, paltry blackguard as Martin Kelly.”
“How can he take your property, Barry?” sobbed forth the poor creature,
who was, by this time, far gone in tears.
“Then the long and the short of it is, he shan’t have what you call
yours. Tell me, at once, will you—is it true, that you’ve promised to
marry him?”
Anty replied nothing, but continued sobbing violently.
“Cease your nonsense, you blubbering fool! A precious creature you are
to take on yourself to marry any man! Are you going to answer me,
Anty?” And he walked away from the fire, and came and stood opposite to
her as she sat upon the sofa. “Are you going to answer me or not?” he
continued, stamping on the floor.
“I’ll not stop here—and be trated this way—Barry—I’m sure—I do all I—I
can for you—and you’re always—bullying me because father divided the
property.” And Anty continued sobbing more violently than ever. “I
won’t stop in the room any more,” and she got up to go to the door.
Barry, however, rushed before her, and prevented her. He turned the
lock, and put the key in his pocket; and then he caught her arm, as she
attempted to get to the bell, and dragged her back to the sofa.
“You’re not off so easy as that, I can tell you. Why, d’ you think
you’re to marry whom you please, without even telling me of it? What
d’you think the world would say of me, if I were to let such an idiot
as you be caught up by the first sharper that tried to rob you of your
money? Now, look here,” and he sat down beside her, and laid his hand
violently on her arm, as he spoke, “you don’t go out of this room,
alive, until you’ve given me your solemn promise, and sworn on the
cross, that you’ll never marry without my consent; and you’ll give me
that in writing, too.”
Anty at first turned very pale when she felt his heavy hand on her arm,
and saw his red, glaring eyes so near her own. But when he said she
shouldn’t leave the room alive, she jumped from the sofa, and shrieked,
at the top of her shrill voice,—“Oh, Barry! you’ll not murdher me!
shure you wouldn’t murdher your own sisther!”
Barry was rather frightened at the noise, and, moreover, the word
“murder” quelled him. But when he found, after a moment’s pause, that
the servants had not heard, or had not heeded his sister, he determined
to carry on his game, now that he had proceeded so far. He took,
however, a long drink out of his tumbler, to give him fresh courage,
and then returned to the charge.
“Who talked of murdering you? But, if you bellow in that way, I’ll gag
you. It’s a great deal I’m asking, indeed—that, when I’m your only
guardian, my advice should be asked for before you throw away your
money on a low ruffian. You’re more fit for a mad-house than to be any
man’s wife; and, by Heaven, that’s where I’ll put you, if you don’t
give me the promise I ask! Will you swear you’ll marry no one without
my leave?”
Poor Anty shook with fear as she sate, with her eyes fixed on her
brother’s face. He was nearly drunk now, and she felt that he was
so,—and he looked so hot and so fierce—so red and cruel, that she was
all but paralysed. Nevertheless, she mustered strength to say,
“Let me go, now, Barry, and, to-morrow, I’ll tell you everything—indeed
I will—and I’ll thry to do all you’d have me; indeed, and indeed, I
will! Only do let me go now, for you’ve frighted me.”
“You’re likely to be more frighted yet, as you call it! And be tramping
along the roads, I suppose, with Martin Kelly, before the morning. No!
I’ll have an answer from you, any way. I’ve a right to that!”
“Oh, Barry!—What is it you want?—Pray let me go—pray, pray, for the
love of the blessed Jesus, let me go.”
“I’ll tell you where you’ll go, and that’s into Ballinasloe mad-house!
Now, mark me—so help me—I’ll set off with you this night, and have you
there in the morning—as an idiot as you are, if you won’t make the
promise I’m telling you!”
By this time Anty’s presence of mind had clean left her. Indeed, all
the faculties of her reason had vanished; and, as she saw her brother’s
scowling face so near her own, and heard him threatening to drag her to
a mad-house, she put her hands before her eyes, and made one rush to
escape from him—to the door—to the window—anywhere to get out of his
reach.
Barry was quite drunk now. Had he not been so, even he would hardly
have done what he then did. As she endeavoured to rush by him, he
raised his fist, and struck her on the face, with all his force. The
blow fell upon her hands, as they were crossed over her face; but the
force of the blow knocked her down, and she fell upon the floor,
senseless, striking the back of her head against the table.
“Confound her,” muttered the brute, between his teeth, as she fell,
“for an obstinate, pig-headed fool! What the d––––l shall I do now?
Anty, get up!—get up, will you!—What ails you?”—and then again to
himself, “the d––––l seize her! What am I to do now?” and he succeeded
in dragging her on to the sofa.
The man-servant and the cook although up to this point, they had
considered it would be ill manners to interrupt the brother and sister
in their family interview, were nevertheless at the door; and though
they could see nothing, and did not succeed in hearing much, were not
the less fully aware that the conversation was of a somewhat stormy
nature on the part of the brother. When they heard the noise which
followed the blow, though not exactly knowing what had happened, they
became frightened, and began to think something terrible was being
done.
“Go in, Terry, avich,” whispered the woman,—“Knock, man, and go
in—shure he’s murdhering her!”
“What ’ud he do to me thin, av’ he’d strick a woman, and she his own
flesh and blood! He’ll not murdher her—but, faix, he’s afther doing
something now! Knock, Biddy, knock, I say, and screech out that you’re
afther wanting Miss Anty.”
The woman had more courage than the man—or else more compassion, for,
without further parleying, she rapped her knuckles loudly against the
door, and, as she did so, Terry sneaked away to the kitchen.
Barry had just succeeded in raising his sister to the sofa as he heard
the knock.
“Who’s that?” he called out loudly; “what do you want?”
“Plaze yer honer, Miss Anty’s wanting in the kitchen.”
“She’s busy, and can’t come at present; she’ll be there directly.”
“Is she ill at all, Mr. Barry? God bless you, spake, Miss Anty; in
God’s name, spake thin. Ah! Mr. Barry, thin, shure she’d spake av’ she
were able.”
“Go away, you fool! Your mistress’ll be out in a minute.” Then, after a
moment’s consideration, he went and unlocked the door, “or—go in, and
see what she wants. She’s fainted, I think.”
Barry Lynch walked out of the room, and into the garden before the
house, to think over what he had done, and what he’d better do for the
future, leaving Anty to the care of the frightened woman.
She soon came to herself, and, excepting that her head was bruised in
the fall, was not much hurt. The blow, falling on her hands, had
neither cut nor marked her; but she was for a long time so flurried
that she did not know where she was, and, in answer to all Biddy’s
tender inquiries as to the cause of her fall, and anathemas as to the
master’s bad temper, merely said that “she’d get to bed, for her head
ached so, she didn’t know where she was.”
To bed accordingly she went; and glad she was to have escaped alive
from that drunken face, which had glared on her for the last half hour.
After wandering about round the house and through the grounds, for
above an hour, Barry returned, half sobered, to the room; but, in his
present state of mind, he could not go to bed sober. He ordered more
hot water, and again sat down alone to drink, and drown the remorse he
was beginning to feel for what he had done—or rather, not remorse, but
the feeling of fear that every one would know how he had treated Anty,
and that they would side with her against him. Whichever way he looked,
all was misery and disappointment to him, and his only hope, for the
present, was in drink. There he sat, for a long time, with his eyes
fixed on the turf, till it was all burnt out, trying to get fresh
courage from the spirits he swallowed, and swearing to himself that he
would not be beat by a woman.
About one o’clock he seized one of the candles, and staggered up to
bed. As he passed his sister’s door, he opened it and went in. She was
fast asleep; her shoes were off, and the bed-clothes were thrown over
her, but she was not undressed. He slowly shut the door, and stood, for
some moments, looking at her; then, walking to the bed, he took her
shoulder, and shook it as gently as his drunkenness would let him. This
did not wake her, so he put the candle down on the table, close beside
the bed, and, steadying himself against the bedstead, he shook her
again and again. “Anty”, he whispered, “Anty”; and, at last, she opened
her eyes. Directly she saw his face, she closed them again, and buried
her own in the clothes; however, he saw that she was awake, and,
bending his head, he muttered, loud enough for her to hear, but in a
thick, harsh, hurried, drunken voice, “Anty—d’ye hear? If you marry
that man, I’ll have your life!” and then, leaving the candle behind
him, he staggered off into his own room in the dark.