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 _tête-à-tête_
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 _tête-à-tête_ 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.
“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.