AN ATTORNEY’S OFFICE IN CONNAUGHT
“Anty, here’s a letter for ye,” began the widow. “Terry’s brought it
down from the house, and says it’s from Misther Barry. I b’lieve he was
in the right not to bring it hisself.”
“A letther for me, Mrs Kelly?—what can he be writing about? I don’t
just know whether I ought to open it or no;” and Anty trembled, as she
turned the epistle over and over again in her hands.
“What for would you not open it? The letther can’t hurt you, girl,
whatever the writher might do.”
Thus encouraged, Anty broke the seal, and made herself acquainted with
the contents of the letter which Daly had dictated; but she then found
that her difficulties had only just commenced. Was she to send an
answer, and if so, what answer? And if she sent none, what notice ought
she to take of it? The matter was one evidently too weighty to be
settled by her own judgment, so she handed the letter to be read, first
by the widow, and then by Martin, and lastly by the two girls, who, by
this time, were both in the room.
“Well, the dethermined impudence of that blackguard!” exclaimed Mrs
Kelly. “Conspiracy!—av’ that don’t bang Banagher! What does the man
mean by ‘conspiracy,’ eh, Martin?”
“Faith, you must ask himself that, mother; and then it’s ten to one he
can’t tell you.”
“I suppose,” said Meg, “he wants to say that we’re all schaming to rob
Anty of her money—only he daren’t, for the life of him, spake it out
straight forrard.”
“Or, maybe,” suggested Jane, “he wants to bring something agen us like
this affair of O’Connell’s—only he’ll find, down here, that he an’t got
Dublin soft goods to deal wid.”
Then followed a consultation, as to the proper steps to be taken in the
matter.
The widow advised that father Geoghegan should be sent for to indite
such a reply as a Christian ill-used woman should send to so base a
letter. Meg, who was very hot on the subject, and who had read of some
such proceeding in a novel, was for putting up in a blank envelope the
letter itself, and returning it to Barry by the hands of Jack, the
ostler; at the same time, she declared that “No surrender” should be
her motto. Jane was of opinion that “Miss Anastasia Lynch’s compliments
to Mr Barry Lynch, and she didn’t find herself strong enough to move to
Dunmore House at present,” would answer all purposes, and be, on the
whole, the safest course. While Martin pronounced that “if Anty would
be led by him, she’d just pitch the letter behind the fire an’ take no
notice of it, good, bad, or indifferent.”
None of these plans pleased Anty, for, as she remarked, “After all,
Barry was her brother, and blood was thickher than wather.” So, after
much consultation, pen, ink, and paper were procured, and the following
letter was concocted between them, all the soft bits having been great
stumbling-blocks, in which, however, Anty’s quiet perseverance carried
the point, in opposition to the wishes of all the Kellys. The words put
in brackets were those peculiarly objected to.
“Dunmore Inn. February, 1844.
“DEAR BARRY,
“I (am very sorry I) can’t come back to the house, at any rate
just at present. I am not very sthrong in health, and there are
kind female friends about me here, which you know there couldn’t
be up at the house.”—Anty herself, in the original draft inserted
‘ladies,’ but the widow’s good sense repudiated the term, and
insisted on the word ‘females:’ Jane suggested that ‘females’
did not sound quite respectful alone, and Martin thought that
Anty might call them ‘female friends,’ which was consequently
done.—“Besides, there are reasons why I’m quieter here, till things
are a little more settled. I will forgive (and forget) all that
happened up at the house between us”—‘Why, you can’t forget it,’
said Meg. ‘Oh, I could, av’ he was kind to me. I’d forget it all in
a week av’ he was kind to me,’ answered Anty—(and I will do nothing
particular without first letting you know).” They were all loud
against this paragraph, but they could not carry their point. “I
must tell you, dear Barry, that you are very much mistaken about
the people of this house: they are dear, kind friends to me, and,
wherever I am, I must love them to the last day of my life—but
indeed I am, and hope you believe so,
“Your affectionate sister,
ANASTASIA LYNCH.”
When the last paragraph was read over Anty’s shoulder, Meg declared she
was a dear, dear creature: Jane gave her a big kiss, and began crying;
even the widow put the corner of her apron to her eye, and Martin,
trying to look manly and unconcerned, declared that he was “quite shure
they all loved her, and they’d be brutes and bastes av’ they didn’t!”
The letter, as given above, was finally decided on; written, sealed,
and despatched by Jack, who was desired to be very particular to
deliver it at the front door, with Miss Lynch’s love, which was
accordingly done. All the care, however, which had been bestowed on it
did not make it palatable to Barry, who was alone when he received it,
and merely muttered, as he read it, “Confound her, low-minded slut!
friends, indeed! what business has she with friends, except such as I
please?—if I’d the choosing of her friends, they’d be a strait
waistcoat, and the madhouse doctor. Good Heaven! that half my
property—no, but two-thirds of it,—should belong to her!—the stupid,
stiff-necked robber!”
These last pleasant epithets had reference to his respected progenitor.
On the same evening, after tea, Martin endeavoured to make a little
further advance with Anty, for he felt that he had been interrupted
just as she was coming round; but her nerves were again disordered, and
he soon found that if he pressed her now, he should only get a decided
negative, which he might find it very difficult to induce her to
revoke.
Anty’s letter was sent off early on the Monday morning—at least, as
early as Barry now ever managed to do anything—to the attorney at Tuam,
with strong injunctions that no time was to be lost in taking further
steps, and with a request that Daly would again come out to Dunmore.
This, however, he did not at present think it expedient to do. So he
wrote to Barry, begging him to come into Tuam on the Wednesday, to meet
Moylan, whom he, Daly, would, if possible, contrive to see on the
intervening day.
“Obstinate puppy!” said Barry to himself—“if he’d had the least pluck
in life he’d have broken the will, or at least made the girl out a
lunatic. But a Connaught lawyer hasn’t half the wit or courage now that
he used to have.” However, he wrote a note to Daly, agreeing to his
proposal, and promising to be in Tuam at two o’clock on the Wednesday.
On the following day Daly saw Moylan, and had a long conversation with
him. The old man held out for a long time, expressing much indignation
at being supposed capable of joining in any underhand agreement for
transferring Miss Lynch’s property to his relatives the Kellys, and
declaring that he would make public to every one in Dunmore and Tuam
the base manner in which Barry Lynch was treating his sister. Indeed,
Moylan kept to his story so long and so firmly that the young attorney
was nearly giving him up; but at last he found his weak side.
“Well, Mr Moylan,” he said, “then I can only say your own conduct is
very disinterested;—and I might even go so far as to say that you
appear to me foolishly indifferent to your own concerns. Here’s the
agency of the whole property going a-begging: the rents, I believe, are
about a thousand a-year: you might be recaving them all by jist a word
of your mouth, and that only telling the blessed truth; and here,
you’re going to put the whole thing into the hands of young Kelly;
throwing up even the half of the business you have got!”
“Who says I’m afther doing any sich thing, Mr Daly?”
“Why, Martin Kelly says so. Didn’t as many as four or five persons hear
him say, down at Dunmore, that divil a one of the tenants’d iver pay a
haporth [30] of the November rents to anyone only jist to himself?
There was father Geoghegan heard him, an Doctor Ned Blake.”
“Maybe he’ll find his mistake, Mr Daly.”
“Maybe he will, Mr Moylan. Maybe we’ll put the whole affair into the
courts, and have a regular recaver over the property, under the
Chancellor. People, though they’re ever so respectable in their
way,—and I don’t mane to say a word against the Kellys, Mr Moylan, for
they were always friends of mine—but people can’t be allowed to make a
dead set at a property like this, and have it all their own way, like
the bull in the china-shop. I know there has been an agreement made,
and that, in the eye of the law, is a conspiracy. I positively know
that an agreement has been made to induce Miss Lynch to become Martin
Kelly’s wife; and I know the parties to it, too; and I also know that
an active young fellow like him wouldn’t be paying an agent to get in
his rents; and I thought, if Mr Lynch was willing to appoint you his
agent, as well as his sister’s, it might be worth your while to lend us
a hand to settle this affair, without forcing us to stick people into a
witness-box whom neither I nor Mr Lynch—”
“But what the d––––l can I—”
“Jist hear me out, Mr Moylan; you see, if they once knew—the Kellys I
mane—that you wouldn’t lend a hand to this piece of iniquity—”
“Which piece of iniquity, Mr Daly?—for I’m entirely bothered.”
“Ah, now, Mr Moylan, none of your fun: this piece of iniquity of
theirs, I say; for I can call it no less. If they once knew that you
wouldn’t help ’em, they’d be obliged to drop it all; the matter’d never
have to go into court at all, and you’d jist step into the agency fair
and aisy; and, into the bargain, you’d do nothing but an honest man’s
work.”
The old man broke down, and consented to “go agin the Kellys,” as he
somewhat ambiguously styled his apostasy, provided the agency was
absolutely promised to him; and he went away with the understanding
that he was to come on the following day and meet Mr Lynch.
At two o’clock, punctual to the time of his appointment, Moylan was
there, and was kept waiting an hour in Daly’s little parlour. At the
end of this time Barry came in, having invigorated his courage and
spirits with a couple of glasses of brandy. Daly had been for some time
on the look-out for him, for he wished to say a few words to him in
private, and give him his cue before he took him into the room where
Moylan was sitting. This could not well be done in the office, for it
was crowded. It would, I think, astonish a London attorney in
respectable practice, to see the manner in which his brethren towards
the west of Ireland get through their work. Daly’s office was open to
all the world; the front door of the house, of which he rented the
ground floor, was never closed, except at night; nor was the door of
the office, which opened immediately into the hall.
During the hour that Moylan was waiting in the parlour, Daly was
sitting, with his hat on, upon a high stool, with his feet resting on a
small counter which ran across the room, smoking a pipe: a boy, about
seventeen years of age, Daly’s clerk, was filling up numbers of those
abominable formulas of legal persecution in which attorneys deal, and
was plying his trade as steadily as though no February blasts were
blowing in on him through the open door, no sounds of loud and
boisterous conversation were rattling in his ears. The dashing manager
of one of the branch banks in the town was sitting close to the little
stove, and raking out the turf ashes with the office rule, while
describing a drinking-bout that had taken place on the previous Sunday
at Blake’s of Blakemount; he had a cigar in his mouth, and was
searching for a piece of well-kindled turf, wherewith to light it. A
little fat oily shopkeeper in the town, who called himself a woollen
merchant, was standing with the raised leaf of the counter in his hand,
roaring with laughter at the manager’s story. Two frieze coated
farmers, outside the counter, were stretching across it, and whispering
very audibly to Daly some details of litigation which did not appear
very much to interest him; and a couple of idle blackguards were
leaning against the wall, ready to obey any behest of the attorney’s
which might enable them to earn a sixpence without labour, and
listening with all their ears to the different interesting topics of
conversation which might be broached in the inner office.
“Here’s the very man I’m waiting for, at last,” said Daly, when, from
his position on the stool, he saw, through the two open doors, the
bloated red face of Barry Lynch approaching; and, giving an impulse to
his body by a shove against the wall behind him, he raised himself on
to the counter, and, assisting himself by a pull at the collar of the
frieze coat of the farmer who was in the middle of his story, jumped to
the ground, and met his client at the front door.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Lynch,” said he as soon as he had shaken hands
with him, “but will you just step up to my room a minute, for I want to
spake to you;” and he took him up into his bed-room, for he hadn’t a
second sitting-room. “You’ll excuse my bringing you up here, for the
office was full, you see, and Moylan’s in the parlour.”
“The d––––l he is! He came round then, did he, eh, Daly?”
“Oh, I’ve had a terrible hard game to play with him. I’d no idea he’d
be so tough a customer, or make such a good fight; but I think I’ve
managed him.”
“There was a regular plan then, eh, Daly? Just as I said. It was a
regular planned scheme among them?”
“Wait a moment, and you’ll know all about it, at least as much as I
know myself; and, to tell the truth, that’s devilish little. But, if we
manage to break off the match, and get your sister clane out of the inn
there, you must give Moylan your agency, at any rate for two or three
years.”
“You haven’t promised that?”
“But I have, though. We can do nothing without it: it was only when I
hinted that, that the old sinner came round.”
“But what the deuce is it he’s to do for us, after all?”
“He’s to allow us to put him forward as a bugbear, to frighten the
Kellys with: that’s all, and, if we can manage that, that’s enough. But
come down now. I only wanted to warn you that, if you think the agency
is too high a price to pay for the man’s services, whatever they may
be, you must make up your mind to dispense with them.”
“Well,” answered Barry, as he followed the attorney downstairs, “I
can’t understand what you’re about; but I suppose you must be right;”
and they went into the little parlour where Moylan was sitting.
Moylan and Barry Lynch had only met once, since the former had been
entrusted to receive Anty’s rents, on which occasion Moylan had been
grossly insulted by her brother. Barry, remembering the meeting, felt
very awkward at the idea of entering into amicable conversation with
him, and crept in at the door like a whipped dog. Moylan was too old to
feel any such compunctions, and consequently made what he intended to
be taken as a very complaisant bow to his future patron. He was an
ill-made, ugly, stumpy man, about fifty; with a blotched face,
straggling sandy hair, and grey shaggy whiskers. He wore a long brown
great coat, buttoned up to his chin, and this was the only article of
wearing apparel visible upon him: in his hands he twirled a shining new
four-and-fourpenny hat.
As soon as their mutual salutations were over, Daly commenced his
business.
“There is no doubt in the world, Mr Lynch,” said he, addressing Barry,
“that a most unfair attempt has been made by this family to get
possession of your sister’s property—a most shameful attempt, which the
law will no doubt recognise as a misdemeanour. But I think we shall be
able to stop their game without any law at all, which will save us the
annoyance of putting Mr Moylan here, and other respectable witnesses,
on the table. Mr Moylan says that very soon afther your father’s will
was made known—”
“Now, Mr Daly—shure I niver said a word in life at all about the will,”
said Moylan, interrupting him.
“No, you did not: I mane, very soon afther you got the agency—”
“Divil a word I said about the agency, either.”
“Well, well; some time ago—he says that, some time ago, he and Martin
Kelly were talking over your sister’s affairs; I believe the widow was
there, too.”
“Ah, now, Mr Daly—why’d you be putting them words into my mouth? sorrow
a word of the kind I iver utthered at all.”
“What the deuce was it you did say, then?”
“Faix, I don’t know that I said much, at all.”
“Didn’t you say, Mr Moylan, that Martin Kelly was talking to you about
marrying Anty, some six weeks ago?”
“Maybe I did; he was spaking about it.”
“And, if you were in the chair now, before a jury, wouldn’t you swear
that there was a schame among them to get Anty Lynch married to Martin
Kelly? Come, Mr Moylan, that’s all we want to know: if you can’t say as
much as that for us now, just that we may let the Kellys know what sort
of evidence we could bring against them, if they push us, we must only
have you and others summoned, and see what you’ll have to say then.”
“Oh, I’d say the truth, Mr Daly—divil a less—and I’d do as much as that
now; but I thought Mr Lynch was wanting to say something about the
property?”
“Not a word then I’ve to say about it,” said Barry, “except that I
won’t let that robber, young Kelly, walk off with it, as long as
there’s law in the land.”
“Mr Moylan probably meant about the agency,” observed Daly.
Barry looked considerably puzzled, and turned to the attorney for
assistance. “He manes,” continued Daly, “that he and the Kellys are
good friends, and it wouldn’t be any convenience to him just to say
anything that wouldn’t be pleasing to them, unless we could make him
independent of them:—isn’t that about the long and the short of it, Mr
Moylan?”
“Indepindent of the Kellys, is it, Mr Daly?—Faix, thin, I’m teetotally
indepindent of them this minute, and mane to continue so, glory be to
God. Oh, I’m not afeard to tell the thruth agin ere a Kelly in Galway
or Roscommon—and, av’ that was all, I don’t see why I need have come
here this day. When I’m called upon in the rigular way, and has a
rigular question put me before the Jury, either at Sessions or ’Sizes,
you’ll find I’ll not be bothered for an answer, and, av’ that’s all, I
b’lieve I may be going,”—and he made a movement towards the door.
“Just as you please, Mr Moylan,” said Daly; “and you may be sure that
you’ll not be long without an opportunity of showing how free you are
with your answers. But, as a friend, I tell you you’ll be wrong to lave
this room till you’ve had a little more talk with Mr Lynch and myself.
I believe I mentioned to you Mr Lynch was looking out for someone to
act as agent over his portion of the Dunmore property?”
Barry looked as black as thunder, but he said nothing.
“You war, Mr Daly. Av’ I could accommodate Mr Lynch, I’m shure I’d be
happy to undhertake the business.”
“I believe, Mr Lynch,” said Daly, turning to the other, “I may go so
far as to promise Mr Moylan the agency of the whole property, provided
Miss Lynch is induced to quit the house of the Kellys? Of course, Mr
Moylan, you can see that as long as Miss Lynch is in a position of
unfortunate hostility to her brother, the same agent could not act for
both; but I think my client is inclined to put his property under your
management, providing his sister returns to her own home. I believe I’m
stating your wishes, Mr Lynch.”
“Manage it your own way,” said Barry, “for I don’t see what you’re
doing. If this man can do anything for me, why, I suppose I must pay
him for it; and if so, your plan’s as good a way of paying him as
another.”
The attorney raised his hat with his hand, and scratched his head: he
was afraid that Moylan would have again gone off in a pet at Lynch’s
brutality, but the old man sat quite quiet. He wouldn’t have much
minded what was said to him, as long as he secured the agency.
“You see, Mr Moylan,” continued Daly, “you can have the agency. Five
per cent. upon the rents is what my client—”
“No, Daly—Five per cent.!—I’m shot if I do!” exclaimed Barry.
“I’m gething twenty-five pounds per annum from Miss Anty, for her half,
and I wouldn’t think of collecting the other for less,” declared
Moylan.
And then a long battle followed on this point, which it required all
Daly’s tact and perseverance to adjust. The old man was pertinacious,
and many whispers had to be made into Barry’s ear before the matter
could be settled. It was, however, at last agreed that notice was to be
served on the Kellys, of Barry Lynch’s determination to indict them for
a conspiracy; that Daly was to see the widow, Martin, and, if possible,
Anty, and tell them all that Moylan was prepared to prove that such a
conspiracy had been formed;—care was also to be taken that copies of
the notices so served should be placed in Anty’s hands. Moylan, in the
meantime, agreed to keep out of the way, and undertook, should he be
unfortunate enough to encounter any of the family of the Kellys, to
brave the matter out by declaring that “av’ he war brought before the
Judge and Jury he couldn’t do more than tell the blessed thruth, and
why not?” In reward for this, he was to be appointed agent over the
entire property the moment that Miss Lynch left the inn, at which time
he was to receive a document, signed by Barry, undertaking to retain
him in the agency for four years certain, or else to pay him a hundred
pounds when it was taken from him.
These terms having been mutually agreed to, and Barry having, with many
oaths, declared that he was a most shamefully ill-used man, the three
separated. Moylan skulked off to one of his haunts in the town; Barry
went to the bank, to endeavour to get a bill discounted [31]; and Daly
returned to his office, to prepare the notices for the unfortunate
widow and her son.