MR LYNCH BIDS FAREWELL TO DUNMORE
Poor Martin was dreadfully shocked; and not only shocked, but grieved
and astonished. He had never thought well of his intended
brother-in-law, but he had not judged him so severely as Mr Armstrong
had done. He listened to all Lord Ballindine said to him, and agreed as
to the propriety of the measures he proposed. But there was nothing of
elation about him at the downfall of the man whom he could not but look
on as his enemy: indeed, he was not only subdued and modest in his
demeanour, but he appeared so reserved that he could hardly be got to
express any interest in the steps which were to be taken respecting the
property. It was only when Lord Ballindine pointed out to him that it
was his duty to guard Anty’s interests, that he would consent to go to
Dunmore House with them, and to state, when called upon to do so, what
measures he would wish to have adopted with regard to the property.
“Suppose he denies himself to us?” said Frank, as the four walked
across the street together, to the great astonishment of the whole
population.
“If he’s in the house, I’ll go bail we won’t go away without seeing
him,” said the parson. “Will he be at home, Kelly, do you think?”
“Indeed he will, Mr Armstrong,” said Martin; “he’ll be in bed and
asleep. He’s never out of bed, I believe, much before one or two in the
day. It’s a bad life he’s leading since the ould man died.”
“You may say that,” said the doctor:—“cursing and drinking; drinking
and cursing; nothing else. You’ll find him curse at you dreadful, Mr
Armstrong, I’m afraid.”
“I can bear that, doctor; it’s part of my own trade, you know; but I
think we’ll find him quiet enough. I think you’ll find the difficulty
is to make him speak at all. You’d better be spokesman, my lord, as
you’re a magistrate.”
“No, Armstrong, I will not. You’re much more able, and more fitting: if
it’s necessary for me to act as a magistrate, I’ll do so—but at first
we’ll leave him to you.”
“Very well,” said the parson; “and I’ll do my best. But I’ll tell you
what I am afraid of: if we find him in bed we must wait for him, and
when the servant tells him who we are, and mentions the doctor’s name
along with yours, my lord, he’ll guess what we’re come about, and he’ll
be out of the window, or into the cellar, and then there’d be no
catching him without the police. We must make our way up into his
bed-room.”
“I don’t think we could well do that,” said the doctor.
“No, Armstrong,” said Lord Ballindine. “I don’t think we ought to force
ourselves upstairs: we might as well tell all the servants what we’d
come about.”
“And so we must,” said Armstrong, “if it’s necessary. The more
determined we are—in fact, the rougher we are with him, the more likely
we are to bring him on his knees. I tell you, you must have no scruples
in dealing with such a fellow; but leave him to me;” and so saying, the
parson gave a thundering rap at the hall door, and in about one minute
repeated it, which brought Biddy running to the door without shoes or
stockings, with her hair streaming behind her head, and, in her hand,
the comb with which she had been disentangling it.
“Is your master at home?” said Armstrong.
“Begorra, he is,” said the girl out of breath. “That is, he’s not up
yet, nor awake, yer honer,” and she held the door in her hand, as
though this answer was final.
“But I want to see him on especial and immediate business,” said the
parson, pushing back the door and the girl together, and walking into
the hall. “I must see him at once. Mr Lynch will excuse me: we’ve known
each other a long time.”
“Begorra, I don’t know,” said the girl, “only he’s in bed and fast.
Couldn’t yer honer call agin about four or five o’clock? That’s the
time the masther’s most fittest to be talking to the likes of yer
honer.”
“These gentlemen could not wait,” said the parson.
“Shure the docther there, and Mr Martin, knows well enough I’m not
telling you a bit of a lie, Misther Armstrong,” said the girl.
“I know you’re not, my good girl; I know you’re not telling a lie;—but,
nevertheless, I must see Mr Lynch. Just step up and wake him, and tell
him I’m waiting to say two words to him.”
“Faix, yer honer, he’s very bitther intirely, when he’s waked this
early. But in course I’ll be led by yer honers. I’ll say then, that the
lord, and Parson Armstrong, and the docther, and Mr Martin, is waiting
to spake two words to him. Is that it?”
“That’ll do as well as anything,” said Armstrong; and then, when the
girl went upstairs, he continued, “You see she knew us all, and of
course will tell him who we are; but I’ll not let him escape, for I’ll
go up with her,” and, as the girl slowly opened her master’s bed-room
door, Mr Armstrong stood close outside it in the passage.
After considerable efforts, Biddy succeeded in awaking her master
sufficiently to make him understand that Lord Ballindine, and Doctor
Colligan were downstairs, and that Parson Armstrong was just outside
the bed-room door. The poor girl tried hard to communicate her tidings
in such a whisper as would be inaudible to the parson; but this was
impossible, for Barry only swore at her, and asked her “what the d––––
she meant by jabbering there in that manner?” When, however, he did
comprehend who his visitors were, and where they were, he gnashed his
teeth and clenched his fist at the poor girl, in sign of his anger
against her for having admitted so unwelcome a party; but he was too
frightened to speak.
Mr Armstrong soon put an end to this dumb show, by walking into the
bed-room, when the girl escaped, and he shut the door. Barry sat up in
his bed, rubbed his eyes, and stared at him, but he said nothing.
“Mr Lynch,” said the parson, “I had better at once explain the
circumstances which have induced me to make so very strange a visit.”
“Confounded strange, I must say! to come up to a man’s room in this
way, and him in bed!”
“Doctor Colligan is downstairs—”
“D–––– Doctor Colligan! He’s at his lies again, I suppose? Much I care
for Doctor Colligan.”
“Doctor Colligan is downstairs,” continued Mr Armstrong, “and Lord
Ballindine, who, you are aware, is a magistrate. They wish to speak to
you, Mr Lynch, and that at once.”
“I suppose they can wait till a man’s dressed?”
“That depends on how long you’re dressing, Mr Lynch.”
“Upon my word, this is cool enough, in a man’s own house!” said Barry.
“Well, you don’t expect me to get up while you’re there, I suppose?”
“Indeed I do, Mr Lynch: never mind me; just wash and dress yourself as
though I wasn’t here. I’ll wait here till we go down together.”
“I’m d––––d if I do,” said Barry. “I’ll not stir while you remain
there!” and he threw himself back in the bed, and wrapped the
bedclothes round him.
“Very well,” said Mr Armstrong; and then going out on to the
landing-place, called out over the banisters—“Doctor—Doctor Colligan!
tell his lordship Mr Lynch objects to a private interview: he had
better just step down to the Court-house, and issue his warrant. You
might as well tell Constable Nelligan to be in the way.”
“D––––n!” exclaimed Barry, sitting bolt upright in his bed. “Who says I
object to see anybody? Mr Armstrong, what do you go and say that for?”
Mr Armstrong returned into the room. “It’s not true. I only want to
have my bed-room to myself, while I get up.”
“For once in the way, Mr Lynch, you must manage to get up although your
privacy be intruded on. To tell you the plain truth, I will not leave
you till you come downstairs with me, unless it be in the custody of a
policeman. If you will quietly dress and come downstairs with me, I
trust we may be saved the necessity of troubling the police at all.”
Barry, at last, gave way, and, gradually extricating himself from the
bedclothes, put his feet down on the floor, and remained sitting on the
side of his bed. He leaned his head down on his hands, and groaned
inwardly; for he was very sick, and the fumes of last night’s punch
still disturbed his brain. His stockings and drawers were on; for
Terry, when he put him to bed, considered it only waste of time to pull
them off, for “shure wouldn’t they have jist to go on agin the next
morning?”
“Don’t be particular, Mr Lynch: never mind washing or shaving till
we’re gone. We won’t keep you long, I hope.”
“You’re very kind, I must say,” said Barry. “I suppose you won’t object
to my having a bottle of soda water?”—and he gave a terrible tug at the
bell.
“Not at all—nor a glass of brandy in it, if you like it. Indeed, Mr
Lynch, I think that, just at present, it will be the better thing for
you.”
Barry got his bottle of soda water, and swallowed about two glasses of
whiskey in it, for brandy was beginning to be scarce with him; and then
commenced his toilet. He took Parson Armstrong’s hint, and wasn’t very
particular about it. He huddled on his clothes, smoothed his hair with
his brush, and muttering something about it’s being their own fault,
descended into the parlour, followed by Mr Armstrong. He made a kind of
bow to Lord Ballindine; took no notice of Martin, but, turning round
sharp on the doctor, said:
“Of all the false ruffians, I ever met, Colligan—by heavens, you’re the
worst! There’s one comfort, no man in Dunmore will believe a word you
say.” He then threw himself back into the easy chair, and said, “Well,
gentlemen—well, my lord—here I am. You can’t say I’m ashamed to show my
face, though I must say your visit is not made in the genteelest
manner.”
“Mr Lynch,” said the parson, “do you remember the night Doctor Colligan
knocked you down in this room? In this room, wasn’t it, doctor?”
“Yes; in this room,” said the doctor, rather _sotto voce_.
“Do you remember the circumstance, Mr Lynch?”
“It’s a lie!” said Barry.
“No it’s not,” said the parson. “If you forget it, I can call in the
servant to remember so much as that for me; but you’ll find it better,
Mr Lynch, to let us finish this business among ourselves. Come, think
about it. I’m sure you remember being knocked down by the doctor.”
“I remember a scrimmage there was between us. I don’t care what the
girl says, she didn’t see it. Colligan, I suppose, has given her
half-a-crown, and she’d swear anything for that.”
“Well, you remember the night of the scrimmage?”
“I do: Colligan got drunk here one night. He wanted me to give him a
farm, and said cursed queer things about my sister. I hardly know what
he said; but I know I had to turn him out of the house, and there was a
scrimmage between us.”
“I see you’re so far prepared, Mr Lynch: now, I’ll tell you my version
of the story.—Martin Kelly, just see that the door is shut. You
endeavoured to bribe Doctor Colligan to murder your own sister.”
“It’s a most infernal lie!” said Barry. “Where’s your evidence?—where’s
your evidence? What’s the good of your all coming here with such a
story as that? Where’s your evidence?”
“You’d better be quiet, Mr Lynch, or we’ll adjourn at once from here to
the open Court-house.”
“Adjourn when you like; it’s all one to me. Who’ll believe such a
drunken ruffian as that Colligan, I’d like to know? Such a story as
that!”
“My lord,” said Armstrong, “I’m afraid we must go on with this business
at the Court-house. Martin, I believe I must trouble you to go down to
the police barrack.” And the whole party, except Barry, rose from their
seats.
“What the devil are you going to drag me down to the Court-house for,
gentlemen?” said he. “I’ll give you any satisfaction, but you can’t
expect I’ll own to such a lie as this about my sister. I suppose my
word’s as good as Colligan’s, gentlemen? I suppose my character as a
Protestant gentleman stands higher than his—a dirty Papist apothecary.
He tells one story; I tell another; only he’s got the first word of me,
that’s all. I suppose, gentlemen, I’m not to be condemned on the word
of such a man as that?”
“I think, Mr Lynch,” said Armstrong, “if you’ll listen to me, you’ll
save yourself and us a great deal of trouble. You asked me who my
witness was: my witness is in this house. I would not charge you with
so horrid, so damnable a crime, had I not thoroughly convinced myself
you were guilty—now, do hold your tongue, Mr Lynch, or I will have you
down to the Court-house. We all know you are guilty, you know it
yourself—”
“I’m—” began Barry.
“Stop, Mr Lynch; not one word till I’ve done; or what I have to say,
shall be said in public. We all know you are guilty, but we probably
mayn’t be able to prove it—”
“No, I should think not!” shouted Barry.
“We mayn’t be able to prove it in such a way as to enable a jury to
hang you, or, upon my word, I wouldn’t interfere to prevent it: the law
should have its course. I’d hang you with as little respite as I would
a dog.”
Barry grinned horribly at this suggestion, but said nothing, and the
parson continued:
“It is not the want of evidence that stands in the way of so desirable
a proceeding, but that Doctor Colligan, thoroughly disgusted and
shocked at the iniquity of your proposal—”
“Oh, go on, Mr Armstrong!—go on; I see you are determined to have it
all your own way, but my turn’ll come soon.”
“I say that Doctor Colligan interrupted you before you fully committed
yourself.”
“Fully committed myself, indeed! Why, Colligan knows well enough, that
when he got up in such a fluster, there’d not been a word at all said
about Anty.”
“Hadn’t there, Mr Lynch?—just now you said you turned the doctor out of
your house for speaking about your sister. You’re only committing
yourself. I say, therefore, the evidence, though quite strong enough to
put you into the dock as a murderer in intention, might not be
sufficient to induce a jury to find you guilty. But guilty you would be
esteemed in the mind of every man, woman, and child in this county:
guilty of the wilful, deliberate murder of your own sister.”
“By heavens I’ll not stand this!” exclaimed Barry.—“I’ll not stand
this! I didn’t do it, Mr Armstrong. I didn’t do it. He’s a liar, Lord
Ballindine: upon my sacred word and honour as a gentleman, he’s a liar.
Why do you believe him, when you won’t believe me? Ain’t I a
Protestant, Mr Armstrong, and ain’t you a Protestant clergyman? Don’t
you know that such men as he will tell any lie; will do any dirty job?
On my sacred word of honour as a gentleman, Lord Ballindine, he offered
to poison Anty, on condition he got the farm round the house for
nothing!—He knows it’s true, and why should you believe him sooner than
me, Mr Armstrong?”
Barry had got up from his seat, and was walking up and down the room,
now standing opposite Lord Ballindine, and appealing to him, and then
doing the same thing to Mr Armstrong. He was a horrid figure: he had no
collar round his neck, and his handkerchief was put on in such a way as
to look like a hangman’s knot: his face was blotched, and red, and
greasy, for he had neither shaved nor washed himself since his last
night’s debauch; he had neither waistcoat nor braces on, and his
trousers fell on his hips; his long hair hung over his eyes, which were
bleared and bloodshot; he was suffering dreadfully from terror, and an
intense anxiety to shift the guilt from himself to Doctor Colligan. He
was a most pitiable object—so wretched, so unmanned, so low in the
scale of creation. Lord Ballindine did pity his misery, and suggested
to Mr Armstrong whether by any possibility there could be any mistake
in the matter—whether it was possible Doctor Colligan could have
mistaken Lynch’s object?—The poor wretch jumped at this loop-hole, and
doubly condemned himself by doing so.
“He did, then,” said Barry; “he must have done so. As I hope for
heaven, Lord Ballindine, I never had the idea of getting him to—to do
anything to Anty. I wouldn’t have done it for worlds—indeed I wouldn’t.
There must be some mistake, indeed there must. He’d been drinking, Mr
Armstrong—drinking a good deal that night—isn’t that true, Doctor
Colligan? Come, man, speak the truth—don’t go and try and hang a fellow
out of mistake! His lordship sees it’s all a mistake, and of course
he’s the best able to judge of the lot here; a magistrate, and a
nobleman and all. I know you won’t see me wronged, Lord Ballindine, I
know you won’t. I give you my sacred word of honour as a gentleman, it
all came from mistake when we were both drunk, or nearly drunk. Come,
Doctor Colligan, speak man—isn’t that the truth? I tell you, Mr
Armstrong, Lord Ballindine’s in the right of it. There is some mistake
in all this.”
“As sure as the Lord’s in heaven,” said the doctor, now becoming a
little uneasy at the idea that Lord Ballindine should think he had told
so strange a story without proper foundation—“as sure as the Lord’s in
heaven, he offered me the farm for a reward, should I manage to prevent
his sister’s recovery.”
“What do you think, Mr Armstrong?” said Lord Ballindine.
“Think!” said the parson—“There’s no possibility of thinking at all.
The truth becomes clearer every moment. Why, you wretched creature,
it’s not ten minutes since you yourself accused Doctor Colligan of
offering to murder your sister! According to your own showing,
therefore, there was a deliberate conversation between you; and your
own evasion now would prove which of you were the murderer, were any
additional proof wanted. But it is not. Barry Lynch, as sure as you now
stand in the presence of your Creator, whose name you so constantly
blaspheme, you endeavoured to instigate that man to murder your own
sister.”
“Oh, Lord Ballindine!—oh, Lord Ballindine!” shrieked Barry, in his
agony, “don’t desert me! pray, pray don’t desert me! I didn’t do it—I
never thought of doing it. We were at school together, weren’t we?—And
you won’t see me put upon this way. You mayn’t think much of me in
other things, but you won’t believe that a school-fellow of your own
ever—ever—ever—” Barry couldn’t bring himself to use the words with
which his sentence should be finished, and so he flung himself back
into his armchair and burst into tears.
“You appeal to me, Mr Lynch,” said Lord Ballindine, “and I must say I
most firmly believe you to be guilty. My only doubt is whether you
should not at once be committed for trial at the next assizes.”
“Oh, my G––––!” exclaimed Barry, and for some time he continued
blaspheming most horribly—swearing that there was a conspiracy against
him—accusing Mr Armstrong, in the most bitter terms, of joining with
Doctor Colligan and Martin Kelly to rob and murder him.
“Now, Mr Lynch,” continued the parson, as soon as the unfortunate man
would listen to him, “as I before told you, I am in doubt—we are all in
doubt—whether or not a jury would hang you; and we think that we shall
do more good to the community by getting you out of the way, than by
letting you loose again after a trial which will only serve to let
everyone know how great a wretch there is in the county. We will,
therefore, give you your option either to stand your trial, or to leave
the country at once—and for ever.”
“And my property?—what’s to become of my property?” said Barry.
“Your property’s safe, Mr Lynch; we can’t touch that. We’re not
prescribing any punishment to you. We fear, indeed we know, you’re
beyond the reach of the law, or we shouldn’t make the proposal.” Barry
breathed freely again as he heard this avowal. “But you’re not beyond
the reach of public opinion—of public execration—of general hatred, and
of a general curse. For your sister’s sake—for the sake of Martin
Kelly, who is going to marry the sister whom you wished to murder, and
not for your own sake, you shall be allowed to leave the country
without this public brand being put upon your name. If you remain, no
one shall speak to you but as to a man who would have murdered his
sister: murder shall be everlastingly muttered in your ears; nor will
your going then avail you, for your character shall go with you, and
the very blackguards with whom you delight to assort, shall avoid you
as being too bad even for their society. Go now, Mr Lynch—go at
once;—leave your sister to happiness which you cannot prevent; and she
at least shall know nothing of your iniquity, and you shall enjoy the
proceeds of your property anywhere you will—anywhere, that is, but in
Ireland. Do you agree to this?”
“I’m an innocent man, Mr Armstrong. I am indeed.”
“Very well,” said the parson, “then we may as well go away, and leave
you to your fate. Come, Lord Ballindine, we can have nothing further to
say,” and they again all rose from their seats.
“Stop, Mr Armstrong; stop,” said Barry.
“Well,” said the parson; for Barry repressed the words which were in
his mouth, when he found that his visitors did stop as he desired them.
“Well, Mr Lynch, what have you further to say.”
“Indeed I am not guilty.” Mr Armstrong put on his hat and rushed to the
door—“but—” continued Barry.
“I will have no ‘buts,’ Mr Lynch; will you at once and unconditionally
agree to the terms I have proposed?”
“I don’t want to live in the country,” said Barry; “the country’s
nothing to me.”
“You will go then, immediately?” said the parson.
“As soon as I have arranged about the property, I will,” said Barry.
“That won’t do,” said the parson. “You must go at once, and leave your
property to the care of others. You must leave Dunmore _to-day_, for
ever.”
“To-day!” shouted Barry.
“Yes, to-day. You can easily get as far as Roscommon. You have your own
horse and car. And, what is more, before you go, you must write to your
sister, telling her that you have made up your mind to leave the
country, and expressing your consent to her marrying whom she pleases.”
“I can’t go to-day,” said Barry, sulkily. “Who’s to receive my rents?
who’ll send me my money?—besides—besides. Oh, come—that’s nonsense. I
ain’t going to be turned out in that style.”
“You ain’t in earnest, are you, about his going to-day?” whispered
Frank to the parson.
“I am, and you’ll find he’ll go, too,” said Armstrong. “It must be
to-day—this very day, Mr Lynch. Martin Kelly will manage for you about
the property.”
“Or you can send for Mr Daly, to meet you at Roscommon,” suggested
Martin.
“Thank you for nothing,” said Barry; “you’d better wait till you’re
spoken to. I don’t know what business you have here at all.”
“The business that all honest men have to look after all rogues,” said
Mr Armstrong. “Come, Mr Lynch, you’d better make up your mind to
prepare for your journey.”
“Well, I won’t—and there’s an end of it,” said Barry. “It’s all
nonsense. You can’t do anything to me: you said so yourself. I’m not
going to be made a fool of that way—I’m not going to give up my
property and everything.”
“Don’t you know, Mr Lynch,” said the parson, “that if you are kept in
jail till April next, as will be your fate if you persist in staying at
Dunmore tonight, your creditors will do much more damage to your
property, than your own immediate absence will do? If Mr Daly is your
lawyer, send for him, as Martin Kelly suggests. I’m not afraid that he
will recommend you to remain in the country, even should you dare to
tell him of the horrid accusation which is brought against you. But at
any rate make up your mind, for if you do stay in Dunmore tonight it
shall be in the Bridewell, and your next move shall be to Galway.”
Barry sat silent for a while, trying to think. The parson was like an
incubus upon him, which he was totally unable to shake off. He knew
neither how to resist nor how to give way. Misty ideas got into his
head of escaping to his bed-room and blowing his own brains out.
Different schemes of retaliation and revenge flitted before him, but he
could decide on nothing. There he sat, silent, stupidly gazing at
nothing, while Lord Ballindine and Mr Armstrong stood whispering over
the fire.
“I’m afraid we’re in the wrong: I really think we are,” said Frank.
“We must go through with it now, any way,” said the parson. “Come, Mr
Lynch, I will give you five minutes more, and then I go;” and he pulled
out his watch, and stood with his back to the fire, looking at it. Lord
Ballindine walked to the window, and Martin Kelly and Doctor Colligan
sat in distant parts of the room, with long faces, silent and solemn,
breathing heavily. How long those five minutes appeared to them, and
how short to Barry! The time was not long enough to enable him to come
to any decision: at the end of the five minutes he was still gazing
vacantly before him: he was still turning over in his brain, one after
another, the same crowd of undigested schemes.
“The time is out, Mr Lynch: will you go?” said the parson.
“I’ve no money,” hoarsely croaked Barry.
“If that’s the only difficulty, we’ll raise money for him,” said Frank.
“I’ll advance him money,” said Martin.
“Do you mean you’ve no money at all?” said the parson.
“Don’t you hear me say so?” said Barry.
“And you’ll go if you get money—say ten pounds?” said the parson.
“Ten pounds! I can go nowhere with ten pounds. You know that well
enough.”
“I’ll give him twenty-five,” said Martin. “I’m sure his sister’ll do
that for him.”
“Say fifty,” said Barry, “and I’m off at once.”
“I haven’t got it,” said Martin.
“No,” said the parson; “I’ll not see you bribed to go: take the
twenty-five—that will last you till you make arrangements about your
property. We are not going to pay you for going, Mr Lynch.”
“You seem very anxious about it, any way.”
“I am anxious about it,” rejoined the parson. “I am anxious to save
your sister from knowing what it was that her brother wished to
accomplish.”
Barry scowled at him as though he would like, if possible, to try his
hand at murdering him; but he did not answer him again. Arrangements
were at last made for Barry’s departure, and off he went, that very
day—not to Roscommon, but to Tuam; and there, at the instigation of
Martin, Daly the attorney took upon himself the division and temporary
management of the property. From thence, with Martin’s, or rather with
his sister’s twenty-five pounds in his pocket, he started to that
Elysium for which he had for some time so ardently longed, and soon
landed at Boulogne, regardless alike of his sister, his future brother,
Lord Ballindine, or Mr Armstrong. The parson had found it quite
impossible to carry out one point on which he had insisted. He could
not induce Barry Lynch to write to his sister: no, not a line; not a
word. Had it been to save him from hanging he could hardly have induced
himself to write those common words, “_dear sister_”.
“Oh! you can tell her what you like,” said he. “It’s you’re making me
go away at once in this manner. Tell her whatever confounded lies you
like; tell her I’m gone because I didn’t choose to stay and see her
make a fool of herself—and that’s the truth, too. If it wasn’t for that
I wouldn’t move a step for any of you.”
He went, however, as I have before said, and troubled the people of
Dunmore no longer, nor shall he again trouble us.
“Oh! but Martin, what nonsense!” said the widow, coaxingly to her son,
that night before she went to bed. “The lord wouldn’t be going up there
just to wish him good bye—and Parson Armstrong too. What the dickens
could they be at there so long? Come, Martin—you’re safe with me, you
know; tell us something about it now.”
“Nonsense, mother; I’ve nothing to tell: Barry Lynch has left the place
for good and all, that’s all about it.”
“God bless the back of him, thin; he’d my lave for going long since.
But you might be telling us what made him be starting this way all of a
heap.”
“Don’t you know, mother, he was head and ears in debt?”
“Don’t tell me,” said the widow. “Parson Armstrong’s not a sheriff’s
officer, that he should be looking after folks in debt.”
“No, mother, he’s not, that I know of; but he don’t like, for all that,
to see his tithes walking out of the country.”
“Don’t be coming over me that way, Martin. Barry Lynch, nor his father
before him, never held any land in Ballindine parish.”
“Didn’t they—well thin, you know more than I, mother, so it’s no use my
telling you,” and Martin walked off to bed.
“I’ll even you, yet, my lad,” said she, “close as you are; you see
else. Wait awhile, till the money’s wanting, and then let’s see who’ll
know all about it!” And the widow slapped herself powerfully on that
part where her pocket depended, in sign of the great confidence she had
in the strength of her purse.
“Did I manage that well?” said the parson, as Lord Ballindine drove him
home to Kelly’s Court, as soon as the long interview was over. “If I
can do as well at Grey Abbey, you’ll employ me again, I think!”
“Upon my word, then, Armstrong,” said Frank, “I never was in such hot
water as I have been all this day: and, now it’s over, to tell you the
truth, I’m sorry we interfered. We did what we had no possible right to
do.”
“Nonsense, man. You don’t suppose I’d have dreamed of letting him off,
if the law could have touched him? But it couldn’t. No magistrates in
the county could have committed him; for he had done, and, as far as I
can judge, had said, literally nothing. It’s true we know what he
intended; but a score of magistrates could have done nothing with him:
as it is, we’ve got him out of the country: he’ll never come back
again.”
“What I mean is, we had no business to drive him out of the country
with threats.”
“Oh, Ballindine, that’s nonsense. One can keep no common terms with
such a blackguard as that. However, it’s done now; and I must say I
think it was well done.”
“There’s no doubt of your talent in the matter, Armstrong: upon my soul
I never saw anything so cool. What a wretch—what an absolute fiend the
fellow is!”
“Bad enough,” said the parson. “I’ve seen bad men before, but I think
he’s the worst I ever saw. What’ll Mrs O’Kelly say of my coming in this
way, without notice?”
The parson enjoyed his claret at Kelly’s Court that evening, after his
hard day’s work, and the next morning he started for Grey Abbey.