CONCLUSION
We must now return to Dunmore, and say a few parting words of the
Kellys and Anty Lynch; and then our task will be finished.
It will be remembered that that demon of Dunmore, Barry Lynch, has been
made to vanish: like Lord Kilcullen, he has gone abroad; he has settled
himself at an hotel at Boulogne, and is determined to enjoy himself.
Arrangements have been made about the property, certainly not very
satisfactory to Barry, because they are such as make it necessary for
him to pay his own debts; but they still leave him sufficient to allow
of his indulging in every vice congenial to his taste; and, if he
doesn’t get fleeced by cleverer rogues than himself—which, however,
will probably be the case—he will have quite enough to last him till he
has drunk himself to death.
After his departure, there was nothing to delay Anty’s marriage, but
her own rather slow recovery. She has no other relatives to ask, no
other friends to consult. Now that Barry was gone she was entirely her
own mistress, and was quite willing to give up her dominion over
herself to Martin Kelly. She had, however, been greatly shaken; not by
illness only, but by fear also—her fears of Barry and for Barry. She
still dreamed while asleep, and thought while awake, of that horrid
night when he crept up to her room and swore that he would murder her.
This, and what she had suffered since, had greatly weakened her, and it
was some time before Doctor Colligan would pronounce her convalescent.
At last, however, the difficulties were overcome; all arrangements were
completed. Anty was well; the property was settled; Martin was
impatient; and the day was fixed.
There was no bishop, no duchess, no man-cook, at the wedding-party
given on the occasion by Mrs Kelly; nevertheless, it was, in its way,
quite as grand an affair as that given by the countess. The widow
opened her heart, and opened her house. Her great enemy, Barry Lynch,
was gone—clean beaten out of the field—thoroughly vanquished; as far as
Ireland was concerned, annihilated; and therefore, any one else in the
three counties was welcome to share her hospitality. Oh, the excess of
delight the widow experienced in speaking of Barry to one of her
gossips, as the “poor misfortunate crature!” Daly, the attorney, was
especially invited, and he came. Moylan also was asked, but he stayed
away. Doctor Colligan was there, in great feather; had it not been for
him, there would probably have been no wedding at all. It would have
been a great thing if Lord Ballindine could have been got to grace the
party, though only for ten minutes; but he was at that time in
Switzerland with his own bride, so he could not possibly do so.
“Well, ma’am,” said Mrs Costelloe, the grocer’s wife, from Tuam, an old
friend of the widow, who had got into a corner with her to have a
little chat, and drink half-a-pint of porter before the ceremony,—“and
I’m shure I wish you joy of the marriage. Faux, I’m tould it’s nigh to
five hundred a-year, Miss Anty has, may God bless and incrase it! Well,
Martin has his own luck; but he desarves it, he desarves it.”
“I don’t know so much about luck thin, Mrs Costelloe,” said the widow,
who still professed to think that her son gave quite as much as he got,
in marrying Anty Lynch; “I don’t know so much about luck: Martin was
very well as he was; his poor father didn’t lave him that way that he
need be looking to a wife for mains, the Lord be praised.”
“And that’s thrue, too, Mrs Kelly,” said the other; “but Miss Anty’s
fortune ain’t a bad step to a young man, neither. Why, there won’t be a
young gintleman within tin—no, not within forty miles, more respectable
than Martin Kelly; that is, regarding mains.”
“And you needn’t stop there, Ma’am, neither; you may say the very same
regarding characther, too—and family, too, glory be to the Virgin. I’d
like to know where some of their ancesthers wor, when the Kellys of
ould wor ruling the whole counthry?”
“Thrue for you, my dear; I’d like to know, indeed: there’s nothing,
afther all, like blood, and a good characther. But is it thrue, Mrs
Kelly, that Martin will live up in the big house yonder?”
“Where should a man live thin, Mrs Costelloe, when he gets married, but
jist in his own house? Why for should he not live there?”
“That’s thrue agin, to be shure: but yet, only to think—Martin living
in ould Sim Lynch’s big house! I wondther what ould Sim would say,
hisself, av he could only come back and see it!”
“I’ll tell you what he’d say thin, av he tould the thruth; he’d say
there was an honest man living there, which wor niver the case as long
as any of his own breed was in it—barring Anty, I main; she’s honest
and thrue, the Lord be good to her, the poor thing. But the porter’s
not to your liking, Mrs Costelloe—you’re not tasting it at all this
morning.”
No one could have been more humble and meek than was Anty herself, in
the midst of her happiness. She had no idea of taking on herself the
airs of a fine lady, or the importance of an heiress; she had no wish
to be thought a lady; she had no wish for other friends than those of
her husband, and his family. She had never heard of her brother’s last
horrible proposal to Doctor Colligan, and of the manner in which his
consent to her marriage had been obtained; nor did Martin intend that
she should hear it. She had merely been told that her brother had found
that it was for his advantage to leave the neighbourhood altogether;
that he had given up all claim to the house; and that his income was to
be sent to him by a person appointed in the neighbourhood to receive
it. Anty, however, before signing her own settlement, was particularly
careful that nothing should be done, injurious to her brother’s
interest, and that no unfair advantage should be taken of his absence.
Martin, too, was quiet enough on the occasion. It was arranged that he
and his wife, and at any rate one of his sisters, should live at
Dunmore House; and that he should keep in his own hands the farm near
Dunmore, which old Sim had held, as well as his own farm at Toneroe.
But, to tell the truth, Martin felt rather ashamed of his grandeur. He
would much have preferred building a nice snug little house of his own,
on the land he held under Lord Ballindine; but he was told that he
would be a fool to build a house on another man’s ground, when he had a
very good one ready built on his own. He gave way to such good advice,
but he did not feel at all happy at the idea; and, when going up to the
house, always felt an inclination to shirk in at the back-way.
But, though neither the widow nor Martin triumphed aloud at their
worldly prosperity, the two girls made up for their quiescence. They
were full of nothing else; their brother’s fine house—Anty’s great
fortune; their wealth, prosperity, and future station and happiness,
gave them subjects of delightful conversation among their friends. Meg,
moreover, boasted that it was all her own doing; that it was she who
had made up the match; that Martin would never have thought of it but
for her,—nor Anty either, for the matter of that.
“And will your mother be staying down at the shop always, the same as
iver?” said Matilda Nolan, the daughter of the innkeeper at Tuam.
“’Deed she says so, then,” said Jane, in a tone of disappointment; for
her mother’s pertinacity in adhering to the counter was, at present,
the one misery of her life.
“And which of you will be staying here along with her, dears?” said
Matilda. “She’ll be wanting one of you to be with her, any ways.”
“Oh, turn about, I suppose,” said Jane.
“She’ll not get much of my company, any way,” said Meg. “I’ve had
enough of the nasty place, and now Martin has a dacent house to put
over our heads, and mainly through my mains I may say, I don’t see why
I’m to be mewing myself up in such a hole as this. There’s room for her
up in Dunmore House, and wilcome, too; let her come up there. Av she
mains to demain herself by sticking down here, she may stay by herself
for me.”
“But you’ll take your turn, Meg?” said Jane.
“It’ll be a very little turn, then,” said Meg; “I’m sick of the nasty
ould place; fancy coming down here, Matilda, to the tobacco and sugar,
after living up there a month or so, with everything nice and
comfortable! And it’s only mother’s whims, for she don’t want the shop.
Anty begged and prayed of her for to come and live at Dunmore House for
good and all; but no; she says she’ll never live in any one’s house
that isn’t her own.”
“I’m not so, any way,” said Jane; “I’d be glad enough to live in
another person’s house av I liked it.”
“I’ll go bail you would, my dear,” said Matilda; “willing
enough—especially John Dolan’s.”
“Oh! av I iver live in that it’ll be partly my own, you know; and
may-be a girl might do worse.”
“That’s thrue, dear,” said Matilda; “but John Dolan’s not so soft as to
take any girl just as she stands. What does your mother say about the
money part of the business?”
And so the two friends put their heads together, to arrange another
wedding, if possible.
Martin and Anty did not go to visit Switzerland, or Rome, as soon as
they were married; but they took a bathing-lodge at Renvill, near
Galway, and with much difficulty, persuaded Mrs Kelly to allow both her
daughters to accompany them. And very merry they all were. Anty soon
became a different creature from what she ever had been: she learned to
be happy and gay; to laugh and enjoy the sunshine of the world. She had
always been kind to others, and now she had round her those who were
kind and affectionate to her. Her manner of life was completely
changed: indeed, life itself was an altered thing to her. It was so new
to her to have friends; to be loved; to be one of a family who regarded
and looked up to her. She hardly knew herself in her new happiness.
They returned to Dunmore in the early autumn, and took up their
residence at Sim Lynch’s big house, as had been arranged. Martin was
very shy about it: it was long before he talked about it as his house,
or his ground, or his farm; and it was long before he could find
himself quite at home in his own parlour.
Many attempts were made to induce the widow to give up the inn, and
shift her quarters to the big house, but in vain. She declared that,
ould as she was, she wouldn’t think of making herself throublesome to
young folks; who, may-be, afther a bit, would a dail sooner have her
room than her company: that she had always been misthress, and mostly
masther too, in her own house, glory be to God; and that she meant to
be so still; and that, poor as the place was, she meant to call it her
own. She didn’t think herself at all fit company for people who lived
in grand houses, and had their own demesnes, and gardens, and the rest
of it; she had always lived where money was to be made, and she didn’t
see the sense of going, in her old age, to a place where the only work
would be how to spend it. Some folks would find it was a dail asier to
scatther it than it wor to put it together. All this she said and a
great deal more, which had her character not been known, would have led
people to believe that her son was a spendthrift, and that he and Anty
were commencing life in an expensive way, and without means. But then,
the widow Kelly _was_ known, and her speeches were only taken at their
value.
She so far relaxed, however, that she spent every Sunday at the house;
on which occasions she invariably dressed herself with all the grandeur
she was able to display, and passed the whole afternoon sitting on a
sofa, with her hands before her, trying to look as became a lady
enjoying herself in a fine drawing-room. Her Sundays were certainly not
the comfort to her, which they had been when spent at the inn; but they
made her enjoy, with a keener relish, the feeling of perfect
sovereignty when she returned to her own domains.
I have nothing further to tell of Mr and Mrs Kelly. I believe Doctor
Colligan has been once called in on an interesting occasion, if not
twice; so it is likely that Dunmore House will not be left without an
heir.
I have also learned, on inquiry, that Margaret and Jane Kelly have both
arranged their own affairs to their own satisfaction.
Footnotes
Footnote 1:
The historical events described here form a backdrop to the novel.
Daniel O’Connell (1775-1847) came from a wealthy Irish Catholic family.
He was educated in the law, which he practiced most successfully, and
developed a passion for religious and political liberty. In 1823,
together with Lalor Sheil and Thomas Wyse, he organized the Catholic
Association, whose major goal was Catholic emancipation. This was
achieved by act of parliament the following year. O’Connell served in
parliament in the 1830’s and was active in the passage of bills
emancipating the Jews and outlawing slavery. In 1840 he formed the
Repeal Association, whose goal was repeal of the 1800 Act of Union
which joined Ireland to Great Britain. In 1842, after serving a year as
Lord Mayor of Dublin, O’Connell challenged the British government by
announcing that he intended to achieve repeal within a year. Though he
openly opposed violence, Prime Minister Peel’s government considered
him a threat and arrested O’Connell and his associates in 1843 on
trumped-up charges of conspiracy, sedition, and unlawful assembly. They
were tried in 1844, and all but one were convicted, although the
conviction was later overturned in the House of Lords. O’Connell did
serve some time in jail and was considered a martyr to the cause of
Irish independence. (return)
Footnote 2:
The Irish often referred to Daniel O’Connell as “the liberator.”
(return)
Footnote 3:
_enfranchisement_—being set free. This is a political observation by
Trollope. (return)
Footnote 4:
_traversers_—Trollope repeatedly refers to the defendants as
“traversers.” The term probably comes from the legal term “to
traverse,” which is to deny the charges against one in a common law
proceeding. Thus, the traversers would have been those who pled
innocent. (return)
Footnote 5:
_sang froid_—(French) coolness in a trying situation, lack of
excitability (return)
Footnote 6:
The Four Courts was a landmark courthouse in Dublin named for the four
divisions of the Irish judicial system: Common Pleas, Chancery,
Exchequer, and King’s Bench. (return)
Footnote 7:
Conciliation Hall, Dublin, was built in 1843 as a meeting place for
O’Connell’s Repeal Association. (return)
Footnote 8:
_gauger_—a British revenue officer often engaged in the collection of
duties on distilled spirits. (return)
Footnote 9:
_ci-devant_—(French) former, previous (return)
Footnote 10:
_gale_—rent payment. Gale day was the day on which rent was due.
(return)
Footnote 11:
_shebeen-houses_—unlicensed drinking houses, where un-taxed
(“moonshine”) liquor was often served (return)
Footnote 12:
_alanna_—my child (return)
Footnote 13:
_bosthoon_—a worthless fellow (return)
Footnote 14:
_pis aller_—(French) last resort (return)
Footnote 15:
Of course it will be remembered that this was written before railways
in Ireland had been constructed. (original footnote by Trollope)
(return)
Footnote 16:
_vis inertiæ_—(Latin) the power of inertia (return)
Footnote 17:
_Macbeth_, Act I, Sc. 3
“Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.” (return)
Footnote 18:
_dura ilia messorum_—(Latin) the strong intestines of reapers—a
quotation from Horace’s _Epodes III_. Trollope was an accomplished
Latin scholar and later wrote a _Life of Cicero_. His books are full of
quotations from many Roman writers. (return)
Footnote 19:
_collops_—portions of food or slices of meat (return)
Footnote 20:
The text says “Tuam,” but the destination is really Dunmore. (return)
Footnote 21:
_potheen_—illegal (untaxed) whiskey, “moonshine” (return)
Footnote 22:
_première jeunesse_—(French) prime of youth (return)
Footnote 23:
_retroussé_—(French) turned-up (return)
Footnote 24:
_post obit_—a loan that need not be repaid until the death of a
specified individual, usually someone from whom the borrower expected
to inherit enough to repay the loan (return)
Footnote 25:
_lady-day_—Annunciation Day, March 25 (return)
Footnote 26:
A _tapis_ was a small cloth or tapestry sometimes used to cover a
table; hence the expression “on the tapis” meant “on the table” or
“under consideration.” (return)
Footnote 27:
_malgré_—(French) in spite of; notwithstanding (return)
Footnote 28:
_bon gré_—(French) with the consent of (return)
Footnote 29:
_Rosalind’s recipe_—In _As You Like It_, Act III, Sc. ii, Rosalind,
disguised as a young man, instructs Orlando to practice his wooing on
her. (return)
Footnote 30:
_haporth_—half-penny’s worth (return)
Footnote 31:
_bill discounted_—A common way for young men to borrow money in
nineteenth century Britain was to sign a promissory note (an “I.O.U.”),
often called a “bill,” to repay the loan at a specified time. The
lender gave the borrower less than the face value of the note (that is,
he “discounted” the note), the difference being the interest. Sometimes
these notes were co-signed by a third party, who became responsible for
repaying the loan if the borrower defaulted; this is one of the major
themes in Trollope’s later book _Framley Parsonage_. Trollope himself
was quite familiar with methods of borrowing, having gotten into debt
in his youth. (return)
Footnote 32:
_amende honorable_—(French) apology (return)
Footnote 33:
_jobation_—a tedious session; scolding (return)
Footnote 34:
_cousin-german_—first cousin (return)
Footnote 35:
_meering_—a well-marked boundary, such as a ditch or fence, between
farms, fields, bogs, etc (return)
Footnote 36:
_whipper_—an officer of the hunt whose duty was to help the huntsman
control the hounds (return)
Footnote 37:
_cap-a-pie_—from head to foot (return)
Footnote 38:
_squireen_—diminutive of squire; a minor Irish gentleman given to
“putting on airs” or imitating the manners and haughtiness of men of
greater wealth (return)
Footnote 39:
_congé_—(French) dismissal, notice to quit (return)
Footnote 40:
_en déshabille_—(French) partly or scantily dressed (return)
Footnote 41:
_gallipots_—A gallipot was a small ceramic vessel used by apothecaries
to hold medicines. The term was also used colloquially to refer to
apothecaries themselves and even physicians (Trollope so uses the term
in later chapters). (return)
Footnote 42:
_cottier_—an Irish tenant renting land directly from the owner, with
the price determined by bidding (return)
Footnote 43:
_triste_—(French) sad, mournful, dull, dreary (return)
Footnote 44:
_mumchance_—silent and idle (return)
Footnote 45:
_Amadis . . . du Guesclin_—mediaeval heroes. Amadis de Gaul was the
title hero of a 14th century romantic novel, probably first written in
Spanish, which was popular throughout Europe. Bertrand du Guesclin was
a historical figure, a fourteenth century French soldier and Marshall
of France. (return)
Footnote 46:
_Puseyite_—a follower of Edward Pusey (1800-1882), one of three
scholars at Oxford who started a movement critical of the Church of
England. One of the three, John Henry Newman, converted to Catholicism,
and Pusey and his followers were accused of advocating Catholic
practices. (return)
Footnote 47:
_Lavater_—Johann Kaspar Lavater (1741-1801), Swiss writer whose only
widely read book was a tract on physiognomy (Physiognomische Fragmente
zur Beförderung der Menschenkenntnis und Menschenliebe). The Victorians
put much stock in physiognomy. (return)
Footnote 48:
_ne exeat_—(Latin) “let him not leave”; a legal writ forbidding a
person to leave the jurisdiction of the court (return)
Footnote 49:
_stiver_—a Dutch coin worth almost nothing (return)
Footnote 50:
_Roman father_—Lucius Junius Brutus, legendary founder of the Roman
republic, was said to have passed sentence of death on his two sons for
participating in a rebellion. (return)
Footnote 51:
_Veni; Vidi; Vici_—(Latin) Julius Caesar’s terse message to the Senate
announcing his victory over King Pharnaces II of Pontus in 47 B.C.: “I
came, I saw, I conquered.” (return)
Footnote 52:
_Orangeman_—a member of the Orange Order, a militant Irish protestant
organization founded in 1746 and named after William of Orange, who in
1688 deposed his father-in-law, Catholic King James II, became King
William III, and helped establish protestant faith as a prerequisite
for succession to the English throne. The Orange Order is still exists
and remains rabidly anti-Catholic. (return)
Footnote 53:
_Anathema Maranatha_—an extreme form of excommunication from the
Catholic church formulated by the Fathers of the Fourth Council of
Toledo. The person so excommunicated is also condemned to damnation at
the second coming. (return)