The Kellys and the O'Kellys Part 6

Anty had sense enough to be pleased at his straightforward and honest manner; and, though she did not say much to himself, she said a great deal in his praise to Meg, which all found its way to Martin's ears.

But still, he could not get over the difficulty which he had described to Lord Ballindine. Anty wanted to wait till her brother should go out of the country, and Martin was afraid that he would not go; and things were in this state when he started for Dublin.

The village of Dunmore has nothing about it which can especially recommend it to the reader. It has none of those beauties of nature which have taught Irishmen to consider their country as the "first flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea". It is a dirty, ragged little town, standing in a very poor part of the country, with nothing about it to induce the traveller to go out of his beaten track. It is on no high road, and is blessed with no advent.i.tious circ.u.mstances to add to its prosperity.

It was once the property of the O'Kellys; but, in those times the landed proprietors thought but little of the towns; and now it is parcelled out among different owners, some of whom would think it folly to throw away a penny on the place, and others of whom have not a penny to throw away. It consists of a big street, two little streets, and a few very little lanes. There is a Court-house, where the barrister sits twice a year; a Barrack, once inhabited by soldiers, but now given up to the police; a large slated chapel, not quite finished; a few shops for soft goods; half a dozen shebeen-houses [11], ruined by Father Mathew; a score of dirty cabins offering "lodging and enthertainment", as announced on the window-shutters; Mrs. Kelly's inn and grocery-shop; and, last though not least, Simeon Lynch's new, staring house, built just at the edge of the town, on the road to Roscommon, which is dignified with the name of Dunmore House. The people of most influence in the village were Mrs. Kelly of the inn, and her two sworn friends, the parish priest and his curate. The former, Father Geoghegan, lived about three miles out of Dunmore, near Toneroe; and his curate, Father Pat Connel, inhabited one of the small houses in the place, very little better in appearance than those which offered accommodation to travellers and trampers.

[FOOTNOTE 11: shebeen-houses--unlicensed drinking houses, where un-taxed ("moons.h.i.+ne") liquor was often served]

Such was, and is, the town of Dunmore in the county of Galway; and I must beg the reader to presume himself to be present there with me on the morning on which the two young Kellys went to hear Sheil's speech.

At about ten o'clock, the widow Kelly and her daughters were busy in the shop, which occupied the most important part of the ground-floor of the inn. It was a long, scrambling, ugly-looking house. Next to the shop, and opening out of it, was a large drinking-room, furnished with narrow benches and rickety tables; and here the more humble of Mrs.

Kelly's guests regaled themselves. On the other side of this, was the hall, or pa.s.sage of the house; and, next to that again, a large, dingy, dark kitchen, over which Sally reigned with her teapot dynasty, and in which were always congregated a parcel of ragged old men, boys, and noisy women, pretending to be busy, but usually doing but little good, and attracted by the warmth of the big fire, and the hopes of some sc.r.a.ps of food and drink.

"For the widow Kelly--G.o.d bless her! was a thrue Christhian, and didn't begrudge the poor--more power to her--like some upstarts who might live to be in want yet, glory be to the Almighty!"

The difference of the English and Irish character is nowhere more plainly discerned than in their respective kitchens. With the former, this apartment is probably the cleanest, and certainly the most orderly, in the house. It is rarely intruded into by those unconnected, in some way, with its business. Everything it contains is under the vigilant eye of its chief occupant, who would imagine it quite impossible to carry on her business, whether of an humble or important nature, if her apparatus was subjected to the hands of the unauthorised. An Irish kitchen is devoted to hospitality in every sense of the word. Its doors are open to almost all loungers and idlers; and the chances are that Billy Bawn, the cripple, or Judy Molloy, the deaf old hag, are more likely to know where to find the required utensil than the cook herself. It is usually a temple dedicated to the G.o.ddess of disorder; and, too often joined with her, is the potent deity of dirt. It is not that things are out of their place, for they have no place. It isn't that the floor is not scoured, for you cannot scour dry mud into anything but wet mud. It isn't that the chairs and tables look filthy, for there are none. It isn't that the pots, and plates, and pans don't s.h.i.+ne, for you see none to s.h.i.+ne. All you see is a grimy, black ceiling, an uneven clay floor, a small darkened window, one or two unearthly-looking recesses, a heap of potatoes in the corner, a pile of turf against the wall, two pigs and a dog under the single dresser, three or four chickens on the window-sill, an old c.o.c.k moaning on the top of a rickety press, and a crowd of ragged garments, squatting, standing, kneeling, and crouching, round the fire, from which issues a babel of strange tongues, not one word of which is at first intelligible to ears unaccustomed to such eloquence.

And yet, out of these unfathomable, unintelligible dens, proceed in due time dinners, of which the appearance of them gives no promise. Such a kitchen was Mrs. Kelly's; and yet, it was well known and attested by those who had often tried the experiment, that a man need think it no misfortune to have to get his dinner, his punch, and his bed, at the widow's.

Above stairs were two sitting-rooms and a colony of bed-rooms, occupied indiscriminately by the family, or by such customers as might require them. If you came back to dine at the inn, after a day's shooting on the bogs, you would probably find Miss Jane's work-box on the table, or Miss Meg's alb.u.m on the sofa; and, when a little accustomed to sojourn at such places, you would feel no surprise at discovering their dresses turned inside out, and hanging on the pegs in your bed-room; or at seeing their side-combs and black pins in the drawer of your dressing-table.

On the morning in question, the widow and her daughters were engaged in the shop, putting up pen'norths of sugar, cutting bits of tobacco, tying bundles of dip candles, attending to chance customers, and preparing for the more busy hours of the day. It was evident that something had occurred at the inn, which had ruffled the even tenor of its way. The widow was peculiarly gloomy. Though fond of her children, she was an autocrat in her house, and accustomed, as autocrats usually are, to scold a good deal; and now she was using her tongue pretty freely. It wasn't the girls, however, she was rating, for they could answer for themselves;--and did, when they thought it necessary. But now, they were demure, conscious, and quiet. Mrs. Kelly was denouncing one of the reputed sins of the province to which she belonged, and describing the horrors of "schaming."

"Them underhand ways," she declared, "niver come to no good. Av' it's thrue what Father Connel's afther telling me, there'll harum come of it before it's done and over. Schaming, schaming, and schaming for iver! The back of my hand to such doings! I wish the tongue had been out of Moylan's mouth, the ould rogue, before he put the thing in his head. Av' he wanted the young woman, and she was willing, why not take her in a dacent way, and have done with it. I'm sure she's ould enough. But what does he want with a wife like her?--making innimies for himself. I suppose he'll be sitting up for a gentleman now--bad cess to them for gentry; not but that he's as good a right as some, and a dale more than others, who are ashamed to put their hand to a turn of work. I hate such huggery muggery work up in a corner. It's half your own doing; and a nice piece of work it'll be, when he's got an ould wife and a dozen lawsuits!--when he finds his farm gone, and his pockets empty; for it'll be a dale asier for him to be getting the wife than the money--when he's got every body's abuse, and nothing else, by his bargain!"

It was very apparent that Martin's secret had not been well kept, and that the fact of his intended marriage with Anty Lynch was soon likely to be known to all Dunmore. The truth was, that Moylan had begun to think himself overreached in the matter--to be afraid that, by the very measure he had himself proposed, he would lose all share in the great prize he had put in Martin's way, and that he should himself be the means of excluding his own finger from the pie. It appeared to him that if he allowed this, his own folly would only be equalled by the young man's ingrat.i.tude; and he determined therefore, if possible, to prevent the match. Whereupon he told the matter as a secret, to those whom he knew would set it moving. In a very short s.p.a.ce of time it reached the ears of Father Connel; and he lost none in stepping down to learn the truth of so important a piece of luck to one of his paris.h.i.+oners, and to congratulate the widow. Here, however, he was out in his reckoning, for she declared she did not believe it,--that it wasn't, and couldn't be true; and it was only after his departure that she succeeded in extracting the truth from her daughters.

The news, however, quickly reached the kitchen and its lazy crowd; and the inn door and its constant loungers; and was readily and gladly credited in both places.

Crone after crone, and cripple after cripple, hurried into the shop, to congratulate the angry widow on "masther Martin's luck; and warn't he worthy of it, the handsome jewel--and wouldn't he look the gintleman, every inch of him?" and Sally expatiated greatly on it in the kitchen, and drank both their healths in an extra pot of tea, and Kate grinned her delight, and Jack the ostler, who took care of Martin's horse, boasted loudly of it in the street, declaring that "it was a good thing enough for Anty Lynch, with all her money, to get a husband at all out of the Kellys, for the divil a know any one knowed in the counthry where the Lynchs come from; but every one knowed who the Kellys wor--and Martin wasn't that far from the lord himself."

There was great commotion, during the whole day, at the inn. Some said Martin had gone to town to buy furniture; others, that he had done so to prove the will. One suggested that he'd surely have to fight Barry, and another prayed that "if he did, he might kill the blackguard, and have all the fortin to himself, out and out, G.o.d bless him!"

V. A LOVING BROTHER

The great news was not long before it reached the ears of one not disposed to receive the information with much satisfaction, and this was Barry Lynch, the proposed bride's amiable brother. The medium through which he first heard it was not one likely to add to his good humour. Jacky, the fool, had for many years been attached to the Kelly's Court family; that is to say, he had attached himself to it, by getting his food in the kitchen, and calling himself the lord's fool.

But, latterly, he had quarrelled with Kelly's Court, and had insisted on being Sim Lynch's fool, much to the chagrin of that old man; and, since his death, he had nearly maddened Barry by following him through the street, and being continually found at the house-door when he went out. Jack's attendance was certainly dictated by affection rather than any mercenary views, for he never got a sc.r.a.p out of the Dunmore House kitchen, or a halfpenny from his new patron. But still, he was Barry's fool; and, like other fools, a desperate annoyance to his master.

On the day in question, as young Mr. Lynch was riding out of the gate, about three in the afternoon, there, as usual, was Jack.

"Now yer honour, Mr. Barry, darling, shure you won't forget Jacky to-day. You'll not forget your own fool, Mr. Barry?"

Barry did not condescend to answer this customary appeal, but only looked at the poor ragged fellow as though he'd like to flog the life out of him.

"Shure your honour, Mr. Barry, isn't this the time then to open yer honour's hand, when Miss Anty, G.o.d bless her, is afther making sich a great match for the family?--Glory be to G.o.d!"

"What d'ye mean, you ruffian?"

"Isn't the Kellys great people intirely, Mr. Barry? and won't it be a great thing for Miss Anty, to be sib to a lord? Shure yer honour'd not be refusing me this blessed day."

"What the d---- are you saying about Miss Lynch?" said Barry, his attention somewhat arrested by the mention of his sister's name.

"Isn't she going to be married then, to the dacentest fellow in Dunmore? Martin Kelly, G.o.d bless him! Ah! there'll be fine times at Dunmore, then. He's not the boy to rattle a poor divil out of the kitchen into the cold winther night! The Kellys was always the right sort for the poor."

Barry was frightened in earnest, now. It struck him at once that Jack couldn't have made the story out of his own head; and the idea that there was any truth in it, nearly knocked him off his horse. He rode on, however, trying to appear to be regardless of what had been said to him; and, as he trotted off, he heard the fool's parting salutation.

"And will yer honour be forgething me afther the news I've brought yer?

Well, hard as ye are, Misther Barry, I've hot yer now, any way."

And, in truth, Jack had hit him hard. Of all things that could happen to him, this would be about the worst. He had often thought, with dread, of his sister's marrying, and of his thus being forced to divide everything--all his spoil, with some confounded stranger. But for her to marry a shopkeeper's son, in the very village in which he lived, was more than he could bear. He could never hold up his head in the county again. And then, he thought of his debts, and tried to calculate whether he might get over to France without paying them, and be able to carry his share of the property with him; and so he went on, pursuing his wretched, uneasy, solitary ride, sometimes sauntering along at a snail's pace, and then again spurring the poor brute, and endeavouring to bring his mind to some settled plan. But, whenever he did so, the idea of his sister's death was the only one which seemed to present either comfort or happiness.

He made up his mind, at last, to put a bold face on the matter; to find out from Anty herself whether there was any truth in the story; and, if there should be,--for he felt confident she would not be able to deceive him,--to frighten her and the whole party of the Kellys out of what he considered a d.a.m.nable conspiracy to rob him of his father's property,

He got off his horse, and stalked into the house. On inquiry, he found that Anty was in her own room. He was sorry she was not out; for, to tell the truth, he was rather anxious to put off the meeting, as he did not feel himself quite up to the mark, and was ashamed of seeming afraid of her. He went into the stable, and abused the groom; into the kitchen, and swore at the maid; and then into the garden. It was a nasty, cold, February day, and he walked up and down the damp muddy walks till he was too tired and cold to walk longer, and then turned into the parlour, and remained with his back to the fire, till the man came in to lay the cloth, thinking on the one subject that occupied all his mind--occasionally grinding his teeth, and heaping curses on his father and sister, who, together, had inflicted such grievous, such unexpected injuries upon him.

If, at this moment, there was a soul in all Ireland over whom Satan had full dominion--if there was a breast unoccupied by one good thought--if there was a heart wis.h.i.+ng, a brain conceiving, and organs ready to execute all that was evil, from the worst motives, they were to be found in that miserable creature, as he stood there urging himself on to hate those whom he should have loved--cursing those who were nearest to him--fearing her, whom he had ill-treated all his life--and striving to pluck up courage to take such measures as might entirely quell her. Money was to him the only source of gratification. He had looked forward, when a boy, to his manhood, as a period when he might indulge, unrestrained, in pleasures which money would buy; and, when a man, to his father's death, as a time when those means would be at his full command. He had neither ambition, nor affection, in his nature; his father had taught him nothing but the excellence of money, and, having fully imbued him with this, had cut him off from the use of it.

He was glad when he found that dinner was at hand, and that he could not now see his sister until after he had fortified himself with drink.

Anty rarely, if ever, dined with him; so he sat down, and swallowed his solitary meal. He did not eat much, but he gulped down three or four gla.s.ses of wine; and, immediately on having done so, he desired the servant, with a curse, to bring him hot water and sugar, and not to keep him waiting all night for a tumbler of punch, as he did usually.

Before the man had got into the kitchen, he rang the bell again; and when the servant returned breathless, with the steaming jug, he threatened to turn him out of the house at once, if he was not quicker in obeying the orders given him. He then made a tumbler of punch, filling the gla.s.s half full of spirits, and drinking it so hot as to scald his throat; and when that was done he again rang the bell, and desired the servant to tell Miss Anty that he wanted to speak to her.

When the door was shut, he mixed more drink, to support his courage during the interview, and made up his mind that nothing should daunt him from preventing the marriage, in one way or another. When Anty opened the door, he was again standing with his back to the fire, his hands in his pockets, the flaps of his coat hanging over his arms, his shoulders against the mantel-piece, and his foot on the chair on which he had been sitting. His face was red, and his eyes were somewhat blood-shot; he had always a surly look, though, from his black hair, and large bushy whiskers, many people would have called him good looking; but now there was a scowl in his restless eyes, which frightened Anty when she saw it; and the thick drops of perspiration on his forehead did not add benignity to his face.

"Were you wanting me, Barry?" said Anty, who was the first to speak.

"What do you stand there for, with the door open?" replied her brother, "d' you think I want the servants to hear what I've got to say?"

"'Deed I don't know," said Anty, shutting the door; "but they'll hear just as well now av' they wish, for they'll come to the kay-hole."

"Will they, by G----!" said Barry, and he rushed to the door, which he banged open; finding no victim outside on whom to exercise his wrath--"let me catch 'em!" and he returned to his position by the fire.

Anty had sat down on a sofa that stood by the wall opposite the fireplace, and Barry remained for a minute, thinking how he'd open the campaign. At last he began:

"Anty, look you here, now. What scheme have you got in your head?--You'd better let me know, at once."

"What schame, Barry?"

"Well--what schame, if you like that better."

"I've no schame in my head, that I know of--at laist--" and then Anty blushed. It would evidently be easy enough to make the poor girl tell her own secret.

"Well, go on--at laist--"

"I don't know what you mane, Barry. Av' you're going to be badgering me again, I'll go away."

"It's evident you're going to do something you're ashamed of, when you're afraid to sit still, and answer a common question. But you must answer me. I'm your brother, and have a right to know. What's this you're going to do?' He didn't like to ask her at once whether she was going to get married. It might not be true, and then he would only be putting the idea into her head. 'Well,--why don't you answer me? What is it you're going to do?"