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 scrap 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, God bless her, is afther making sich a great match for the family?—Glory be to God!"
"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, God 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 damnable 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 wishing, 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 glasses 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 glass 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
