strick a woman, and she his own flesh and blood! He'll not murdher her—but, faix, he's afther doing something now! Knock, Biddy, knock, I say, and screech out that you're afther wanting Miss Anty."
The woman had more courage than the man—or else more compassion, for, without further parleying, she rapped her knuckles loudly against the door, and, as she did so, Terry sneaked away to the kitchen.
Barry had just succeeded in raising his sister to the sofa as he heard the knock.
"Who's that?" he called out loudly; "what do you want?"
"Plaze yer honer, Miss Anty's wanting in the kitchen."
"She's busy, and can't come at present; she'll be there directly."
"Is she ill at all, Mr. Barry? God bless you, spake, Miss Anty; in God's name, spake thin. Ah! Mr. Barry, thin, shure she'd spake av' she were able."
"Go away, you fool! Your mistress'll be out in a minute." Then, after a moment's consideration, he went and unlocked the door, "or—go in, and see what she wants. She's fainted, I think."
Barry Lynch walked out of the room, and into the garden before the house, to think over what he had done, and what he'd better do for the future, leaving Anty to the care of the frightened woman.
She soon came to herself, and, excepting that her head was bruised in the fall, was not much hurt. The blow, falling on her hands, had neither cut nor marked her; but she was for a long time so flurried that she did not know where she was, and, in answer to all Biddy's tender inquiries as to the cause of her fall, and anathemas as to the master's bad temper, merely said that "she'd get to bed, for her head ached so, she didn't know where she was."
To bed accordingly she went; and glad she was to have escaped alive from that drunken face, which had glared on her for the last half hour.
After wandering about round the house and through the grounds, for above an hour, Barry returned, half sobered, to the room; but, in his present state of mind, he could not go to bed sober. He ordered more hot water, and again sat down alone to drink, and drown the remorse he was beginning to feel for what he had done—or rather, not remorse, but the feeling of fear that every one would know how he had treated Anty, and that they would side with her against him. Whichever way he looked, all was misery and disappointment to him, and his only hope, for the present, was in drink. There he sat, for a long time, with his eyes fixed on the turf, till it was all burnt out, trying to get fresh courage from the spirits he swallowed, and swearing to himself that he would not be beat by a woman.
About one o'clock he seized one of the candles, and staggered up to bed. As he passed his sister's door, he opened it and went in. She was fast asleep; her shoes were off, and the bed-clothes were thrown over her, but she was not undressed. He slowly shut the door, and stood, for some moments, looking at her; then, walking to the bed, he took her shoulder, and shook it as gently as his drunkenness would let him. This did not wake her, so he put the candle down on the table, close beside the bed, and, steadying himself against the bedstead, he shook her again and again. "Anty", he whispered, "Anty"; and, at last, she opened her eyes. Directly she saw his face, she closed them again, and buried her own in the clothes; however, he saw that she was awake, and, bending his head, he muttered, loud enough for her to hear, but in a thick, harsh, hurried, drunken voice, "Anty—d'ye hear? If you marry that man, I'll have your life!" and then, leaving the candle behind him, he staggered off into his own room in the dark.
VI
THE ESCAPE
In vain, after that, did Anty try to sleep; turn which way she would, she saw the bloodshot eyes and horrid drunken face of her cruel brother. For a long time she lay, trembling and anxious; fearing she knew not what, and trying to compose herself—trying to make herself think that she had no present cause for fear; but in vain. If she heard a noise, she thought it was her brother's footstep, and when the house was perfectly silent and still, she feared the very silence itself. At last, she crept out of bed, and, taking the candle left by her brother, which had now burned down to the socket, stepped softly down the stairs, to the place where the two maid-servants slept, and, having awakened them, she made Biddy return with her and keep her company for the remainder of the night. She did not quite tell the good-natured girl all that had passed; she did not own that her brother had threatened to send her to a madhouse, or that he had sworn to have her life; but she said enough to show that he had shamefully ill-treated her, and to convince Biddy that wherever her mistress might find a home, it would be very unadvisable that she and Barry should continue to live under the same roof.
Early in the morning, "Long afore the break o' day," as the song says, Biddy got up from her hard bed on the floor of her mistress' room, and, seeing that Anty was at last asleep, started to carry into immediate execution the counsels she had given during the night. As she passed the head of the stairs, she heard the loud snore of Barry, in his drunken slumber; and, wishing that he might sleep as sound for ever and ever, she crept down to her own domicile, and awakened her comrade.
"Whist, Judy—whist, darlint! Up wid ye, and let me out."
"And what'd you be doing out now?" yawned Judy.
"An arrand of the misthress;—shure, he used her disperate. Faix, it's a wondher he didn't murther her outright!"
"And where are ye going now?"
"Jist down to Dunmore—to the Kellys then, avich. Asy now; I'll be telling you all bye and bye. She must be out of this intirely."
"Is't Miss Anty? Where'd she be going thin out of this?"
"Divil a matther where! He'd murther her, the ruffian 'av he cotched her another night in his dhrunkenness. We must git her out before he sleeps hisself right. But hurry now, I'll be telling you all when I'm back again."
The two crept off to the back door together, and, Judy having opened it, Biddy sallied out, on her important and good-natured mission. It was still dark, though the morning was beginning to break, as she stood, panting, at the front door of the inn. She tried to get in at the back, but the yard gates were fastened; and Jack, the ostler, did not seem to be about yet. So she gave a timid, modest knock, with the iron knocker, on the front door. A pause, and then a second knock, a little louder; another pause, and then a third; and then, as no one came, she remembered the importance of her message, and gave such a rap as a man might do, who badly wanted a glass of hot drink after travelling the whole night.
The servants had good or hardy consciences, for they slept soundly; but the widow Kelly, in her little bed-room behind the shop, well knew the sound of that knocker, and, hurrying on her slippers and her gown, she got to the door, and asked who was there.
"Is that Sally, ma'am?" said Biddy, well knowing the widow's voice.
"No, it's not. What is it you're wanting?"
"Is it Kate thin, ma'am?"
"No, it's not Kate. Who are you, I say; and what d'you want?"
"I'm Biddy, plaze ma'am—from Lynch's, and I'm wanting to spake to yerself, ma'am—about Miss Anty. She's very bad intirely, ma'am."
"What ails her;—and why d'you come here? Why don't you go to Doctor Colligan, av' she's ill; and not come knocking here?"
