then, it is, and it isn't," said Jane.
"But you don't ask afther the young lady!" said her sister.
"May I be hanged thin, av' I know what the two of ye are afther! Is there people in both the rooms? Come, girls, av' ye've anything to tell, why don't you out wid it and have done? I suppose I can go into the bed-room, at any rate?"
"Aisy, Martin, and I'll tell you. Anty's in the parlour."
"In the parlour upstairs?" said he; "the deuce she is! And what brought her here? Did she quarrel with Barry, Meg?" added he, in a whisper.
"Indeed she did, out and out," said Meg.
"Oh, he used her horrible!" said Jane.
"He'll hear all about that by and by," said Meg. "Come up and see her now, Martin."
"But does mother know she's here?"
"Why, it was she brought her here! She fetched her down from the house, yesterday, before we was up."
Thus assured that Anty had not been smuggled upstairs, her lover, or suitor as he might perhaps be more confidently called, proceeded to visit her. If he wished her to believe that his first impulse, on hearing of her being in the house, had been to throw himself at her feet, it would have been well that this conversation should have been carried on out of her hearing. But Anty was not an exigent mistress, and was perfectly contented that as much of her recent history as possible should be explained before Martin presented himself.
Martin went slowly upstairs, and paused a moment at the door, as if he was a little afraid of commencing the interview; he looked round to his sisters, and made a sign to them to come in with him, and then, quickly pushing open the unfastened door, walked briskly up to Anty and shook hands with her.
"I hope you're very well, Anty," said he; "seeing you here is what I didn't expect, but I'm very glad you've come down."
"Thank ye, Martin," replied she; "it was very good of your mother, fetching me. She's been the best friend I've had many a day."
"Begad, it's a fine thing to see you and the ould lady pull so well together. It was yesterday you came here?"
"Yesterday morning. I was so glad to come! I don't know what they'd been saying to Barry; but the night before last he got drinking, and then he was very bad to me, and tried to frighten me, and so, you see, I come down to your mother till we could be friends again."
Anty's apology for being at the inn, was perhaps unnecessary; but, with the feeling so natural to a woman, she was half afraid that Martin would fancy she had run after him, and she therefore thought it as well to tell him that it was only a temporary measure. Poor Anty! At the moment she said so, she trembled at the very idea of putting herself again in her brother's power.
"Frinds, indeed!" said Meg; "how can you iver be frinds with the like of him? What nonsense you talk, Anty! Why, Martin, he was like to murdher her!—he raised his fist to her, and knocked her down—and, afther that, swore to her he'd kill her outright av' she wouldn't sware that she'd niver—"
"Whist, Meg! How can you go on that way?" said Anty, interrupting her, and blushing. "I'll not stop in the room; don't you know he was dhrunk when he done all that?"
"And won't he be dhrunk again, Anty?" suggested Jane.
"Shure he will: he'll be dhrunk always, now he's once begun," replied Meg, who, of all the family was the most anxious to push her brother's suit; and who, though really fond of her friend, thought the present opportunity a great deal too good to be thrown away, and could not bear the idea of Anty's even thinking of being reconciled to her brother. "Won't he be always dhrunk now?" she continued; "and ain't we all frinds here? and why shouldn't you let me tell Martin all? Afther all's said and done, isn't he the best frind you've got?"—Here Anty blushed very red, and to tell the truth, so did Martin too—"well so he is, and unless you tell him what's happened, how's he to know what to advise; and, to tell the truth, wouldn't you sooner do what he says than any one else?"
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to Mr Martin"—it had been plain Martin before Meg's appeal; "but your mother knows what's best for me, and I'll do whatever she says. Av' it hadn't been for her, I don't know where I'd be now."
"But you needn't quarrel with Martin because you're frinds with mother," answered Meg.
"Nonsense, Meg," said Jane, "Anty's not going to quarrel with him. You hurry her too much."
Martin looked rather stupid all this time, but he plucked up courage and said, "Who's going to quarrel? I'm shure, Anty, you and I won't; but, whatever it is Barry did to you, I hope you won't go back there again, now you're once here. But did he railly sthrike you in arnest?"
"He did, and knocked her down," said Jane.
"But won't you get your brother his dinner?" said Anty; "he must be very hungry, afther his ride—and won't you see your mother afther your journey, Mr Martin? I'm shure she's expecting you."
This, for the present, put an end to the conversation; the girls went to get something for their brother to eat, and he descended into the lower regions to pay his filial respects to his mother.
A considerable time passed before Martin returned to the meal the three young women had provided for him, during which he was in close consultation with the widow. In the first place, she began upbraiding him for his folly in wishing to marry an old maid for her money; she then taxed him with villany, for trying to cheat Anty out of her property; and when he defended himself from that charge by telling her what he had done about the settlement, she asked him how much he had to pay the rogue of a lawyer for that "gander's job". She then proceeded to point out all the difficulties which lay in the way of a marriage between him, Martin, and her, Anty; and showed how mad it was for either of them to think about it. From that, she got into a narrative of Barry's conduct, and Anty's sufferings, neither of which lost anything in the telling; and having by this time gossiped herself into a good humour, she proceeded to show how, through her means and assistance, the marriage might take place if he was still bent upon it. She eschewed all running away, and would hear of no clandestine proceedings. They should be married in the face of day, as the Kellys ought, with all their friends round them. "They'd have no huggery-muggery work, up in a corner; not they indeed! why should they?—for fear of Barry Lynch?—who cared for a dhrunken blackguard like that?—not she indeed! who ever heard of a Kelly being afraid of a Lynch?—They'd ax him to come and see his sister married, and av' he didn't like it, he might do the other thing."
And so, the widow got quite eloquent on the glories of the wedding, and the enormities of her son's future brother-in-law, who had, she assured Martin, come down and abused her horribly, in her own shop, before all the town, because she allowed Anty to stay in the house. She then proceeded to the consequences of the marriage, and expressed her hope that when Martin got all that ready money he would "do something for his poor sisthers—for Heaven knew they war like to be bad enough off, for all she'd be able to do for them!" From this she got to Martin's own future mode of life, suggesting a "small snug cottage on the farm, just big enough for them two, and, may-be, a slip of a girl servant, and not to be taring and tatthering away, as av' money had no eend; and, afther all," she added, "there war nothing like industhry; and who know'd whether that born villain, Barry, mightn't yet get sich a hoult of the money, that there'd be no getting it out of his fist?" and she then depicted, in most pathetic language, what would be the misery of herself and all the Kellys if Martin, flushed with his prosperity, were to give up the farm at Toneroe, and afterwards find that he had been robbed of
