“Them’s all a woman’s fears. Av’ you an I were once spliced by the priest, God bless him, Barry wouldn’t trouble Dunmore long afther.”
“That’s another rason, too. Why should I be dhriving him out of his own house? you know he’s a right to the house, as well as I.”
“Who’s talking of dhriving him out? Faith, he’d be welcome to stay there long enough for me! He’d go, fast enough, without dhriving, though; you can’t say the counthry wouldn’t have a good riddhance of him. But never mind that, Anty: it wasn’t about Barry, one way or the other, I was thinking, when I first asked you to have me; nor it wasn’t about myself altogether, as I could let you know; though, in course, I’m not saying but that myself’s as dear to myself as another, an’ why not? But to tell the blessed truth, I was thinking av’ you too; and that you’d be happier and asier, let alone betther an’ more respecthable, as an honest man’s wife, as I’d make you, than being mewed up there in dread of your life, never daring to open your mouth to a Christian, for fear of your own brother, who niver did, nor niver will lift a hand to sarve you, though he wasn’t backward to lift it to sthrike you, woman and sisther though you were. Come, Anty, darlin,” he added, after a pause, during which he managed to get his arm behind her back, though he couldn’t be said to have it fairly round her waist—“Get quit of all these quandaries, and say at once, like an honest girl, you’ll do what I’m asking—and what no living man can hindher you from or say against it.—Or else jist fairly say you won’t, and I’ll have done with it.”
Anty sat silent, for she didn’t like to say she wouldn’t; and she thought of her brother’s threats, and was afraid to say she would. Martin advanced a little in his proceedings, however, and now succeeded in getting his arm round her waist—and, having done so, he wasn’t slow in letting her feel its pressure. She made an attempt, with her hand, to disengage herself—certainly not a successful, and, probably, not a very energetic attempt, when the widow’s step was heard on the stairs. Martin retreated from his position on the sofa, and Meg from hers outside the door, and Mrs Kelly entered the room, with Barry’s letter in her hand, Meg following, to ascertain the cause of the unfortunate interruption.
CHAPTER XVIII.
AN ATTORNEY’S OFFICE IN CONNAUGHT
“Anty, here’s a letter for ye,” began the widow. “Terry’s brought it down from the house, and says it’s from Misther Barry. I b’lieve he was in the right not to bring it hisself.”
“A letther for me, Mrs Kelly?—what can he be writing about? I don’t just know whether I ought to open it or no;” and Anty trembled, as she turned the epistle over and over again in her hands.
“What for would you not open it? The letther can’t hurt you, girl, whatever the writher might do.”
Thus encouraged, Anty broke the seal, and made herself acquainted with the contents of the letter which Daly had dictated; but she then found that her difficulties had only just commenced. Was she to send an answer, and if so, what answer? And if she sent none, what notice ought she to take of it? The matter was one evidently too weighty to be settled by her own judgment, so she handed the letter to be read, first by the widow, and then by Martin, and lastly by the two girls, who, by this time, were both in the room.
“Well, the dethermined impudence of that blackguard!” exclaimed Mrs Kelly. “Conspiracy!—av’ that don’t bang Banagher! What does the man mean by ‘conspiracy,’ eh, Martin?”