“And good rason why, Mr Daly,” said the widow—“jist becase he can’t.”
“Well, Miss Lynch, am I to tell your brother that you are willing to oblige him in this matter?”
Whatever effect Daly’s threats may have had on the widow and her son, they told strongly upon Anty; for she sat now the picture of misery and indecision. At last she said: “Oh, Lord defend me! what am I to do, Mrs Kelly?”
“Do?” said Martin; “why, what should you do—but just wish Mr Daly good morning, and stay where you are, snug and comfortable?”
“Av’ you war to lave this, Anty, and go up to Dunmore House afther all that’s been said and done, I’d say Barry was right, and that Ballinasloe Asylum was the fitting place for you,” said the widow.
“The blessed virgin guide and prothect me,” said Anty, “for I want her guidance this minute. Oh, that the walls of a convent was round me this minute—I wouldn’t know what throuble was!”
“And you needn’t know anything about throuble,” said Martin, who didn’t quite like his mistress’s allusion to a convent. “You don’t suppose there’s a word of thruth in all this long story of Mr Daly’s?—He knows,—and I’ll say it out to his face—he knows Barry don’t dare carry on with sich a schame. He knows he’s only come here to frighten you out of this, that Barry may have his will on you again.”
“And God forgive him his errand here this day,” said the widow, “for it was a very bad one.”
“If you will allow me to offer you my advice, Miss Lynch,” said Daly, “you will put yourself, at any rate for a time, under your brother’s protection.”
“She won’t do no sich thing,” said the widow. “What! to be locked into the parlour agin—and be nigh murdhered? holy father!”