"It ain't bad that way, Miss Anty is, ma'am. Av' you'd just be good enough to open the door, I'd tell you in no time."
It would, I am sure, be doing injustice to Mrs Kelly to say that her curiosity was stronger than her charity; they both, however, no doubt had their effect, and the door was speedily opened.
"Oh, ma'am!" commenced Biddy, "sich terrible doings up at the house! Miss Anty's almost kilt!"
"Come out of the cowld, girl, in to the kitchen fire," said the widow, who didn't like the February blast, to which Biddy, in her anxiety, had been quite indifferent; and the careful widow again bolted the door, and followed the woman into certainly the warmest place in Dunmore, for the turf fire in the inn kitchen was burning day and night. "And now, tell me what is it ails Miss Anty? She war well enough yesterday, I think, and I heard more of her then than I wished."
Biddy now pulled her cloak from off her head, settled it over her shoulders, and prepared for telling a good substantial story.
"Oh, Misthress Kelly, ma'am, there's been disperate doings last night up at the house. We were all hearing, in the morn yesterday, as how Miss Anty and Mr Martin, God bless him!—were to make a match of it,—as why wouldn't they, ma'am? for wouldn't Mr Martin make her a tidy, dacent, good husband?"
"Well, well, Biddy—don't mind Mr Martin; he'll be betther without a wife for one while, and he needn't be quarrelling for one when he wants her. What ails Miss Anty?"
"Shure I'm telling you, ma'am; howsomever, whether its thrue or no about Mr Martin, we were all hearing it yestherday; and the masther, he war afther hearing it too, for he come into his dinner as black as tunder; and Terry says he dhrunk the whole of a bottle of wine, and then he called for the sperrits, and swilled away at them till he was nigh dhrunk. Well, wid that, ma'am, he sent for Miss Anty, and the moment she comes in, he locks to the door, and pulls her to the sofa, and swears outright that he'll murdher her av' she don't swear, by the blessed Mary and the cross, that she'll niver dhrame of marrying no one."
"Who tould you all this, Biddy? was it herself?"
"Why, thin, partly herself it war who tould me, ma'am, and partly—; you see, when Mr Barry war in his tantrums and dhrunken like, I didn't like to be laving Miss Anty alone wid him, and nobody nigh, so I and Terry betook ourselves nigh the door, and, partly heard what was going on; that's the thruth on it, Mrs Kelly; and, afther a dale of rampaging and scolding, may I niver see glory av' he didn't up wid his clenched fist, strik her in the face, and knock her down—all for one as 'av she wor a dhrunken blackguard at a fair!"
"You didn't see that, Biddy?"
"No, ma'am—I didn't see it; how could I, through the door?—but I heerd it, plain enough. I heerd the poor cratur fall for dead amongst the tables and chairs—I did, Mrs Kelly—and I heerd the big blow smash agin her poor head, and down she wint—why wouldn't she? and he, the born ruffian, her own brother, the big blackguard, stricking at her wid all his force! Well, wid that ma'am, I rushed into the room—at laist, I didn't rush in—for how could I, and the door locked?—but I knocked agin and agin, for I war afeard he would be murthering her out and out. So, I calls out, as loud as I could, as how Miss Anty war wanting in the kitchen: and wid that he come to the door, and unlocks it as bould as brass, and rushes out into the garden, saying as how Miss Anty war afther fainting. Well, in course I goes in to her, where he had dragged her upon the sofa, and, thrue enough, she war faint indeed."
"And, did she tell you, Biddy, that her own brother had trated her that way?"
"Wait, Mrs Kelly, ma'am, till I tell yer how it all happened. When she comed to herself—and she warn't long coming round—she didn't say much, nor did I; for I didn't just like then to be saying much agin the masther, for who could know where his ears were?—perish his sowl, the blackguard!"
"Don't be cursing, Biddy."
"No, ma'am; only he must be cursed, sooner or later. Well, when she comed to herself, she begged av' me to help her to bed, and she went up to her room, and laid herself down, and I thought to myself that at any rate it was all over for that night. When she war gone, the masther he soon come back into the house, and begun calling for the sperrits again, like mad; and Terry said that when he tuk the biling wather into the room, Mr Barry war just like the divil—as he's painted, only for his ears. After that Terry wint to bed; and I and Judy weren't long afther him, for we didn't care to be sitting up alone wid him, and he mad dhrunk. So we turned in, and we were in bed maybe two hours or so, and fast enough, when down come the misthress—as pale as a sheet, wid a candle in her hand, and begged me, for dear life, to come up into her room to her, and so I did, in coorse. And then she tould me all—and, not contint with what he'd done down stairs, but the dhrunken ruffian must come up into her bed-room and swear the most dreadfullest things to her you iver heerd, Mrs Kelly. The words he war afther using, and the things he said, war most horrid; and Miss Anty wouldn't for her dear life, nor for all the money in Dunmore, stop another night, nor another day in the house wid him."
"But, is she much hurt, Biddy?"
"Oh! her head's cut, dreadful, where she fell, ma'am: and he shuck the very life out of her poor carcase; so he did, Mrs Kelly, the ruffian!"
"Don't be cursing, I tell you, girl. And what is it your misthress is wishing to do now? Did she tell you to come to me?"
"No, ma'am; she didn't exactly tell me—only as she war saying that she wouldn't for anything be staying in the house with Mr Barry; and as she didn't seem to be knowing where she'd be going, and av' she be raally going to be married to Mr Martin—"
"Drat Mr Martin, you fool! Did she tell you she wanted to come here?".
"She didn't quite say as much as that. To tell the thruth, thin, it wor I that said it, and she didn't unsay it; so, wid that, I thought I'd come down here the first thing, and av' you, Mrs Kelly, wor thinking it right, we'd get her out of the house before the masther's stirring."
The widow was a prudent woman, and she stood, for some time, considering; for she felt that, if she held out her hand to Anty now, she must stick to her through and through in the battle which there would be between her and her brother; and there might be more plague than profit in that. But then, again, she was not at all so indifferent as she had appeared to be, to her favourite son's marrying four hundred a-year. She was angry at his thinking of such a thing without consulting her; she feared the legal difficulties he must encounter; and she didn't like the thoughts of its being said that her son had married an old fool, and cozened her out of her money. But still, four hundred a-year was a great thing; and Anty was a good-tempered tractable young woman, of the right religion, and would not make a bad wife; and, on reconsideration, Mrs Kelly thought the thing wasn't to be sneezed at. Then, again, she hated Barry, and, having a high spirit, felt indignant that he should think of preventing her son from marrying his sister, if the two of them chose to do it; and she knew she'd be able, and willing enough, too, to tell him a bit of her mind, if there should be occasion. And lastly, and most powerfully of all, the woman's feeling came in to overcome her prudential scruples, and to open her heart and her house to a poor, kindly, innocent creature, ill-treated as Anty Lynch had been. She was making up her mind what to do, and determining to give battle royal to Barry and all his satellites, on behalf of Anty, when Biddy interrupted her by saying,—
"I hope I warn't wrong, ma'am, in coming down and throubling you so arly? I thought maybe you'd be glad to befrind Miss Anty—seeing she and Miss Meg, and Miss Jane, is so frindly."
"No, Biddy;—for a wondher, you're right, this morning. Mr Barry won't be stirring yet?"
"Divil a stir, ma'am! The dhrunkenness won't be off him yet this long while. And will I go up, and be bringing Miss Anty down, ma'am?"
"Wait a while. Sit to the fire there, and warm your shins. You're a good girl. I'll go and get on my shoes and stockings, and my cloak, and bonnet. I must go up wid you myself, and ask yer misthress down, as she should be asked. They'll be telling lies on her 'av she