Miss Anty was so rarely out, that Barry instantly trembled again.  Had she gone to a magistrate, to swear against him?  Had she run away from him?  Had she gone off with Martin?

“Where the d——­l’s she gone, Terry?” said he, in his extremity.

“Faix, yer honour, thin, I’m not rightly knowing; but I hear tell she’s down at the widow Kelly’s.”

“Who told you, you fool?”

“Well thin, yer honer, it war Judy.”

“And where’s Judy?”

And it ended in Judy’s being produced, and the two of them, at length, explained to their master, that the widow had come up early in the morning and fetched her away; and Judy swore “that not a know she knowed how it had come about, or what had induced the widow to come, or Miss Anty to go, or anything about it; only, for shure, Miss Anty was down there, snug enough, with Miss Jane and Miss Meg; and the widdy war in her tantrums, and wouldn’t let ony dacent person inside the house-door—­barring Biddy.  And that wor all she knowed av’ she wor on the book.”

The secret was now out.  Anty had left him, and put herself under the protection of Martin Kelly’s mother; had absolutely defied him, after all his threats of the preceding night.  What should he do now!  All his hatred for her returned again, all his anxious wishes that she might be somehow removed from his path, as an obnoxious stumbling-block.  A few minutes ago, he was afraid he had murdered her, and he now almost wished that he had done so.  He finished dressing himself, and then sat down in the parlour, which had been the scene of his last night’s brutality, to concoct fresh schemes for the persecution of his sister.

In the meantime, Terry rushed down to the inn, demanding the keys, and giving Mrs Kelly a fearful history of his master’s anger.  This she very wisely refrained from retailing, but, having procured the keys, gave them to the messenger, merely informing him, that “thanks to God’s kind protection, Miss Anty was tolerably well over the last night’s work, and he might tell his master so.”

This message Terry thought it wisest to suppress, so he took the breakfast up in silence, and his master asked no more questions.  He was very sick and pale, and could eat nothing; but he drank a quantity of tea, and a couple of glasses of brandy-and-water, and then he felt better, and again began to think what measures he should take, what scheme he could concoct, for stopping this horrid marriage, and making his sister obedient to his wishes.  “Confound her,” he said, almost aloud, as he thought, with bitter vexation of spirit, of her unincumbered moiety of the property, “confound them all!” grinding his teeth, and meaning by the “all” to include with Anty his father, and every one who might have assisted his father in making the odious will, as well as his own attorney in Tuam, who wouldn’t find out some legal expedient by which he could set it aside.  And then, as he thought of the shameful persecution of which he was the victim, he kicked the fender with impotent violence, and, as the noise of the falling fire irons added to his passion, he reiterated his kicks till the unoffending piece of furniture was smashed; and then with manly indignation he turned away to the window.