“But indeed there is, Martin, a great dale against it—though I’m sure it’s good of you to be thinking of me. There’s so much against it, I think we had betther be of one mind, and give it over at once.” “And what’s to hinder us marrying, Anty, av’ yourself is plazed? Av’ you and I, and mother are plazed, sorrow a one that I know of has a word to say in the matther.” “But Barry don’t like it!” “And, afther all, are you going to wait for what Barry likes? You didn’t wait for what was plazing to Barry Lynch when you came down here; nor yet did mother when she went up and fetched you down at five in the morning, dreading he’d murdher you outright. And it was thrue for her, for he would, av’ he was let, the brute. And are you going to wait for what he likes?” “Whatever he’s done, he’s my brother; and there’s only the two of us.” “But it’s not that, Anty—don’t you know it’s not that? Isn’t it because you’re afraid of him? because he threatened and frightened you? And what on ’arth could he do to harum you av’ you was the wife of—of a man who’d, anyway, not let Barry Lynch, or anyone else, come between you and your comfort and aise?” “But you don’t know how wretched I’ve been since he spoke to me about—about getting myself married: you don’t know what I’ve suffered; and I’ve a feeling that good would never come of it.” “And, afther all, are you going to tell me now, that I may jist go my own way? Is that to be your answer, and all I’m to get from you?” “Don’t be angry with me, Martin. I’m maning to do everything for the best.” “Maning?—what’s the good of maning? Anyways, Anty, let me have an answer, for I’ll not be making a fool of myself any longer. Somehow, all the boys here, every sowl in Dunmore, has it that you and I is to be married—and now, afther promising me as you did—” “Oh, I never promised, Martin.” “It was all one as a promise—and now I’m to be thrown overboard. And why?—because Barry Lynch got dhrunk, and frightened you. Av’ I’d seen the ruffian striking you, I think I’d ’ve been near putting it beyond him to strike another woman iver again.” “Glory be to God that you wasn’t near him that night,” said Anty, crossing herself. “It was bad enough, but av’ the two of you should ever be set fighting along of me, it would kill me outright.” “But who’s talking of fighting, Anty, dear?” and Martin drew a little nearer to her—“who’s talking of fighting? I never wish to spake another word to Barry the longest day that ever comes. Av’ he’ll get out of my way, I’ll go bail he’ll not find me in his.” “But he wouldn’t get out of your way, nor get out of mine, av’ you and I got married: he’d be in our way, and we’d be in his, and nothing could iver come of it but sorrow and misery, and maybe bloodshed.” “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.”