DOCTOR COLLIGAN
Doctor Colligan, the Galen of Dunmore, though a practitioner of most
unprepossessing appearance and demeanour, was neither ignorant nor
careless. Though for many years he had courted the public in vain, his
neighbours had at last learned to know and appreciate him; and, at the
time of Anty’s illness, the inhabitants of three parishes trusted their
corporeal ailments to his care, with comfort to themselves and profit
to him. Nevertheless, there were many things about Doctor Colligan not
calculated to inspire either respect or confidence. He always seemed a
little afraid of his patient, and very much afraid of his patient’s
friends: he was always dreading the appearance at Dunmore of one of
those young rivals, who had lately established themselves at Tuam on
one side, and Hollymount on the other; and, to prevent so fatal a
circumstance, was continually trying to be civil and obliging to his
customers. He would not put on a blister, or order a black dose,
without consulting with the lady of the house, and asking permission of
the patient, and consequently had always an air of doubt and
indecision. Then, he was excessively dirty in his person and practice:
he carried a considerable territory beneath his nails; smelt equally
strongly of the laboratory and the stable; would wipe his hands on the
patient’s sheets, and wherever he went left horrid marks of his
whereabouts: he was very fond of good eating and much drinking, and
would neglect the best customer that ever was sick, when tempted by the
fascination of a game of loo. He was certainly a bad family-man; for
though he worked hard for the support of his wife and children, he was
little among them, paid them no attention, and felt no scruple in
assuring Mrs C. that he had been obliged to remain up all night with
that dreadful Mrs Jones, whose children were always so tedious; or that
Mr Blake was so bad after his accident that he could not leave him for
a moment; when, to tell the truth, the Doctor had passed the night with
the cards in his hands, and a tumbler of punch beside him.
He was a tall, thick-set, heavy man, with short black curly hair; was a
little bald at the top of his head; and looked always as though he had
shaved himself the day before yesterday, and had not washed since. His
face was good-natured, but heavy and unintellectual. He was ignorant of
everything but his profession, and the odds on the card-table or the
race-course. But to give him his due, on these subjects he was not
ignorant; and this was now so generally known that, in dangerous cases,
Doctor Colligan had been sent for, many, many miles.
This was the man who attended poor Anty in her illness, and he did as
much for her as could be done; but it was a bad case, and Doctor
Colligan thought it would be fatal. She had intermittent fever, and was
occasionally delirious; but it was her great debility between the
attacks which he considered so dangerous.
On the morning after the hunt, he told Martin that he greatly feared
she would go off, from exhaustion, in a few days, and that it would be
wise to let Barry know the state in which his sister was. There was a
consultation on the subject between the two and Martin’s mother, in
which it was agreed that the Doctor should go up to Dunmore House, and
tell Barry exactly the state of affairs.
“And good news it’ll be for him,” said Mrs Kelly; “the best he heard
since the ould man died. Av he had his will of her, she’d niver rise
from the bed where she’s stretched. But, glory be to God, there’s a
providence over all, and maybe she’ll live yet to give him the go-by.”
“How you talk, mother,” said Martin; “and what’s the use? Whatever he
wishes won’t harum her; and maybe, now she’s dying, his heart’ll be
softened to her. Any way, don’t let him have to say she died here,
without his hearing a word how bad she was.”
“Maybe he’d be afther saying we murdhered her for her money,” said the
widow, with a shudder.
“He can hardly complain of that, when he’ll be getting all the money
himself. But, however, it’s much betther, all ways, that Doctor
Colligan should see him.”
“You know, Mrs Kelly,” said the Doctor, “as a matter of course he’ll be
asking to see his sister.”
“You wouldn’t have him come in here to her, would you?—Faix, Doctor
Colligan, it’ll be her death out right at once av he does.”
“It’d not be nathural, to refuse to let him see her,” said the Doctor;
“and I don’t think it would do any harm: but I’ll be guided by you, Mrs
Kelly, in what I say to him.”
“Besides,” said Martin, “I know Anty would wish to see him: he is her
brother; and there’s only the two of ’em.”
“Between you be it,” said the widow; “I tell you I don’t like it. You
neither of you know Barry Lynch, as well as I do; he’d smother her av
it come into his head.”
“Ah, mother, nonsense now; hould your tongue; you don’t know what
you’re saying.”
“Well; didn’t he try to do as bad before?”
“It wouldn’t do, I tell you,” continued Martin, “not to let him see
her; that is, av Anty wishes it.”
It ended in the widow being sent into Anty’s room, to ask her whether
she had any message to send to her brother. The poor girl knew how ill
she was, and expected her death; and when the widow told her that
Doctor Colligan was going to call on her brother, she said that she
hoped she should see Barry once more before all was over.
“Mother,” said Martin, as soon as the Doctor’s back was turned, “you’ll
get yourself in a scrape av you go on saying such things as that about
folk before strangers.”
“Is it about Barry?”
“Yes; about Barry. How do you know Colligan won’t be repating all them
things to him?”
“Let him, and wilcome. Shure wouldn’t I say as much to Barry Lynch
himself? What do I care for the blagguard?—only this, I wish I’d niver
heard his name, or seen his foot over the sill of the door. I’m sorry I
iver heard the name of the Lynches in Dunmore.”
“You’re not regretting the throuble Anty is to you, mother?”
“Regretting?—I don’t know what you mane by regretting. I don’t know is
it regretting to be slaving as much and more for her than I would for
my own, and no chance of getting as much as thanks for it.”
“You’ll be rewarded hereafther, mother; shure won’t it all go for
charity?”
“I’m not so shure of that,” said the widow. “It was your schaming to
get her money brought her here, and, like a poor wake woman, as I was,
I fell into it; and now we’ve all the throuble and the expinse, and the
time lost, and afther all, Barry’ll be getting everything when she’s
gone. You’ll see, Martin; we’ll have the wake, and the funeral, and the
docthor and all, on us—mind my words else. Och musha, musha! what’ll I
do at all? Faix, forty pounds won’t clear what this turn is like to
come to; an’ all from your dirthy undherhand schaming ways.”
In truth, the widow was perplexed in her inmost soul about Anty; torn
and tortured by doubts and anxieties. Her real love of Anty and true
charity was in state of battle with her parsimony; and then, avarice
was strong within her; and utter, uncontrolled hatred of Barry still
stronger. But, opposed to these was dread of some unforeseen evil—some
tremendous law proceedings: she had a half-formed idea that she was
doing what she had no right to do, and that she might some day be
walked off to Galway assizes. Then again, she had an absurd pride about
it, which often made her declare that she’d never be beat by such a
“scum of the ’arth” as Barry Lynch, and that she’d fight it out with
him if it cost her a hundred pounds; though no one understood what the
battle was which she was to fight.
Just before Anty’s illness had become so serious, Daly called, and had
succeeded in reconciling both Martin and the widow to himself; but he
had not quite made them agree to his proposal. The widow, indeed, was
much averse to it. She wouldn’t deal with such a Greek as Barry, even
in the acceptance of a boon. When she found him willing to compromise,
she became more than ever averse to any friendly terms; but now the
whole ground was slipping from under her feet. Anty was dying: she
would have had her trouble for nothing; and that hated Barry would gain
his point, and the whole of his sister’s property, in triumph.
Twenty times the idea of a will had come into her mind, and how
comfortable it would be if Anty would leave her property, or at any
rate a portion of it, to Martin. But though the thoughts of such a
delightful arrangement kept her in a continual whirlwind of anxiety,
she never hinted at the subject to Anty. As she said to herself, “a
Kelly wouldn’t demane herself to ask a brass penny from a Lynch.” She
didn’t even speak to her daughters about it, though the continual
twitter she was in made them aware that there was some unusual burthen
on her mind.
It was not only to the Kellys that the idea occurred that Anty in her
illness might make a will. The thoughts of such a catastrophe had
robbed Barry of half the pleasure which the rumours of his sister’s
dangerous position had given him. He had not received any direct
intimation of Anty’s state, but had heard through the servants that she
was ill—very ill—dangerously—“not expected,” as the country people call
it; and each fresh rumour gave him new hopes, and new life. He now
spurned all idea of connexion with Martin; he would trample on the
Kellys for thinking of such a thing: he would show Daly, when in the
plenitude of his wealth and power, how he despised the lukewarmness and
timidity of his councils. These and other delightful visions were
floating through his imagination; when, all of a sudden, like a blow,
like a thunderbolt, the idea of _a will_ fell as it were upon him with
a ton weight. His heart sunk low within him; he became white, and his
jaw dropped. After all, there were victory and triumph, plunder and
wealth, _his_ wealth, in the very hands of his enemies! Of course the
Kellys would force her to make a will, if she didn’t do it of her own
accord; if not, they’d forge one. There was some comfort in that
thought: he could at any rate contest the will, and swear that it was a
forgery.
He swallowed a dram, and went off, almost weeping to Daly.
“Oh, Mr Daly, poor Anty’s dying: did you hear, Mr Daly—she’s all but
gone?” Yes; Daly had been sorry to hear that Miss Lynch was very ill.
“What shall I do,” continued Barry, “if they say that she’s left a
will?”
“Go and hear it read. Or, if you don’t like to do that yourself, stay
away, and let me hear it.”
“But they’ll forge one! They’ll make out what they please, and when
she’s dying, they’ll make her put her name to it; or they’ll only just
put the pen in her hand, when she’s not knowing what she’s doing.
They’d do anything now, Daly, to get the money they’ve been fighting
for so hard.”
“It’s my belief,” answered the attorney, “that the Kellys not only
won’t do anything dishonest, but that they won’t even take any unfair
advantage of you. But at any rate you can do nothing. You must wait
patiently; you, at any rate, can take no steps till she’s dead.”
“But couldn’t she make a will in my favour? I know she’d do it if I
asked her—if I asked her now—now she’s going off, you know. I’m sure
she’d do it. Don’t you think she would?”
“You’re safer, I think, to let it alone,” said Daly, who could hardly
control the ineffable disgust he felt.
“I don’t know that,” continued Barry. “She’s weak, and ’ll do what
she’s asked: besides, _they’ll_ make her do it. Fancy if, when she’s
gone, I find I have to share everything with those people!” And he
struck his forehead and pushed the hair off his perspiring face, as he
literally shook with despair. “I must see her, Daly. I’m quite sure
she’ll make a will if I beg her; they can’t hinder me seeing my own,
only, dying sister; can they, Daly? And when I’m once there, I’ll sit
with her, and watch till it’s all over. I’m sure, now she’s ill, I’d do
anything for her.”
Daly said nothing, though Barry paused for him to reply. “Only about
the form,” continued he, “I wouldn’t know what to put. By heavens,
Daly! you must come with me. You can be up at the house, and I can have
you down at a minute’s warning.” Daly utterly declined, but Barry
continued to press him. “But you must, Daly; I tell you I know I’m
right. I know her so well—she’ll do it at once for the sake—for the
sake of—You know she is my own sister, and all that—and she thinks so
much of that kind of thing. I’ll tell you what, Daly; upon my honour
and soul,” and he repeated the words in a most solemn tone, “if you’ll
draw the will, and she signs it, so that I come in for the whole
thing—and I know she will I’ll make over fifty—ay, seventy pounds a
year for you for ever and ever. I will, as I live.”
The interview ended by the attorney turning Barry Lynch into the
street, and assuring him that if he ever came into his office again, on
any business whatsoever, he would unscrupulously kick him out. So
ended, also, the connexion between the two; for Daly never got a
farthing for his labour. Indeed, after all that had taken place, he
thought it as well not to trouble his _ci-devant_ client with a bill.
Barry went home, and of course got drunk.
When Doctor Colligan called on Lynch, he found that he was not at home.
He was at that very moment at Tuam, with the attorney. The doctor
repeated his visit later in the afternoon, but Barry had still not
returned, and he therefore left word that he would call early after
breakfast the following morning. He did so; and, after waiting half an
hour in the dining-room, Barry, only half awake and half dressed, and
still half drunk, came down to him.
The doctor, with a long face, delivered his message, and explained to
him the state in which his sister was lying; assured him that
everything in the power of medicine had been and should be done; that,
nevertheless, he feared the chance of recovery was remote; and ended by
informing him that Miss Lynch was aware of her danger, and had
expressed a wish to see him before it might be too late. Could he make
it convenient to come over just now—in half an hour—or say an
hour?—said the doctor, looking at the red face and unfinished toilet of
the distressed brother.
Barry at first scarcely knew what reply to give. On his return from
Tuam, he had determined that he would at any rate make his way into his
sister’s room, and, as he thought to himself, see what would come of
it. In his after-dinner courage he had further determined, that he
would treat the widow and her family with a very high hand, if they
dared to make objection to his seeing his sister; but now, when the
friendly overture came from Anty herself, and was brought by one of the
Kelly faction, he felt himself a little confounded, as though he rather
dreaded the interview, and would wish to put it off for a day or two.
“Oh, yes—certainly, Doctor Colligan; to be sure—that is—tell me,
doctor, is she really so bad?”
“Indeed, Mr Lynch, she is very weak.”
“But, doctor, you don’t think there is any chance—I mean, there isn’t
any danger, is there, that she’d go off at once?”
“Why, no, I don’t think there is; indeed, I have no doubt she will hold
out a fortnight yet.”
“Then, perhaps, doctor, I’d better put it off till to-morrow; I’ll tell
you why: there’s a person I wish—”
“Why, Mr Lynch, to-day would be better. The fever’s periodical, you
see, and will be on her again to-morrow—”
“I beg your pardon, Doctor Colligan,” said Barry, of a sudden
remembering to be civil,—“but you’ll take a glass of wine?”
“Not a drop, thank ye, of anything.”
“Oh, but you will;” and Barry rang the bell and had the wine brought.
“And you expect she’ll have another attack to-morrow?”
“That’s a matter of course, Mr Lynch; the fever’ll come on her again
to-morrow. Every attack leaves her weaker and weaker, and we fear
she’ll go off, before it leaves her altogether.”
“Poor thing!” said Barry, contemplatively.
“We had her head shaved,” said the doctor.
“Did you, indeed!” answered Barry. “She was my favourite sister, Doctor
Colligan—that is, I had no other.”
“I believe not,” said Doctor Colligan, looking sympathetic.
“Take another glass of wine, doctor?—now do,” and he poured out another
bumper.
“Thank’ee, Mr Lynch, thank’ee; not a drop more. And you’ll be over in
an hour then? I’d better go and tell her, that she may be prepared, you
know,” and the doctor returned to the sick room of his patient.
Barry remained standing in the parlour, looking at the glasses and the
decanter, as though he were speculating on the manner in which they had
been fabricated. “She may recover, after all,” thought he to himself.
“She’s as strong as a horse—I know her better than they do. I know
she’ll recover, and then what shall I do? Stand to the offer Daly made
to Kelly, I suppose!” And then he sat down close to the table, with his
elbow on it, and his chin resting on his hand; and there he remained,
full of thought. To tell the truth, Barry Lynch had never thought more
intensely than he did during those ten minutes. At last he jumped up
suddenly, as though surprised at what had been passing within himself;
he looked hastily at the door and at the window, as though to see that
he had not been watched, and then went upstairs to dress himself,
preparatory to his visit to the inn.