ANTY LYNCH’S BED-SIDE; SCENE THE FIRST
Anty had borne her illness with that patience and endurance which were
so particularly inherent in her nature. She had never complained; and
had received the untiring attentions and care of her two young friends,
with a warmth of affection and gratitude which astonished them,
accustomed as they had been in every little illness to give and receive
that tender care with which sickness is treated in affectionate
families. When ill, they felt they had a right to be petulant, and to
complain; to exact, and to be attended to: they had been used to it
from each other, and thought it an incidental part of the business. But
Anty had hitherto had no one to nurse her, and she looked on Meg and
Jane as kind ministering angels, emulous as they were to relieve her
wants and ease her sufferings.
Her thin face had become thinner, and was very pale; her head had been
shaved close, and there was nothing between the broad white border of
her nightcap and her clammy brow and wan cheek. But illness was more
becoming to Anty than health; it gave her a melancholy and beautiful
expression of resignation, which, under ordinary circumstances, was
wanting to her features, though not to her character. Her eyes were
brighter than they usually were, and her complexion was clear,
colourless, and transparent. I do not mean to say that Anty in her
illness was beautiful, but she was no longer plain; and even to the
young Kellys, whose feelings and sympathies cannot be supposed to have
been of the highest order, she became an object of the most intense
interest, and the warmest affection.
“Well, doctor,” she said, as Doctor Colligan crept into her room, after
the termination of his embassy to Barry; “will he come?”
“Oh, of course he will; why wouldn’t he, and you wishing it? He’ll be
here in an hour, Miss Lynch. He wasn’t just ready to come over with
me.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Anty, who felt that she had to collect her
thoughts before she saw him; and then, after a moment, she added,
“Can’t I take my medicine now, doctor?”
“Just before he comes you’d better have it, I think. One of the girls
will step up and give it you when he’s below. He’ll want to speak a
word or so to Mrs Kelly before he comes up.”
“Spake to me, docthor!” said the widow, alarmed. “What’ll he be spaking
to me about? Faix, I had spaking enough with him last time he was
here.”
“You’d better just see him, Mrs Kelly,” whispered the doctor. “You’ll
find him quiet enough, now; just take him fair and asy; keep him
downstairs a moment, while Jane gives her the medicine. She’d better
take it just before he goes to her, and don’t let him stay long,
whatever you do. I’ll be back before the evening’s over; not that I
think that she’ll want me to see her, but I’ll just drop in.”
“Are you going, doctor?” said Anty, as he stepped up to the bed. He
told her he was. “You’ve told Mrs Kelly, haven’t you, that I’m to see
Barry alone?”
“Why, I didn’t say so,” said the doctor, looking at the widow; “but I
suppose there’ll be no harm—eh, Mrs Kelly?”
“You must let me see him alone, dear Mrs Kelly!”
“If Doctor Colligan thinks you ought, Anty dear, I wouldn’t stay in the
room myself for worlds.”
“But you won’t keep him here long, Miss Lynch—eh? And you won’t excite
yourself?—indeed, you mustn’t. You’ll allow them fifteen minutes, Mrs
Kelly, not more, and then you’ll come up;” and with these cautions, the
doctor withdrew.
“I wish he was come and gone,” said the widow to her elder daughter.
“Well; av I’d known all what was to follow, I’d niver have got out of
my warm bed to go and fetch Anty Lynch down here that cowld morning!
Well, I’ll be wise another time. Live and larn, they say, and it’s
thrue, too.”
“But, mother, you ain’t wishing poor Anty wasn’t here?”
“Indeed, but I do; everything to give and nothin to get—that’s not the
way I have managed to live. But it’s not that altogether, neither. I’m
not begrudging Anty anything for herself; but that I’d be dhriven to
let that blagguard of a brother of hers into the house, and that as a
frind like, is what I didn’t think I’d ever have put upon me!”
Barry made his appearance about an hour after the time at which they
had begun to expect him; and as soon as Meg saw him, one of them flew
upstairs, to tell Anty and give her her tonic. Barry had made himself
quite a dandy to do honour to the occasion of paying probably a parting
visit to his sister, whom he had driven out of her own house to die at
the inn. He had on his new blue frock-coat, and a buff waistcoat with
gilt buttons, over which his watch-chain was gracefully arranged. His
pantaloons were strapped down very tightly over his polished boots; a
shining new silk hat was on one side of his head; and in his hand he
was dangling an ebony cane. In spite, however, of all these gaudy
trappings, he could not muster up an easy air; and, as he knocked, he
had that look proverbially attributed to dogs who are going to be hung.
Sally opened the door for him, and the widow, who had come out from the
shop, made him a low courtesy in the passage.
“Oh—ah—yes—Mrs Kelly, I believe?” said Barry.
“Yes, Mr Lynch, that’s my name; glory be to God!”
“My sister, Miss Lynch, is still staying here, I believe?”
“Why, drat it, man; wasn’t Dr Colligan with you less than an hour ago,
telling you you must come here, av you wanted to see her?”
“You’ll oblige me by sending up the servant to tell Miss Lynch I’m
here.”
“Walk up here a minute, and I’ll do that errand for you myself.—Well,”
continued she, muttering to herself “for him to ax av she war staying
here, as though he didn’t know it! There niver was his ditto for
desait, maneness and divilry!”
A minute or two after the widow had left him, Barry found himself by
his sister’s bed-side, but never had he found himself in a position for
which he was less fitted, or which was less easy to him. He assumed,
however, a long and solemn face, and crawling up to the bed-side, told
his sister, in a whining voice, that he was very glad to see her.
“Sit down, Barry, sit down,” said Anty, stretching out her thin pale
hand, and taking hold of her brother’s.
Barry did as he was told, and sat down. “I’m so glad to see you,
Barry,” said she: “I’m so very glad to see you once more—” and then
after a pause, “and it’ll be the last time, Barry, for I’m dying.”
Barry told her he didn’t think she was, for he didn’t know when he’d
seen her looking better.
“Yes, I am, Barry: Doctor Colligan has said as much; and I should know
it well enough myself, even if he’d never said a word. We’re friends
now, are we not?—Everything’s forgiven and forgotten, isn’t it, Barry?”
Anty had still hold of her brother’s hand, and seemed desirous to keep
it. He sat on the edge of his chair, with his knees tucked in against
the bed, the very picture of discomfort, both of body and mind.
“Oh, of course it is, Anty,” said he; “forgive and forget; that was
always my motto. I’m sure I never bore any malice—indeed I never was so
sorry as when you went away, and—”
“Ah, Barry,” said Anty; “it was better I went then; may-be it’s all
better as it is. When the priest has been with me and given me comfort,
I won’t fear to die. But there are other things, Barry, I want to spake
to you about.”
“If there’s anything I can do, I’m sure I’d do it: if there’s anything
at all you wish done.—Would you like to come up to the house again?”
“Oh no, Barry, not for worlds.”
“Why, perhaps, just at present, you are too weak to move; only wouldn’t
it be more comfortable for you to be in your own house? These people
here are all very well, I dare say, but they must be a great bother to
you, eh?—so interested, you know, in everything they do.”
“Ah! Barry, you don’t know them.”
Barry remembered that he would be on the wrong tack to abuse the
Kellys. “I’m sure they’re very nice people,” said he; “indeed I always
thought so, and said so—but they’re not like your own flesh and blood,
are they, Anty?—and why shouldn’t you come up and be—”
“No, Barry,” said she; “I’ll not do that; as they’re so very, very kind
as to let me stay here, I’ll remain till—till God takes me to himself.
But they’re not my flesh and blood”—and she turned round and looked
affectionately in the face of her brother—“there are only the two of us
left now; and soon, very soon you’ll be all alone.” Barry felt very
uncomfortable, and wished the interview was over: he tried to say
something, but failed, and Anty went on—“when that time comes, will you
remember what I say to you now?—When you’re all alone, Barry; when
there’s nothing left to trouble you or put you out—will you think then
of the last time you ever saw your sister, and—”
“Oh, Anty, sure I’ll be seeing you again!”
“No, Barry, never again. This is the last time we shall ever meet, and
think how much we ought to be to each other! We’ve neither of us father
or mother, husband or wife.—When I’m gone you’ll be alone: will you
think of me then—and will you remember, remember every day—what I say
to you now?”
“Indeed I will, Anty. I’ll do anything, everything you’d have me. Is
there anything you’d wish me to give to any person?”
“Barry,” she continued, “no good ever came of my father’s will.”—Barry
almost jumped off his chair as he heard his sister’s words, so much did
they startle him; but he said nothing.—“The money has done me no good,
but the loss of it has blackened your heart, and turned your blood to
gall against me. Yes, Barry—yes—don’t speak now, let me go on;—the old
man brought you up to look for it, and, alas, he taught you to look for
nothing else; it has not been your fault, and I’m not blaming you—I’m
not maning to blame you, my own brother, for you are my own”—and she
turned round in the bed and shed tears upon his hand, and kissed
it.—“But gold, and land, will never make you happy,—no, not all the
gold of England, nor all the land the old kings ever had could make you
happy, av the heart was bad within you. You’ll have it all now, Barry,
or mostly all. You’ll have what you think the old man wronged you of;
you’ll have it with no one to provide for but yourself, with no one to
trouble you, no one to thwart you. But oh, Barry, av it’s in your heart
that that can make you happy—there’s nothing before you but misery—and
death—and hell.” Barry shook like a child in the clutches of its
master—“Yes, Barry; misery and death, and all the tortures of the
damned. It’s to save you from this, my own brother, to try and turn
your heart from that foul love of money, that your sister is now
speaking to you from her grave.—Oh, Barry! try and cure it. Learn to
give to others, and you’ll enjoy what you have yourself.—Learn to love
others, and then you’ll know what it is to be loved yourself. Try, try
to soften that hard heart. Marry at once, Barry, at once, before you’re
older and worse to cure; and you’ll have children, and love them; and
when you feel, as feel you must, that the money is clinging round your
soul, fling it from you, and think of the last words your sister said
to you.”
The sweat was now running down the cheeks of the wretched man, for the
mixed rebuke and prayer of his sister had come home to him, and touched
him; but it was neither with pity, with remorse, nor penitence. No; in
that foul heart there was no room, even for remorse; but he trembled
with fear as he listened to her words, and, falling on his knees, swore
to her that he would do just as she would have him.
“If I could but think,” continued she, “that you would remember what I
am saying—”
“Oh, I will, Anty: I will—indeed, indeed, I will!”
“If I could believe so, Barry—I’d die happy and in comfort, for I love
you better than anything on earth;” and again she pressed his hot red
hand—“but oh, brother! I feel for you:—you never kneel before the altar
of God—you’ve no priest to move the weight of sin from your soul—and
how heavy that must be! Do you remember, Barry; it’s but a week or two
ago and you threatened to kill me for the sake of our father’s money?
you wanted to put me in a mad-house; you tried to make me mad with fear
and cruelty; me, your sister; and I never harmed or crossed you. God is
now doing what you threatened; a kind, good God is now taking me to
himself, and you will get what you so longed for without more sin on
your conscience; but it’ll never bless you, av you’ve still the same
wishes in your heart, the same love of gold—the same hatred of a
fellow-creature.”
“Oh, Anty!” sobbed out Barry, who was now absolutely in tears, “I was
drunk that night; I was indeed, or I’d never have said or done what I
did.”
“And how often are you so, Barry?—isn’t it so with you every night?
That’s another thing; for my sake, for your own sake—for God’s sake,
give up the dhrink. It’s killing you from day to day, and hour to hour.
I see it in your eyes, and smell it in your breath, and hear it in your
voice; it’s that that makes your heart so black:—it’s that that gives
you over, body and soul, to the devil. I would not have said a word
about that night to hurt you now; and, dear Barry, I wouldn’t have said
such words as these to you at all, but that I shall never speak to you
again. And oh! I pray that you’ll remember them. You’re idle now,
always:—don’t continue so; earn your money, and it will be a blessing
to you and to others. But in idleness, and drunkenness, and wickedness,
it will only lead you quicker to the devil.”
Barry reiterated his promises; he would take the pledge; he would work
at the farm; he would marry and have a family; he would not care the
least for money; he would pay his debts; he would go to church, or
chapel, if Anty liked it better; at any rate, he’d say his prayers; he
would remember every word she had said to the last day of his life; he
promised everything or anything, as though his future existence
depended on his appeasing his dying sister. But during the whole time,
his chief wish, his longing desire, was to finish the interview, and
get out of that horrid room. He felt that he was mastered and cowed by
the creature whom he had so despised, and he could not account for the
feeling. Why did he not dare to answer her? She had told him he would
have her money: she had said it would come to him as a matter of
course; and it was not the dread of losing that which prevented his
saying a word in his own defence. No; she had really frightened him:
she had made him really feel that he was a low, wretched, wicked
creature, and he longed to escape from her, that he might recover his
composure.
“I have but little more to say to you, Barry,” she continued, “and that
little is about the property. You will have it all, but a small sum of
money—”
Here Anty was interrupted by a knock at the door, and the entrance of
the widow. She came to say that the quarter of an hour allowed by the
doctor had been long exceeded, and that really Mr Barry ought to take
his leave, as so much talking would be bad for Anty.
This was quite a god-send for Barry, who was only anxious to be off;
but Anty begged for a respite.
“One five minutes longer, dear Mrs Kelly,” said she, “and I shall have
done; only five minutes—I’m much stronger now, and really it won’t hurt
me.”
“Well, then—mind, only five minutes,” said the widow, and again left
them alone.
“You don’t know, Barry—you can never know how good that woman has been
to me; indeed all of them—and all for nothing. They’ve asked nothing of
me, and now that they know I’m dying, I’m sure they expect nothing from
me. She has enough; but I wish to leave something to Martin, and the
girls;” and a slight pale blush covered her wan cheeks and forehead as
she mentioned Martin’s name. “I will leave him five hundred pounds, and
them the same between them. It will be nothing to you, Barry, out of
the whole; but see and pay it at once, will you?” and she looked kindly
into his face.
He promised vehemently that he would, and told her not to bother
herself about a will: they should have the money as certainly as if
twenty wills were made. To give Barry his due, at that moment, he meant
to be as good as his word. Anty, however, told him that she would make
a will; that she would send for a lawyer, and have the matter properly
settled.
“And now,” she said, “dear Barry, may God Almighty bless you—may He
guide you and preserve you; and may He, above all, take from you that
horrid love of the world’s gold and wealth. Good bye,” and she raised
herself up in her bed—“good bye, for the last time, my own dear
brother; and try to remember what I’ve said to you this day. Kiss me
before you go, Barry.”
Barry leaned over the bed, and kissed her, and then crept out of the
room, and down the stairs, with the tears streaming down his red
cheeks; and skulked across the street to his own house, with his hat
slouched over his face, and his handkerchief held across his mouth.