MR LYNCH’S LAST RESOURCE
On the following morning Lord Ballindine as he had appointed to do,
drove over to Dunmore, to settle with Martin about the money, and, if
necessary, to go with him to the attorney’s office in Tuam. Martin had
as yet given Daly no answer respecting Barry Lynch’s last proposal; and
though poor Anty’s health made it hardly necessary that any answer
should be given, still Lord Ballindine had promised to see the
attorney, if Martin thought it necessary.
The family were all in great confusion that morning, for Anty was very
bad—worse than she had ever been. She was in a paroxysm of fever, was
raving in delirium, and in such a state that Martin and his sister were
occasionally obliged to hold her in bed. Sally, the old servant, had
been in the room for a considerable time during the morning, standing
at the foot of the bed with a big tea-pot in her hand, and begging in a
whining voice, from time to time, that “Miss Anty, God bless her, might
get a dhrink of tay!” But, as she had been of no other service, and as
the widow thought it as well that she should not hear what Anty said in
her raving, she had been desired to go down-stairs, and was sitting
over the fire. She had fixed the big tea-pot among the embers, and held
a slop-bowl of tea in her lap, discoursing to Nelly, who with her hair
somewhat more than ordinarily dishevelled, in token of grief for Anty’s
illness, was seated on a low stool, nursing a candle-stick.
“Well, Nelly,” said the prophetic Sally, boding evil in her anger—for,
considering how long she had been in the family, she had thought
herself entitled to hear Anty’s ravings; “mind, I tell you, good won’t
come of this. The Virgin prothect us from all harum!—it niver war lucky
to have sthrangers dying in the house.”
“But shure Miss Anty’s no stranger.”
“Faix thin, her words must be sthrange enough when the likes o’ me
wouldn’t be let hear ’em. Not but what I did hear, as how could I help
it? There’ll be no good come of it. Who’s to be axed to the wake, I’d
like to know.”
“Axed to the wake, is it? Why, shure, won’t there be rashions of ating
and lashings of dhrinking? The misthress isn’t the woman to spare, and
sich a frind as Miss Anty dead in the house. Let ’em ax whom they
like.”
“You’re a fool, Nelly—Ax whom they like!—that’s asy said. Is they to ax
Barry Lynch, or is they to let it alone, and put the sisther into the
sod without a word said to him about it? God be betwixt us and all
evil”—and she took a long pull at the slop-bowl; and, as the liquid
flowed down her throat, she gradually threw back her head till the top
of her mop cap was flattened against the side of the wide fire-place,
and the bowl was turned bottom upwards, so that the half-melted brown
sugar might trickle into her mouth. She then gave a long sigh, and
repeated that difficult question—“Who is they to ax to the wake?”
It was too much for Nelly to answer: she re-echoed the sigh, and more
closely embraced the candlestick.
“Besides, Nelly, who’ll have the money when she’s gone?—and she’s nigh
that already, the Blessed Virgin guide and prothect her. Who’ll get all
her money?”
“Why; won’t Mr Martin? Sure, an’t they as good as man and wife—all as
one?”
“That’s it; they’ll be fighting and tearing, and tatthering about that
money, the two young men will, you’ll see. There’ll be lawyering, an’
magisthrate’s work—an’ factions—an’ fighthins at fairs; an’ thin, as in
course the Lynches can’t hould their own agin the Kellys, there’ll be
undherhand blows, an’ blood, an’ murdher!—you’ll see else.”
“Glory be to God,” involuntarily prayed Nelly, at the thoughts
suggested by Sally’s powerful eloquence.
“There will, I tell ye,” continued Sally, again draining the tea-pot
into the bowl. “Sorrow a lie I’m telling you;” and then, in a low
whisper across the fire, “didn’t I see jist now Miss Anty ketch a hould
of Misther Martin, as though she’d niver let him go agin, and bid him
for dear mercy’s sake have a care of Barry Lynch?—Shure I knowed what
that meant. And thin, didn’t he thry and do for herself with his own
hands? Didn’t Biddy say she’d swear she heard him say he’d do it?—and
av he wouldn’t boggle about his own sisther, it’s little he’d mind what
he’d do to an out an out inemy like Misther Martin.”
“Warn’t that a knock at the hall-door, Sally?”
“Run and see, girl; may-be it’s the docthor back again; only mostly he
don’t mind knocking much.”
Nelly went to the door, and opened it to Lord Ballindine, who had left
his gig in charge of his servant. He asked for Martin, who in a short
time, joined him in the parlour.
“This is a dangerous place for your lordship, now,” said he: “the fever
is so bad in the house. Thank God, nobody seems to have taken it yet,
but there’s no knowing.”
“Is she still so bad, Martin?”
“Worse than iver, a dale worse; I don’t think it’ll last long, now:
another bout such as this last ’ll about finish it. But I won’t keep
your lordship. I’ve managed about the money;”—and the necessary writing
was gone through, and the cash was handed to Lord Ballindine.
“You’ve given over all thoughts then, about Lynch’s offer—eh, Martin?—I
suppose you’ve done with all that, now?”
“Quite done with it, my lord; and done with fortune-hunting too. I’ve
seen enough this last time back to cure me altogether—at laist, I hope
so.”
“She doesn’t mean to make any will, then?”
“Why, she wishes to make one, but I doubt whether she’ll ever be able;”
and then Martin gave his landlord an account of all that Anty had said
about her will, her wishes as to the property, her desire to leave
something to him (Martin) and his sisters: and last he repeated the
strong injunctions which Anty had given him respecting her poor
brother, and her assurance, so full of affection, that had she lived
she would have done her best to make him happy as her husband.
Lord Ballindine was greatly affected; he warmly shook hands with
Martin, told him how highly he thought of his conduct, and begged him
to take care that Anty had the gratification of making her will as she
had desired to do. “The fact,” Lord Ballindine said, “of your being
named in the will as her executor will give you more control over Barry
than anything else could do.” He then proposed at once to go, himself,
to Tuam, and explain to Daly what it was Miss Lynch wished him to do.
This Lord Ballindine did, and the next day the will was completed.
For a week or ten days Anty remained in much the same condition. After
each attack of fever it was expected that she would perish from
weakness and exhaustion; but she still held on, and then the fever
abated, and Doctor Colligan thought that it was possible she might
recover: she was, however, so dreadfully emaciated and worn out, there
was so little vitality left in her, that he would not encourage more
than the faintest hope. Anty herself was too weak either to hope or
fear;—and the women of the family, who from continual attendance knew
how very near to death she was, would hardly allow themselves to think
that she could recover.
There were two persons, however, who from the moment of her amendment
felt an inward sure conviction of her convalescence. They were Martin
and Barry. To the former this feeling was of course one of unalloyed
delight. He went over to Kelly’s Court, and spoke there of his
betrothed as though she were already sitting up and eating mutton
chops; was congratulated by the young ladies on his approaching
nuptials, and sauntered round the Kelly’s Court shrubberies with Frank,
talking over his future prospects; asking advice about this and that,
and propounding the pros and cons on that difficult question, whether
he would live at Dunmore, or build a house at Toneroe for himself and
Anty. With Barry, however, the feeling was very different: he was again
going to have his property wrenched from him; he was again to suffer
the pangs he had endured, when first he learned the purport of his
father’s will; after clutching the fruit for which he had striven, as
even he himself felt, so basely, it was again to be torn from him so
cruelly.
He had been horribly anxious for a termination to Anty’s sufferings;
horribly impatient to feel himself possessor of the whole. From day to
day, and sometimes two or three times a day, he had seen Dr Colligan,
and inquired how things were going on: he had especially enjoined that
worthy man to come up after his morning call at the inn, and get a
glass of sherry at Dunmore House; and the doctor had very generally
done so. For some time Barry endeavoured to throw the veil of brotherly
regard over the true source of his anxiety; but the veil was much too
thin to hide what it hardly covered, and Barry, as he got intimate with
the doctor, all but withdrew it altogether. When Barry would say,
“Well, doctor, how is she to-day?” and then remark, in answer to the
doctor’s statement that she was very bad—“Well, I suppose it can’t last
much longer; but it’s very tedious, isn’t it, poor thing?” it was plain
enough that the brother was not longing for the sister’s recovery. And
then he would go a little further, and remark that “if the poor thing
was to go, it would be better for all she went at once,” and expressed
an opinion that he was rather ill-treated by being kept so very long in
suspense.
Doctor Colligan ought to have been shocked at this; and so he was, at
first, to a certain extent, but he was not a man of a very high tone of
feeling. He had so often heard of heirs to estates longing for the
death of the proprietors of them; he had so often seen relatives
callous and indifferent at the loss of those who ought to have been
dear to them; it seemed so natural to him that Barry should want the
estate, that he gradually got accustomed to his impatient inquiries,
and listened to, and answered them, without disgust. He fell too into a
kind of intimacy with Barry; he liked his daily glass, or three or four
glasses, of sherry; and besides, it was a good thing for him to stand
well in a professional point of view with a man who had the best house
in the village, and who would soon have eight hundred a-year.
If Barry showed his impatience and discontent as long as the daily
bulletins told him that Anty was still alive, though dying, it may
easily be imagined that he did not hide his displeasure when he first
heard that she was alive and better. His brow grew very black, his
cheeks flushed, the drops of sweat stood on his forehead, and he said,
speaking through his closed teeth, “D–––– it, doctor, you don’t mean to
tell me she’s recovering now?”
“I don’t say, Mr Lynch, whether she is or no; but it’s certain the
fever has left her. She’s very weak, very weak indeed; I never knew a
person to be alive and have less life in ’em; but the fever has left
her and there certainly is hope.”
“Hope!” said Barry—“why, you told me she couldn’t live!”
“I don’t say she will, Mr Lynch, but I say she may. Of course we must
do what we can for her,” and the doctor took his sherry and went his
way.
How horrible then was the state of Barry’s mind! For a time he was
absolutely stupified with despair; he stood fixed on the spot where the
doctor had left him, realising, bringing home to himself, the tidings
which he had heard. His sister to rise again, as though it were from
the dead, to push him off his stool! Was he to fall again into that
horrid low abyss in which even the Tuam attorney had scorned him; in
which he had even invited that odious huxter’s son to marry his sister
and live in his house? What! was he again to be reduced to poverty, to
want, to despair, by her whom he so hated? Could nothing be
done?—Something must be done—she should not be, could not be allowed to
leave that bed of sickness alive. “There must be an end of her,” he
muttered through his teeth, “or she’ll drive me mad!” And then he
thought how easily he might have smothered her, as she lay there
clasping his hand, with no one but themselves in the room; and as the
thought crossed his brain his eyes nearly started from his head, the
sweat ran down his face, he clutched the money in his trousers’ pocket
till the coin left an impression on his flesh, and he gnashed his teeth
till his jaws ached with his own violence. But then, in that sick-room,
he had been afraid of her; he could not have touched her then for the
wealth of the Bank of England!—but now!
The devil sat within him, and revelled with full dominion over his
soul: there was then no feeling left akin to humanity to give him one
chance of escape; there was no glimmer of pity, no shadow of remorse,
no sparkle of love, even though of a degraded kind; no hesitation in
the will for crime, which might yet, by God’s grace, lead to its
eschewal: all there was black, foul, and deadly, ready for the devil’s
deadliest work. Murder crouched there, ready to spring, yet
afraid;—cowardly, but too thirsty after blood to heed its own fears.
Theft,—low, pilfering, pettifogging, theft; avarice, lust, and
impotent, scalding hatred. Controlled by these the black blood rushed
quick to and from his heart, filling him with sensual desires below the
passions of a brute, but denying him one feeling or one appetite for
aught that was good or even human.
Again the next morning the doctor was questioned with intense anxiety;
“Was she going?—was she drooping?—had yesterday’s horrid doubts raised
only a false alarm?” It was utterly beyond Barry’s power to make any
attempt at concealment, even of the most shallow kind. “Well, doctor,
is she dying yet?” was the brutal question he put.
“She is, if anything, rather stronger;” answered the doctor, shuddering
involuntarily at the open expression of Barry’s atrocious wish, and yet
taking his glass of wine.
“The devil she is!” muttered Barry, throwing himself into an arm-chair.
He sat there some little time, and the doctor also sat down, said
nothing, but continued sipping his wine.
“In the name of mercy, what must I do?” said Barry, speaking more to
himself than to the other.
“Why, you’ve enough, Mr Lynch, without hers; you can do well enough
without it.”
“Enough! Would you think you had enough if you were robbed of more than
half of all you have. Half, indeed,” he shouted—“I may say all, at
once. I don’t believe there’s a man in Ireland would bear it. Nor will
I.”
Again there was a silence; but still, somehow, Colligan seemed to stay
longer than usual. Every now and then Barry would for a moment look
full in his face, and almost instantly drop his eyes again. He was
trying to mature future plans; bringing into shape thoughts which had
occurred to him, in a wild way at different times; proposing to himself
schemes, with which his brain had been long loaded, but which he had
never resolved on,—which he had never made palpable and definite. One
thing he found sure and certain; on one point he was able to become
determined: he could not do it alone; he must have an assistant; he
must buy some one’s aid; and again he looked at Colligan, and again his
eyes fell. There was no encouragement there, but there was no
discouragement. Why did he stay there so long? Why did he so slowly sip
that third glass of wine? Was he waiting to be asked? was he ready,
willing, to be bought? There must be something in his thoughts—he must
have some reason for sitting there so long, and so silent, without
speaking a word, or taking his eyes off the fire.
Barry had all but made up his mind to ask the aid he wanted; but he
felt that he was not prepared to do so—that he should soon quiver and
shake, that he could not then carry it through. He felt that he wanted
spirit to undertake his own part in the business, much less to inspire
another with the will to assist him in it. At last he rose abruptly
from his chair, and said,
“Will you dine with me to-day, Colligan?—I’m so down in the mouth, so
deucedly hipped, it will be a charity.”
“Well,” said Colligan, “I don’t care if I do. I must go down to your
sister in the evening, and I shall be near her here.”
“Yes, of course; you’ll be near her here, as you say: come at six,
then. By the bye, couldn’t you go to Anty first, so that we won’t be
disturbed over our punch?”
“I must see her the last thing,—about nine, but I can look up again
afterwards, for a minute or so. I don’t stay long with her now: it’s
better not.”
“Well, then, you’ll be here at six?”
“Yes, six sharp;” and at last the doctor got up and went away.
It was odd that Doctor Colligan should have sat thus long; it showed a
great want of character and of good feeling in him. He should never
have become intimate, or even have put up with a man expressing such
wishes as those which so often fell from Barry’s lips. But he was
entirely innocent of the thoughts which Barry attributed to him. It had
never even occurred to him that Barry, bad as he was, would wish to
murder his sister. No; bad, heedless, sensual as Doctor Colligan might
be, Barry was a thousand fathoms deeper in iniquity than he.
As soon as he had left the room the other uttered a long, deep sigh. It
was a great relief to him to be alone: he could now collect his
thoughts, mature his plans, and finally determine. He took his usual
remedy in his difficulties, a glass of brandy; and, going out into the
garden, walked up and down the gravel walk almost unconsciously, for
above an hour.
Yes: he would do it. He would not be a coward. The thing had been done
a thousand times before. Hadn’t he heard of it over and over again?
Besides, Colligan’s manner was an assurance to him that he would not
boggle at such a job. But then, of course, he must be paid—and Barry
began to calculate how much he must offer for the service; and, when
the service should be performed, how he might avoid the fulfilment of
his portion of the bargain.
He went in and ordered the dinner; filled the spirit decanters, opened
a couple of bottles of wine, and then walked out again. In giving his
orders, and doing the various little things with which he had to keep
himself employed, everybody, and everything seemed strange to him. He
hardly knew what he was about, and felt almost as though he were in a
dream. He had quite made up his mind as to what he would do; his
resolution was fixed to carry it through but:—still there was the
but,—how was he to open it to Doctor Colligan? He walked up and down
the gravel path for a long time, thinking of this; or rather trying to
think of it, for his thoughts would fly away to all manner of other
subjects, and he continually found himself harping upon some trifle,
connected with Anty, but wholly irrespective of her death; some little
thing that she had done for him, or ought to have done; something she
had said a long time ago, and which he had never thought of till now;
something she had worn, and which at the time he did not even know that
he had observed; and as often as he found his mind thus wandering, he
would start off at a quicker pace, and again endeavour to lay out a
line of conduct for the evening.
At last, however, he came to the conclusion that it would be better to
trust to the chapter of chances: there was one thing, or rather two
things, he could certainly do: he could make the doctor half drunk
before he opened on the subject, and he would take care to be in the
same state himself. So he walked in and sat still before the fire, for
the two long remaining hours, which intervened before the clock struck
six.
It was about noon when the doctor left him, and during those six long
solitary hours no one feeling of remorse had entered his breast. He had
often doubted, hesitated as to the practicability of his present plan,
but not once had he made the faintest effort to overcome the wish to
have the deed done. There was not one moment in which he would not most
willingly have had his sister’s blood upon his hands, upon his brain,
upon his soul; could he have willed and accomplished her death, without
making himself liable to the penalties of the law.
At length Doctor Colligan came, and Barry made a great effort to appear
unconcerned and in good humour.
“And how is she now, doctor?” he said, as they sat down to table.
“Is it Anty?—why, you know I didn’t mean to see her since I was here
this morning, till nine o’clock.”
“Oh, true; so you were saying. I forgot. Well, will you take a glass of
wine?”—and Barry filled his own glass quite full.
He drank his wine at dinner like a glutton, who had only a short time
allowed him, and wished during that time to swallow as much as
possible; and he tried to hurry his companion in the same manner. But
the doctor didn’t choose to have wine forced down his throat; he wished
to enjoy himself, and remonstrated against Barry’s violent hospitality.
At last, dinner was over; the things were taken away, they both drew
their chairs over the fire, and began the business of the evening—the
making and consumption of punch. Barry had determined to begin upon the
subject which lay so near his heart, at eight o’clock. He had thought
it better to fix an exact hour, and had calculated that the whole
matter might be completed before Colligan went over to the inn. He kept
continually looking at his watch, and gulping down his drink, and
thinking over and over again how he would begin the conversation.
“You’re very comfortable here, Lynch,” said the doctor, stretching his
long legs before the fire, and putting his dirty boots upon the fender.
“Yes, indeed,” said Barry, not knowing what the other was saying.
“All you want’s a wife, and you’d have as warm a house as there is in
Galway. You’ll be marrying soon, I suppose?”
“Well, I wouldn’t wonder if I did. You don’t take your punch; there’s
brandy there, if you like it better than whiskey.”
“This is very good, thank you—couldn’t be better. You haven’t much land
in your own hands, have you?”
“Why, no—I don’t think I have. What’s that you’re saying?—land?—No, not
much: if there’s a thing I hate, it’s farming.”
“Well, upon my word you’re wrong. I don’t see what else a gentleman has
to do in the country. I wish to goodness I could give up the gallipots
[41] and farm a few acres of my own land. There’s nothing I wish so
much as to get a bit of land: indeed, I’ve been looking out for it, but
it’s so difficult to get.”
Up to this, Barry had hardly listened to what the doctor had been
saying; but now he was all attention. “So that is to be his price,”
thought he to himself, “he’ll cost me dear, but I suppose he must have
it.”
Barry looked at his watch: it was near eight o’clock, but he seemed to
feel that all he had drank had had no effect on him: it had not given
him the usual pluck; it had not given him the feeling of reckless
assurance, which he mistook for courage and capacity.
“If you’ve a mind to be a tenant of mine, Colligan, I’ll keep a look
out for you. The land’s crowded now, but there’s a lot of them cottier
[42] devils I mean to send to the right about. They do the estate no
good, and I hate the sight of them. But you know how the property’s
placed, and while Anty’s in this wretched state, of course I can do
nothing.”
“Will you bear it in mind though, Lynch? When a bit of land does fall
into your hands, I should be glad to be your tenant. I’m quite in
earnest, and should take it as a great favour.”
“I’ll not forget it;” and then he remained silent for a minute. What an
opportunity this was for him to lose! Colligan so evidently wished to
be bribed—so clearly showed what the price was which was to purchase
him. But still he could not ask the fatal question.
Again he sat silent for a while, till he looked at his watch, and found
it was a quarter past eight. “Never fear,” he said, referring to the
farm; “you shall have it, and it shall not be the worst land on the
estate that I’ll give you, you may be sure; for, upon my soul, I have a
great regard for you; I have indeed.”
The doctor thanked him for his good opinion.
“Oh! I’m not blarneying you; upon my soul I’m not; that’s not the way
with me at all; and when you know me better you’ll say so,—and you may
be sure you shall have the farm by Michaelmas.” And then, in a voice
which he tried to make as unconcerned as possible, he continued: “By
the bye, Colligan, when do you think this affair of Anty’s _will_ be
over? It’s the devil and all for a man not to know when he’ll be his
own master.”
“Oh, you mustn’t calculate on your sister’s property at all now,” said
the other, in an altered voice. “I tell you it’s very probable she may
recover.”
This again silenced Barry, and he let the time go by, till the doctor
took up his hat, to go down to his patient.
“You’ll not be long, I suppose?” said Barry.
“Well, it’s getting late,” said Colligan, “and I don’t think I’ll be
coming back to-night.”
“Oh, but you will; indeed, you must. You promised you would, you know,
and I want to hear how she goes on.”
“Well, I’ll just come up, but I won’t stay, for I promised Mrs Colligan
to be home early.” This was always the doctor’s excuse when he wished
to get away. He never allowed his domestic promises to draw him home
when there was anything to induce him to stay abroad; but, to tell the
truth, he was getting rather sick of his companion. The doctor took his
hat, and went to his patient.
“He’ll not be above ten minutes or at any rate a quarter of an hour,”
thought Barry, “and then I must do it. How he sucked it all in about
the farm!—that’s the trap, certainly.” And he stood leaning with his
back against the mantel-piece, and his coat-laps hanging over his arm,
waiting for and yet fearing, the moment of the doctor’s return. It
seemed an age since he went. Barry looked at his watch almost every
minute; it was twenty minutes past nine,
five-and-twenty—thirty—forty—three quarters of an hour—“By Heaven!”
said he, “the man is not coming! he is going to desert me—and I shall
be ruined! Why the deuce didn’t I speak out when the man was here!”
At last his ear caught the sound of the doctor’s heavy foot on the
gravel outside the door, and immediately afterwards the door bell was
rung. Barry hastily poured out a glass of raw spirits and swallowed it;
he then threw himself into his chair, and Doctor Colligan again entered
the room.
“What a time you’ve been, Colligan! Why I thought you weren’t coming
all night. Now, Terry, some hot water, and mind you look sharp about
it. Well, how’s Anty to-night?”
“Weak, very weak; but mending, I think. The disease won’t kill her now;
the only thing is whether the cure will.”
“Well, doctor, you can’t expect me to be very anxious about it:
unfortunately, we had never any reason to be proud of Anty, and it
would be humbug in me to pretend that I wish she should recover, to rob
me of what you know I’ve every right to consider my own.” Terry brought
the hot water in, and left the room.
“Well, I can’t say you do appear very anxious about it. I’ll just
swallow one dandy of punch, and then I’ll get home. I’m later now than
I meant to be.”
“Nonsense, man. The idea of your being in a hurry, when everybody knows
that a doctor can never tell how long he may be kept in a sick-room!
But come now, tell the truth; put yourself in my condition, and do you
mean to say you’d be very anxious that Anty should recover?—Would you
like your own sister to rise from her death-bed to rob you of
everything you have? For, by Heaven! it is robbery—nothing less. She’s
so stiff-necked, that there’s no making any arrangement with her. I’ve
tried everything, fair means and foul, and nothing’ll do but she must
go and marry that low young Kelly—so immeasurably beneath her, you
know, and of course only scheming for her money. Put yourself in my
place, I say; and tell me fairly what your own wishes would be?”
“I was always fond of my brothers and sisters,” answered the doctor;
“and we couldn’t well rob each other, for none of us had a penny to
lose.”
“That’s a different thing, but just supposing you were exactly in my
shoes at this moment, do you mean to tell me that you’d be glad she
should get well?—that you’d be glad she should be able to deprive you
of your property, disgrace your family, drive you from your own home,
and make your life miserable for ever after?”
“Upon my soul I can’t say; but good night now, you’re getting excited,
and I’ve finished my drop of punch.”
“Ah! nonsense, man, sit down. I’ve something in earnest I want to say
to you,” and Barry got up and prevented the doctor from leaving the
room. Colligan had gone so far as to put on his hat and great coat, and
now sat down again without taking them off.
“You and I, Colligan, are men of the world, and too wide awake for all
the old woman’s nonsense people talk. What can I, or what could you in
my place, care for a half-cracked old maid like Anty, who’s better dead
than alive, for her own sake and everybody’s else; unless it is some
scheming ruffian like young Kelly there, who wants to make money by
her?”
“I’m not asking you to care for her; only, if those are your ideas,
it’s as well not to talk about them for appearance sake.”
“Appearance sake! There’s nothing makes me so sick, as for two men like
you and me, who know what’s what, to be talking about appearance sake,
like two confounded parsons, whose business it is to humbug everybody,
and themselves into the bargain. I’ll tell you what: had my father—bad
luck to him for an old rogue—not made such a will as he did, I’d ’ve
treated Anty as well as any parson of ’em all would treat an old maid
of a sister; but I’m not going to have her put over my head this way.
Come, doctor, confound all humbug. I say it openly to you—to please me,
Anty must never come out of that bed alive.”
“As if your wishes could make any difference. If it is to be so, she’ll
die, poor creature, without your saying so much about it; but may-be,
and it’s very likely too, she’ll be alive and strong, after the two of
us are under the sod.”
“Well; if it must be so, it must; but what I wanted to say to you is
this: while you were away, I was thinking about what you said of the
farm—of being a tenant of mine, you know.”
“We can talk about that another time,” said the doctor, who began to
feel an excessive wish to be out of the house.
“There’s no time like the present, when I’ve got it in my mind; and, if
you’ll wait, I can settle it all for you to-night. I was telling you
that I hate farming, and so I do. There are thirty or five-and-thirty
acres of land about the house, and lying round to the back of the town;
you shall take them off my hands, and welcome.”
This was too good an offer to be resisted, and Colligan said he would
take the land, with many thanks, if the rent any way suited him.
“We’ll not quarrel about that, you may be sure, Colligan,” continued
Barry; “and as I said fifty acres at first—it was fifty acres I think
you were saying you wished for—I’ll not baulk you, and go back from my
own word.”
“What you have yourself, round the house, ’ll be enough; only I’m
thinking the rent ’ll be too high.”
“It shall not; it shall be low enough; and, as I was saying, you shall
have the remainder, at the same price, immediately after Michaelmas, as
soon as ever those devils are ejected.”
“Well;” said Colligan, who was now really interested, “what’s the
figure?”
Barry had been looking steadfastly at the fire during the whole
conversation, up to this: playing with the poker, and knocking the
coals about. He was longing to look into the other’s face, but he did
not dare. Now, however, was his time; it was now or never: he took one
furtive glance at the doctor, and saw that he was really anxious on the
subject—that his attention was fixed.
“The figure,” said he; “the figure should not trouble you if you had no
one but me to deal with. But there’ll be Anty, confound her, putting
her fist into this and every other plan of mine!”
“I’d better deal with the agent, I’m thinking,” said Colligan; “so,
good night.”
“You’ll find you’d a deal better be dealing with me: you’ll never find
an easier fellow to deal with, or one who’ll put a better thing in your
way.”
Colligan again sat down. He couldn’t quite make Barry out: he suspected
he was planning some iniquity, but he couldn’t tell what; and he
remained silent, looking full into the other’s face till he should go
on. Barry winced under the look, and hesitated; but at last he screwed
himself up to the point, and said,
“One word, between two friends, is as good as a thousand. If Anty dies
of this bout, you shall have the fifty acres, with a lease for
perpetuity, at sixpence an acre. Come, that’s not a high figure, I
think.”
“What?” said Colligan, apparently not understanding him, “a lease for
perpetuity at how much an acre?”
“Sixpence—a penny—a pepper-corn—just anything you please. But it’s all
on Anty’s dying. While she’s alive I can do nothing for the best friend
I have.”
“By the Almighty above us,” said the doctor, almost in a whisper, “I
believe the wretched man means me to murder her—his own sister!”
“Murder?—Who talked or said a word of murder?” said Barry, with a
hoarse and croaking voice—“isn’t she dying as she is?—and isn’t she
better dead than alive? It’s only just not taking so much trouble to
keep the life in her; you’re so exceeding clever you know!”—and he made
a ghastly attempt at smiling. “With any other doctor she’d have been
dead long since: leave her to herself a little, and the farm’s your
own; and I’m sure there’ll ’ve been nothing at all like murder between
us.”
“By Heavens, he does!”—and Colligan rose quickly from his seat—“he
means to have her murdered, and thinks to make me do the deed! Why, you
vile, thieving, murdering reptile!” and as he spoke the doctor seized
him by the throat, and shook him violently in his strong grasp—“who
told you I was a fit person for such a plan? who told you to come to me
for such a deed? who told you I would sell my soul for your paltry
land?”—and he continued grasping Barry’s throat till he was black in
the face, and nearly choked. “Merciful Heaven! that I should have sat
here, and listened to such a scheme! Take care of yourself,” said he;
and he threw him violently backwards over the chairs—“if you’re to be
found in Connaught to-morrow, or in Ireland the next day, I’ll hang
you!”—and so saying, he hurried out of the room, and went home.
“Well,” thought he, on his road: “I have heard of such men as that
before, and I believe that when I was young I read of such: but I never
expected to meet so black a villain! What had I better do?—If I go and
swear an information before a magistrate there’ll be nothing but my
word and his. Besides, he said nothing that the law could take hold of.
And yet I oughtn’t to let it pass: at any rate I’ll sleep on it.” And
so he did; but it was not for a long time, for the recollection of
Barry’s hideous proposal kept him awake.
Barry lay sprawling among the chairs till the sound of the hall door
closing told him that his guest had gone, when he slowly picked himself
up, and sat down upon the sofa. Colligan’s last words were ringing in
his ear—“If you’re found in Ireland the next day, I’ll hang you.”—Hang
him!—and had he really given any one the power to speak to him in such
language as that? After all, what had he said?—He had not even
whispered a word of murder; he had only made an offer of what he would
do if Anty should die: besides, no one but themselves had heard even
that; and then his thoughts went off to another train. “Who’d have
thought,” he said to himself, “the man was such a fool! He meant it, at
first, as well as I did myself. I’m sure he did. He’d never have caught
as he did about the farm else, only he got afraid—the confounded fool!
As for hanging, I’ll let him know; it’s just as easy for me to tell a
story, I suppose, as it is for him.” And then Barry, too, dragged
himself up to bed, and cursed himself to sleep. His waking thoughts,
however, were miserable enough.