"I declare, Armstrong," said Peter Dillon, "I think you were a fox yourself, once! Do you remember anything about it?"

"What a run he would give!" said Jerry; "the best pack that was ever kennelled wouldn't have a chance with him."

"Who was that old chap," said Nicholas Dillon, showing off his cla.s.sical learning, "who said that dead animals always became something else?--maybe it's only in the course of nature for a dead fox to become a live parson."

"Exactly: you've hit it," said Armstrong; "and, in the same way, the moment the breath is out of a goose it becomes an idle squireen [38], and, generally speaking, a younger brother."

[FOOTNOTE 38: squireen--diminutive of squire; a minor Irish gentleman given to "putting on airs" or imitating the manners and haughtiness of men of greater wealth]

"Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Nick," said Jerry; "and take care how you meddle with the Church again."

"Who saw anything of Lambert Brown?" said another; "I left him bogged below there at Gurtnascreenagh, and all he could do, the old grey horse wouldn't move a leg to get out for him."

"Oh, he's there still," said Nicholas. "He was trying to follow me, and I took him there on purpose. It's not deep, and he'll do no hurt: he'll keep as well there, as anywhere else."

"Nonsense, Dillon!" said the General--"you'll make his brother really angry, if you go on that way. If the man's a fool, leave him in his folly, but don't be playing tricks on him. You'll only get yourself into a quarrel with the family."

"And how shall we manage about the money, my lord?" said Martin, as he drew near the point at which he would separate from the rest, to ride towards Dunmore. "I've been thinking about it, and there's no doubt about having it for you on Friday, av that'll suit."

"That brother-in-law of yours is a most unmitigated blackguard, isn't he, Martin?" said Frank, who was thinking more about poor Goneaway than the money.

"He isn't no brother-in-law of mine yet, and probably niver will be, for I'm afeard poor Anty'll go. But av he iver is, he'll soon take himself out of the counthry, and be no more throuble to your lordship or any of us."

"But to think of his riding right a-top of the poor brute, and then saying that the dog got under his horse's feet! Why, he's a fool as well as a knave. Was he ever out before?"

"Well, then, I believe he was, twice this year; though I didn't see him myself."

"Then I hope this'll be the last time: three times is quite enough for such a fellow as that."

"I don't think he'll be apt to show again afther what you and Mr Bingham said to him. Well, shure, Mr Bingham was very hard on him!"

"Serve him right; nothing's too bad for him."

"Oh, that's thrue for you, my lord: I don't pity him one bit. But about the money, and this job of my own. Av it wasn't asking too much, it'd be a great thing av your lordship'd see Daly."

It was then settled that Lord Ballindine should ride over to Dunmore on the following Friday, and if circ.u.mstances seemed to render it advisable, that he and Martin should go on together to the attorney at Tuam.

XXIII. DOCTOR COLLIGAN

Doctor Colligan, the Galen of Dunmore, though a pract.i.tioner 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 a.s.suring 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d, 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 a.s.sizes. Then again, she had an absurd pride about it, which often made her declare that she'd never be beat by such a "sc.u.m 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 bra.s.s 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.