“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.