Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“‘I suppose you’ll give him the means to emigrate?’ said I, addressing Kennyfeck.

“‘We generally do in these cases,’ said he.

“‘I’ll not give the scoundrel a farthing,’ broke in Mr. Cashel. ‘I took a dislike to him from the very hour I came here.’ And then he went on to speak about the dirt and neglect about the gate-lodge, the ragged appearance of the children – even your own looks displeased him; in fact, I saw plainly that somehow you had contrived to make him your enemy, not merely of a few days’ standing, but actually from the moment of his first meeting you. Kennyfeck, though not your friend, behaved better than I expected: he said that to turn you out was to leave you to starve; that there was no employment to be had in the country; that your children were all young and helpless; that you were not accustomed to daily labor; indeed, he made out your case to be a very hard one, and backed as it was by myself, I hoped that we should have succeeded; but, as I said before, Mr. Cashel, for some reason of his own, or perhaps without any reason, hates you. He has resolved that out you shall go, and go you must!”

Keane said nothing, but sat moodily moving his foot backwards and forwards on the gravel.

“For Mr. Cashel’s sake, I ‘m not sorry the lot has fallen upon a quiet-tempered fellow like yourself; there are plenty here who would n’t bear the hardship so patiently.”

Keane looked up, and the keen twinkle of his gray eyes seemed to read the other’s very thoughts. Linton, so proof against the searching glances of the well-bred world, actually cowered under the vulgar stare of the peasant.

“So you think he’s lucky that I ‘m not one of the Drumcoologan boys?” said Keane; and his features assumed a smile of almost insolent meaning.

“They’re bold fellows, I’ve heard,” said Linton, “and quick to resent an injury.”

“Maybe there’s others just as ready,” said he, doggedly.

“Many are ready to feel one,” said Linton; “that I’m well aware of. The difference is that some men sit down under their sorrows, crestfallen and beaten; others rise above them, and make their injuries the road to fortune. And really, much as people say against this ‘wild justice’ of the people, when we consider they have no other possible – that the law is ever against them – that their own right hand alone is their defence against oppression – one cannot wonder that many a tyrant landlord falls beneath the stroke of the ruined tenant, and particularly when the tyranny dies with the tyrant.”

Keane listened greedily, but spoke not; and Linton went on, —

“It so often happens that, as in the present case, by the death of one man, the estate gets into Chancery; and then it’s nobody’s affair who pays and who does not. Tenants then have as mach right as the landlord used to have. As the rents have no owner, there’s little trouble taken to collect them; and when any one makes a bold stand and refuses to pay, they let him alone, and just turn upon the others that are easier to deal with.”

“That’s the way it used to be here long ago,” said Keane.

“Precisely so. You remember it yourself, before Mr. Cashel’s time; and so it might be again, if he should try any harsh measures with those Drumcoologan fellows. Let me light my cigar from your pipe, Keane,” said he; and, as he spoke, he laid down the pistol which he had still carried in his hand. Keane’s eyes rested on the handsome weapon with an expression of stern intensity.

“Cashel would think twice of going up to that mountain barony to-morrow, if he but knew the price that lies upon his head. The hundreds of acres that to-day are a support to as many people, and this day twelvemonth, perhaps, may lie barren and waste; while the poor peasants that once settled there have died of hunger, or wander friendless and houseless in some far-away country – and all this to depend on the keen eye and the steady hand of any one man brave enough to pull a trigger!”

“Is he going to Drumcoologan to-morrow?” asked Keane, dryly.

“Yes; he is to meet Kennyfeck there, and go over the property with him, and on Tuesday evening he is to return here. Perhaps I may be able to put in another word for you, Tom, but I half fear it is hopeless.”

“‘T is a lonely road that leads from Sheehan’s Mill to the ould churchyard,” said Keane, more bent upon following out his own fancies than in attending to Linton.

“So I believe,” said Linton; “but Mr. Cashel cares little for its solitude; he rides always without a servant, and so little does he fear danger, that he never goes armed.”

“I heard that afore,” observed Tom, significantly.

“I have often remonstrated with him about it,” said Linton. “I ‘ve said, ‘Remember how many there are interested in your downfall. One bullet through your forehead is a lease forever, rent free, to many a man whose life is now one of grinding poverty.’ But he is self-willed and obstinate. In his pride, he thinks himself a match for any man – as if a rifle-bore and a percussion-lock like that, there, did not make the merest boy his equal! Besides, he will not bear in mind that his is a life exposed to a thousand risks; he has neither family nor connections interested in him; were he to be found dead on the roadside to-morrow, there is neither father nor brother, nor uncle nor cousin, to take up the inquiry how he met his fate. The coroner would earn his guinea or two, and there would be the end of it!”

“Did he ever do you a bad turn, Mr. Linton?” asked Keane, while he fixed his cold eyes on Linton with a stare of insolent effrontery.

“Me! injure me? Never. He would have shown me many a favor, but I would not accept of such. How came you to ask this question?”

“Because you seem so interested about his comin’ home safe to-morrow evening,” said Tom, with a dry laugh.

“So I am!” said Linton, with a smile of strange meaning.

“An’ if he was to come to harm, sorry as you ‘ll be, you couldn’t help it, sir?” said Keane, still laughing.

“Of course not; these mishaps are occurring every day, and will continue as long as the country remains in its present state of wretchedness.”

Keane seemed to ponder over the last words, for he slouched his hat over his eyes, and sat with clasped hands and bent-down head for several minutes in silence. At last he spoke, but it was in a tone and with a manner whose earnestness contrasted strongly with his former levity.

“Can’t we speak openly, Mr. Linton, would n’t it be best for both of us to say fairly what’s inside of us this minit?”

“I ‘m perfectly ready,” said Linton, seating himself beside him; “I do not desire anything better than to show my confidence in a man of courage like yourself.”

“Then let us not be losin’ our time,” said the other, gruffly. “What’s the job worth? that’s the chat. What is it worth?”

“You are certainly a most practical speaker,” said Linton, laughing in his own peculiar way, “and clear away preliminaries in a very summary fashion.”

“If I’m not worth trustin’ now,” replied the other, doggedly, “ye ‘d betther have nothin’ to say to me.”

“I did not mean that, nor anything like it, Tom. I was only alluding to your straightforward, business-like way of treating a subject which less vigorously minded men would approach timidly and carefully.”

“Faix, I ‘d go up to him bouldly, if ye mane that!” cried the other, who misconceived the eulogy passed upon his candor.

“I know it, – well I know it,” said Linton, encouraging a humor he had thus casually evoked; for in the bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks of the other, it was plain to see what was passing within him.

“Do ye want it done? Tell me that, – be fair and above boord with me, – do you want it done?”

Linton was silent; but a slight, an almost imperceptible motion of his brows made the reply.

“And now what’s it worth?” resumed Tom.

“To you,” said Linton, speaking slowly, “it is worth much – everything. It is all the difference between poverty, suffering, and a jail, and a life of ease and comfort either here or in America. Your little farm, that you hold at present by the will, or rather the caprice, of your landlord, becomes your own forever; when I say forever, I mean what is just as good, since the estate will be thrown back into Chancery; and it is neither your children nor mine will see the end of that.”

“That’s no answer to me,” said Keane, fixing his cold, steady stare on Linton’s face. “I want to know – and I won’t ax it again – what is it worth to you?”

“To me!– to me!” said Linton, starting. “How could it be worth anything to me?”

“You know that best yourself,” said Tom, sulkily.

“I am neither the heir to his estates, nor one of his remote kindred. If I see a fine property going to ruin, and the tenantry treated like galley-slaves, I may, it is true, grieve over it; I may also perceive what a change – a total and happy change – a mere accident might work; for, after all, just think of the casualties that every day brings forth – ”

“I have n’t time for these thoughts now,” muttered Tom.

“Always to the point, – always thinking of the direct question!” said Linton, smiling.

“‘T is n’t yer honer’s failin’, anyhow,” said Tom, laughing sardonically.

“You shall not say that of me, Tom,” said Linton, affecting to relish the jocularity; “I’ll be as prompt and ready as yourself. I’ll wager you ten sovereigns in gold – there they are – that I can keep a secret as well as you can.”

As he spoke, he threw down the glittering pieces upon the step on which they sat.

The peasant’s eyes were bent upon the money with a fierce and angry expression, less betokening desire than actual hate. As he looked at them, his cheek grew red, and then pale, and red once more; his broad chest rose and fell like a swelling wave, and his bony fingers clasped each other in a rigid grasp.

“There are twenty more where these came from,” said Linton, significantly.

“That’s a high price, – devil a lie in it!” muttered Tom, thoughtfully.

Linton spoke not, but seemed to let the charm work.

“A high price, but the ‘dhrop’ in Limerick is higher,” said Tom, with a grin.

“Perhaps it may be,” rejoined Linton, carelessly; “though I don’t perceive how the fact can have any interest for you or me.”

“Be gorra, ye ‘re a cowld man, anyhow,” said Keane, his savage nature struck with admiring wonder at the unmoved serenity of Linton’s manner.

“I’m a determined one,” said Linton, who saw the necessity of impressing his companion; “and with such alone would I wish to act.”

“And where would you be, after it was all over, sir?”

“Here, where I am at present, assisting the magistrates to scour the country, – searching every cabin at Drumoologan, – draining ditches to discover the weapon, and arresting every man that killed a pig and got blood on his corduroys for the last fortnight.”

“And where would I be?” asked Keane.

“Here too; exactly where you sit this moment, quietly waiting till the outcry was over. Nor need that make you impatient. I have said already there is neither wife, nor sister, nor brother, nor child to take up the pursuit. There are forty people in the great house yonder, and there would n’t be four of them left two hours after it was known, nor one out of the four that would give himself the trouble of asking how it happened.”

“An’ them’s gentlemen!,” said Keane, closing his lips and shaking his head sententiously.

Linton arose; he did not over-fancy the turn of reflection Tom’s remark implied: it looked too like the expression of a general condemnation of his class – at the very moment, too, when he was desirous of impressing him with the fullest trust and confidence in his own honor.

“I believe it’s safer to have nothin’ to do with it,” muttered Keane.

“As you please, friend,” replied Linton; “I never squeeze any man’s conscience. You know best what your own life is.”

“Hard enough, that’s what it is,” said the other, bitterly.

“You can also make a guess what it will be in future, when you leave this.”

A deep groan was all that he gave for answer.

“For all that I know, you may have many friends who ‘ll not see your wife and children begging along the roads, or sitting in a hole scooped out of a clay ditch, without food or fire, waiting for the fever to finish what famine has begun. You have n’t far to seek for what I mean; about two hundred yards from that gate yonder there ‘s a group exactly like it.”

“Ye ‘re a terrible man, that’s the truth,” said Tom, as he wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead. “Be gorra, I never seed your like afore!”

“I told you that I was a determined man,” said Linton, sternly; “and I’m sorry to see that’s not what I should say of you.” He moved a step or two as he spoke, and then turning carelessly back, added, “Leave that money for me at ‘The house’ this evening; I don’t wish to carry gold about me on the roads here.” And with this negligent remark he departed.

Linton sauntered carelessly away; nothing in his negligent air and carriage to show that he was not lounging to kill the weary hours of a winter’s day. No sooner, however, had he turned an angle of the road than he entered the wood, and with cautious steps retraced his way, till he stood within a few paces of where Keane yet sat, still and motionless.

His worn hat was pressed down upon his brows, his hands were firmly clasped, and his head bent so as to conceal his features; and in this attitude he remained as rigidly impassive as though he were seized with a catalepsy. A few heavy drops of rain fell, and then a low growling roar of thunder followed, but he heeded not these signs of coming storm. The loud cawing of the rooks as they hastened homeward filled the air, but he never once lifted his head to watch them! Another crash of thunder was heard, and suddenly the rain burst forth in torrents. Swooping along in heavy drifts, it blackened the very atmosphere, and rushed in rivulets down the gravel walk; but still he sat, while the pelting storm penetrated his frail garments and soaked them through. Nor was it till the water lay in pools at his feet that he seemed conscious of the hurricane. Then rising suddenly, he shook himself roughly, and entered the house.

Linton’s eyes were earnestly fixed upon the stone – he crept nearer to observe it. The money was gone.