Hell's eloquence--“Temptation!”
Harold
Tom Keane, the gatekeeper, sat moodily at his door on the morning after
the events recorded in our last chapter. His reflections seemed of the
gloomiest, and absorbed him so completely that he never noticed the
mounted groom, who, despatched to seek the doctor for Lord Kilgoff,
twice summoned him in vain to open the gate.
“Halloa!” cried the smartly equipped servant, “stupid! will you open
that gate, I say?”
“It 's not locked,” said Tom, looking up, but without the slightest
indication of obeying the request.
“Don't you see the mare won't stand?” cried he, with an oath.
Tom smoked away without replying.
“Sulky brute you are!” cried the groom; “I 'm glad we 're to see the
last of you soon.”
With this he managed to open the gate and pass on his way.
“So it's for turnin' me out yez are,” said Tom to himself; “turnin' me
out on the road--to starve, or maybe--to rob”--(these words were uttered
between the puffs of his tobacco-smoke)--“after forty years in the same
place.”
The shrill barking of a cur-dog, an animal that in spitefulness as in
mangy condition seemed no bad type of its master, now aroused him, and
Tom muttered, “Bite him, Blaze! hould him fast, yer soule!”
“Call off your dog, Keane--call him off!” cried out a voice whose tones
at once bespoke a person of condition; and at the same instant Linton
appeared. “You'd better fasten him up, for I feel much tempted to
ballast his heart with a bullet.”
And he showed a pistol which he held at full cock in his fingers.
“Faix, ye may shoot him for all I care,” said Tom; “he's losing his
teeth, and won't be worth a 'trawneen' 'fore long. Go in there--into the
house,” cried he, sulkily; and the animal shrank away, craven and cowed.
“You ought to keep him tied up,” said Linton; “every one complains of
him.”
“So I hear,” said Tom, with a low, sardonic laugh; “he used only to
bite the beggars, but he's begun now to be wicked with the gentlemen. I
suppose he finds they taste mighty near alike.”
“Just so,” said Linton, laughing; “if the cur could speak, he 'd tell us
a laborer was as tender as 'my lord.' I've come over to see you,” added
he, after a moment's pause, “and to say that I 'm sorry to have failed
in my undertaking regarding you; they are determined to turn you out.”
“I was thinking so,” said Tom, moodily.
“I did my best. I told them you had been many years on the estate--”
“Forty-two.”
“Just so. I said forty and upwards--that your children had grown up on
it--that you were actually like a part of the property. I spoke of the
hardship of turning a man at your time of life, with a helpless family
too, upon the wide world. I even went so far as to say that these were
not the times for such examples; that there was a spirit abroad of
regard for the poor man, a watchful inquiry into the evils of his
condition, that made these 4 clearances,' as they call them, unwise and
impolitic, as well as cruel.”
“An' what did they say to that?” asked Tom, abruptly.
“Laughed--laughed heartily.”
“They laughed?”
“No--I am wrong,” said Linton, quickly. “Kennyfeck did not laugh; on
the contrary, he seemed grave, and observed that up at Drumcoologan--is
there such a name?”
“Ay, and nice boys they 're in it,” said Tom, nodding.
“'Well, up at Drumcoologan,' said he, 'such a step would be more than
dangerous.'
“'How do you mean?' said Mr. Cashel.
“'They 'd take the law into their own hands,' replied Kennyfeck. The man
who would evict one of those fellows might as well make his will, if
he wished to leave one behind him. They are determined fellows, whose
fathers and grandfathers have lived and died on the land, and find it
rather hard to understand how a bit of parchment with a big seal on it
should have more force than kith and kindred.”
“Did ould Kennyfeck say that?” asked Tom, with a glance of unutterable
cunning.
“No,” replied Linton; “that observation was mine, for really I was
indignant at that summary system which disposes of a population as
coolly as men change the cattle from one pasturage to another. Mr.
Cashel, however, contented himself with a laugh, and such a laugh as,
for his sake, I am right glad none of his unhappy tenantry were witness
to.”
“'You may do as you please down here, sir,' said Kenny-feck--who, by
the way, does not seem to be any friend of yours--'but the Drumcoologan
fellows must be humored.'
“'I will see that,' said Mr. Cashel, who, in his own hotheaded way,
actually likes opposition, 'but we 'll certainly begin with this fellow
Keane.'
“'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.”
[Illustration: 240]
“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.