Help.
The negotiations for Durrow went on apace, and still Mr. Pryor remained
at the Headlands, a welcome guest to Lady Emmeline—a guest not so
welcome, perhaps, to her husband. For Mr. Maxwell Drewitt could not be
blind to the fact that the barrister did in some matters join issue with
him; that he belonged rather to the Kincorth party; that he rather
affected the Kincorth interest. “It is Bryan and Geraldine together,”
Maxwell decided, and Maxwell was right. Brian and Geraldine and Mr.
Pryor’s own eyes caused the barrister to suspect that nature had
forgotten an important item when she made Maxwell Drewitt.
“My cousin is totally heartless,” Brian said one morning when he and Mr.
Pryor were walking by a near cut across the hills from Kincorth to
Durrow, “and for that reason I am quite in earnest concerning myself. I
desire to get some employment; to be ready for the evil day when it
comes.”
“What makes you think an evil day is coming?” asked Mr. Pryor.
“There was a person told me,” answered Brian. “Four years ago, Mr.
Pryor, when I was only fifteen. I got a warning. I was told to learn
diligently; to be on my guard against bad company; to keep my eyes open
and my mouth shut; for that Maxwell Drewitt had made up his mind to own
Kincorth, and that I should have to turn out and earn my bread some day.
I am not going to tell you who warned me,” added Brian; “but I took the
advice. I have tried to learn. I have kept my eyes open, and I know
Maxwell means to do us harm if he can.”
“Why should he do you harm?”
“Why? Because, as he says, we have been idle while he has worked;
because we have sat with our hands folded while he has been toiling and
struggling; because my grandfather willed Kincorth away from the elder
brother and left it to his younger son; because my father married and
had children; because he hates us,” finished Brian Drewitt, “as I hate
him.”
Mr. Pryor turned and looked at the boy as he spoke these last words.
There was a something more terrible than any passion could have been in
the stern restraint of Brian’s manner; in the strong curb he seemed to
put on himself—on his words, on his gestures. There was no fury—no
outbreak of rage—no outburst of violent indignation. He spoke of
hate—sullenly, calmly—without a change of colour; without a variation in
his voice.
“Why do you hate him?” inquired Mr. Pryor.
“Because I do. That is not a very civil answer, you will say, and yet it
is the best I can give you. Why I hate him I feel; but I could not
explain what I feel, except that I know he wants to grind me under his
foot as I grind this gravel,” and Brian stamped his heel upon the
ground; “but he shall never have the chance, I swear.”
“But for a young man of property——” argued Mr. Pryor.
“I am not a young man of property,” the youth replied. “Have you really
no idea how we are actually situated? Do not mention it to my mother,
because she thinks that Kincorth is clear, at any rate; but Kincorth is
mortgaged, like everything else. We have not an acre of land that is not
owned by strangers, and I am quite confident if anything were to happen
to my father, and that the mortgagees sold the estates, Maxwell would
buy them all, and then where should we be?”
“Where should you be whoever bought them?” asked his companion. “It
would not matter whether he or Queen Victoria bought them so long as
they were sold.”
“No; only so far as this, that perhaps one could do something with other
people, while one could not with him. For instance, I might be agent to
anybody else, but I would not serve Maxwell. I wish, Mr. Pryor,” added
the boy, for though he looked so manly, he was but nineteen after all;
“I do wish I had known you were going to buy Durrow, for I would have
asked you to give me the agency until I saw how it was going to be with
my poor father.”
“I have promised it to Connor,” said Mr. Pryor, regretfully.
“I know you have, and Maxwell recommended him to you. Mr. Waller told me
that,” went on Bryan; “but I should have suspected it anyhow, for he
knew I wanted something to do, and thought he would be beforehand with
me; but I will make my way in spite of him, if he were ten times as rich
as he is.”
“May I ask you something, Brian; and will you answer my question
honestly? Why is there such bad blood between you and your cousin?”
“I told you before I should never be able to make you understand,” was
the reply. “We have never had a quarrel, and yet we have never been
friends. He does not treat my mother as I like. He is trying to take
Harold from us, and he is a bad man—a bad, heartless man, without a
conscience.”
“How do you make out that he is a bad man? I knew him before you were
born. He was poor then; but he has worked hard since, and earned great
possessions. Is there any crime in that?”
“No; but there is harm in the way he has got rich. You do not like
usurers in England. You do not like people who take advantage of their
neighbours’ necessities. Well, Maxwell is a usurer. He has got a
‘backer,’ I think you call it, in Liverpool or London, or some of those
great towns, where you come from, who lets him have as much capital as
he wants; and then when they make a good hit they share the spoil.
Maxwell got lots of properties into his hands that way during the
famine. Gentlemen were hard up and wanted an advance; then he let the
interest drop behind, and wanted principal, and interest, and compound
interest, just in a day. He never bought Mr. Munks’ place, nor that
enormous estate he has in the Joyce county. He foreclosed on both, or
rather his agent did it for him. He has a man who does all his dirty
work cheap—a lawyer, called Ryan.”
“Surely that is the name of Mrs. Connor’s brother?”
“Yes, he is Mrs. Connor’s brother; but that is nothing against either
Connor or his wife, and you are safe enough in letting Maxwell’s
_protégé_ have the agency; for even if his man were not honest, my
cousin would try no tricks with _you_.”
“Go on—what were you saying about Ryan?”
“He has Ryan under his thumb somehow, and can make him do just what he
pleases. It appears that at one time they were great friends: that at
the time when you stood for Duranmore——”
“I remember a young lawyer who was always with your cousin—a clever,
artful dog I thought him. Is that the Ryan you are talking about?”
“The very same. Ryan had Mr. Waller’s agency for a long time, until, in
fact, he displeased Maxwell somehow or other, and then everything went
wrong with him. He lost his agency and his clients, and finally went as
clerk to a new attorney who came to Duranmore. Whatever happened then I
cannot tell you; but he got into some trouble, either through drinking
or want of money, which Maxwell saw him out of. From that time on, Ryan
has been back in business on his own account, and is Maxwell’s
factotum.”
“I am afraid, Brian,” said Mr. Pryor, “that you are a sad gossip.”
“If I am, it is only about one man,” was the answer; “and sometimes I
fancy,” here the lad lowered his voice, “that it is really he who has
got the mortgage over Kincorth, and if it be——”
“If it be—what then?” demanded Mr. Pryor.
“Why the place will not be ours even during my father’s lifetime,”
finished Brian; “let alone afterwards.”
“But supposing—even supposing he have lent money on the property, it
would do him no good to turn you out; it surely would answer his purpose
much better to let you all remain.”
“As dependents on him! thank you, Mr. Pryor. No one belonging to me
shall ever eat his bread, if I have any say in the matter.”
“But would it not be wise to keep on good terms with him? Would it not
be less galling to take an obligation from him than from a stranger?
Your father provided for him. It would be a simple matter of justice if
he were to provide for you.”
“Ay; but my father had the property, remember, that ought to have
belonged to Maxwell’s father; that is the cause of all his ill-will
towards us; and from what I can hear he had nothing but his keep out of
the place, just as we have never had anything that with better
management we ought to have had. He told my mother that he disliked her,
not for herself, but for being the mother of the future owner of
Kincorth. I can remember quite well, about ten years ago, Harold—he was
a little fellow then—saying to him one day in a passion, ‘Go home, go
home, this is not your home,’ and Maxwell made the remark, ‘And it won’t
be yours either, my boy, when I come back.’ No later than Friday last I
spoke to him about letting Harold take that leap on Madcap, and he told
me—I repeat his words, Mr. Pryor—‘to hold my blasted tongue, and not
presume to speak to my betters.’”
“And you——”
“I am waiting, Mr. Pryor.”
There was a long pause while they stood together on the top of the hill
resting. Everything on earth and in heaven looked peaceful and serene.
There were no clouds in the sky, there were no billows on the ocean. You
would have thought that for very sympathy, the heart of man would in
such a place have throbbed quietly through its allotted time, untroubled
by jealousy, undisturbed by passion.
And yet here, of all places in which he had ever set his foot, it seemed
to Mr. Pryor that men’s passions were strongest—that their hate was
fiercest. He had heard such stories of cruelty—of vengeance—of
heartburnings—of envy—of unforgiveness, that had he not heard likewise
histories of patience—of devotion—of constancy—of faithfulness—of
endurance, and of love, he might have thought he was not on earth at
all, but in hell; and now here, with the blue mountains looking calmly
down upon them, with the great sea stretching away for thousands and
thousands of miles at their feet, with the beauties of nature all
around, and a great silence, an intense stillness, pervading the scene,
was this boy nursing up his wrath likewise against a coming day.
“I am waiting,” and Brian’s face never changed, his eye never dropped
under Mr. Pryor’s scrutiny.
“You are thinking,” said the youth, when his companion’s glance at last
came back from the ocean and rested once again on his face, “that I am a
fool; that if Maxwell does not do all I want him to do, it will be a
short shrift and a long sleep with one or other of us; but you are
mistaken. I would not hurt his body. I would not thrash him. I would not
even put a bullet through him; but I would make him feel. There is an
old epigram,” he proceeded, “that I read lately and learned by heart,
because it put me in mind of Maxwell. I wonder if you know it,” and he
repeated:—
“Death threw his dart at Bindon’s heart,
But how was he astounded,
When from the part, as with a start,
The weapon quite rebounded:
‘Ho! ho!’ quoth Death, and drew his breath,
‘My slaughtering arm you mock at;
But here’s a blow shall lay you low,’
And smote him through the pocket.”
“Then your idea is to injure him pecuniarily?”
“If he do not alter his manners to my mother; if he encourage Harold in
drinking, gambling, and all kinds of folly, as he has done hitherto; and
if he vents any more of his temper upon me—yes; because I know that
Maxwell’s only vulnerable point is money.”
“Brian,” began Mr. Pryor, and the lad looked surprised at the change in
his companion’s tone—“Brian, you are laying up great trouble for
yourself. You are preparing an awful curse for your future days. You are
nourishing a viper and hugging it to your breast: when it comes to life,
it will bite you worse than it will ever bite him. Put all these
thoughts and fancies out of your head, boy. At your age the cup should
be sweet, not bitter. Whatever your cousin may have done—whatever he may
be, it is not to you he will have to answer for his misdeeds; but you
will have to answer for yours, Brian; and for sins, too, if you do not
crush this hate out of your heart and turn, before it is too late.”
“What can I do? What would you have me do?”
“I would have you go on your way, and not ever cast your eyes on his——”
“But he will not let me go on my own way. Look here.” And Brian pulled a
couple of letters out of his pocket. “There is an old Quaker who has
been very good to my father. I thought I would write and ask his advice,
and tell him I wanted to work, as the properties were so much involved;
and that if he could find anything to do I would work hard and try to be
worth my salary. Here is his first letter. You see how kind—how
encouraging. Here is his second. Just time enough between, you perceive,
for him to write to Maxwell and get back his answer. You will say I do
not know he wrote to Maxwell or that my cousin said anything about me;
but I am as sure his fingers have spoiled my pie as that I am living.”
“You did not reply to the first letter.”
“No. I was waiting to see how my father would be after that last
attack.”
“It seems strange,” remarked Mr. Pryor.
“No, it does not seem strange to a person who knows Maxwell as I do,”
and Brian folded up the letters again, and put them back in his pocket.
“What makes you want so much to get to England?” asked the barrister,
after a pause.
“Because there is no way in which a man can make money here.”
“Your cousin has made money here. Why not have a turn at some of your
waste lands, and do as well as he has done?”
“He never would have done so well but for his wife; and I would not
marry an old woman. No, not if she was hung with diamonds. Besides, it
is not often Connemara sees an heiress, even if I were inclined to try
my luck.”
“But supposing, now, Kincorth were your own, could you not make a living
out of it?”
“If it were clear of debt?”
“No. Suppose it were mortgaged to close upon its present value, could
you do no better for yourself than your father has done?”
“I would make a try to do better anyhow.”
“Would you work? Would you put your shoulder to the wheel, and cut down
the expenses, and be brave, as your cousin was, disregarding
appearances?”
“Whatever a man could do, that I would do,” was the answer.
“But you are not a man yet,” said Mr. Pryor, with a smile.
“Am I not? I wonder when I shall be one then,” was the reply.
Mr. Pryor stood still—he was looking back through the years and trying
to remember what he was at Brian’s age in the days before he came over
in compliance with the wishes of a certain very wealthy and influential
relative to contest Duranmore.
He had not a care in the world at nineteen. Life was to him fairyland—to
be young was to be happy. He had never had a sorrow in his life, save
about his lessons at school or his examinations at college. He could
look back and see himself as he was then. He could look back at himself,
as though at another person. He could see the lad with his fair
hair—with his happy, frank face—with his little airs of dandyism—with
his cheerfulness, his hopefulness, his _insouciance_—and contrasting
that picture with this, his heart bled for this poor lad, to whom the
cares of life had come so soon, on whose shoulders the burden of
existence was pressing already so heavily—who had to think for father,
mother, sister, brother, and be tender and careful for all.
Brian’s face was still smooth as a girl’s, but he was a man for all
that—and as a man, Mr. Pryor addressed him.
“My boy,” he said, “I will talk to you now as if you were thirty-nine
instead of nineteen. If you will do all you say, if you will be a good
lad and give up the next ten years of your life to work, putting your
cousin out of your thoughts, and making up your mind to pursue one
certain course irrespective of him and his concerns, I will help you in
this matter. Have you sufficient influence with your father to get him
to give you the management of the estate?”
“I think so, if nobody puts it into his head that I am wanting to take
the whole property from Harold.” And for the first time during the
conversation, Brian’s lip trembled.
“Do you mean to say any one has ever raised such a question?”
“Yes: Maxwell told me once that probably my father would do like the
rest of the Drewitts—cut me out for his favourite son; and he has tried
to make Harold dissatisfied about my being the eldest. But Harold does
not care who has the place as long as he rides the hunters. If he had
been fond of money, or greedy, Maxwell would have made him hate me long
ago.”
Geoffry Pryor was a man who, as a rule, did not swear, but he could not
help uttering an oath then.
“I am that fellow’s guest,” he thought, “but hang me if it is fair or
honest for me to eat his salt now!” And he made up his mind that he
would get pressing letters from London, and return thither as soon as
possible.
“Will you take the matter into consideration, and see if it be possible
for you to assume the reins?” he said.
“If I promise you to drive, I will get the reins somehow,” was the
reply; “only tell me how you mean to help me—only show me how I can save
Kincorth, and give my mother some ease, and keep my father free from
anxiety, and I will work—never fear—I will work.”
“I will advance money to pay off the present mortgage, and be your
creditor myself; and whatever sum, in moderation, you require to work
the estate satisfactorily, you shall have.”
Three times Brian Drewitt made an effort to speak, and three times the
words would not come. Then he held out his hand to his benefactor, and
the tears he could no longer keep back rolled down his cheeks,
separately, singly, one by one.
It was not weeping—it was not excitement, the barrister had never seen
anything like it before, and he was never likely to see anything like it
in the future; for in the hour of his blackest trouble—in the time of
his worst agony—in the day of his deepest remorse—Mr. Pryor never saw
Brian Drewitt’s eyes wet again.
His kindness wrung tears out of them once, but grief could not open
those fountains, which seemed thenceforth dried up for ever.
Brian Drewitt’s wife may have seen him cover his face, and heard him sob
aloud, but I, who can only follow his footsteps to a certain point, know
no more than this, that the only sign of human feeling Geoffry Pryor
ever saw him evince, was when he stood on the heights near Durrow,
grasping his hand as though he held it in a vice, while the big tears
fell from his young eyes, one by one.
END OF VOL. I.
PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.