THE TENANTRY OF BALLYCLORAN.
"Thady," said old Macdermot, as he sat eating stirabout and thick
milk, over a great turf fire, one morning about the beginning of
October, "Thady, will you be getting the money out of them born
divils this turn, and they owing it, some two, some three years this
November, bad cess to them for tenants? Thady, I say," shouted, or
rather screamed, the old man, as his son continued silently eating
his breakfast, "Thady, I say; have they the money, at all at all, any
of them; or is it stubborn they are? There's Flannelly and Keegan
with their d----d papers and bills and costs; will you be making out
the L142 7_s._ 6_d._ before Christmas for the hell-hounds; or it's
them'll be masters in Ballycloran? Then let the boys see the landlord
they'll have over them, that time!"
"Well, Larry," said the son (unless in a passion, he always called
his father by his baptismal name, or rather by its abbreviation),
"what's the use going on that way before the girls there, and Feemy
too." Feemy, however, was reading the "Mysterious Assassin," and
paying little heed to her father's lamentations. "When we're done,
and the things is out, we'll have a look at the rent-book, and send
for the boys to come in; and if they haven't it, why, Pat Brady must
go round agin, and see what he can do with the potatoes and oats,
and the pigs; but the times, Larry, is very hard on them; too hard
entirely, so it is, poor things--"
"Poor things!" said the father, "and aint I a poor thing? and won't
you and Feemy be poor things? Hard times, too! who is the times
hardest on? See that sneaking ould robber, Flannelly, that cozened
my father--good father for him--with such a house as this, that's
falling this day over his son's head, and it not hardly fifty years
built, bad luck to it for a house! See that ould robber, Flannelly,
who has been living and thriving on it for all them years, and a
stone or stick not as good as paid for yet; and he getting two
hundred a year off the land from the crayturs of tenants."
True enough it was, that Mr. Joe Flannelly, of Carrick-on-Shannon,
whatever might have been the original charge of building the
Ballycloran mansion, now claimed L200 a year from that estate, to
which his ingenious friend and legal adviser, Mr. Hyacinth Keegan
usually managed to add certain mysterious costs and ceremonious
expenses, which made each half year's rent of Larry Macdermot's
own house about L140, before the poor man had managed to scrape it
together. To add to this annoyance, Mr. Macdermot had continually
before his eyes the time, which he could not but foresee was not
distant, when this hated Flannelly would come down on the property
itself, insist on being paid his principal, and probably not only
sell, but buy, Ballycloran itself. And whither, then, would the
Macdermots betake themselves?
Often and often did Larry, in his misfortunes, regret the slighted
offers of Sally Flannelly's charms and cash. Oh, had he but then
condescended to have married the builder's daughter, he would not
now have been the builder's slave. But Sally Flannelly was now Sally
Keegan, the wife of Hyacinth Keegan, Esq., Attorney; who, if he had
not the same advantages as Larry in birth and blood, had compensation
for his inferiority in cash and comforts. When the poor man
thought of these things--and he did little else now but think of
them--bitterly, though generally in silence, he cursed him whom he
looked upon as his oppressor and incubus. It never occurred to him
that if Mr. Flannelly built the house he lived in, he should be paid
for it. He never reflected that he had lived to the extent of, and
above his precarious income, as if his house had been paid for; that,
instead of passing his existence in hating the Carrick tradesman,
he should have used his industry in finding the means to pay him.
He sometimes blamed his father, having an indefinite feeling that
he ought not to have permitted Flannelly to have anything to do
with Ballycloran, after building it; but himself he never blamed;
people never do; it is so much easier to blame others,--and so much
more comfortable. Mr. Macdermot thus regarded his creditor as a
vulgar, low-born blood-sucker, who, having by chicanery obtained an
unwarrantable hold over him, was determined, if possible, to crush
him. The builder, on the other hand, who had spent a long life of
constant industry, but doubtful honesty, in scraping up a decent
fortune, looked on his debtor as one who gave himself airs to which
his poverty did not entitle him; and was determined to make him feel
that though he could not be the father, he could be the master of a
"rale gintleman."
After the short conversation between father and son the breakfast
passed over in silence. The father finished his stirabout, and turned
round to the blazing turf, to find consolation there. Feemy descended
into the kitchen, to scold the girls, give out the dinner,--if there
was any to give out; and to do those offices, whatever they be, in
performing which all Irish ladies, bred, born, and living in moderate
country-houses, pass the first two hours after breakfast in the
kitchen. Thady took his rent-book and went into an outhouse, which
he complimented by the name of his office, at the door of which he
was joined by Pat Brady. Now Pat was an appendage, unfortunately
very necessary in Ireland to such an estate as Macdermot's; and his
business was not only to assist in collecting the rents, by taking
possession of the little crops, and driving the cows, or the pig; but
he was, moreover, expected to know who could, and who could not, make
out the money; to have obtained, and always have ready, that secret
knowledge of the affairs of the estate, which is thought to be, and
is so, necessary to the managing of the Irish peasantry in the way
they are managed. Pat Brady was all this; moreover, he had as little
compunction in driving the cow or the only pig from his neighbour
or cousin, and in selling off the oats or potatoes of his uncle
or brother-in-law, as if he was doing that which would be quite
agreeable to them. But still he was liked on the estate; he had a
manner with him which had its charms to them; he was a kind of leader
to them in their agrarian feelings and troubles; and though the
tenants of Ballycloran half feared, they all liked and courted Pat
Brady.
The most remarkable feature in his personal appearance was a broken
nose; not a common, ordinary broken nose, such as would give it an
apparent partiality to the right or left cheek, nor such as would, by
indenting it, give the face that good-natured look which Irish broken
noses usually possess. Pat Brady's broken nose was all but flattened
on to his face, as if it had never lifted its head after the fatal
blow which had laid it low. He was strong-built, round-shouldered,
bow-legged, about five feet six in height, and he had that kind of
external respectability about him, which a tolerably decent hat,
strong brogues, and worsted stockings give to a man, when those among
whom he lives are without such luxuries. When I add to the above
particulars that Pat was chief minister, adviser, and confidential
manager in young Macdermot's affairs, I have said all that need be
said. The development of his character must be left to disclose
itself.
"Well, Pat," began his master, seating himself on the solitary old
chair, which, with a still older looking desk on four shaking legs,
comprised the furniture of Macdermot's rent-office, "what news from
Mohill to-day? was there much in the fair at all?"
"Well, yer honor, then, for them as had money to buy, the fair was
good enough; but for them as had money to get, it was as bad as them
that wor afore it, and as them as is likely to come afther it."
"Were the boys in it, Pat?"
"They wor, yer honor, the most of 'em."
"Well, Pat?"
"Oh, they wor just there, that's all."
"Tim Brady should have got the top price for that oats of his, Pat."
"Maybe he might, Masther Thady."
"What did he get? there should be twelve barrels there."
"Eleven, or thereabouts, yer honor."
"Did he sell it all, yesterday?"
"Divil a grain, then, at all at all, he took to the fair yesterday."
"Bad manners to him, and why didn't he? why he owes" (and Thady
turned over the old book) "five half years this gale, and there's no
use gammoning; father must get the money off the land, or Flannelly
will help himself."
"I knows, Masther Thady; I knows all about it. Tim has between five
and six acres, and he owes twenty-two pound tin; his oats is worth,
maybe, five pound fifteen,--from that to six pound, and his cow about
six pound more; that's all Tim has, barring the brats and the mother
of them. An' he knows right well, yer honor, if he brings you the
price of the oats, you wouldn't let him off that way; for the cow
should folly the oats, as is nathural; the cabin would be saized
next; so Tim ses, if you choose to take the corn yourself, you can
do so;--well an' good, and save him the throuble of bringin' it to
Mohill."
"Did the widow Reynolds sell her pig?"
"She did, yer honor, for two pound tin."
"And she owes seven pound. And Dan Coulahan--"
"Dan didn't cut the oats, good or bad."
"I'll cut it for him, then. Was ould Tierney there?"
"He war, yer honor; and I was tellin' him yer honor 'id be wantin'
the money this week, an' I axed him to stip up o' Friday mornin';
an', sis I, 'Misthur Tierney'--for since he made out the mare and the
ould car, it's Misthur Tierney he goes by--'it's a fine saison any
way for the corn,' sis I, 'the Lord be praised; an' the hay all saved
on thim illigant bottoms of yours, Misthur Tierney. The masther was
glad to hear the cocks was all up afore the heavy rain was come.'
'Well, Pat,' sis he, 'I'll be at Ballycloran o' Friday, plase God,
but it's little I'll have with me but myself; an' if the masthur
likes the corn an' the hay, he may just take them av' it's plazin'
to him, for the divil a cock or grain will I sell, an' the prices so
bad.'"
"Obstinate ould fool! why, Pat, he must have the money."
"Money, to be shure he has the money, Misthur Thady; but maybe he'd
be the bigger fool if he gave it to your father."
"Do the boys mane to say they won't pay the rent at all?"
"They mane to say they can't; an' it's nearly thrue for them."
"Was Joe Reynolds at the fair, Pat?"
"He wor not; that's to say, he wor not at the fair, but I seen him in
the evening, with the other boys from Drumleesh, at Mrs. Mulready's."
"Them boys has always the money when they want a drop of whiskey.
By dad, if they go to Mulready's with the money in their pockets on
a Tuesday, where's the wonder they come here with them empty on a
Friday? Fetch me a coal for the pipe, Pat."
Whilst Pat walked into the kitchen for a lighted piece of turf
(_Hibernice_, coal) to kindle his patron's pipe, Thady stuck the said
pipe in his jaw, and continued poring over the unsatisfactory figures
of the Ballycloran rent-book.
"I tell you what it is, Pat," said he, after finishing the process of
blowing, and drawing, and throwing the coal on the earthen floor, and
pressing down the hot burning tobacco with the top of his forefinger
repeatedly, "Misthur Joe Reynolds will out of that. I told him so
last April, and divil a penny of his we've seen since; he don't do
the best he can for us; and my belief is, he hinders the others;
eh, Brady?" and he looked up into Brady's face for confirmation or
refutation of this opinion. But that gentleman, contrary to his
usual wont, seemed to have no opinion on the matter; he continued
scratching his head, and swinging one leg, while he stood on the
other. Thady, finding that his counsellor said nothing, continued,
"Joe Reynolds will out of that this time, d'you hear? what has he on
that bit of land of his?"
"Pratees mostly, Misthur Thady. He had half an acre of whate; he
parted that on the ground to ould Tierney; he owed Tierney money."
"An' so the tenants buy the crops from one another, and yet won't pay
their own rents. Well, my father's to blame himself; av he'd put a
man like Keegan over them, or have let the land to some rough hand
as would make them pay, divil a much he need care for Flannelly this
day."
"An' you'd be for puttin' a stranger over thim, Misthur Thady; an'
they that would stand between you an' all harum, or the masthur, or
the old masthur afore him; becaze of the dirthy money, and becaze a
blagguard and a black ruffian like Flannelly has an ould paper signed
by the masthur, or the like? An' as for Mr. Hyacinth Keegan,--I'm
thinking, the first time he goes collectin' on the lands of
Drumleesh, it's a warm welcome he'll be gettin'; at any rate, he'd
have more recates in his carcass than in his pocket, that day."
"That's very fine talk, Pat; but if Keegan had them, he'd tame them,
as he has others before; not but I'd be sorry they should be in his
hands, the robber, bad as they are. But it'll come to that, whether
or no. How's my father to get this money for Flannelly?"
"D----n Flannelly!" was Brady's easy solution of the family
difficulties. "Let him take the house he built, and be d----d to him;
and if we can't build a betther one for the masthur and Miss Feemy
and you, without his help, may praties choke me!"
"By dad, if he'd take the house, and leave the ground, he's my
welcome, and ceade mille faltha, Pat. But the land will stick to the
house; and mark me, when ould Flannelly dies (an' the divil die along
with him), Mr. Keegan of Carrick will write himself, Hyacinth Keegan,
Esquire, of Ballycloran."
"May I nivir see that day, an' he an' I alive, amen," said Brady,
as he crossed himself in sign of the sacred truth of his wish; "but
I think, Masthur Thady, when you come to consider of it, you'll
find plenty of manes of keepin' Mr. Keegan and Mrs. Keegan out of
the parlour of Ballycloran. But about Joe Reynolds, yer honor was
sayin'--"
"I was saying that divil another potato he should dig in Drumleesh,
nor another grain of corn shall he sow or rape; that's what I was
saying."
"Well, Misthur Thady, you're the masthur, thank God, an' if you say
so, it must be done. But Joe Reynolds is not that bad either: he
was sayin' tho' at Mrs. Mulready's that he expected little from yer
honor, but just leave to go where he liked, and lave the cow and the
praties behind him."
"What wor they saying at Mulready's, Pat?"
"They were only jist passin' their remarks, yer honor, about how
thick you war this time back with Captain Ussher; an' Miss Feemy
too, an' the masthur; an' that when the likes of him wor as one of
the family, it's little the likes of them would be gettin' now from
Ballycloran, only hard words, and maybe a help to Carrick Gaol."
"Because Captain Ussher visits at Ballycloran, is that any reason why
he should interfere between my father and his tenants?"
"Sorra a one av me knows then, Misthur Thady; only that the tenants
is no good frinds to the Captain; nor why should they, an' he going
through the counthry with a lot of idle blagguards, with arms, an'
guns, sazin' the poor divils for nothin' at all, only for thryin' to
make out the rint for yer honor, with a thrifle of potheen? That's
quare friendship; ay, an' it's the truth I'm tellin' you, Misthur
Thady, for he's no frind to you or yours. Shure isn't Pat Reynolds
in Ballinamore Bridewell on his account, an' two other boys from
the mountains behind Drumleesh, becaze they found a thrifle of half
malted barley up there among them? an' be the same token, Joe was
sayin', if the frind of the family war parsecuting them that way,
an' puttin' his brother in gaol, whilst the masthur wouldn't rise
a finger, barrin' for the rint, the sooner he an' his were off
the estate, the betther he'd like it; for Joe sed he'd not be
fightin' agin his own masthur, but whin you war not his masthur any
more,--then let every one look to hisself."
Whilst Brady was giving this short _expose_ of the feelings displayed
at the little whiskey shop in Mohill on the previous fair day, young
Macdermot was pulling hard at the dhudheen, as if trying to hide his
embarrassment in smoke. Brady paused for some time, and then added,
"Joe mostly leads those boys up at Drumleesh, an' hard to lead they
are; I'm thinking Captain Ussher, with all his revenue of peelers an'
his guns, may meet his match there yit. They'll hole him, av he goes
on much farthur, as shure as my name's Pat."
"They'll get the worst of that, Brady--not that I care a thrawneen
for him and his company. It's true for you; he is persecuting
them too far; what with revenue police, constabulary police, and
magistrates' warrants, they won't let them walk to mass quietly next.
I didn't care what they did to Master Myles, but they'd have the
worst of it in the end."
"And it's little you ought to care for the same Captain, Misthur
Thady, av you heard all. It's little he's making of Miss Feemy's
name with the police captain, and the young gauger, and young James
Fitzsimon, when they're over there at Ballinamore together--and
great nights they have of it too; though they all have it in Mohill
he's to marry Miss Feemy. If so, indeed! but then isn't he a black
Protestant, sorrow take them for Protestants! There's Hyacinth Keegan
calls himself a Protestant now; his father warn't ashamed of the ould
religion, when he sarved processes away to Drumshambo."
"And what wor the gentlemen saying about Feemy, Pat?"
"Oh, yer honor, how could I know what gentlemin is saying over their
punch, together? only they do be sayin' in Ballinamore, that the
Captain doesn't spake that dacently of Miss Feemy, as if they wor to
be man and wife: sorrow blister his tongue the day he'd say a bad
word of her!"
"Faith he'd better take care of himself, if it's my sister he's
playing his game with; he'll find out, though there aint much to be
got worth having at Ballycloran now, as long as there's a Macdermot
in it, he may still get the traitment a blackguard desarves, if he
plays his tricks with Feemy!"
Pat saw that his object had been gained; he suspected that no warm
feelings of friendship existed in his master towards the aforesaid
Captain, and he was determined there should be none if he could help
it. He was not wrong in his surmises; for, from the constant visits
of Myles Ussher to Ballycloran, people had for some time been saying
that he meant to marry Feemy. They now began to say that he ought to
do so.
While her brother and his minister are discussing that subject, and
others--settling who could pay, or who should pay, at the convocation
of the tenants to be held on the coming Friday, and who couldn't, and
who should be ejected, and who not--we will obtain a little insight
into Captain Ussher's affairs, and account for the residence of so
gallant a gentleman in the little town of Mohill.