THE TWO ‘KEARNEYS’
A visit to his father was not usually one of those things that young
Kearney either speculated on with pleasure beforehand, or much enjoyed
when it came. Certain measures of decorum, and some still more pressing
necessities of economy, required that he should pass some months of every
year at home; but they were always seasons looked forward to with a mild
terror, and when the time drew nigh, met with a species of dogged, fierce
resolution that certainly did not serve to lighten the burden of the
infliction; and though Kate’s experience of this temper was not varied by
any exceptions, she would still go on looking with pleasure for the time of
his visit, and plotting innumerable little schemes for enjoyment while he
should remain. The first day or two after his arrival usually went
over pleasantly enough. Dick came back full of his town life, and its
amusements; and Kate was quite satisfied to accept gaiety at second-hand.
He had so much to tell of balls, picnics, charming rides in the Phoenix,
of garden-parties in the beautiful environs of Dublin, or more pretentious
entertainments, which took the shape of excursions to Bray or Killiney,
that she came at last to learn all his friends and acquaintances by name,
and never confounded the stately beauties that he worshipped afar off with
the ‘awfully jolly girls’ whom he flirted with quite irresponsibly.
She knew, too, all about his male companions, from the flash young
fellow-commoner from Downshire, who had a saddle-horse and a mounted groom
waiting for him every day after morning lecture, down to that scampish Joe
Atlee, with whose scrapes and eccentricities he filled many an idle hour.
Independently of her gift as a good listener, Kate would very willingly
have heard all Dick’s adventures and descriptions not only twice but
tenth-told; just as the child listens with unwearied attention to the
fairy-tale whose end he is well aware of, but still likes the little detail
falling fresh upon his ear, so would this young girl make him go over
some narratives she knew by heart, and would not suffer him to omit the
slightest incident or most trifling circumstance that heightened the
history of the story.
As to Dick, however, the dull monotony of the daily life, the small and
vulgar interests of the house or the farm, which formed the only topics,
the undergrowl of economy that ran through every conversation, as though
penuriousness was the great object of existence--but, perhaps more than all
these together, the early hours--so overcame him that he at first became
low-spirited, and then sulky, seldom appearing save at meal-times, and
certainly contributing little to the pleasure of the meeting; so that at
last, though she might not easily have been brought to the confession, Kate
Kearney saw the time of Dick’s departure approach without regret, and was
actually glad to be relieved from that terror of a rupture between her
father and her brother of which not a day passed without a menace.
Like all men who aspire to something in Ireland, Kearney desired to see his
son a barrister; for great as are the rewards of that high career, they are
not the fascinations which appeal most strongly to the squirearchy, who
love to think that a country gentleman may know a little law and be never
the richer for it--may have acquired a profession, and yet never know what
was a client or what a fee.
That Kearney of Kilgobbin Castle should be reduced to tramping his way down
the Bachelor’s Walk to the Four Courts, with a stuff bag carried behind
him, was not to be thought of; but there were so many positions in life, so
many situations for which that gifted creature the barrister of six years’
standing was alone eligible, that Kearney was very anxious his son should
be qualified to accept that £1000 or £1800 a year which a gentleman could
hold without any shadow upon his capacity, or the slightest reflection on
his industry.
Dick Kearney, however, had not only been living a very gay life in town,
but, to avail himself of a variety of those flattering attentions which
this interested world bestows by preference on men of some pretension, had
let it be believed that he was the heir to a very considerable estate, and,
by great probability, also to a title. To have admitted that he thought it
necessary to follow any career at all, would have been to abdicate these
pretensions, and so he evaded that question of the law in all discussions
with his father, sometimes affecting to say he had not made up his mind, or
that he had scruples of conscience about a barrister’s calling, or that he
doubted whether the Bar of Ireland was not, like most high institutions,
going to be abolished by Act of Parliament, and all the litigation of the
land be done by deputy in Westminster Hall.
On the morning after the visitors took their departure from Kilgobbin, old
Kearney, who usually relapsed from any exercise of hospitality into a more
than ordinary amount of parsimony, sat thinking over the various economies
by which the domestic budget could be squared, and after a very long séance
with old Gill, in which the question of raising some rents and diminishing
certain bounties was discussed, he sent up the steward to Mr. Richard’s
room to say he wanted to speak to him.
Dick at the time of the message was stretched full length on a sofa,
smoking a meerschaum, and speculating how it was that the ‘swells’ took to
Joe Atlee, and what they saw in that confounded snob, instead of himself.
Having in a degree satisfied himself that Atlee’s success was all owing to
his intense and outrageous flattery, he was startled from his reverie by
the servant’s entrance.
‘How is he this morning, Tim?’ asked he, with a knowing look. ‘Is he
fierce--is there anything up--have the heifers been passing the night in
the wheat, or has any one come over from Moate with a bill?’
‘No, sir, none of them; but his blood’s up about something. Ould Gill is
gone down the stair swearing like mad, and Miss Kate is down the road with
a face like a turkey-cock.’
‘I think you’d better say I was out, Tim--that you couldn’t find me in my
room.’
‘I daren’t, sir. He saw that little Skye terrier of yours below, and
he said to me, “Mr. Dick is sure to be at home; tell him I want him
immediately.”’
‘But if I had a bad headache, and couldn’t leave my bed, wouldn’t that be
excuse enough?’
‘It would make him come here. And if I was you, sir, I’d go where I could
get away myself, and not where he could stay as long as he liked.’
‘There’s something in that. I’ll go, Tim. Say I’ll be down in a minute.’
Very careful to attire himself in the humblest costume of his wardrobe, and
specially mindful that neither studs nor watch-chain should offer offensive
matter of comment, he took his way towards the dreary little den,
which, filled with old top-boots, driving-whips, garden-implements, and
fishing-tackle, was known as ‘the lord’s study,’ but whose sole literary
ornament was a shelf of antiquated almanacs. There was a strange grimness
about his father’s aspect which struck young Kearney as he crossed the
threshold. His face wore the peculiar sardonic expression of one who had
not only hit upon an expedient, but achieved a surprise, as he held an open
letter in one hand and motioned with the other to a seat.
‘I’ve been waiting till these people were gone, Dick--till we had a quiet
house of it--to say a few words to you. I suppose your friend Atlee is not
coming back here?’
‘I suppose not, sir.’
‘I don’t like him, Dick; and I’m much mistaken if he is a good fellow.’
‘I don’t think he is actually a bad fellow, sir. He is often terribly hard
up and has to do scores of shifty things, but I never found him out in
anything dishonourable or false.’
‘That’s a matter of taste, perhaps. Maybe you and I might differ about what
was honourable or what was false. At all events, he was under our roof
here, and if those nobs--or swells, I believe you call them--were like to
be of use to any of us, we, the people that were entertaining them, were
the first to be thought of; but your pleasant friend thought differently,
and made such good use of his time that he cut you out altogether, Dick--he
left you nowhere.’
‘Really, sir, it never occurred to me till now to take that view of the
situation.’
‘Well, take that view of it now, and see how you’ll like it! _You_ have
your way to work in life as well as Mr. Atlee. From all I can judge, you’re
scarcely as well calculated to do it as he is. You have not his smartness,
you have not his brains, and you have not his impudence--and, ‘faith, I’m
much mistaken but it’s the best of the three!’
‘I don’t perceive, sir, that we are necessarily pitted against each other
at all.’
‘Don’t you? Well, so much the worse for you if you don’t see that every
fellow that has nothing in the world is the rival of every other fellow
that’s in the same plight. For every one that swims, ten, at least, sink.’
‘Perhaps, sir, to begin, I never fully realised the first condition. I was
not exactly aware that I was without anything in the world.’
‘I’m coming to that, if you’ll have a little patience. Here is a letter
from Tom McKeown, of Abbey Street. I wrote to him about raising a few
hundreds on mortgage, to clear off some of our debts, and have a trifle in
hand for drainage and to buy stock, and he tells me that there’s no use in
going to any of the money-lenders so long as your extravagance continues to
be the talk of the town. Ay, you needn’t grow red nor frown that way. The
letter was a private one to myself, and I’m only telling it to you in
confidence. Hear what he says: “You have a right to make your son a
fellow-commoner if you like, and he has a right, by his father’s own
showing, to behave like a man of fortune; but neither of you have a right
to believe that men who advance money will accept these pretensions as
good security, or think anything but the worse of you both for your
extravagance.”’
‘And you don’t mean to horsewhip him, sir?’ burst out Dick.
‘Not, at any rate, till I pay off two thousand pounds that I owe him, and
two years’ interest at six per cent. that he has suffered me to become his
debtor for.’
‘Lame as he is, I’ll kick him before twenty-four hours are over.’
‘If you do, he’ll shoot you like a dog, and it wouldn’t be the first time
he handled a pistol. No, no, Master Dick. Whether for better or worse, I
can’t tell, but the world is not what it was when I was your age. There’s
no provoking a man to a duel nowadays; nor no posting him when he won’t
fight. Whether it’s your fortune is damaged or your feelings hurt, you must
look to the law to redress you; and to take your cause into your own hands
is to have the whole world against you.’
‘And this insult is, then, to be submitted to?’
‘It is, first of all, to be ignored. It’s the same as if you never heard
it. Just get it out of your head, and listen to what he says. Tom McKeown
is one of the keenest fellows I know; and he has business with men who know
not only what’s doing in Downing Street, but what’s going to be done there.
Now here’s two things that are about to take place: one is the same as
done, for it’s all ready prepared--the taking away the landlord’s right,
and making the State determine what rent the tenant shall pay, and how long
his tenure will be. The second won’t come for two sessions after, but it
will be law all the same. There’s to be no primogeniture class at all,
no entail on land, but a subdivision, like in America and, I believe, in
France.’
‘I don’t believe it, sir. These would amount to a revolution.’
‘Well, and why not? Ain’t we always going through a sort of mild
revolution? What’s parliamentary government but revolution, weakened, if
you like, like watered grog, but the spirit is there all the same. Don’t
fancy that, because you can give it a hard name, you can destroy it.
But hear what Tom is coming to. “Be early,” says he, “take time by the
forelock: get rid of your entail and get rid of your land. Don’t wait till
the Government does both for you, and have to accept whatever condition the
law will cumber you with, but be before them! Get your son to join you
in docking the entail; petition before the court for a sale, yourself or
somebody for you; and wash your hands clean of it all. It’s bad property,
in a very ticklish country,” says Tom--and he dashes the words--“bad
property in a very ticklish country; and if you take my advice, you’ll get
clear of both.” You shall read it all yourself by-and-by; I am only giving
you the substance of it, and none of the reasons.’
‘This is a question for very grave consideration, to say the least of it.
It is a bold proposal.’
‘So it is, and so says Tom himself; but he adds: “There’s no time to be
lost; for once it gets about how Gladstone’s going to deal with land, and
what Bright has in his head for eldest sons, you might as well whistle as
try to dispose of that property.” To be sure, he says,’ added he, after a
pause--‘he says, “If you insist on holding on--if you cling to the dirty
acres because they were your father’s and your great-grandfather’s, and if
you think that being Kearney of Kilgobbin is a sort of title, in the name
of God stay where you are, but keep down your expenses. Give up some of
your useless servants, reduce your saddle-horses”--_my_ saddle-horses,
Dick! “Try if you can live without foxhunting.” Foxhunting! “Make your
daughter know that she needn’t dress like a duchess”--poor Kitty’s very
like a duchess; “and, above all, persuade your lazy, idle, and very
self-sufficient son to take to some respectable line of life to gain his
living. I wouldn’t say that he mightn’t be an apothecary; but if he liked
law better than physic, I might be able to do something for him in my own
office.”’
‘Have you done, sir?’ said Dick hastily, as his father wiped his
spectacles, and seemed to prepare for another heat.
‘He goes on to say that he always requires one hundred and fifty guineas
fee with a young man; “but we are old friends, Mathew Kearney,” says he,
“and we’ll make it pounds.”’
‘To fit me to be an attorney!’ said Dick, articulating each word with a
slow and almost savage determination.
‘’Faith! it would have been well for us if one of the family had been
an attorney before now. We’d never have gone into that action about the
mill-race, nor had to pay those heavy damages for levelling Moore’s barn.
A little law would have saved us from evicting those blackguards at
Mullenalick, or kicking Mr. Hall’s bailiff before witnesses.’
To arrest his father’s recollection of the various occasions on which his
illegality had betrayed him into loss and damage, Dick blurted out, ‘I’d
rather break stones on the road than I’d be an attorney.’
‘Well, you’ll not have to go far for employment, for they are just laying
down new metal this moment; and you needn’t lose time over it,’ said
Kearney, with a wave of his hand, to show that the audience was over and
the conference ended.
‘There’s just one favour I would ask, sir,’ said Dick, with his hand on the
lock.
‘You want a hammer, I suppose,’ said his father, with a grin--‘isn’t _that_
it?’
With something that, had it been uttered aloud, sounded very like a bitter
malediction, Dick rushed from the room, slamming the door violently after
him as he went.
‘That’s the temper that helps a man to get on in life,’ said the old man,
as he turned once more to his accounts, and set to work to see where he had
blundered in his figures.