Roland Cashel Volume Ii Part 41

"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-f.e.c.k--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 Kennyf.e.c.k.

"'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. Kennyf.e.c.k, 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 hards.h.i.+p 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 a.s.sumed 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 n.o.body'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 Kennyf.e.c.k 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 fas.h.i.+on."

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sing 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--"