Minnie's Bishop and Other Stories/Saints and Scholars
IV.—SAINTS AND SCHOLARS
I
VERY soon after her husband's death, things began to go wrong with Mrs. Flanagan. She had "a long, weak family," which was against her. Eight children she had, and the six eldest of them were girls, who were little good on the land. Labouring men were expensive to hire, and impossible to get when they were most wanted. Cattle sickened and died mysteriously. The old mare got feeble; the young mare broke her leg in a bog-hole. Year after year the pigs brought no price, and feeding stuff was dear. For five years the widow struggled on in an incompetent manner against impossible circumstances. Then she collapsed.
She owed four years' rent to the agent, and she owed a sum which did not bear thinking of to Patrick Sweeny, Mr. Patrick Sweeny, Esq., J.P., D.C., who kept the shop. The statement of the amount of this debt brought a weakness on Mrs. Flanagan when it arrived by post, a weakness from which she did not rally for more than a week. It was impossible to believe that the Indian meal, on which she fed her children and her chickens, the occasional lock of seed potatoes, the bag or two of patent fertiliser, the grain of tea, could have cost the monstrous sum which faced her at the foot of the bill. It was true that she had paid Mr. Patrick Sweeny no actual cash for nearly three years; but she had brought him eggs, pounds of butter, geese in the autumn, chickens in the spring; she had given her eldest daughter to his service, and twice he had bought young heifers from her. She had not investigated the condition of her account, but she believed in a vague way that things must be pretty even between her and Mr. Patrick Sweeny. The sudden disclosure of the real condition of affairs brought on the weakness.
She rallied to discover that she was going to be evicted. On the whole, she received the news with a sense of relief. Her farm was a good one, held at a judicial rent. The tenant's interest would sell for a respectable sum. The agent's claim would be satisfied, Mr. Patrick Sweeny's bill settled, and she would have enough left to pay her way to America. There, no doubt, the girls would get something to do. Anyway, she would have a little money in her pocket, and "Sure, God is good."
In due time notices appeared in the local paper of a sale by auction of the tenant's interest in Gorteen farm. There was much talk in the neighbourhood. It was reckoned that £250 would not be too high a price to pay for the place, and that maybe it would fetch £300. The land was good, and the rent was moderate. The manager of the local branch of the Dublin Bank was consulted by more than one ambitious speculator. He was willing to make advances to his customers for the purpose of purchasing the farm. The tenant's interest in the land was good security. There was every prospect of brisk bidding at the auction.
II
Mr. Patrick Sweeny, Esq., J.P., Chairman of the D.C.—it was thus that he liked his friends to describe him on the outside of the envelopes—was a great man in the locality. A very large number of people owed him money, and, therefore, were obliged to vote as he wished them to vote at elections. Therefore, he was Chairman of the District Council. His son was inspector of sheep-dipping, at a salary. His son-in-law was rate-collector, with a salary. He himself held the Union contracts for potatoes, turf, milk, flour, and meal, and sometimes acknowledged that he made a profit out of them. One of his nephews was the dispensary doctor; his salary was small, but he made something out of his private practice. Mr. Patrick Sweeny frequently advanced to impecunious farmers the amount necessary to pay the doctor's fees. Another nephew was Member of Parliament for the Southern Division of the County; he also drew a salary.
Once, a very long time ago, it was extremely profitable in Ireland to be connected with one of the great families. A man prospered if he was second cousin to Lord Shannon, or married to a distant relative of Mr. Ponsonby's. We live in a democratic age, and the old iniquities are swept away. The bluest blood is no use to a man now. To have an earl for a relative is nothing. The thing to be is the son of a provincial publican, or, if that is impossible, to marry his daughter or his niece.
One evening, a week before the auction of the Widow Flanagan's farm, Mr. Patrick Sweeny sat in the room behind his shop. It was not an attractive room. The carpet bore evidence of Mr. Sweeny's habit of spitting. The table, which looked at a distance something like mahogany, had no cloth, and was marked in circles by the wet bottoms of tumblers. The wall-paper hung down here and there in strips, and bulged elsewhere in huge bubbles on account of the dampness of the walls. A tarnished cruet-stand, a britannia-metal teapot, and several wine decanters, with labels hung round their necks, adorned the sideboard.
It is the function of an upper class to maintain a standard of beautiful living. Mr. Sweeny, a leading member of our new aristocracy, did his best according to his lights. He sat over his ledger with his coat off, the better to tackle the task of adding figures together. His grey shirt-sleeves were exceedingly dirty. His waistcoat, a garment of many stains and few buttons, lay open to give freedom to the heavings of a huge paunch. Four different smells surrounded him. From his clothes came a heavy reek of artificial manure. His breath exhaled the fumes of whiskey. His body charged the air with an odour of stale sweat. He once boasted—a misguided reformer had proposed the erection of a bathroom in the County Infirmary—that he had not wetted his skin for seven-and-twenty years. His pipe, which he puffed as he worked, added the fourth smell. Even a violent anti-tobacconist would have been grateful, under the circumstances, to inhale the smoke of Mr. Sweeney's pipe.
There was a tap at the door, and a sluttish girl shambled into the room.
"Please sir, the doctor's within in the shop, and says you sent for him."
It would have been difficult to guess the girl's age by looking at her. She had the face of a careworn, middle-aged woman, and the figure of an undeveloped child. Her cheeks were pallid and puffy; the rest of her body was painfully thin. Her eyes were full of watchful terror and dull cunning, like the terror and the cunning of an animal which has often been hunted and expects in the end to be killed. She was fifteen years old. At that age girls ought to want to sing and dance, to be full of joyous confidence in life. This girl shambled, cowered, and lied. She was Mrs. Flanagan's eldest daughter, and she was Mr. Sweeny's servant. She had been made over into a worse than negro slavery three years before, on the understanding that her wages should go to reduce the Widow Flanagan's debt to Mr. Sweeny. No actual cash changed hands. The matter was one of book-keeping. Mrs. Flanagan's debt was not, apparently, greatly reduced; but, perhaps, Delia Flanagan's services were not worth much, and, anyway, book-keeping is a difficult art—the most skillful men sometimes make mistakes in it.
"Please, sir," the girl repeated, "the doctor's within in the shop, and bid me tell you."
"Let him come in here, then. And bring you me a quart of whiskey from the bar, and a couple of tumblers. Is the pigs fed?"
"I'm after feeding them this half-hour."
"Well, get out of this, and be damned!"
Dr. Henaghan entered the room. He was a young man of genteel appearance. He wore a suit of yellow tweed, yellow gaiters strapped round his legs, and yellow boots. He smoked a cigarette. A thin moustache half concealed a feeble mouth. His pale-green eyes were shifty.
"Sit down," said Mr. Sweeny. "I want to talk to you."
"I hope there's nothing wrong with you," said the doctor. "You don't look very fit. You ought to take more exercise. Would you like me to make you up a bottle?"
"Be damned!" said Mr. Sweeny.
The girl tapped at the door again, entered, and deposited a tray on the table. It held a bottle of whiskey, two tumblers, and a jug of water. Neither of the men spoke till she had left the room, and shut the door.
"What's this I hear about young Mrs. Gannon dying?" said Mr. Sweeny.
"Oh, she's dead, right enough." The doctor spoke airily, but he was ill at ease.
"I hear them saying she died because you were too drunk to attend her properly. What do you say to that?"
"I got a red ticket, and I went to the house. She was dead before I got there."
Mr. Sweeny brought his fist down on the table in a way that made the bottle, the glasses, and his nephew jump.
"Answer me straight now. Were you drunk, or were you not?"
"What does it matter whether I was drunk or not? Don't I tell you the woman was dead before I got there?"
"Let me have none of your back talk, for I won't take it from you or any man. I'm Chairman of the Council, and I'm bound to take notice of the complaints that is made against the doctors. I'll have a Local Government Inspector down. I'll have a sworn inquiry. I'll—I'll run you out of this."
"Look here. What's the good of making a fuss? The woman's dead, and her baby along with her. The Local Government can't have a resurrection, can it? I don't deny that I had a drop taken, but I wasn't drunk. I could have looked after her all right if I'd been in time, but I wasn't."
"And why weren't you?"
"Oh, you know how these things go. I thought there was lots of time. I didn't want to spend half the night listening to her groaning."
"It's damned lucky for you that you are my nephew, let me tell you that. If you were any other man, you'd go. Do you hear? You'd better be mighty careful."
"If you like, I'll go to Father Tom to-morrow, and swear off the whiskey."
"You might," said Mr. Sweeny, "and you'd be none the worse if you did. But there's another thing I want to speak to you about. Get the cork out of that bottle, and fill the glasses. That's right. Now, come over here near me. I don't want to be talking loud."
Dr. Henaghan drew his chair up to his uncle's elbow, and listened attentively. Mr. Sweeny spoke at some length in a hoarse whisper. When he had finished, the doctor said:
"It's risky!"
"It'll be a deal more risky for you if I bring an Inspector down to inquire into Mrs. Gannon's death."
"I don't see what I get out of the business. Why don't you get someone else?"
"I can't trust anyone else. If the thing got out on me, I might never get the farm. I can trust you on account of the hold I have over you with all the talk there is about Mrs. Gannon."
"It'll take me three days to go to Belfast and back and get the printing done. How can I go off for three days? Somebody else will die while I am away, and then there'll be more talk."
"Let them die. Amn't I the Chairman, and can't I get you leave of absence for a night or two? I'd like to see the man that would make talk about dying when I bid him keep his mouth shut. That part's all right."
"Why can't I draw up the notices, and get them printed somewhere else besides Belfast?"
"Do you take me for a fool? Or are you a fool yourself? Any of the printers about this part of the country would talk, or, if they didn't, their men would. Then the whole thing would come out."
"It's sure to come out sooner or later. Somebody'll find out that the League never sent out the notices."
"I don't care if it does come out, so long as it doesn't come out before the auction."
"There'll be the hell of a row afterwards!"
"There will not. I'm the biggest subscriber there is to the funds of the League. They won't want to be making a row about my doings. Besides, there's hardly a man of them but is in my books."
"How am I to post them up, supposing I had them? Do you think I'm going round the country in the dead of night, with a pot of paste in one hand and a paint brush in the other?"
"If that's all that's troubling you, I'll send the girl to carry the paste. She's a half-witted creature, anyway, and she'd be afraid to speak, let alone that nobody would listen to her if she did itself."
"Give me a fiver for my exes, and I'll do it."
Mr. Patrick Sweeny extracted five greasy notes from a leather pocket-book, and handed them to his nephew.
III
Two days before the auction of the Widow Flanagan's farm, the people of the neighbourhood enjoyed a sensation. A number of notices appeared on the walls and gate-posts. They were very striking notices, printed on bright-green paper, which emphasised the fact that they were in the highest degree patriotic. They were headed with these words, which stood out in large characters:
TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND.
Next, in smaller type, came a paragraph, beginning: "Whereas a heartless and abominable eviction." Then came a good deal of strong language, what English grammarians call extension of the subject, about tyrants, exterminators, Castle government, and other matters of a similar kind. Monotony of appearance was avoided by another bold headline:
MEN OF CONNAUGHT.
The paragraph below it contained an appeal to the patriotic feelings of the inhabitants of the province, who were urged to defeat the schemes of the reprobates named in the first paragraph. Then, in type yet larger than that of the other headlines, came the ominous word:
TRAITORS.
It appeared from what followed that anyone who made a bid for the Widow Flanagan's farm would be a traitor to the cause of Ireland, to the Catholic religion, the freedom of humanity, and several other high and holy things. Then, lest the mere imputation of treachery might not prove a deterrent from the practice of iniquity, it was plainly hinted that the traitor would suffer in person and in pocket from the righteous indignation of the populace. The whole wound up with a prayer, singularly appropriate at the bottom of such a notice, "God save Ireland."
The notice produced a great deal of excitement, and affected people in a number of different ways. Some energetic men set to work at once to collect a fund for the benefit of the Widow Flanagan. This shows how excellent a thing patriotism is. Until the green notices appeared, no one had thought of doing anything for the poor evicted tenant. Mr. Patrick Sweeny headed the subscription list with a pound. Others not less energetic set to work to organise a public meeting, and telegraphed to a member of Parliament to come and address it. These men were full of joy. On the other hand, the auctioneer was depressed. He said nothing publicly, but he lamented to his wife that he had lost £10 or £15. Nobody, he thought, would now bid for the farm. It was creditable to him that after such a blow he gave ten shillings to the relief of Mrs. Flanagan. The land-agent read the notice, and was exceedingly angry. He also understood that no one would bid for the farm. He wrote a long account of the proceedings to a member of Parliament, not the same member of Parliament who was requested to address the public meeting, and a question was asked in the House of Commons, which was reported in The Times under the heading, "Intimidation in the West." The bank manager read the notice, and wrote to certain of his customers to say that his directors declined to authorise the advances which he had previously promised. He understood that the tenant's right in the Widow Flanagan's farm had ceased to be a satisfactory security. Mr. Sweeny served out an unusual quantity of drinks across his counter to men who wanted to discuss the best way of dealing with land grabbers. Dr. Henaghan was found helplessly drunk outside the door of his uncle's house, and was conducted home by two policemen.
There was a large attendance at the auction next day. The people were anxious to find out whether anyone would dare to bid for the farm. It was suspected that a certain Scotchman, one McNab, might venture to defy the popular wrath, and argument ran high about what should be done to him afterwards. McNab was, in fact, quite willing to acquire a valuable property cheap if he could; but he had very little money of his own, and was one of those to whom the bank manager had refused an advance. Still he had hopes. It was a sheriff's sale. There would be no reserve price. He gathered all the money he could lay hands on, and faced the auctioneer with a look of grim determination.
The farm was put up, "offered up," to use the phrase of the local auctioneer. The expression was suitable enough, for it seemed likely that not only the farm, but the Widow Flanagan, would be placed in the position of sacrifices, whole-burnt offerings to the unconquerable love of liberty which animates the breasts of Irishmen.
"Twenty pounds," said McNab, the Scotchman.
The crowd hissed, booed, and cursed with the utmost heartiness. Not a man present but was extremely angry at the idea of McNab acquiring for twenty pounds what everybody else was afraid to bid for. McNab thrust his hands deep into his breeches pockets and grinned. When the noise subsided the auctioneer made himself heard:
"Any advance upon twenty pounds? Come, gentlemen, the farm's worth £300 if it's worth a penny."
"Twenty-five pounds," said a voice.
Sheer amazement at the audacity of this second bidder held the crowd silent. That McNab, a Scotchman, an outsider, a well-known contemner of all the decencies of public life, should make a bid was bad enough. That there should be another such reprobate in the neighbourhood was beyond all expectation. A whisper passed, like a summer breeze, from ear to ear. The name of the new bidder was known.
"Sweeny for ever! Cheers for Sweeny!" yelled a voice in the outskirts of the crowd, the voice of the rate-collector, Mr. Sweeny's son-in-law. The people, dimly conscious that matters of high politics were in acting, cheered obediently.
"Thirty pounds," said McNab.
"Thirty-five pounds," said Sweeny.
Another burst of cheering followed the bid. McNab turned and left the crowd. He had reached the bottom of his purse. Mr. Patrick Sweeny was duly declared the purchaser of the Widow Flanagan's farm. The crowd, with some curiosity, waited for an explanation.
Mr. Sweeny, feeling that a speech was due, mounted the auctioneer's chair, and delivered himself:
"Fellow-countrymen! I needn't tell you, nor I needn't tell any assembly of Irishmen, that I'm no land-grabber."
"You are not," shouted the rate-collector. "We know that."
"I've stood by the Nationalist cause," said Mr. Sweeny, "the cause of old Ireland, the land of saints and scholars, since ever I learnt to stand by my mother's knee. And I mean to stand by it till every landlord and land-grabber is burning in hell, and the people of Ireland is enjoying the place, the just and lawful place, the noble and exalted place that our fathers occupied before us. Fellow-countrymen, let us gaze on the majestic figure of St. Patrick, let us do honour to the name of Wolfe Tone and the Manchester Martyrs, and—and—all the rest of the band of patriots; let us cling to the old sod. Esto perpetua!"
The crowd cheered frenziedly. None of them knew what esto perpetua meant, nor, for that matter, did Mr. Sweeny himself. But they had heard the words before, for Mr. Sweeny always used them in his speeches, and they felt that they must be great and good words; words worthy of the loud- est cheers.
"I have bought this farm, but I have bought it to hold in trust for the Irish people—a sacred trust, as dear to me as my heart's blood. When the day of liberty dawns, when the wrongs of centuries shall at last be drenched in gore, then, gentlemen, then, on that great and glorious day, I shall step proudly forward and restore to the people of Ireland Mrs. Flanagan's farm. In the meanwhile let yous all subscribe liberally to the fund we're getting up for the widow and the orphan, the wounded soldiers in the war we're waging."
About ten o'clock that evening, Dr. Henaghan, hilarious and well satisfied, was shown into the room behind Mr. Sweeny's shop by Delia Flanagan, who fed the pigs.
"You did middling well to-day," he said; "I say you did middling well to-day, let the other man be who he will."
"Hold your gab," said Mr. Sweeny, "you're drunk again."
"I am not drunk, nor near drunk. I came round to get a drink out of you in honour of the success of the stratagem."
"Only for that Scotchman," growled Mr. Sweeny, "I'd have got the place for ten pound. But I'll be even with him yet."
"You will, begad, or with any other man."
"And the blasted landlord gets every penny of my money; gets thirty-five pounds out of me, all on account of that Scotchman. And the Widow Flanagan owes me money that I'll never see."
"There's the subscription they're getting up," said the doctor, "why can't you take that off of her?"
"I can, of course, and I will. But it won't be enough, nor near enough."
"Well, what's the good of talking? Let's have a drink, anyway."
"Delia," yelled Mr. Sweeny, "Delia Flanagan, get a quart of whiskey from the bar, and a couple of tumblers. Be quick about it now. When your old mother's washing the floors in the workhouse you'll have to be quicker at your work. I'll learn you to listen to me when I call."