The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XLVIII, Issue 45, 15 November 1923, Page 3

The Storyteller

(By C. J. Kiokham.) *

Knocknagow

OB The Homes of Tipperary

CHAPTER XXXIX.— HOOK-NOSED STEED. “Here is Beresford! Here is Beresfcrd! Her© is' Beresfordl ' Going tto dine at Woodlands! Going to din© at Woodlands! Going to dine at Woodlands! Well, Beresford ! .Well, well, Beresford, do you expect much, company? Do you expect much company to-day?” “I think not to-day. Only the family,” replied Mr. Beresford Pender, in his mighty voice. Old Isaac stood in the lawn in front of his own house) talking to three or four poor men, evidently belonging to the class of small farmersfor they looked too spiritbroken for “laboring men”—who pulled off their hats as Beresford strode past, and kept them off while he turned round for a minute on reaching the door, and stared at nothing in particular straight before him. “Going to dine at Woodlands!” muttered the old gentleman, contemplating his son with a sort of wonder, as if his greatness were something altogether bewildering and unfathomable. He was not going to dine at Woodlands —and old Isaac knew it; but old ’lsaac seemed haunted by the idea that Beresford was going to dine at Woodlands at all hours and seasons, because Beresford did dine at Woodlands once in his life. It might be supposed that he had recourse to this fiction in order to impress his hearers with a due sens© of his sou’s importance but if old Isaac were quite alone, he would have muttered to himself three times that Beresford was “going to dine at Woodlands.” Mr. Isaac Pender did not at all resemble Mr. Beresford Pender outwardly. He was nervous and fidgety, and seemed perpetually on the look-out for some threatened danger; to escape from which, judging from appearances, he would go through an auger-hole while Beresford looked a very daredevil who would glory in finding himself in a den of lions, and seemed always defying creation in general to mortal combat.. After scowling defiance at the avenue gate, Mr. Beresford Pender turned into the parlor and commenced pacing up and down the uncarpeted floor. “No, no, colonel!” he muttered; “that will never do. The scoundrels must be kept down, by .” We will omit Mr. Beresford Pender’s oaths. IMi • Beiesfoid Pender was as fond of holding imaginary conversations with this “colonel” as his father was of sending him to eat imaginary dinners at Woodlands. “I don’t think,” said Isaac, closing the door carefully behind him, and looking under the table for a concealed assassin, “I don’t think Mr. Lowe wants to have anything to do with the property. I don’t think he does. I was afraid he came down to see about these complaints some of the fellows are making. But he never went near any of the tenants. So that it was only Maurice Kearney asked him down for-a few days’ shooting. That was all. I know that must be the way.” But you wouldn t know what them Kearneys might put into his head,” returned Beresford. ‘ '"'ell, rejoined old Isaac in his nervous, anxious way, “I don’t think they can take any advantage of us. I ! don’t think Sir Garrett would be bothered with stories. You see he didn’t renew the leas© for Kearney when I explained to him that the gentlemen of the county were opposed to giving leases. And when Mr. Lowe will be after talking to them at the meeting he will understand how it is. But, on the other hand, if I was sure he had nothing to do with the management of the property, I’d rather he wouldn’t go to the meeting at all. It might only put things into his head. And he might set Sir Garrett as tray.” v “I think muttered Beresford, “he ought to know the danger of being in this part of the country. He ought to he made see it is no joke to collect rents with the muzzle of a blunderbuss looking into your face at every turn Old Isaac started, and,. closing one of the shutters.

placed his back against the wall between the two windows, i ' and commenced rubbing his hand over his face as if a py swarm of midges were persecuting him. “Well, if that could be done/’ he replied, “it might be no harm. But I don’t see how it could be managed.” “I was talking to Darby about it,” rejoined his son, “and I think we can manage it.” “Well, Beresford, be cautious. Don’t do anything rash. Easy things are best.” •, “That’s a fine place Kearney has,” Beresford observed, Y after opening the shutter his father had closed, and looking ■ f out on the unsheltered fields around Wellington Lodge. “Do you think he can hold?” “I don’t know,” his father replied. “He was always extravagant. Always extravagant,” he repeated, as if he were very sorry that so good a man as Maurice Kearney had not more sense. “But ’tis time enough to think of that. ’Tis the Ballyraheen business that’s making me uneasy.” And Isaac rubbed his face as if the midges began biting him again. “I’d hunt ’em,” returned Beresford, “like rats.” “Now, Beresford —now, Beresford, don’t be rash. These things should be done quietly. There’s no use in making a noise when it can be avoided. If I had my own way I could manage them. But I don’t like making a noise and exasperating people when it can be done in a quiet way.” “No surrender!” muttered Beresford. “Now, Beresford! There is Stubbleton has his property cleared out to a man without even bringing out the Sheriff, I know ’twas rather expensive at first, but ho got it back on the double after a little time; besides avoiding talk.” “How did he do it?” “Well, he let them run into arrears first, and then ’twas easy to manage them. They gave up one by one. Then he commenced extensive drainage and improvements, and gave employment to all the small tenants on condition that they would give up possession, and they could then remain as caretakers. Some of them were earning thirty shillings and two pounds a week with their horses. They were never so well off in their lives, and were always praying for their landlord. But when the work was finished, they saw whatever they had spared would soon be gone; and as they were after giving up their land — some of them thought they would get it back again, for his steward is a knowing man, and when he saw any of them unwilling to give up possession he used to give them a hint that if they did not give any trouble. they might get back the farms, and larger farmsbut when they saw they should leave even the houses at a week’s notice, they went to America while they were able. So that Stubbleton had his whole property cleared without as much as a paragraph in the newspapers about it. He divided it into large farms, then, and got heavy fines and a good rent that more than repaid him for what he lost. The parish priest denounced him as an exterminator; but Stubbleton gave a farm to the priest’s nephew, and it put a stop to that. I’m told he’s thinking of standing for the county on Liberal principles at the next election. So you see, Beresford, easy things are best.” “And do you mean to say,” Beresford asked, “that you’d let the Ballyraheen fellows run two or three years in arrears?” “No, no; that would be too much. But I’d put out only a few at first and give their land to the larger tenants. Then others would be expecting the same, and they’d offer money to the small holders for their good-will. In fact they’d evict one another. The great point is to divide them; for when they pull together ’tis dangerous,” added / jold Isaac, rubbing his face as if he were bent upon rubbing ( £cthe * shrivelled skin off. '** v “And what are you going to do with Kearney?” “Well, he owes about a year’s rent, but I don’t think Sir Garrett will press him. We’ll try and let him alone for a while. Maurice Kearney is a good sort of man, and his lease is nearly expired. I’d like to have him let run r • , on till the lease drops, and then we could see what would be best.” “Why couldn’t you press him and make him pay up? I’d be down on him the very day the rent fell due.” | • “Now Beresford, I wonder at you. Just think, if he had his rent paid up when the lease dropped, how much harder it would be to get him out than if he owed a

couple of years’ rent. He’s an open-hearted sort of man that never looks before him; and I don’t think Sir Garrett would like to press him at present.” “Is Hanly threatening still to come down on you for that bond?” Beresford inquired. Old Isaac shambled all round the table, and was again attacked by the midges. “I’m afraid,” he replied at last, “I’m afraid, if we can’t manage to get him a farm, he’ll do something. The two Donnellys are giving up possession; and there will be no trouble about the Widow Keating; but without Tom Hogan’s farm there is no use offering their places to Hanly.” “An’ sure Hogan has no lase?” ■ “I know that I know that. But he has improved the place so much, and pays such a high rent, and is so well able to pay it, I’m afraid ’twill make a noise if he can’t be induced to go of his own free will. He’s a headstrong kind of a man, and I’m afraid he can’t be got to listen to reason.” “But if nothing else will satisfy Hanly?” “That’s true—that’s true, Beresford. ’Tis a hard case. A very hard case.” And Isaac fell to rubbing his face again. The fact was Mr. Isaac Pender had speculated in railway shares, and burnt his fingers, and Attorney Hanly held his bond for a considerable sum. But if Attorney Hanly could get about a hundred acres of land adjoining his own, including Tom Hogan’s farm, he would be accommodating in the matter of the bond. To be sure he never said so but a nod is as good as a wink from an eccentric attorney to an old land agent. And between these two worthies it will, we fear, go hard with poor Tom Hogan! particularly as his “heart is stuck” in the little farm, which has cost him the labor of thirty long years to make it what it is now, like “a piece of the Golden Vale dropped among the rushes and yallow clay all around it,” as Mat Donovan said. “But do you think Kearney can hold long?” Beresford asked again, putting his flexible nos© against the window so that he could see the fine old trees and young plantations around Maurice Kearney’s cottage, “Indeed I don’t think he can,” his worthy father replied, as if in the charity of his benevolent heart he wished to believe that Maurice Kearney was not quite devoid of Christian principles. “I don’t think he can. He lost too much by draining that bog; and he met with many disappointments' from time to time. He lost his cattle by the distemper, and I don’t think the sheep pay so well. He has the Raheen farm all under tillage, too, and if prices continue low he must lose by it. So that I don’t think he is likely to hold long.” “Here is Lowe,” said Beresford. “I just want to spake , to Darby. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” / “My worthy sir,” exclaimed old Isaac, as he shambled out to receive his visitor, “I’m proud to welcome you to my humble residenceproud to welcome you to Wellington Lodge. Come’in, Mr. Lowe— in. Darby, take Mr. Lowe’s horse—take Mr. Lowe’s horse.” ’ Mr. Lowe glanced at the “humble residence,” and thought that Wellington Lodge, with its unplastered walla —for the house was unfinished, though not new— by no means an inviting domicile. J “Sit down, Mr. Lowe—sit down. Here is Beresford—here is Beresford.” “A fine day, Mr. Lowe.” said Beresford, advancing with his arm stretched out like a pump-handle. “I hope von will dine with ns to-day,” he added; and immediately the runaway look came into his countenance, as if he expected to be forthwith ordered out of the room, for his assurance. “I promised Mrs. Kearney to be back to dinner ” returned Mr. Lowe quietly. “I had a letter to-day, and it appears Sir Garrett is returning to the Continent immediately. I must be in Dublin early next week.” “I knew Sir Garrett would not stay long in Ireland. I knew he would soon go back to the Continent,” exclaimed Mr. Isaac Pender in a voice almost as big as his son’s—the midges which seemed hovering above his head at the mention of the letter, vanishing' when he heard that the landlord was about leaving Ireland without visiting Tipperary. , "I think we had better go.” Mr. Lowe observed, laughing. It would bo too bad it I went back without

at least looking at the houses of some of the tenantry.” Mr. Isaac Pender laughed too, and shuffled about'the room, rubbing his hands instead of his face, like a very d pleasant old gentleman. x “Why, Beresford Beresford —is it going to ride that old horse you are? Where is your own horse?” old Isaac asked, in real surprise, as one of the poor tenants who remained hanging about the house in the hope that ■■something might turn up for their advantage, led the two morses round from the stable. “My own horse is after casting a shoe,” Beresford replied. Y ' “But is it safe to ride that old horse? Look at his 1 knees—look at his knees.” The animal referred to was a tall, raw-boned, hook- ’ nosed, ill-conditioned brute, both morally and physically. There s no danger,” replied Beresford, climbing into the saddle, in which he sat quite perpendicularly, with his elbows as far as possible from his ribs. “Where is Darby, to open the gate?” his father called out. I sent him of a message,” Beresford answered, as he rode off upon the hook-nosed steed, who, it may be remarked, rejoiced in the name of “Waterloo.” Two of the poor tenants before alluded to ran to open the gate, dividing the honor equally between them, as one raised the latch, while the other pulled up the long, perpendicular bolt. There was some delay and a little jostling, as in their hurry the two took hold of the same side of the gate, and then both let that side go and took hold of the other— the manner of people who meet suddenly at a street turning; but at last each took his own side, and the gate stood wide open, the. men pulling off their, hats and looking, we are ashamed to say, as if they were ready to lie down and let “Waterloo 2 -’ trample upon them, if Mr. Beresford Pender so desired. But, it must be remembered, they were conceived and - born under a notice-to-quit; it took the light out of their mother’s smile and ploughed furrows in their father’s face while he was yet young it nipped the budding pleasures of childhood as a frost will nip the spring k flowers, and youth’s and manhood’s joys withered under its shadow; it taught them to cringe, and fawn, and lie; and made them what they are now, as they stand there with heads uncovered while Mr. Henry Lowe and Mr. Beresford Pender ride through the gate of Wellington Lodge. They rode for half-an-hour in silence up a narrow road that led into a rather wild looking glen among the hills. Mr. Lowe was busy with his own thoughts; and his companion, not being largely gifted with conversational powers,' confined himself to staring at nothing but between the ears of the hook-nosed steed. (To be continued.)