Liam O'Flaherty: Land

“When is the Government going to act?” cried Major Fitzwilliam, a choleric old man in a tight-fitting belted jacket. “When are these dastardly crimes going to be stamped out?”

“My tenants are roaming around my house at night, armed with guns,” Miss Piggott said in a voice made harsh by whisky.

“Come, come,” said the parson, rubbing his palms together. “We mustn’t be too hasty in our judgments. The excellent constabulary is doing its utmost. At the same time, even the most moderate feel alarmed, when they see convicts on ticket of leave, like the notorious Michael Davitt, being allowed to preach sedition from public platforms.”

“Parnell, a renegade member of our own class,” cried Major Fitzwilliam, “is far more dangerous than Davitt.”

“The House of Peers is to blame,” said Miss Piggott. “They have surrendered in a most abject fashion to Gladstone and his crew.”

“I’ll take you to my husband,” Barbara said, coming to Fenton’s rescue.

She walked down the long room in front of him. Tall and of voluptuous proportions, she was now in the flower of her sensual beauty at the age of thirty-one. She had a strong face like a man. Her face would look cruel and probably repulsive were it not for the expression of deep sadness in her large golden eyes, that turned up slightly at the outside corners. Her complexion was tawny. There was always a faint glow in her cheeks, as if she were permanently excited by some hidden emotion. She wore her nut-brown hair in thick plaits at the back of her poll. She had on a yellow dress with a deep flounce of black satin to the skirt and black lace frills about the throat.

She had formerly been married to an army officer named Devereaux. He had died of drink and penury four years previously. A year later, Neville Butcher took her for his second wife. She had no children by either husband.

“I’m sorry those people were so rude to you,” she said to Fenton in a low voice as they mounted the broad stairway side by side.

Fenton was afraid to look at her, even though he knew that she was looking at him and he could hear her excited breathing. Whenever he found himself alone with her, his passion made him inarticulate and conscience-stricken.

“I dare say they mean well,” he said after a long pause.

“Even so,” Barbara said, lowering her voice still further and slackening her pace. “I find it insufferable that people should be so stupid. The people here bore me terribly.”

She put her hand on the banister, halted and turned towards him. He kept his eyes averted for a few moments, but his agitation increased until it became almost unbearable. Even without looking at her, he could feel the power of her eyes.

“Tell me,” she whispered, in a voice whose passionate tenderness made him tremble, “whether you hate this sort of life as much as I do?”

Then he finally raised his eyes and looked at her. It was obvious to him that she was under the influence of some violent passion. He could not say whether it was anger or something more tender. In either case, it sent the blood coursing madly through his veins. He wanted terribly to throw his arms around her and confess his love.

Yet he merely said in a casual tone:

“It is rather boring, I admit.”

Barbara’s face became contemptuous. She drew in a deep breath, raising her magnificent bosom. At the same time, she drew the fingertips of her left hand across the heart of the palm, making a rasping sound. Then she suddenly expelled her breath, shrugged her shoulders, raised her skirts and marched up the stairs rapidly.

Fenton bit his upper lip and stood for several moments looking after her, feeling terribly ashamed of his cowardice. Then he suddenly rushed forward, determined to speak to her. Yet when he drew alongside and she glanced at him with that contemptuous look in her eyes, he again lost heart. He slackened his pace and allowed her to precede him by several yards as they marched down the corridor towards Neville’s room.

“Mr. Fenton is here to see you, Neville,” she said brusquely as she threw open the door.

She was striding back along the corridor once more when Fenton passed her. Looking straight in front of her, she did not deign to glance at him.

Fenton shuddered miserably as he saw the look of contempt in her golden eyes.

Butcher was resting on a large canopied bed, with his bandaged torso propped against a number of pillows. He seemed to have aged a great deal since calling on Raoul. His jaw sagged. His small grey eyes, however, looked cunning and alert.

“I’m awfully sorry, Captain Butcher …” Fenton began on entering the room.

“Cut out the formality,” Butcher interrupted in a cordial tone that did not sound very sincere. “I asked you to come here as a friend and a fellow-countryman, not as an officer of constabulary. I’m feeling low, Fenton. Pull up a chair. I’m feeling damned low.”

Fenton closed the door and then went to fetch a chair.

“Too bad, really,” he said. “Can be awfully painful, broken ribs. Once broke some of my own in a hunting accident.”

When Fenton’s back was turned, Butcher’s expression changed from cordiality to dislike. The cordial expression returned as Fenton approached the bedside with a chair.

“Couple of broken ribs wouldn’t keep me in bed,” he said. “It’s the fall, my dear fellow. I got badly shaken. See Geraghty? Anything new?”

Fenton sat down, crossed his legs and said in a casual tone:

“They found an empty row-boat drifting among the islands off the south side of the peninsula.”

“Ha!” said Butcher. “I thought they would.”

Fenton looked sharply at Butcher. His recent experience with Barbara had left him feeling angry and frustrated.

“Why did you think they would find a row-boat?” he said.

“Only way O’Dwyer could get back to his nobby after firing at me,” Butcher said.

“Oh!” said Fenton, extremely irritated by Butcher’s casual manner. “Then you think that O’Dwyer …?”

“Let me show you something before we go any further,” Butcher interrupted. “This may help to explain things.”

He threw back the bedclothes and pulled up his night-shirt, exposing his right buttock, in which there was a deep hole.

“See that hole?” he said.

“Gunshot?” Fenton said.

“Blunderbuss at close range,” Butcher said. “O’Dwyer’s father did it.”

“John O’Dwyer?” said Fenton. “I heard of the affair.”

“He shot my bailiff dead,” Butcher said, “together with wounding myself severely.”

“Got hanged, didn’t he?” Fenton said.

“Yes,” Butcher said. “When the son returned to Manister from America a year ago, I understood at once what he had in mind. I have been waiting for him to strike ever since.”

“Geraghty is of your point of view,” Fenton said. “At the same time, it’s going to be difficult to obtain a conviction. The man has an excellent alibi.”

“Exactly,” Butcher said. “I want to talk to you about that. This land war is a complicated business. I have two sons in the army, both on active service at this moment. Nigel is with Sir Frederick Roberts in Afghanistan. Fought at Peiwar Kotul and is still in the thick of things. Robert sailed for South Africa a few weeks ago to fight the Zulus. Going out to join Lord Chelmsford’s force. The Zulu is a tough enemy, when you consider what Cetewayo did to our fellows last January at Isandhlwana. I have no desire to minimize the importance of these two wars, on the frontiers of the Empire. Neither am I conceited enough to put myself on a level with my two sons, who are gallantly serving their Queen. Thank God that I’ve been able to give them advantages I didn’t enjoy. A good public school and the army. I’m just a plain Englishman, son of a Berkshire yeoman. My rank of captain is mere eye-wash. You know yourself that I’m just a captain of Irish militia. I’m a self-made man and I frankly admit it. Yet I feel that my work here in Ireland is more important to the Empire than what my sons are doing. I’m defending the feudal system and the landowning gentry, on whom the power of England is based. If that system and that class are destroyed, then England is doomed within the space of a few generations.”