Liam O'Flaherty - Land

“Please,” Fenton said. “It’s quite useless now. It would be merely flogging a dead horse.”

“Was it murder?” Barbara whispered

“Murder?” Fenton cried in horror.

Barbara shrugged her shoulders.

“You have no right to say that,” Fenton cried, jumping to his feet.

“Sit down and tell me what he wants you to do,” Barbara said quietly.

“Forget all I have said until now,” Fenton cried in a piteous tone. “All of it. I only want you to know that I am madly in love with you. That is really what I came to tell you, even though I didn’t admit it to myself. Yes, that is truly why I came. At thirty-six a man is not yet too old for a fresh start in life. You, too, are unhappy. Then, in God’s name, why should one sin and that only half committed make any difference to us? There are vast opportunities in America. Every other day one hears of fabulous fortunes being made in the Nevada mines. I can only offer you the abject devotion of …”

“Sit down and tell me about this sinful thing,” Barbara interrupted.

Fenton started violently. Then he touched his heels, bowed and sat down. Her brutal dismissal of his proposal had again sobered him. Now he felt angry with her.

“Why did you agree to obey him, if what he proposes is so sinful?” she continued.

“Did I say sinful?” Fenton said, in a sneering tone. “I understood myself to have used the word dishonourable.”

“Have it your own way,” Barbara said. “Why did you submit?”

“I was a fool to have come here,” Fenton said.

“Neville tries to get everybody into his power,” Barbara said. “It’s a mania with him. I have watched him at it for three years. At first it was fascinating to watch him at his tricks. He invariably begins by making friends with his intended victim. He probes for the man’s weakness, like a butcher feeling under the fur of an animal for the jugular vein. When he finds the weakness, he strikes at it without mercy. If there is no weakness, he cultivates one. He seems to take an especial delight in destroying weaklings. It was only when he had the effrontery to use me as a bait that I ceased to be amused.”

“Then you know everything,” Fenton cried arrogantly.

“Tell me what he wants now,” Barbara said.

“Why should you be sympathetic?” Fenton said. “After all, you are his wife.”

“Why are you afraid to speak?” Barbara said.

“I don’t blame you in the least,” Fenton said. “You gave me no encouragement. You can’t be held responsible for your beauty.”

“I might be able to help you,” Barbara said.

Although her expression did not change, her voice became gentle as she made this last statement. Fenton responded at once to this encouragement. His bitter mood left him. He covered his face with his left hand.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said. “I must make my own decisions.”

“Then why did you come here?” Barbara said angrily.

“I came because I felt myself going mad,” Fenton said, “and you were the only one I knew that might be sympathetic. A few kind words …”

“How could I sympathise with you unless you confide in me?” Barbara said.

“It’s too late now,” Fenton said. “I gave him the necessary documents last night. In his presence it was impossible to deny him. Now it seems utterly silly that I should have considered myself under an obligation to him, simply because I am dishonourably in love with his wife. Yet at that time …”

He took his hand from in front of his face, looked at Barbara and said:

“How frightful! I’ve been drinking.”

“You are quite right,” Barbara said. “I could do nothing to help you, because I despise cowards. I have more sympathy with a monster like Neville than with a coward. If I were a man and I had Neville’s passions, I’d behave exactly as he does. His passion is to possess land. He would commit any crime to possess it. He allows nothing to stand in his way. I understand passion. I am myself a passionate woman.”

She threw back her head, looked at the ceiling and said dreamily:

“My passion is not to possess land, or to scavenge for gold.”

Fenton got to his feet and walked over to the table on which the whisky lay. He began to fill his glass.

“You mustn’t take any more whisky,” Barbara said, coming over to him.

He continued to pour the whisky.

“It doesn’t help to drug yourself,” she said, putting her hand on his arm.

Fenton made a sound in his throat. It was like a sob. He put down the decanter hurriedly. He stood absolutely still for several moments. Then he began to tremble. He turned towards her. With his head bowed, he groped at her bosom. He passed his hands hither and thither lightly, like a man trying to identify an object by means of touch.

“You torture me,” he said in a whisper.

Then he made another sound in his throat like a sob, threw his arms about her waist, reached forward and sought her lips.

“Ugh!” Barbara exclaimed in disgust.

She had stood motionless and unresisting until he sought to kiss her. Then she struck him on both ears with her open palms, with great force. He was stunned by the double blow. He would have fallen if she had not caught him. She led his sagging body back to his chair. There she seated him. She held him upright for a little while, until he regained his strength.

“I’m sorry I had to do that,” she said quietly, “but I loathe being approached by a drunken man.”

“I owe you an abject apology, Mrs. Butcher,” Fenton said with grave dignity.

Barbara put her hand on his shoulder and restrained him as he tried to rise.

“I have something to tell you,” she said. “I don’t want you to leave here with the idea that I am a heartless creature.”

Fenton nodded.

“I’m not the sort of woman to whom a man can come for sympathy,” she continued. “Furthermore, I have reached the point where a woman begins to be afraid of getting old. Fear of oncoming age brings out whatever is evil in a woman like me. I have lit my third fire. I tell you this frankly, because it is best that you should have no further illusions.”

“Your third fire?” Fenton said.

“Don’t you know the local superstition?” Barbara said.

“I’m afraid not,” said Fenton.

“The peasants say that a childless woman,” Barbara said, “when she seeks her third man, lights a fire in her heart that devours everything. My third fire is already lit, Mr. Fenton. I have thrown everything on to it. I have nothing left. Neither pity, nor kindness, nor love. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

Fenton got to his feet slowly and pulled at his uniform.

“If I may, Mrs. Butcher,” he said, bowing with ceremony, “I would like to take my leave.”

“Did you ride or drive?” Barbara said coldly as she walked to the door with him.

“I rode,” Fenton said. “Please accept my most humble apologies for having taken up so much of your time.”

She walked very erect, slightly in front of Fenton and to one side. Her full bosom rose with each forward movement of her body, like a swan breasting water in amorous pursuit.

Fenton glanced towards her once as they crossed the floor. Then he shuddered, drew in a deep breath, threw back his shoulders and tried to brace himself against the tragedy of his passion.

“Please don’t accompany me further,” he said as they entered the hall.

“I insist,” Barbara said.

Fitzgerald, the new groom, brought Fenton’s horse to the hall door. He was a tall, lean man of thirty-two. He had narrow hips, wide shoulders and sombre dark eyes that were not without beauty. He had recently been discharged from a cavalry regiment, on completion of service, after having fought both in India and Africa. His countenance had the cruel assurance that comes from drawing enemy blood on the battle-field. His broad horseman’s hand, as hard as metal, helped Fenton into the saddle. Then he walked over and stood beside Barbara on the bottom step before the door.