Liam O'Flaherty - Land

He crouched on the hearth rug at once and began to tug at the left boot.

“I couldn’t dream of going away without settling my score with Neville,” Barbara said. “I definitely have a crow to pluck with him. Three years of boredom and humiliation! Apart from any practical consideration, I insist on getting paid in full for those three frightful years.”

Fenton looked up at her suddenly, holding in his hands the left boot he had just removed.

“What do you mean?” he said suspiciously.

Barbara smiled. Then she looked into the fire.

“I’m a very practical person,” she said. “Most women are practical when they are in love.”

Fenton pulled off the other boot and said:

“Is that why you are delaying? Just to settle your score?”

Barbara wriggled her released feet as she said:

“You told me you have hardly any money, Jim.”

Fenton stood erect, holding the two boots in his right hand by their straps.

“I’m not altogether penniless,” he said, blushing deeply. “I can scrape together, all told, some hundreds of guineas, at least enough to take us across the ocean. In America …”

“I have nothing but the clothes on my back,” Barbara said, “together with a few jewels that would not be very marketable in case of necessity. My first husband and myself were always pawning things, or trying to raise money on doubtful securities. I know how unromantic it is to live from hand to mouth. For that reason, I’m determined not to go away empty-handed.”

Fenton drew himself to his full height and leaned forward slightly from the hips.

“Out with it, Barbara,” he whispered. “What do you intend doing?”

A faint smile appeared at the corners of Barbara’s mouth, making her face look cruel and masculine. She opened the three top buttons of her tunic as she began to speak.

“For some time now,” she said, “he has been tortured by the suspicion that he is not going to be the victor in his struggle with O’Dwyer. I first saw it in his eyes the night after he had paid a visit with you to the tavern-keeper that afterwards hanged himself. His eyes looked afraid. I was surprised. Until then I thought that nothing could make him afraid. Of course, he had been going about in armour for a year, accompanied by a bodyguard of servants and by his Cuban bloodhound. All that was merely a reasonable precaution, taken to ensure safety. Only fools refuse to take reasonable precautions. Now, however, I saw that he had an Achilles’ heel. It was very disappointing. Even though I hated him with my whole heart, I had admired his brute courage until then. There is nothing contradictory in that, you know. On the other hand, it was humiliating to find myself at the beck and call of a man that feared shadows, just like one of the superstitious peasants he despises so much. I had made the mistake that women invariably make when estimating a man’s courage. They only value those qualities that they lack themselves, steady nerves, strength and endurance. They ignore intellect, which is the true seat of human courage, as distinct from that of the lower animals. Lacking sufficient imagination to cope with the odd and entirely new way in which he was being attacked, Neville went into a panic. He even suspected that black magic was being used against him. ‘Those damned Irish,’ he said, ‘are sold to the Devil, all of them.’ He was pathetic when he came home after failing to evict those peasants that live on the Killuragh mountains. He was just like a dog that has been whipped. I asked him why his face was bandaged. He mumbled something under his breath, being ashamed to admit that he had lost his head and got into a brawl with one of your constables. After that, he got worse from day to day. He lost his temper with the servants over the merest trifle and beat them terribly, women as well as men. He even took to beating his favourite horse, Blazer. That was the most tell-tale sign of all, because I had never before seen him lose his temper with a dumb animal. He was always most gentle with horses. It was his awful behaviour that made the servants desert at once, when ordered to leave by the Fenians. Nobody could possibly be loyal to a master of that sort, or consent to make sacrifices for him. Even poor Stapleton bolted. The timid little soul went on his knees to me before he went and kissed my hands, with tears running down his cheeks. He was so frightened. Then he drove off with Hopkins at full gallop in the gig, which was afterwards found abandoned outside the railway station at Clash. All this happened during the afternoon, while Neville was having a nap. He had been unable to sleep at all at night since the trouble started. He raved like a madman when he discovered the servants had gone. Then he rushed to the bloodhound’s kennel. I heard a cry of horror. Then there was silence. Presently I saw him come into the drawing-room with the dead body of the uncouth beast in his arms. A chain that was attached to the dog’s neck trailed along the ground. The legs were already stiff and the stomach was swollen. It had obviously been poisoned by one of the runaway servants. Neville sat down with the disgusting beast in his arms. He seemed dumbfounded by its loss. It was some time before I could persuade him to take it out into the orchard and bury it. That was a frightful night. Neville roamed about the place, discharging his pistol at every sound. There were certainly weird sounds, like the wailing of the banshee. I dare say it was some Fenian trying to frighten us. At the moment, however, I fully believed it was a banshee. Everybody becomes a prey to superstitious fears at a time like that. The groom came back in the morning while we were having breakfast. He marched into the dining-room, dead drunk and with his clothes in a filthy condition. He stood to attention and shouted at Neville, like a soldier reporting to his commanding officer: ‘Andrew Fitzgerald returning to duty, sir,’ Later on in the day the Constabulary came, as you know. We have been living since then like people besieged by Red Indians, in one of Fenimore Cooper’s frontier outposts. The few servants that the Constabulary managed to procure in the neighbouring towns proved to be worthless creatures of the criminal class. We had to send them away again. They could neither cook nor do any housework. All they would do was drink whisky from morning till night. Now I do whatever is absolutely necessary myself. The groom gives me a hand in his rare sober moments. Oddly enough, Neville’s spirits have improved during the past week. He has again begun to boast of delivering the death blow to O’Dwyer. At the same time, he has become so cautious that I began to despair of getting an opportunity to visit you. He would hardly leave the house, even under heavy guard. Then he suddenly decided, out of the blue, to go to Galway this afternoon. I’m not sure, but I think he has gone to hire somebody for the death blow. A spy or an assassin of some sort. He seemed to be in high spirits on his departure. He had the hunter’s gleam in his eyes that I used to see so often in the old days.”

She suddenly turned towards Fenton, smiled broadly and added:

“I’ve not been idle, though, while I was waiting. I discovered where the money is hidden and I’ve worked out our plan of escape in detail.”

Fenton had stood stock still while she spoke, with the jack boots clutched in his right hand. He started and turned pale as she uttered the word money.

“To what money do you refer?” he said after a short pause.

“He always kept a certain sum in gold with him,” Barbara said, “even before this trouble began. He is one of those people, still common in the rural parts of England, who don’t quite trust the banks. Lately he has been adding freely to this hoard. Now, I am pleased to say, it amounts to more than four thousand sovereigns. Can you imagine? It’s quite a little fortune. It was on the night we were alone in the house that I discovered the hiding place, which is very cunningly devised in the ceiling above his bed. He went up to his room after burying the hound. After a little while I heard the wailing that I told you about already and got terribly nervous. So I went upstairs to look for Neville. I heard peculiar noises as I came along the corridor. He had apparently upset the iron box after taking it out of the hole and a number of the sovereigns fell, making a great clatter as they rolled about the floor. I knew at once what he was doing, because I had been trying for some time to discover the hiding place. I sneaked up to the door and managed to peep into the room without being discovered. In his distraught condition he had forgotten to lock the door.”