St. Patrick's Eve

Few came forth satisfied – not one happy-looking. Some, who were deficient a few shillings, were sent back again, and appeared with the money still in their hands, which they counted over and over, as if hoping to make it more. Others, trusting to promptitude in their payments, were seeking renewal of their tenures at the same rent, and found their requests coldly received, and no pledge returned. Others, again, met with severe reproaches as to the condition of their dwellings and the neglected appearance of their farms, with significant hints that slovenly tenants would meet with little favour, and, although pleading sickness and distress, found the apology hut slightly regarded.

“We thought the ould agent bad enough; but, faix, this one bates him out, entirely.” Such was the comment of each and all, at the treatment met with, and such the general testimony of the crowd.

“Owen Connor! Owen Connor!” called out a voice, which Owen in a moment recognised as that of the fellow who had visited his cabin; and passing through the densely crowded hall, Owen forced his way into the small front parlour, where two clerks were seated at a table, writing.

“Over here; this way, if you please,” said one of them, pointing with his pen to the place he should stand in. “What’s your name?”

“Owen Connor, sir.”

“What’s the name of your holding?”

“Ballydorery, Knockshaughlin, and Cushaglin, is the townlands, and the mountain is Slieve-na-vick, sir.”

“Owen Connor, Owen Connor,” said the clerk, repeating the name three or four times over. “Oh, I remember; there has been no rent paid on your farm for some years.‘’

“You’re right there, sir,” said Owen; “the landlord, God be good to him! tould my poor father – ”

“Well, well, I have nothing to do with that – step inside – Mr. Lucas will speak to you himself; – shew this man inside, Luffey;” and the grim bailiff led the way into the back parlour, where two gentlemen were standing with their backs to the fire, chatting; they were both young and good-looking, and, to Owen’s eyes, as unlike agents as could be.

“Well, what does this honest fellow want? – no abatement, I hope; a fellow with as good a coat as you have, can’t be very ill off.”

“True for you, yer honor, and I am not,” said Owen in reply to the speaker, who seemed a few years younger than the other. “I was bid spake to yer honor about the little place I have up the mountains, and that Mr. Leslie gave my father rent-free – ”

“Oh, you are the man from Maam, an’t you?”

“The same, sir; Owen Connor.”

“That’s the mountain I told you of, Major,” said Lucas in a whisper; then, turning to Owen, resumed: “Well, I wished to see you very much, and speak to you. I’ve heard the story about your getting the land rent-free, and all that; but I find no mention of the matter in the books of the estate; there is not the slightest note nor memorandum that I can see, on the subject; and except your own word – which of course, as far as it goes, is all very well – I have nothing in your favour.”

While these words were being spoken, Owen went through a thousand tortures; and many a deep conflicting passion warred within him. “Well, sir,” said he at last, with a heavily drawn sigh, “well, sir, with God’s blessin’, I’ll do my best; and whatever your honour says is fair, I’ll thry and pay it: I suppose I’m undher rent since March last?”

“March! why, my good fellow, there’s six years due last twenty-fifth; what are you thinking of?”

“Sure you don’t mean I’m to pay, for what was given to me and my father?” said Owen, with a wild look that almost startled the agent.

“I mean precisely what I say,” said Lucas, reddening with anger at the tone Owen assumed. “I mean that you owe six years and a half of rent; for which, if you neither produce receipt nor money, you’ll never owe another half year for the same holding.”

“And that’s flat!” said the Major, laughing.

“And that’s flat!” echoed Lucas, joining in the mirth.

Owen looked from one to the other of the speakers, and although never indisposed to enjoy a jest, he could not, for the life of him, conceive what possible occasion for merriment existed at the present moment.

“Plenty of grouse on that mountain, an’t there?” said the Major, tapping his boot with his cane.

But, although the question was addressed to Owen, he was too deeply sunk in his own sad musings to pay it any attention.

“Don’t you hear, my good fellow? Major Lynedoch asks, if there are not plenty of grouse on the mountain.”

“Did the present landlord say that I was to pay this back rent?” said Owen deliberately, after a moment of deep thought.

“Mr. Leslie never gave me any particular instructions on your account,” said Lucas smiling; “nor do I suppose that his intentions regarding you are different from those respecting other tenants.”

“I saved his life, then!” said Owen; and his eyes flashed with indignation as he spoke.

“And you saved a devilish good fellow, I can tell you,” said the Major, smiling complacently, as though to hint that the act was a very sufficient reward for its own performance.

“The sorra much chance he had of coming to the property that day, anyhow, till I came up,” said Owen, in a half soliloquy.

“What! were the savages about to scalp him? Eh!” asked the Major.

Owen turned a scowl towards him that stopped the already-begun laugh; while Lucas, amazed at the peasant’s effrontery, said, “You needn’t wait any longer, my good fellow; I have nothing more to say.”

“I was going to ask yer honner, sir,” said Owen, civilly, “if I paid the last half-year – I have it with me – if ye’ll let me stay in the place till ye’ll ask Mr. Leslie – ”

“But you forget, my friend, that a receipt for the last half-year is a receipt in full,” said Lucas, interrupting.

“Sure; I don’t want the receipt!” said Owen hurriedly; “keep it yourself. It isn’t mistrusting the word of a gentleman I’d be.”

“Eh, Lucas! blarney! I say, blarney, and no mistake!” cried the Major, half-suffocated with his own drollery.

“By my sowl! it’s little blarney I’d give you, av I had ye at the side of Slieve-na-vick,” said Owen; and the look he threw towards him left little doubt of his sincerity.

“Leave the room, sir! leave the room!” said Lucas, with a gesture towards the door.

“Dare I ax you where Mr. Leslie is now, sir?” said Owen, calmly.

“He’s in London: No. 18 Belgrave Square.”

“Would yer honour be so kind as to write it on a bit of paper for me?” said Owen, almost obsequiously.

Lucas sat down and wrote the address upon a card, handing it to Owen without a word.

“I humbly ax yer pardon, gentlemen, if I was rude to either of ye,” said Owen, with a bow, as he moved towards the door; “but distress of mind doesn’t improve a man’s manners, if even he had more nor I have; but if I get the little place yet, and that ye care for a day’s sport – ”

“Eh, damme, you’re not so bad, after all,” said the Major: “I say, Lucas – is he, now?”

“Your servant, gentlemen,” said Owen, who felt too indignant at the cool insolence with which his generous proposal was accepted, to trust himself with more; and with that, he left the room.

“Well, Owen, my boy,” said Phil, who long since having paid his own rent, was becoming impatient at his friend’s absence; “well, Owen, ye might have settled about the whole estate by this time. Why did they keep you so long?”

In a voice tremulous with agitation, Owen repeated the result of his interview, adding, as he concluded, “And now, there’s nothing for it, Phil, but to see the landlord himself, and spake to him. I’ve got the name of the place he’s in, here – it’s somewhere in London; and I’ll never turn my steps to home, before I get a sight of him. I’ve the half-year’s rent here in my pocket, so that I’ll have money enough, and to spare; and I only ax ye, Phil, to tell Mary how the whole case is, and to take care of little Patsy for me till I come back – he’s at your house now.”

“Never fear, we’ll take care of him, Owen; and I believe you’re doing the best thing, after all.”

The two friends passed the evening together, at least until the time arrived, when Owen took his departure by the mail. It was a sad termination to a day which opened so joyfully, and not all Phil’s endeavours to rally and encourage his friend could dispossess Owen’s mind of a gloomy foreboding that it was but the beginning of misfortune. “I have it over me,” was his constant expression as they talked; “I have it over me, that something bad will come out of this;” and although his fears were vague and indescribable, they darkened his thoughts as effectually as real evils.

The last moment came, and Phil, with a hearty ‘“God speed you,” shook his friend’s hand, and he was gone.