Читать книгу Minnie's Bishop and Other Stories - G. A. Birmingham - Страница 12

Two days before the auction of the Widow Flanagan's farm, the people of the neighbourhood enjoyed a sensation. A number of notices appeared on the walls and gate-posts. They were very striking notices, printed on bright-green paper, which emphasised the fact that they were in the highest degree patriotic. They were headed with these words, which stood out in large characters:

TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND.

Next, in smaller type, came a paragraph, beginning: "Whereas a heartless and abominable eviction." Then came a good deal of strong language, what English grammarians call extension of the subject, about tyrants, exterminators, Castle government, and other matters of a similar kind. Monotony of appearance was avoided by another bold headline:

MEN OF CONNAUGHT.

The paragraph below it contained an appeal to the patriotic feelings of the inhabitants of the province, who were urged to defeat the schemes of the reprobates named in the first paragraph. Then, in type yet larger than that of the other headlines, came the ominous word:

TRAITORS.

It appeared from what followed that anyone who made a bid for the Widow Flanagan's farm would be a traitor to the cause of Ireland, to the Catholic religion, the freedom of humanity, and several other high and holy things. Then, lest the mere imputation of treachery might not prove a deterrent from the practice of iniquity, it was plainly hinted that the traitor would suffer in person and in pocket from the righteous indignation of the populace. The whole wound up with a prayer, singularly appropriate at the bottom of such a notice, "God save Ireland."

The notice produced a great deal of excitement, and affected people in a number of different ways. Some energetic men set to work at once to collect a fund for the benefit of the Widow Flanagan. This shows how excellent a thing patriotism is. Until the green notices appeared, no one had thought of doing anything for the poor evicted tenant. Mr. Patrick Sweeny headed the subscription list with a pound. Others not less energetic set to work to organise a public meeting, and telegraphed to a member of Parliament to come and address it. These men were full of joy. On the other hand, the auctioneer was depressed. He said nothing publicly, but he lamented to his wife that he had lost £10 or £15. Nobody, he thought, would now bid for the farm. It was creditable to him that after such a blow he gave ten shillings to the relief of Mrs. Flanagan. The land-agent read the notice, and was exceedingly angry. He also understood that no one would bid for the farm. He wrote a long account of the proceedings to a member of Parliament, not the same member of Parliament who was requested to address the public meeting, and a question was asked in the House of Commons, which was reported in The Times under the heading, "Intimidation in the West." The bank manager read the notice, and wrote to certain of his customers to say that his directors declined to authorise the advances which he had previously promised. He understood that the tenant's right in the Widow Flanagan's farm had ceased to be a satisfactory security. Mr. Sweeny served out an unusual quantity of drinks across his counter to men who wanted to discuss the best way of dealing with land grabbers. Dr. Henaghan was found helplessly drunk outside the door of his uncle's house, and was conducted home by two policemen.

There was a large attendance at the auction next day. The people were anxious to find out whether anyone would dare to bid for the farm. It was suspected that a certain Scotchman, one McNab, might venture to defy the popular wrath, and argument ran high about what should be done to him afterwards. McNab was, in fact, quite willing to acquire a valuable property cheap if he could; but he had very little money of his own, and was one of those to whom the bank manager had refused an advance. Still he had hopes. It was a sheriff's sale. There would be no reserve price. He gathered all the money he could lay hands on, and faced the auctioneer with a look of grim determination.

The farm was put up, "offered up," to use the phrase of the local auctioneer. The expression was suitable enough, for it seemed likely that not only the farm, but the Widow Flanagan, would be placed in the position of sacrifices, whole-burnt offerings to the unconquerable love of liberty which animates the breasts of Irishmen.

"Twenty pounds," said McNab, the Scotchman.

The crowd hissed, booed, and cursed with the utmost heartiness. Not a man present but was extremely angry at the idea of McNab acquiring for twenty pounds what everybody else was afraid to bid for. McNab thrust his hands deep into his breeches pockets and grinned. When the noise subsided the auctioneer made himself heard:

"Any advance upon twenty pounds? Come, gentlemen, the farm's worth £300 if it's worth a penny."

"Twenty-five pounds," said a voice.

Sheer amazement at the audacity of this second bidder held the crowd silent. That McNab, a Scotchman, an outsider, a well-known contemner of all the decencies of public life, should make a bid was bad enough. That there should be another such reprobate in the neighbourhood was beyond all expectation. A whisper passed, like a summer breeze, from ear to ear. The name of the new bidder was known.

"Sweeny for ever! Cheers for Sweeny!" yelled a voice in the outskirts of the crowd, the voice of the rate-collector, Mr. Sweeny's son-in-law. The people, dimly conscious that matters of high politics were in acting, cheered obediently.

"Thirty pounds," said McNab.

"Thirty-five pounds," said Sweeny.

Another burst of cheering followed the bid. McNab turned and left the crowd. He had reached the bottom of his purse. Mr. Patrick Sweeny was duly declared the purchaser of the Widow Flanagan's farm. The crowd, with some curiosity, waited for an explanation.

Mr. Sweeny, feeling that a speech was due, mounted the auctioneer's chair, and delivered himself:

"Fellow-countrymen! I needn't tell you, nor I needn't tell any assembly of Irishmen, that I'm no land-grabber."

"You are not," shouted the rate-collector. "We know that."

"I've stood by the Nationalist cause," said Mr. Sweeny, "the cause of old Ireland, the land of saints and scholars, since ever I learnt to stand by my mother's knee. And I mean to stand by it till every landlord and land-grabber is burning in hell, and the people of Ireland is enjoying the place, the just and lawful place, the noble and exalted place that our fathers occupied before us. Fellow-countrymen, let us gaze on the majestic figure of St. Patrick, let us do honour to the name of Wolfe Tone and the Manchester Martyrs, and—and—all the rest of the band of patriots; let us cling to the old sod. Esto perpetua!"

The crowd cheered frenziedly. None of them knew what esto perpetua meant, nor, for that matter, did Mr. Sweeny himself. But they had heard the words before, for Mr. Sweeny always used them in his speeches, and they felt that they must be great and good words; words worthy of the loud- est cheers.

"I have bought this farm, but I have bought it to hold in trust for the Irish people—a sacred trust, as dear to me as my heart's blood. When the day of liberty dawns, when the wrongs of centuries shall at last be drenched in gore, then, gentlemen, then, on that great and glorious day, I shall step proudly forward and restore to the people of Ireland Mrs. Flanagan's farm. In the meanwhile let yous all subscribe liberally to the fund we're getting up for the widow and the orphan, the wounded soldiers in the war we're waging."

About ten o'clock that evening, Dr. Henaghan, hilarious and well satisfied, was shown into the room behind Mr. Sweeny's shop by Delia Flanagan, who fed the pigs.

"You did middling well to-day," he said; "I say you did middling well to-day, let the other man be who he will."

"Hold your gab," said Mr. Sweeny, "you're drunk again."

"I am not drunk, nor near drunk. I came round to get a drink out of you in honour of the success of the stratagem."

"Only for that Scotchman," growled Mr. Sweeny, "I'd have got the place for ten pound. But I'll be even with him yet."

"You will, begad, or with any other man."

"And the blasted landlord gets every penny of my money; gets thirty-five pounds out of me, all on account of that Scotchman. And the Widow Flanagan owes me money that I'll never see."

"There's the subscription they're getting up," said the doctor, "why can't you take that off of her?"

"I can, of course, and I will. But it won't be enough, nor near enough."

"Well, what's the good of talking? Let's have a drink, anyway."

"Delia," yelled Mr. Sweeny, "Delia Flanagan, get a quart of whiskey from the bar, and a couple of tumblers. Be quick about it now. When your old mother's washing the floors in the workhouse you'll have to be quicker at your work. I'll learn you to listen to me when I call."