Castle Richmond by Anthony Trollope (best memoirs of all time txt) 📕

I can assert to be a great mistake; and I believe that, as a class, the agents on Irish properties do their duty in a manner beneficial to the people.

That there are, or were, many agents who were also middlemen, or profit-renters, and that in this second position they were a nuisance to the country, is no doubt true. But they were no nuisance in their working capacity as agents. That there are some bad agents there can be no doubt, as there are also some bad shoemakers.

The duties towards an estate which an agent performs in Ireland are, I believe, generally shared in England between three or four different persons. The family lawyer performs part, the estate steward performs part, and the landlord himself performs part;—as to small estates, by far the greater part.

In Ireland, let the estate be ever so small—eight hundred a year we will say—all the working of the property is managed by the agent. It is he who knows the tenants, and the limits of their holdings; it is he who arranges leases, and allows—or much more generally does not allow—for improvements. He takes the rent, and gives the order for the ejection of tenants if he cannot get it.

I am far from saying that it would not be well that much of this should be done by the landlord himself;—that all of it should be so done on a small property. But it is done by agents; and, as a rule is, I think, done honestly.

Mr. Somers was agent to the Castle Richmond property, and as he took to himself as such five per cent. on all rents paid, and as he was agent also to sundry other small properties in the neighbourhood, he succeeded in making a very snug income. He had also an excellent house on the estate, and was altogether very much thought of; on the whole, perhaps, more than was Sir Thomas. But in this respect it was probable that Herbert might soon take the lead.

He was a large, heavy, consequential man, always very busy, as though aware of being one of the most important wheels that kept the Irish clock agoing; but he was honest, kind-hearted in the main, true as steel to his employers, and good-humoured—as long as he was allowed to have his own way. In these latter days he had been a little soured by Herbert's interference, and had even gone so far as to say that, "in his humble judgment, Mr. Fitzgerald was wrong in doing"—so and so. But he generally called him Herbert, was always kind to him, and in his heart of hearts loved him dearly. But that was a matter of course, for had he not been agent to the estate before Herbert was born?

Immediately after his interview with his mother, Mr. Herbert rode over to Mr. Somers's house, and there found him sitting alone in his office. He dashed immediately into the subject that had brought him there. "I have come, Mr. Somers," said he, "to ask you a question about the property."

"About the Castle Richmond property?" said Mr. Somers, rather surprised by his visitor's manner.

"Yes; you know in what a state my poor father now is."

"I know that Sir Thomas is not very well. I am sorry to say that it is long since he has been quite himself."

"There is something that is preying upon his spirits."

"I am afraid so, Herbert."

"Then tell me fairly, Mr. Somers, do you know what it is?"

"Not—in—the least. I have no conception whatever, and never have had any. I know no cause for trouble that should disquiet him."

"There is nothing wrong about the property?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Who has the title-deeds?"

"They are at Coutts's."

"You are sure of that?"

"Well; as sure as a man can be of a thing that he does not see. I have never seen them there; indeed, have never seen them at all; but I feel no doubt in my own mind as to their being at the bankers."

"Is there much due on the estate?"

"Very little. No estate in county Cork has less on it. Miss Letty has her income, and when Poulnasherry was bought,—that townland lying just under Berryhill, where the gorse cover is, part of the purchase money was left on mortgage. That is still due; but the interest is less than a hundred a year."

"And that is all?"

"All that I know of."

"Could there be encumbrances without your knowing it?"

"I think not. I think it is impossible. Of all men your father is the last to encumber his estates in a manner unknown to his agent, and to pay off the interest in secret."

"What is it then, Mr. Somers?"

"I do not know." And then Mr. Somers paused. "Of course you have heard of a visit he received the other day from a stranger?"

"Yes; I heard of it."

"People about here are talking of it. And he—that man, with a younger man—they are still living in Cork, at a little drinking-house in South Main Street. The younger man has been seen down here twice."

"But what can that mean?"

"I do not know. I tell you everything that I do know."

Herbert exacted a promise from him that he would continue to tell him everything which he might learn, and then rode back to Castle Richmond.

"The whole thing must be a delusion," he said to himself; and resolved that there was no valid reason why he should make Clara unhappy by any reference to the circumstance.

 

 

CHAPTER XIII. MR. MOLLETT RETURNS TO SOUTH MAIN STREET.
 

I must now take my readers back to that very unsavoury public-house in South Main Street, Cork, in which, for the present, lived Mr. Matthew Mollett and his son Abraham.

I need hardly explain to a discerning public that Mr. Matthew Mollett was the gentleman who made that momentous call at Castle Richmond, and flurried all that household.

"Drat it!" said Mrs. Jones to herself on that day, as soon as she had regained the solitude of her own private apartment, after having taken a long look at Mr. Mollett in the hall. On that occasion she sat down on a low chair in the middle of the room, put her two hands down substantially on her two knees, gave a long sigh, and then made the above exclamation,—"Drat it!"

Mrs. Jones was still thoroughly a Saxon, although she had lived for so many years among the Celts. But it was only when she was quite alone that she allowed herself the indulgence of so peculiarly Saxon a mode of expressing either her surprise or indignation.

"It's the same man," she said to herself, "as come that day, as sure as eggs;" and then for five minutes she maintained her position, cogitating. "And he's like the other fellow too," she continued. "Only, somehow he's not like him." And then another pause. "And yet he is; only it can't be; and he ain't just so tall, and he's older like." And then, still meditating, Mrs. Jones kept her position for full ten minutes longer; at the end of which time she got up and shook herself. She deserved to be bracketed with Lord Brougham and Professor Faraday, for she had kept her mind intent on her subject, and had come to a resolution. "I won't say nothing to nobody, noways," was the expression of her mind's purpose. "Only I'll tell missus as how he was the man as come to Wales." And she did tell so much to her mistress—as we have before learned.

Mr. Mollett had gone down from Cork to Castle Richmond in one of those delightful Irish vehicles called a covered car. An inside-covered car is an equipage much given to shaking, seeing that it has a heavy top like a London cab, and that it runs on a pair of wheels. It is entered from behind, and slopes backwards. The sitter sits sideways, between a cracked window on one side and a cracked doorway on the other; and as a draught is always going in at the ear next the window, and out at the ear next the door, it is about as cold and comfortless a vehicle for winter as may be well imagined. Now the journey from Castle Richmond to Cork has to be made right across the Boggeragh Mountains. It is over twenty miles Irish; and the road is never very good. Mr. Mollett, therefore, was five hours in the covered car on his return journey; and as he had stopped for lunch at Kanturk, and had not hurried himself at that meal, it was very dark and very cold when he reached the house in South Main Street.

I think I have explained that Mr. Mollett senior was not absolutely a drunkard; but nevertheless, he was not averse to spirits in cold weather, and on this journey had warmed himself with whisky once or twice on the road. He had found a shebeen house when he crossed the Nad river, and another on the mountain-top, and a third at the point where the road passes near the village of Blarney, and at all these convenient resting-spots Mr. Mollett had endeavoured to warm himself.

There are men who do not become absolutely drunk, but who do become absolutely cross when they drink more than is good for them; and of such men Mr. Mollett was one. What with the cold air, and what with the whisky, and what with the jolting, Mr. Mollett was very cross when he reached the Kanturk Hotel, so that he only cursed the driver instead of giving him the expected gratuity.

"I'll come to yer honour in the morning," said the driver.

"You may go to the devil in the morning," answered Mr. Mollett; and this was the first intimation of his return which reached the ears of his expectant son.

"There's the governor," said Aby, who was then flirting with Miss O'Dwyer in the bar. "Somebody's been stroking him the wrong way of the 'air."

The charms of Miss O'Dwyer in these idle days had been too much for the prudence of Mr. Abraham Mollett; by far too much, considering that in his sterner moments his ambition led him to contemplate a match with a young lady of much higher rank in life. But wine, which "inspires us" and fires us

"With courage, love, and joy,"

had inspired him with courage to forget his prudence, and with love for the lovely Fanny.

"Now, nonsense, Mr. Aby," she had said to him a few minutes before the wheels of the covered car were heard in South Main Street. "You know you main nothing of the sort."

"By 'eavens, Fanny, I mean every word of it; may this drop be my poison if I don't. This piece of business here keeps me and the governor hon and hoff like, and will do for some weeks perhaps; but when that's done, honly say the word, and I'll make you Mrs. M. Isn't that fair now?"

"But, Mr. Aby—"

"Never mind the mister, Fan, between friends."

"La! I couldn't call you Aby without it; could I?"

"Try, my darling."

"Well—Aby—there now. It does sound so uppish, don't it? But tell me this now; what is the business that you and the old gentleman is about down at Kanturk?"

Abraham Mollett hereupon had put one finger to his nose, and then winked his eye.

"If you care about me, as you say you do, you wouldn't be shy of just telling me as much as that."

"That's business, Fan; and business and love don't hamalgamate like whisky and sugar."

"Then I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Aby; I don't want to have anything to do with a man who won't show his rispect by telling me his sacrets."

"That's it, is it, Fan?"

"I suppose you think I can't keep a sacret. You think I'd be telling father, I suppose."

"Well, it's about some money that's due to him down there."

"Who from?"

"He expects to get it from some of those Fitzgerald people."

In saying so much Mr. Mollett the younger had not utterly abandoned all prudence. He knew very well that the car-driver and others would be aware that his father had been to Castle Richmond; and that it was more than probable that either he or his father would have to make further visits there. Indeed, he had almost determined that he would go down to the baronet himself. Under these circumstances it might be well that some pretext for these visits should be given.

"Which Fitzgerald, Mr. Aby? Is it the Hap House young man?"

"Hap House. I never heard of such a place. These people live at Castle Richmond."

"Oh—h—h! If Mr. Mollett have money due there, sure he have a good mark to go upon. Why, Sir Thomas is about the richest man in these parts."

"And who is this other man; at 'Appy—what is it you call his place?"

"Hap House. Oh, it's