Land

  LAND

  by

  LIAM O’FLAHERTY

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter I

  It was shortly before noon of a day in March 1879, at the village of Manister on the coast of County Mayo. Elizabeth Henry St. George was sitting at her desk in a corner of the living-room at Manister Lodge, drawing up the household weekly accounts. Being short-sighted, she was bending low over the sheet of paper that lay in front of her on the desk, touching each word with the tip of her quill pen as she read, when the sound of firearms being discharged at a distance made her start violently.

  “Gracious me!” she cried, sitting rigidly erect in her chair. “Who can be fowling on a day like this?”

  The shooting continued. First there had been three shots fired in rapid succession. Then there was a pause, followed by another burst of rapid firing. At least a dozen shots were fired.

  “That is not fowling,” Elizabeth said to herself. “Definitely not. What on earth can it be?”

  She shuddered with aversion as she got to her feet. She had just turned forty-eight during the previous month. She looked sixty. Her hair was completely grey and quite thin above her forehead. She wore it plaited stiffly, in a prim bunch, at the nape of her neck. This drew attention to the pallor and emaciation of her face. It was like the face of an old nun, worn by a life of self-imposed hardships, yet showing the calmness and strength that come from discipline. Her whole body was remarkably thin. Her bosom scarcely made any impression against the cloth of her tight-fitting brown bodice, which was buttoned stiffly up along her neck to her chin, with a narrow lace frill at the top.

  She went over to the window, one hand on a bunch of household keys that hung from her waist by a chain, the other hand gripping her long, wide skirts. She walked very erect, with little mincing steps. The tips of her shoes kept appearing and disappearing. They made no audible sound on the worn carpet. Only the rustling of the dark skirts could be heard.

  A single shot was fired as she reached the window. This report seemed to come from some place much nearer than the previous ones. The sound re-echoed slightly. Elizabeth shuddered. Looking at the condition of the weather, she was now entirely convinced that the shots did not come from the guns of sportsmen. The mist was so heavy that she could see no farther than the edge of the narrow terrace beyond the window.

  “I’m sure something dreadful is happening,” she said to herself.

  Hurrying back to her desk, she picked up a light shawl that had lain folded neatly over the back of her chair. She threw it about her head and shoulders, opened the french window and walked on to the terrace. The air was extremely mild, in spite of the heavy mist and the time of year. Indeed, the mist seemed to be a veil behind which the mighty lust of the breeding earth pricked forth to a renewal of growth. From this unseen activity a luxury of smell issued with joyful violence, invading the senses with its intoxicating power. To Elizabeth, made nervous by the shooting, this exuberance of Nature was a further incentive to alarm.

  “God grant that it’s nothing unpleasant!” she prayed, walking along the terrace towards the gable of the house.

  She moved slowly over the smooth flagstones, between the ivy-covered house-wall and the arched trellis vines that framed the outer rim of the terrace. The mist had covered the green vines with a lacy shroud, as if magic spiders had worked all night to make a garment for the shrubs. She halted on reaching the gable, cocked her ears and listened. There was no further sound of firing. Here the soft murmur of the sea was distinct. Its smell was fierce and invigorating, in sharp contrast with the luxurious perfume of the earth.

  Suddenly she heard her niece singing near at hand.

  “Lettice,” she called out eagerly, “where are you?”

  The singing stopped at once and a girl’s voice answered gaily:

  “Here I am, Aunt Elizabeth.”

  A few moments later, Lettice came into sight between two dark-green shrubs, whose pot-bellied trunks stood guard on either side of a sharp turn in the path that led around the gable of the house. On seeing her aunt, she held out a large bunch of daffodils in her right hand.

  “Daffodils, Aunt Elizabeth,” she cried excitedly.

  She came forward over the gravelled path at a run, holding her skirts high up with her left hand.

  “Imagine!” she cried in a musical voice on reaching Elizabeth. “Wild daffodils in March! There were thousands of them along the banks of the river. I wanted to go on picking and picking. I had no idea that daffodils bloomed so early. They have an exquisite scent.”

  Elizabeth sniffed at the flowers without interest.

  “Did you hear shooting just now, Lettice?” she said.

  “I did hear shooting,” Lettice said. “Why?”

  “Never mind,” Elizabeth said, touching the girl on the sleeve. “You’re quite wet. You shouldn’t have gone out in this mist. It’s very dangerous at this time of year. I’m sure your feet are soaking wet. Hurry into the house and change your clothes.”

  “But I don’t feel in the least wet,” Lettice said gaily as she followed her aunt along the terrace. “On the contrary, I feel almost too warm after the climb uphill from the river.”

  “All the more reason to be careful,” Elizabeth said. “You must change at once. The Irish climate is very treacherous. You’ll soon discover that.”

  “But I’ve been here a month now,” Lettice said, “and I never felt so well in my life before, even though there has been a great deal of rain and I’ve got drenched several times. Really, I think the Irish climate is much healthier than the French climate.”

  She certainly looked in radiant health, even though her face was rather thin and without colour. When she entered the living-room and took off her hat, a great cloud of red-gold hair appeared on her crown.

  “Give me those flowers,” Elizabeth said after closing the window. “Take off your cloak. Let me see if your dress is wet.”

  “I don’t know why you insist on thinking I’m delicate,” Lettice said as she took off her cloak. “I’m really very hardy.”

  Elizabeth touched her niece’s dress in several places. Then she frowned.

  “It’s quite dry, I admit,” she said grudgingly, “although I do wish you’d let me get you more suitable clothes. Even in summer, my dear, you have to wear heavy stuff here in Mayo. The peasants never distinguish between summer and winter in the matter of dress. They know best. They live closest to the wickedness of our climate. Run along now and change your shoes. Tell Annie to fetch me some water for those daffodils. I’ll grant you that their scent is quite charming.”

  “You are a tyrant, Aunt Elizabeth,” Lettice cried with a gay laugh, “but I love you terrib
ly.”

  She threw her arms impulsively around Elizabeth.

  “There now,” Elizabeth said stiffly as she disengaged herself. “How very demonstrative you are! You must learn to be more dignified at your age. You are over nineteen now, Lettice. You are a grown woman. You mustn’t behave like a child.”

  Lettice threw back her head and laughed musically. She pinched her aunt’s cheek, threw her cloak over her arm and skipped out of the room. In her green dress, she looked almost as slender as Elizabeth. She was much taller, however, with a bust that had just assumed the voluptuous curves of blossoming womanhood. Going out of the door, she turned and blew a kiss. Her pale, bony face looked radiant and infinitely charming at that moment, with her full lips parted and her long golden lashes raised from her large blue eyes. Her eyes looked startled, as if she were having a vision of heavenly beauty.

  Elizabeth’s upper lip quivered as the door closed after her niece. She blinked and her brown eyes became tender almost to the point of tears.

  “She is very beautiful,” she said to herself. “May God protect her. This is no fit place for such a rare creature.”

  She glanced around the living-room with disapproval. It certainly looked shabby and gloomy on a day like this. The wains-cotting was darkened by age. The carpet was worn to its threads here and there. The leather-covered sofa, the chairs, the turf fire on the hearth looked sordid in contrast with the radiant charm that the young girl had brought with her from Paris.

  Elizabeth shuddered as she had done on hearing the shooting. Her eyes got hard. She pursed up her lips and went to a flower vase that lay on a small table near the window. She was growing afraid that her mode of life, which had been so static and peaceful for a great many years, was now confronted with violence and a destruction of intimate values.

  While she was arranging the daffodils in the empty vase, the house servant came into the room with a large jug of water.

  “Here is the water, Miss Elizabeth,” the servant said.

  “Did you hear the shooting, Annie?” said Elizabeth without looking at the servant.

  Annie Fitzpatrick halted halfway across the floor on hearing this question. She was a stout and red-faced person of thirty-five, with flaxen hair that lay matted against her brick-red cheeks. She was perspiring freely from her work in the kitchen.

  “God between us and harm,” she said, “I didn’t hear a sound in the kitchen.”

  She stood still for two or three seconds with her mouth wide open, like a person badly frightened. Yet her little blue eyes did not look at all afraid. On the contrary, they had a very cunning expression as they looked at Elizabeth. Then she approached her employer, walking on tip-toe and with her neck thrust forward, like a goose in hurried movement.

  “Was it on the grounds of Manister House the shooting was?” she said in an awed whisper as she handed over the jug.

  “It was,” said Elizabeth.

  “Glory be to God!” Annie said. “Then it was Captain Butcher they were after, God forgive them.”

  Elizabeth looked sharply at the woman.

  “What do you mean, Annie?” she said in a low voice. “Did you hear something in the village?”

  Annie put her cupped hands in front of her mouth and rolled her eyes upwards. It was the gesture of a person who is mortified at having unintentionally disclosed a secret.

  “What on earth is the matter with you?” Elizabeth said severely. “Why don’t you answer my question?”

  Annie’s face became hostile. She hid her hands behind her apron, stepped back two paces and assumed an arrogant pose.

  “Arrah! What would I hear?” she cried in an insolent tone. “These are no times to be asking for that class of information, Miss Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth closed her thin lips very tightly.

  “I just asked you a civil question,” she said.

  Annie curtsied and said:

  “Sorry, miss. I heard nothing at all in the village.”

  She had become humble again, just as suddenly as she had become arrogant.

  “You may go,” Elizabeth said haughtily.

  She watched the servant go out of the room. Then she poured water on the flowers, went to the hearth and threw some sods of turf from a willow basket on to the fire. The fresh sods began to smoke almost at once. An acrid smell of peat pervaded the room. She brought a chair to the front of the fire and sat down. She began to brood on the peculiar intensity with which the serving woman had become hostile to her on being asked a simple question.

  “How depressing it all is!” she said to herself bitterly. “Even though I have become a Catholic, Annie still looks on me as an enemy. It really is very depressing.”

  At that moment, a horrid sound came to her ears. It was the melancholy howl of a bloodhound. She got to her feet at once and looked towards the window with her lips parted.

  “You see, Aunt,” Lettice cried as she came bounding into the room, “that I have changed my shoes like an obedient child.”

  She closed the door, held up her skirts on either side and exposed her shoes for inspection. Finding that Elizabeth paid no heed to her, she dropped her skirts once more and hurried forward to the fireplace.

  “Is there something the matter?” she said softly.

  “It’s that dog again,” Elizabeth said. “I just heard him howl.”

  “I did hear howling as I came downstairs,” Lettice said. “Does it upset you terribly?”

  “It’s that dreadful Cuban bloodhound belonging to Captain Butcher,” said Elizabeth. “Last winter he nearly drove me insane. Ever since Lord Leitrim was murdered last April, Captain Butcher has been in deadly fear of his life. The curse has fallen on him. Night and day, he goes about with that slavering creature. He has …”

  She interrupted herself, shuddered and sat down abruptly. Lettice glanced towards the window and frowned. Then she shrugged her shoulders, as if casting aside the evil influence of the brute. She smiled and crouched on the floor at her aunt’s feet.

  “It’s only a dog,” she whispered gently, caressing Elizabeth’s knees with her arms. “One shouldn’t allow oneself to be disturbed by such an ordinary creature.”

  “It’s not the dog, but what it means,” said Elizabeth, staring fixedly into the fire. “Captain Butcher, even though he is so bucolic and English, is just as nervous as the rest of us. The curse has fallen on him.”

  “What curse?” Lettice said.

  Elizabeth looked at her niece intently.

  “Did your father tell you nothing about the history of our family?” she said.

  “Not very much,” Lettice said. “In fact, he hardly ever mentioned Ireland until he suddenly announced that we were coming here. Then he told me quite a lot, but nothing at all about his ancestors. I always felt that …”

  The dog began to howl once more. Elizabeth uttered an exclamation of terror and gripped Lettice by the shoulders. They both listened intently until the howling ended on a weird note of despair.

  “It’s really aggravating,” Lettice said, becoming affected by her aunt’s nervousness. “May I get you a glass of water?”

  Before Elizabeth could answer, the door opened and her brother Raoul came into the room.

  “What is the meaning of this infernal howling?” Raoul cried angrily as he shut the door behind him with violence. “I had just got over the depression caused by the beastly fog when …”

  “Hush, Father,” Lettice said gently. “Aunt Elizabeth is not feeling well.”

  Raoul looked from his daughter to his sister and back again. Then he made a gesture of hopelessness with his outstretched hands.

  “It’s all very primitive,” he said. “I can’t cope with it.”

  He was in his fifty-first year, but time had dealt far more leniently with him than with his sister. His appearance was remarkably youthful. There was hardly a trace of grey in his reddish hair and his face was without lines. He wore a small Vandyke beard, neatly trimmed. His features were handsome and
showed breeding. His eyes were particularly attractive, light-blue in colour, mobile and intelligent. His nose was long and aquiline. He gave an impression of great haughtiness with his body held erect and tense, like an actor poised for the delivery of a choice speech. The oddity of his dress gave force to this impression of conceit. He wore a black velvet jacket, girdled by a cord of purple silk that hung far down his side, with thick tassels at the end. Black trousers and black patent-leather shoes, together with a soft white shirt that was open at the throat in poetic style, completed his costume.

  He came over to his sister, took her hand and kissed it.

  “Poor Lizzie!” he said. “It was very inconsiderate of me. I have lived too long apart from my own people. I’ve got into the habit of behaving like a boor as a result.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense, Raoul,” Elizabeth said irritably.

  She turned to Lettice and added:

  “Would you please take that jug into the kitchen?”

  Lettice took the jug from the table by the window and left the room.

  “Did you hear the shooting, Raoul?” Elizabeth said when the door had closed behind her niece.

  “Shooting?” Raoul said. “Why do you ask?”

  “There was a good deal of firing in the direction of Manister House a little while ago,” Elizabeth said.

  “What of it?” Raoul said. “Surely, that’s nothing odd. I’ve heard almost enough gunfire to suggest a major battle from that direction every day since my return. Our unspeakable neighbour evidently worships firearms.”

  “I’m afraid there has been an attempt on his life,” said Elizabeth, peering upwards at her brother.

  “On Captain Butcher’s life?” said Raoul, becoming interested. “What makes you think that?”

  “I’ve been expecting it for some time,” Elizabeth said. “A remark that Annie let drop a few minutes ago convinces me. …”

  “Very interesting,” Raoul interrupted excitedly.

  “Raoul, I’m very worried,” Elizabeth continued, raising her voice a little. “The whole county is on the verge of revolt. The people are afraid that there is going to be another famine. They are in an ugly mood.”

  “You think so?” Raoul said, caressing his beard gently with the tips of his fingers.