Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent. William Carleton

not be very happy together—you are able to do handsomely for her, as report goes.”

      “And willing, Val, and a bad father I'd be, if I were not.”

      “Well then, Brian, so far all looks fair, and devilish glad I am that I broached the thing at once. I have been thinking of it ever since I came to the neighborhood—upon my credit I have.”.

      “Faith, and so am I glad of it—but what's to be done next, Val darling?”

      “Why the less time that's lost upon it the better—we must bring the youngsters together till they get acquainted—then we can have another meeting, and settle the match out of hand. Did you ever see Phil on 'Handsome Harry?'”

      “Didn't I?—to be sure I did—and upon my word, Val, he's a credit to the horse he rides, as the horse is to him—a comely couple they are in truth. But, Val, or neighbor Val, as I now may call you, don't you think it would be better to wind up this business now that our hand's in for it? Let us hear what you'll do, and I'll follow you on my part, for there's no use in losing time about it—upon my credit there's not.”

      “What would you think, then, of the farm we're in now—that is, the O'Hagan property, as you call it? Suppose I gave him that, what will you come down with for the girl? I know it can't be under three hundred—come, say three hundred, and it's a match.”

      “Three hundred! Oh! Val, you're too soft—too moderate—too mild—indeed you are—why three hundred would be nothing against the O'Hagan property, as you call it—and, indeed, I don't intend to put my daughter off under five hundred, and that's nearly double what three is—eh, Val, what do you say, upon your credit now?”

      “Faith, I'll not quarrel with you if you make it six or eight.”

      “Well now,” said M'Loughlin, rising up, whilst his honest features were lit with indignation, “this joke or this impudence on your part, has gone far enough—listen to me. What did I or my family do, I ask my own conscience in the name of God—what sin did we commit—whom did we oppress—whom did we rob—whom did we persecute—that a scoundrel like you, the bastard spawn of an unprincipled profligate, remarkable only for drunkenness, debauchery, and blasphemy—what, I say, did I and my family do, that you, his son, who were, and are to this day, the low, mean, willing scourge of every oppressor, the agent of their crimes—the instrument of their villianies—you who undermined the honest man—who sold and betrayed the poor man—who deceived and misled the widow and her orphans, and rose upon their ruin—who have robbed your employers as well as those you were employed against—a double traitor—steeped in treachery, and perjured a thousand times to the core of your black and deceitful heart—what crime, I say again, did I or mine commit—that we, whose name and blood has been without a stain for a thousand years, should suffer the insult that you now have offered Us—eh, look me in the face now if you can, and answer me if you are able?”

      M'Cloughlin as he concluded, calmly folded his arms, and looked at his companion resolutely but sternly. The other, to do him justice, did certainly raise his head, and fix his evil eye upon him for a moment—it dropped after a single glance; in truth, he quailed before M'Loughlin; his upper lip, as usual, quivered—his brow lowered, and looked black as midnight, whilst all the rest of his face became the color of ashes. In fact, that white smile, which is known to be the very emblem of cowardice and revenge, sat upon his countenance, stamping upon it at once the character of the spectre and the demon—a being to be both feared and hated.

      “Well, Brian M'Loughlin,” returned the other, “hear me.”

      “Don't dare to Brian me, sir,” returned M'Loughlin; “I'm a very humble man, and ought to be an humble man, for I know well what a sinner I am before God—but for all that, and if it were against even religion itself—I feel too proud to suffer you to speak to me as you do—no—don't Brian me, but listen and let me show you what you are, and what you have been; I can't say what you will be, that does not lie with any but God.”

      “Well,” said M'Clutchy, “go on; I now can hear you, and what is more, I wish to hear you—and whisper—speak your worst.”

      It is said, that both cowardice and despair have their courage, and it would appear from the manner and action of this man, that he now felt actuated by some vague feeling resembling that which we have described. He rose up and said,

      “Brian M'Loughlin, do you think I ever can forget this?”

      “What do you mean by that,” said M'Loughlin, “look me in the face, I say, and tell me what you mean by it. I'm a man, and an honest man, and there's no treachery about me.”

      The sternness with which he spoke, made the other quail again.

      “There was little in it,” he replied, in a rebuked but cold and malignant spirit; “I didn't think you were so violent. I bore a great deal from you this day, Mr. M'Louglin—a great deal, indeed, and so patiently as I bore it too; upon my credit I did.”

      M'Loughlin made no reply, but stamped on the floor, in order to bring up some person to whom he might pay the reckoning.

      “You need not stamp,” said the other, “this is my share of the reckoning.”

      “Your share, no: I told you before, it must not be yours. I wouldn't have it said, that bit or sup, paid for by your ill-gotten wealth, should ever cross my lips—no, no.”

      The waiter, or rather waitress, a red-haired, barefooted wench, now came up.

      “Here,” said M'Loughlin, “take the refreshments we've had last out of that, and keep the change to yourself. I have settled what we've had before, as well as this.”

      “And why not allow me to settle for this?” asked M'Clutchy.

      “Because,” replied this honest and respectable man, “I could not swallow a thimbleful of anything paid for by your money; what is it? If I did I would dream for weeks of all that you have done, or if I didn't dream, the sorrows and the wrongs of my near relative, Widow O'Hagan and her family, would prevent me from sleeping; the Kellys that you've driven to beggary—The Gormleys that you got put out—good God! and who now holds their places? Your own cousin. It's useless, however, to mention all you've done. You, Val the Vulture, as the people call you, are one of those scourges that rise and flourish upon the distresses of the poor, and the injustice that you yourself bring upon them by your falsehood and calumny; and all because the property they live on is neglected by those who have a right to look after it. Ay, there is another of your white and cowardly laughs. Well, you know that there is not a neglected estate in the country but can produce another vulture like yourself, playing the same heartless pranks upon the poor people—tying, misrepresenting, swaggering over and robbing them, and that, too, in the open face of day, merely because you think there is no one to bring you to an account.

      “Now go home,” he added, “and when next you want to get a wife for your spanking son, that's likely to become a squireen upon our hands, don't come to Brian M'Loughlin, who knows you from the paring of the nails to the core of the heart.”

      M'Glutchy looked at him and laughed again; “before you go, at all events,” he replied, “I hope you remember the observation I made when I introduced the discourse.”

      “I can't say I do,” said M'Loughlin, “but I suppose you will let us hear it.”

      “I will,” replied Val, and his brow darkened as before. “It was this—your farm and mine lie very snugly together—observe, I said, 'that's what I begin with'—didn't I say that?”

      “You did, and now what else do you say?”

      “The very same thing—that your farm, and mine lie snugly together—and mark me, Mr. M'Loughlin—”

      “I do—oh, upon my credit I do—ha, ha, ha!”

      “Than that's what I end with.”

      “Ah,” replied M'Loughlin indignantly,