Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent. William Carleton

      Another brother there was, whose unpretending character requires little else than merely that he should be named. The honorable Alexander Topertoe, who was also educated in England, from the moment his father stained what he conceived to be the honor of their family by receiving a title and twenty thousand pounds, as a bribe for his three votes against a native parliament—hung his head in mortification and shame, and having experienced at all times little else than neglect from his father and brother, he hurried soon afterwards to the continent with a heavy heart and a light purse, where for the present we must leave him.

CHAPTER II.—Birth and Origin of Mr. M'Clutchy

       Table of Contents

      Christian Forgiveness—Mr. Hickman, the Head Agent—Darby O'Drive, the Bailiff—And an Instructive Dialogue.

      Time, which passes with a slow but certain pace, had already crept twice around his yearly circle since the fair already described in the town of Castle Cumber. The lapse of three years, however, had made no change whatsoever in the heart or principles of Mr. Valentine M'Clutchy, although he had on his external manner and bearing. He now assumed more of the gentleman, and endeavored to impress himself upon those who came in contact with him, as a person of great authority and importance. One morning after the period just mentioned had! elapsed, he and his graceful son, “Mister Phil,” were sitting in the parlor of Constitution Cottage, for so they were pleased to designate a house which had no pretension whatever to that unpretending appellation.

      “So father,” said Phil, “you don't forget that such was the treatment M'Loughlin gave you!”

      “Why, I remember it, Phil; but you know, Phil, I'm a patient and a forgiving man notwithstanding; you know that Phil;—ha, ha, ha!”

      “That was certainly the worst case came across us yet,” replied the son, “none of the rest ventured to go so far, even when you had less power than you have now.”

      “I didn't tell you all, Phil,” continued the father, following up the same train of thought.

      “And why not,” said Phil, “why should you conceal anything from me?”

      “Because,” replied the other, “I think you have heard enough for the present.”

      The fact was, that M'Clutchy's consciousness of the truth contained in M'Loughlin's indignant reproaches, was such as prevented him from repeating them, even to his son, knowing right well that had he done so they could not exactly have looked each other in the face without sensations regarding their own conduct, which neither of them wished to avow. There is a hypocrisy in villainy sometimes so deep that it cannot bear to repeat its own iniquity, even in the presence of those who are aware of it, and in this predicament stood Valentine M'Clutchy.

      “Maybe he has relented,” said Phil, “or that he will give me his pretty daughter yet—and you know they have the cash. The linen manufactory of M'Loughlin and Harman is flourishing.”

      “No, no, Phil,” replied the father, “you must give her up—that's past—but no matter, I'll forgive him.”

      Phil looked at him and smiled. “Come, come, father,” said he, “be original—that last is a touch of M'Slime—of honest Solomon. Keep back the forgiveness yet awhile, may be they may come round—begad, and upon my honor and reputation, I shouldn't wish to lose the girl—no, father, don't forgive them yet awhile.”

      “Phil, we'll do better for you, boy—don't be a fool, I say, but have sense—I tell you what, Phil,” continued his father, and his face assumed a ghastly, deadly look, at once dark and pallid, “listen to me;—I'll forgive him, Phil, until the nettle, the chick-weed, the burdock, the fulsome preshagh, the black fungus, the slimiest weed that grows—aye, till the green mould of ruin itself, grows upon the spot that is now his hearth—till the winter rain beats into, and the whiter wind howls over it.”

      “No marriage, then,” said Phil. “No marriage; but what keeps Darby O'Drive? the rascal should have been here before—oh no,” said he, looking at his watch, “he has better than half an hour yet.”

      “What steps do you intend to take, father?”

      “Phil, when I'm prepared, you shall know them. In the meantime leave me—I must write to M'Slime, or send to him. M'Slime's useful at a hint or suggestion, but, with all his wiliness and hypocrisy, not capable of carrying a difficult matter successfully out; he overdoes everything by too much caution, and consequently gets himself into ridiculous scrapes, besides I cannot and will not place full confidence in him. He is too oily, and cants too much, to be trusted; I think, still, we may use him and overreach him into the bargain. Are you going into Castle Cumber?”

      “I am.”

      “Well, drop these couple of letters in the post office, and tell Rankin he must have the Garts finished by Monday next, at the farthest, or it will be worse for him. By the way, I have that fellow in my eye too—he had the assurance to tell me the other day, that he could not possibly undertake the carts until he had M'Loughlin's job at the manufactory finished. Off with you now, I see O'Drive and Hanlon coming up.”

      Graceful Phil in a few minutes was mounted in his usual lofty state on “Handsome Harry,” and dashed off to Castle Cumber.

      It may not be improper here, before we proceed farther, to give the reader some additional knowledge of the parentage and personal history of Mr. Valentine M'Clutchy, as well as a brief statement concerning the Castle Cumber property, and the gentleman who acted in the capacity of head agent.

      The mother, then, of Valentine M'Clutchy, or as he was more generally called Val the Vulture, was daughter to the county goaler, Christie Clank by name, who had risen regularly through all the gradations of office, until the power of promotion could no farther go. His daughter, Kate Clank, was a celebrated beauty, and enjoyed a considerable extent of local reputation, independently of being a great favorite with the junior portion of the grand jury. Among the latter, however, there was one, a young squire of very libertine principles, named Deaker, whose suit to the fair Miss Clank proved more successful than those of his competitors, and the consequence was the appearance of young Val. The reader, therefore, already perceives that M'Clutchy's real name was Deaker; but perhaps he is not aware that, in the times of which we write, it was usual for young unmarried men of wealth not to suffer their illegitimate children to be named after them. There were, indeed, many reasons for this. In the first place, the mere fact of assuming the true name, was a standing argument of the father's profligacy. Secondly, the morals of the class and the period were so licentious, that the legitimate portion of a family did not like to be either outnumbered or insulted by their namesakes and illegitimate relatives, almost at every turn of the public roads. In the third place, a young man of this description could not, when seeking for a wife, feel the slightest inclination to have a living catalogue of his immoralities enumerated to her, under the names of Tom, or Dick, or Val so and so, all his children. This, of course, was an involuntary respect paid to modesty, and perhaps the strongest argument for suppressing the true name. The practice, however, was by no means universal; but in frequent instances it existed, and Val the Vulture's was one of them. He was named after neither father or mother, but after his grandmother, by the gaoler's side. Deaker would not suffer his name to be assumed; and so far as his mother was concerned, the general tenor of her life rendered the reminiscence of her's anything but creditable to her offspring. With respect to his education, Val's gratitude was principally due to his grandfather Clank, who had him well instructed. He himself, from the beginning, was shrewd, clever, and intelligent, and possessed the power, in a singular degree, of adapting himself to his society, whenever he felt it his interest to do so. He could, indeed, raise or depress his manners in a very surprising degree, and with an effort that often occasioned astonishment. On the other hand, he was rapacious, unscrupulous, cowardly, and so vindictive, that he was never known to forgive an injury. These are qualities to which, when you add natural adroitness and talent,