Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

Murdock spoke:

      “I kem here expectin’ to meet Phelim Joyce. I thought I’d save him the throuble of comin’ wid the money.”

      Joyce said in a husky voice:

      “What do ye mane? I have the money right enough here. I’m sorry I’m a bit late, but I had a bad accident — bruk me arrum, an’ was nigh dhrownded in the Curragh Lake. But I was goin’ up to ye at once, bad as I am, to pay ye yer money, Murdock.”

      The Gombeen Man interrupted him:

      “But it isn’t to me ye’d have to come, me good man. Sure, it’s the sheriff himself that was waitin’ for ye, an’ whin ye didn’t come” — here Joyce winced; the speaker smiled — “he done his work.”

      “What wurrk, acushla?” asked one of the women.

      Murdock answered slowly:

      “He sould the lease iv the farrum known as the Shleenanaher in open sale, in accordance wid the terrums of his notice, duly posted, and wid warnin’ given to the houldher iv the lease.”

      There was a long pause. Joyce was the first to speak:

      “Ye’re jokin’, Murdock. For God’s sake, say ye’re jokin’! Ye tould me yerself that I might have time to git the money. An’ ye tould me that the puttin’ me farrum up for sale was only a matther iv forrum to let me pay ye back in me own way. Nay, more, ye asked me not to tell any iv the neighbors, for fear some iv them might want to buy some iv me land. An’ it’s niver so, that whin ye got me aff to Galway to rise the money, ye went on wid the sale, behind me back — wid not a soul by to spake for me or mine — an’ sould up all I have! No! Murtagh Murdock, ye’re a hard man, I know, but ye wouldn’t do that! Ye wouldn’t do that!”

      Murdock made no direct reply to him, but said, seemingly to the company generally:

      “I ixpected to see Phelim Joyce at the sale to-day, but as I had some business in which he was consarned, I kem here where I knew there’d be neighbors — an’, sure, so there is.”

      He took out his pocket-book and wrote names: “Father Pether Ryan, Daniel Moriarty, Bartholomew Moynahan, Andhrew McGlown, Mrs. Katty Kelligan — that’s enough! I want ye all to see what I done. There’s nothin’ undherhand about me! Phelim Joyce, I give ye formial notice that yer land was sould an’ bought by me, for ye broke yer word to repay me the money lint ye before the time fixed. Here’s the sheriffs assignmint, an’ I tell ye before all these witnesses that I’ll proceed with ejectment on title at wanst.”

      All in the room were as still as statues. Joyce was fearfully still and pale, but when Murdock spoke the word “ejectment” he seemed to wake in a moment to frenzied life. The blood flushed up in his face, and he seemed about to do something rash; but with a great effort he controlled himself and said:

      “Mr. Murdock, ye won’t be too hard. I got the money today — it’s here — but I had an accident that delayed me. I was thrown into the Curragh Lake and nigh dhrownded an’ me arrum is bruk. Don’t be so close as an hour or two; ye’ll never be sorry for it. I’ll pay ye all, and more, and thank ye into the bargain all me life. Ye’ll take back the paper, won’t ye, for me childhren’s sake — for Norah’s sake?”

      He faltered; the other answered with an evil smile:

      “Phelim Joyce, I’ve waited years for this moment. Don’t ye know me betther nor to think I would go back on meself whin I have shtarted on a road? I wouldn’t take yer money, not if ivery pound note was spread into an acre and cut up in tin-pound notes. I want yer land — I have waited for it, an’ I mane to have it! Now don’t beg me any more, for I won’t go back; an’ tho’ it’s many a grudge I own ye, I square them all before the neighbors be refusin’ yer prayer. The land is mine, bought be open sale; an’ all the judges an’ coorts in Ireland can’t take it from me! An’ what do ye say to that now, Phelim Joyce?”

      The tortured man had been clutching the ash sapling which he had used as a riding-whip, and from the nervous twitching of his fingers I knew that something was coming. And it came; for, without a word, he struck the evil face before him — struck as quick as a flash of lightning — such a blow that the blood seemed to leap out round the stick, and a vivid welt rose in an instant. With a wild, savage cry the Gombeen Man jumped at him; but there were others in the room as quick, and before another blow could be struck on either side both men were grasped by strong hands and held back.

      Murdock’s rage was tragic. He yelled, like a wild beast, to be let get at his opponent. He cursed and blasphemed so outrageously that all were silent, and only the stern voice of the priest was heard:

      “Be silent, Murtagh Murdock! Aren’t you afraid that the God overhead will strike you dead? With such a storm as is raging as a sign of his power, you are a foolish man to tempt him.”

      The man stopped suddenly, and a stern, dogged sullenness took the place of his passion. The priest went on:

      “As for you, Phelim Joyce, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Ye’re not one of my people, but I speak as your own clergyman would if he were here. Only this day has the Lord seen fit to spare you from a terrible death; and yet you dare to go back of his mercy with your angry passion. You had cause for anger — or temptation to it, I know — but you must learn to kiss the chastening rod, not spurn it. The Lord knows what he is doing for you as for others, and it may be that you will look back on this day in gratitude for his doing, and in shame for your own anger. Men, hold off your hands — let those two men go; they’ll quarrel no more — before me at any rate, I hope.”

      The men drew back. Joyce held his head down, and a more despairing figure or a sadder one I never saw. He turned slowly away, and, leaning against the wall, put his face between his hands and sobbed. Murdock scowled, and the scowl gave place to an evil smile, as looking all around he said:

      “Well, now that me work is done, I must be gettin’ home.”

      “An’ get some wan to iron that mark out iv yer face,” said Dan.

      Murdock turned again and glared around him savagely as he hissed out:

      “There’ll be iron for some one before I’m done — Mark me well! I’ve never gone back or wakened yit whin I promised to have me own turn. There’s thim here what’ll rue this day yit! If I am the Shnake on the Hill — thin beware the Shnake. An’ for him what shtruck me, he’ll be in bitther sorra for it yit — him an’ his!” He turned his back and went to the door.

      “Stop!” said the priest. “Murtagh Murdock, I have a word to say to you — a solemn word of warning. Ye have to-day acted the part of Ahab towards Naboth the Jezreelite; beware of his fate! You have coveted your neighbor’s goods; you have used your power without mercy; you have made the law an engine of oppression. Mark me! It was said of old that what measure men meted should be meted out to them again. God is very just. ‘Be not deceived, God is not mocked. For what things a man shall sow, those also shall he reap.’ Ye have sowed the wind this day; beware lest you reap the whirlwind! Even as God visited his sin upon Ahab the Samarian, and as he has visited similar sins on others in his own way — so shall he visit yours on you. You are worse than the land-grabber — worse than the man who only covets. Saintough is a virtue compared with your act. Remember the story of Naboth’s vineyard, and the dreadful end of it. Don’t answer me! Go and repent if you can, and leave sorrow and misery to be comforted by others, unless you wish to undo your wrong yourself. If you don’t, then remember the curse that may come upon you yet!”

      Without a word Murdock opened the door and went out, and a little later we heard the clattering of his horse’s feet on the rocky road to Shleenanaher.

      When it was apparent to all that he was really gone, a torrent of commiseration, sympathy, and pity broke over Joyce. The Irish nature is essentially emotional, and a more genuine and stronger feeling I never saw. Not a few had tears in their eyes, and one and all were manifestly deeply touched. The least moved was, to all appearance, poor Joyce himself.