“Mr. Murdock, ye won’t be too hard. I got the money to-day—it’s here—but I had an accident that delayed me. I was thrown into the Curragh Lake and nigh drownded 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’ its many a grudge I owe ye, I square them all before the neighbours 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.”