Keane said nothing, but sat moodily moving his foot backwards and forwards on the gravel.
“For Mr. Cashel's sake, I 'm not sorry the lot has fallen upon a quiet-tempered fellow like yourself; there are plenty here who would n't bear the hardship so patiently.”
Keane looked up, and the keen twinkle of his gray eyes seemed to read the other's very thoughts. Linton, so proof against the searching glances of the well-bred world, actually cowered under the vulgar stare of the peasant.
“So you think he's lucky that I 'm not one of the Drumcoologan boys?” said Keane; and his features assumed a smile of almost insolent meaning.
“They're bold fellows, I've heard,” said Linton, “and quick to resent an injury.”
“Maybe there's others just as ready,” said he, doggedly.
“Many are ready to feel one,” said Linton; “that I'm well aware of. The difference is that some men sit down under their sorrows, crestfallen and beaten; others rise above them, and make their injuries the road to fortune. And really, much as people say against this 'wild justice' of the people, when we consider they have no other possible—that the law is ever against them—that their own right hand alone is their defence against oppression—one cannot wonder that many a tyrant landlord falls beneath the stroke of the ruined tenant, and particularly when the tyranny dies with the tyrant.”
Keane listened greedily, but spoke not; and Linton went on,—
“It so often happens that, as in the present case, by the death of one man, the estate gets into Chancery; and then it's nobody's affair who pays and who does not. Tenants then have as mach right as the landlord used to have. As the rents have no owner, there's little trouble taken to collect them; and when any one makes a bold stand and refuses to pay, they let him alone, and just turn upon the others that are easier to deal with.”
“That's the way it used to be here long ago,” said Keane.