“There are difficulties which may preclude any arrangement,” said Kennyfeck, gravely. “There was a deed of gift of this very property made out, and only awaiting Mr. Cashel's signature.”
“To whom?” said Tiernay, gasping with anxiety.
“To Mr. Linton.”
“The very thing I feared,” said the old man, dropping his head sorrowfully.
“It is easily remedied, I fancy,” said Cashel. “It was a hasty promise given to afford him qualification for Parliament. I 'll give him something of larger value; I know he 'll not stand in our way here.”
“How you talk of giving, sir! You should have been the Good Fairy of a nursery tale, and not a mere man of acres and bank-notes. But have your own way. It's only anticipating the crash a month or so; ruined you must be!”
“Is that so certain?” said Cashel, half smiling, half seriously.
“Ask Mr. Kennyfeck, there, whose highest ambition half a year ago was to be your agent, and now he 'd scarcely take you for a son-in-law! Don't look so angry, man; what I said is but an illustration. It will be with your property as it was with your pleasure-boat t'other day; you 'll never know you 've struck till you 're sinking.”
“You affect to have a very intimate knowledge of Mr. Cashel's affairs, sir,” said Kennyfeck, who was driven beyond all further endurance.
“Somewhat more than you possess, Mr. Kennyfeck; for I know his tenantry. Not as you know them, from answering to their names at rent-day, but from seeing them in seasons of distress and famine,—from hearing their half-uttered hopes that better days were coming when the new landlord himself was about to visit them; from listening to their sanguine expectations of benefits; and now, within some few days, from hearing the low mutterings of their discontent,—the prelude of worse than that.”