

E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau and Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.



Transcriber's note:

   In 1834, at age 19, Anthony Trollope became a junior clerk
   in the British postal service. He did not get on well with
   his superiors, and his career looked like a dead end. In
   1841 he accepted an assignment in Ireland as an inspector,
   remaining there for ten years. It was there that his civil
   service career began to flourish. It was there, also, that
   he began writing novels.

   Several of Trollope's early novels were set in Ireland,
   including _The Macdermots of Ballycloran_, his first
   published novel, and _Castle Richmond_. Readers of those
   early Irish novels can easily perceive Trollope's great
   affection for and sympathy with the Irish people,
   especially the poor.

   In 1882 Ireland was in the midst of great troubles,
   including boycotts and the near breakdown of law and
   order. In May of that year Lord Frederick Cavendish, the
   newly-appointed Chief Secretary for Ireland, and Thomas
   Burke, a prominent civil servant, were assassinated in
   Dublin. The news stirred Trollope, despite his poor
   health, to travel to Ireland to see for himself the state
   of things. Upon his return to England he began writing
   _The Landleaguers_. He made a second journey to Ireland
   in August, 1882, to seek more material for his book. He
   returned to England exhausted, but he continued writing.
   He had almost completed the book when he suffered a stroke
   on November 3, 1882. He never recovered, and he died on
   December 6.

   Trollope's second son, Henry, arranged for publication of
   the almost finished novel. The reader should note Henry
   Trollope's preface to Volume I and Postscript at the end
   of the book.

   Readers familiar with Trollope's early Irish novels
   will be struck, as they read _The Landleaguers_, by his
   bitterness at what was happening in Ireland in 1881 and
   1882.





THE LANDLEAGUERS

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

In Three Volumes--VOL. I.







London
Chatto & Windus, Piccadilly
1883
[All rights reserved]

Charles Dickens and Evans,
Crystal Palace Press.




CONTENTS

   Chapter

      I. MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY.
     II. THE MAN IN THE MASK.
    III. FATHER BROSNAN.
     IV. MR. BLAKE OF CARNLOUGH.
      V. MR. O'MAHONY AND HIS DAUGHTER.
     VI. RACHEL AND HER LOVERS.
    VII. BROWN'S.
   VIII. CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1880.
     IX. BLACK DALY.
      X. BALLYTOWNGAL.
     XI. MOYTUBBER.
    XII. "DON'T HATE HIM, ADA."
   XIII. EDITH'S ELOQUENCE.
    XIV. RACHEL'S CORRESPONDENCE.
     XV. CAPTAIN YORKE CLAYTON.
    XVI. CAPTAIN CLAYTON COMES TO THE CASTLE.




NOTE.

This novel was to have contained sixty chapters. My father had
written as much as is now published before his last illness. It will
be seen that he had not finished the forty-ninth chapter; and the
fragmentary portion of that chapter stands now just as he left it.
He left no materials from which the tale could be completed, and no
attempt at completion will be made. At the end of the third volume I
have stated what were his intentions with regard to certain people in
the story; but beyond what is there said I know nothing.

HENRY M. TROLLOPE.




THE LANDLEAGUERS.


CHAPTER I.

MR. JONES OF CASTLE MORONY.


In the year 1850 the two estates of Ballintubber and Morony were sold
to Mr. Philip Jones, under the Estates Court, which had then been
established. They had been the property of two different owners, but
lay conveniently so as to make one possession for one proprietor.
They were in the County Galway, and lay to the right and left of
the road which runs down from the little town of Headford to Lough
Corrib. At the time when the purchase was made there was no quieter
spot in all Ireland, or one in which the lawful requirements of
a landlord were more readily performed by a poor and obedient
tenantry. The people were all Roman Catholics, were for the most part
uneducated, and it may be said of them that not only were their souls
not their own, but that they were not ambitious even of possessing
their own bodies. Circumstances have changed much with them since
that date. Not only have they in part repudiated the power of the
priest as to their souls, but, in compliance with teaching which has
come to them from America, they claim to be masters also of their
bodies. Never were a people less fitted to exercise such dominion
without control. Generous, kindly, impulsive, and docile, they have
been willing to follow any recognised leader. When Philip Jones
bought the property that had belonged to the widow O'Dwyer--for
Ballintubber had for the last hundred years been the property of the
O'Dwyers--and Morony, which, had been an outlying town-land belonging
to the Hacketts for the last two centuries, he had at first been
looked down upon as a new comer. But all that had passed by, and Mr.
Jones was as much respected as though he had been an O'Jones from the
time of Queen Elizabeth. But now the American teaching had come up,
and things were different.

Mr. Jones had expended over L30,000 in purchasing the property, and
was congratulated by all men on having done well with his money.
There were some among his friends in England--and his friends were
all English--who had told him that he was incurring a great risk in
going into so distant and wild a country. But it was acknowledged
that he could not in England have obtained so good a return in
the way of rent. And it was soon found that the opportunities for
improving the property were many and close at hand. At the end of
ten years all men who knew Mr. Jones personally, or had seen the
increasing comforts of Morony Castle, declared that, as he liked the
kind of life, he had done uncommonly well for himself.

Nor had he done badly for his three married sisters, each of whom had
left L4,000 in his hands. All the circumstances of the Miss Jones's
as they had been, it will be here unnecessary to explain. Since
Philip had become owner of Morony Castle, each of them had married,
and the three brothers-in-law were equally well satisfied with the
investment of their money. It will, however, thus be understood that
the property did not belong entirely to Mr. Jones, and that the
brothers-in-law and their wives were part owners. Mr. Jones, however,
had been in possession of some other means, and had been able to use
capital in improving the estate. But he was an aspiring man, and
in addition to his money had borrowed something beyond. The sum
borrowed, however, had been so small and so well expended, as to have
created no sense of embarrassment in his mind.

When our story commences he was the father of four children. The
elder and the younger were boys, and two girls came between them.
In 1880, Frank, the elder, was two-and-twenty. The two girls who
followed close after were twenty and nineteen, and the youngest boy,
who was born after an interval of nearly ten years, was but ten years
old. Some years after the mother had died, and Mr. Jones had since
lived as a widower. It may be as well to state here that in 1880 he
was fifty-five years old.

When his wife had died, the nature of the man had apparently been
changed. Of all men he had been the most cheerful, the most eager,
and the most easily pleased. He had worked hard at his property, and
had loved his work. He knew every man and woman about the place, and
always had a word to say to them. He had had a sailing boat on the
lake, in which he had spent much of his time, but his wife had always
been with him. Since her death he had hardly put his foot within the
boat. He had lately become quick and short-tempered, but always with
a visible attempt to be kind to those around him. But people said
of him that since his wife had died he had shown an indifference to
the affairs of the world. He was anxious--so it was said--to leave
matters as much as possible to his son; but, as has been already
stated, his son was only twenty-two. He had formerly taken a great
pleasure in attending the assizes at Galway. He had been named as a
grand juror for the county, which he had indeed regarded as a great
compliment; but since his wife's death he had not once attended.

People said of him that he had become indifferent to the work of
his life, but in this they hardly spoke the truth. He had become
indifferent rather to what had been its pleasures. To that which his
conscience told him was its work, he applied himself with assiduity
enough. There were two cares which sat near his heart: first, that no
one should rob him; and secondly, that he should rob no one. It will
often be the case that the first will look after itself, whereas the
second will require careful watching. It was certainly the case with
Philip Jones that he was most anxious to rob no one. He was, perhaps,
a little too anxious that no one should rob him.

A few words must be said of his children. Frank, the eldest, was
a good-looking, clever boy, who had been educated at the Queen's
College, at Galway, and would have been better trained to meet the
world had circumstances enabled him to be sent to a public school
in England. As it was he thought himself, as heir to Morony Castle,
to be a little god upon earth; and he thought also that it behoved
his sisters and his brother, and the various dependents about the
place, to treat him as though he were a god. To his father he was
respectful, and fairly obedient in all matters, save one. As to that
one matter, from which arose some trouble, much will have to be said
as the story goes on.

The two girls were named Ada and Edith, and were, in form and figure,
very unlike each other. Ada, the eldest, was tall, fair-haired, and
very lovely. It was admitted in County Galway that among the Galway
lasses no girl exceeded Ada Jones in brightness of beauty. She was
sweet-tempered also, and gracious as she was lovely. But Edith did
not share the gifts, which the fairy had bestowed upon her sister, in
equal parts. She was, however, clever, and kind, and affectionate. In
all matters, within the house, she was ready to accept a situation
below her sister's; but this was not by her sister's doing. The
demigod of the family seemed to assume this position, but on Ada's
part there was no assumption. Edith, however, felt her infirmity.
Among girls this is made to depend more on physical beauty than on
other gifts, and there was no doubt that in this respect Edith was
the inferior. She was dark, and small of stature, not ungraceful in
her movements, or awkward in her person. She was black-haired, as had
been her mother's, and almost swarthy in her complexion, and there
was a squareness about her chin which robbed her face of much of its
feminine softness. But her eyes were very bright, and when she would
laugh, or say something intended to make another laugh, her face
would be brightened up with fun, good-humour, or wit, in a manner
which enabled no one to call her plain.

Of the younger boy, Florian, much will be said as the story goes
on; but what can be said of a boy who is only ten which shall be
descriptive and also interesting? He was small of his age, but clever
and sharp, and, since his mother's death, had been his father's
darling. He was beautiful to look at, as were all the children,
except poor Edith, but the neighbours declared that his education
had been much neglected. His father intended to send him to college
at Galway. A bright vision had for a short time flitted before the
father's eyes, and he had thought that he would have the boy prepared
for Winchester; but lately things had not gone quite so well at
Morony Castle, and that idea had passed by. So that it was now
understood that Florian Jones would follow his brother to Galway
College. Those who used to watch his ways would declare that the
professors of Galway College would have some trouble with him.

While the mother had lived no family had been more easily ruled than
that of the Jones's, but since her death some irregularities had gone
on. The father had made a favourite of the younger boy, and thereby
had done mischief. The eldest son, too, had become proud of his
position, and an attempt had been made to check him with a hard hand;
and yet much in the absolute working of the farm had been left to
him. Then troubles had come, in which Mr. Jones would be sometimes
too severe, and sometimes too lenient. Of the girls it must be
acknowledged that they were to be blamed for no fault after the first
blow had come. Everyone at Morony had felt that the great blow had
been the death of the mistress. But it must be confessed that other
things had happened shortly afterwards which had tended to create
disturbance. One of the family had declared that he intended to
become a Roman Catholic. The Jones's had been Protestants, the father
and mother having both come from England as Protestants. They were
not, therefore, Ultra-Protestants, as those will know who best
know Ireland. There had been no horror of a Catholic. According to
Mrs. Jones the way to heaven had been open to both Catholic and
Protestant, only it had suited her to say her prayers after the
Protestant fashion. The girls had been filled with no pious fury;
and as to Mr. Jones himself, some of the Protestant devotees in the
neighbourhood of Tuam had declared that he was only half-hearted in
the matter. An old clergyman, attached to the cathedral, and who had
been chaplain to Bishop Plunket, had been heard to declare that he
would rather have to deal with an avowed <DW7>.

But the one who had now declared himself as a convert,--I will say
pervert if my readers wish it,--was no other than our young friend
Florian. He came in one day and assured his sisters that he meant
to be a Roman Catholic. They only laughed at him, and told him that
he did not know what he was talking about. "Don't I though?" said
Florian. "I've had no end of an argument with Father Malachi, and
he's got the best o' me. I'm not going to church any more." When his
brother Frank was told, he threatened to "lick the young sinner."
"That's about the best can be said for you Protestants," said the
young imp. "You lick us when you're strong enough." But the father,
when he heard the tidings, declared that he would not have his son
molested. No doubt he would live to see his mistake. It was to be
hoped that he would do so. But there should be no compulsion. So
Master Florian remained for the present attached to his Catholic
propensities, and duly went to mass at Ballintubber. This had taken
place in the autumn of the year.

There had occurred a circumstance which may be called the beginning
of our story. It must first be told that Mr. Jones kept about four
hundred acres of the estate in his own hands, and had been held to
have done very well with it. A tract of this land lay down on Lough
Corrib, and had in former days produced almost nothing but rushes.
By means of drains and sluices, which had not been brought into use
without the expenditure of much capital, he had thoroughly fertilised
some eighty acres, where he grew large crops of hay, which he sent
across the lake to Galway, and fed his sheep on the after-grass with
great profit. But the care of the sluices had been a great labour,
and, latterly, a great trouble to Mr. Jones. He had looked for no
evil at the hands of his workmen, or tenants, or neighbours. But he
had been taught by experience to expect great carelessness. It was
when the rain had fallen in heavy quantities, and when the Lough was
full that the evil was chiefly expected. Late in the autumn there
came news up to the Castle, that the flood gates on the Ballintubber
marshes had now been opened, and that the entire eighty acres were
under water. Mr. Jones and his eldest son rushed down, and found
that it was impossible to do anything. They could only wait till the
waters had retreated, which would not take place for six months. The
entire crop for the next year had been destroyed. Then Mr. Jones
returned to the Castle stricken by a great blow, and was speechless
for the rest of the day.

When the news had been brought, the family had been together at the
breakfast table. The father and son had gone out together with the
teller of the story. But Ada and Edith and Florian were left at the
table. They all sat looking at each other till Edith was the first to
speak.

"Flory, what do you know of all this?"

"What should I know?" said Flory. The two sisters looked at him, and
each was aware that he did know something. Ada was not so quick as
Edith, but even she was aroused. And from this moment Edith began to
take the lead in managing her brother.

"You do," said Ada. "How was it done? Who did it--and why?"

"Sorrow a know, I know," said the boy.

"Flory, that is a lie," said Edith very solemnly, looking at him with
all her eyes.

"You've no right to say that," said Florian. "It's just because I've
turned Catholic, and it's all your spite." But the boy blushed ruby
red, and the colour told its own story.

As soon as the news had been announced, Edith had seen the boy's
countenance and had instantly watched him. His colour had not risen
at once; but his lower jaw had fallen, and his eyes had glanced
furtively round, and his whole frame had quivered. Then the rush of
blood had flown to his face, and the story had been told so that
Edith could read it. His first emotion had made it plain even to Ada.
"Flory, you know all about it," said Ada.

Edith got up and went across the room and knelt down at the boy's
side, leaning against his chair and looking up into his face. "Flory,
you may lie with your voice, but you cannot stifle your heart within
you. You have confessed the truth."

"I have not," said Flory; "I wasn't in it at all."

"Who says that you were in it? But you know."

"'Deed and I know nothin'." Now the boy began to cry. "You have no
right to say I did it. Why should I do the likes of that?"

"Where were you at four o'clock yesterday afternoon?" asked Edith.

"I was just out, up at the lodge yonder."

"Flory, I know that you have seen this thing done. I am as certain of
it as though I had been there myself."

"I haven't seen anything done--and I won't stay here to be questioned
this way," said the boy, feeling that his blushes would betray him,
and his incapacity to "lie square," as the Americans say.

Then the two sisters were left to talk over the matter together. "Did
you not see it in his face?" said Edith.

"Yes, I saw something. But you don't mean to say that he knew it was
to be done? That would make him a fiend."

"No; I don't think he knew it was to be done. But when Frank was
teasing him the other day about his Catholic nonsense, and saying
that he would not trust a <DW7>, Florian took the part of Pat
Carroll. If there be a man about the place who would do a base turn
to father, it's Pat Carroll. Now I know that Flory was down near the
lough yesterday afternoon. Biddy Ryan saw him. If he went on he must
have seen the water coming in."

"What shall we do?" asked Ada.

"Ah!--that's just it. What shall we do? If he could be made to tell
the truth, that would be best. But as he denies it, father will
believe him. Florian will say that we are spiting him because of his
religion."

"But, Edith, we must tell father." At last it was decided that Edith
should take the boy and talk to him. He was more prone to listen to
Edith than to Ada. Edith did find her brother, and talked to him for
an hour,--but in vain. He had managed to collect himself after his
past breakdown, and was better able to bear the examination to which
his sister put him, than at the first moment. He still blushed when
he was questioned; till he became dogged and surly. The interview
ended with repeated asseverations on Flory's part, that he knew
nothing of the meadows.

Mr. Jones and his eldest son returned to the house, having been
absent the entire day. "As sure as I am a living man, Pat Carroll has
been at the doing of it," said Frank.

"He cannot have done it alone," said Ada.

"There have been others in it."

"That has been the worst of it," said the father. "Of course I have
known since the beginning of the year, that that man would do any
devil's turn of work against me. But one man cannot do much."

"Too much! too much!" said Edith.

"One man can murder me, of course. But we haven't yet come to such a
state of things as that. Twelve months ago I thought there was not a
man about the place who would raise his hand to do me an ill turn. I
have done them many good turns in my time."

"You have, father," said Ada.

"Then this man came to me and said that because the tenants away in
County Mayo were not paying their rents, he could not pay his. And he
can sell his interest on his holding now for L150. When I endeavoured
to explain this to him, and that it was at my cost his interest in
the farm has been created, he became my enemy. I don't mind that; one
has to look for that. But that others should be joined in it, and
that there should be no one to say that they had seen it! There must
have been five pairs of hands at work, and twenty pairs of eyes must
have seen what the others were doing."

The two sisters looked at each other, but they said nothing. "I
suppose we shall work it out of them some day," said Frank.

"I suppose nothing of the kind," said the father. "There are eighty
acres of meadow lying under Lough Corrib this moment which will not
give a ton of hay next summer, or food for a sheep next autumn. The
pastures will be saturated, and sheep would perish with foot-rot
and fluke. Then money must be laid out again upon it, just that Mr.
Carroll may again wreak his vengeance." After that there was silence,
for the children felt that not a word could be spoken which would
comfort their father.

When they sat down to dinner, Mr. Jones asked after Florian. "He's
not well," said Edith.

"Florian not well! So there's another misfortune."

"His ill-health is rather ill-humour. Biddy will take care of him,
father."

"I do not choose that he should be looked after by Biddy in solitude.
I suppose that somebody has been teasing him."

"No, father," said Edith, positively.

"Has anyone been speaking to him about his religion?"

"Not a word," said Edith. Then she told herself that to hold her
tongue at the present moment would be cowardly. "Florian, father, has
misbehaved himself, and has gone away cross. I would leave him, if I
were you, till to-morrow."

"I know there is ill-will against him," said the father. All this was
ill-judged on behalf of Mr. Jones. Peter, the old butler, who had
lived in the family, was in the room. Peter, of course, was a Roman
Catholic, and, though he was as true as steel, it could not but be
felt that in this absurd contest he was on the side of the "young
masther."

Down in the kitchen the conversion of the "young masther" to the true
religion was a great affair, and Mr. Frank and the young ladies were
looked upon as hard-hearted and cruel, because they stood in the way
of this act of grace. Nothing more was said about Florian that night.




CHAPTER II.

THE MAN IN THE MASK.


Edith, before she went to bed that night, crept up to her brother's
bedroom and seated herself on the bedside. It was a little room which
Florian occupied alone, and lay at the back of the house, next to
that in which Peter slept. Here, as she sat on the bed, she could see
by a glance that young Florian feigned to be asleep.

"Flory, you are pretending to be asleep." Flory uttered a short
snore,--or rather snort, for he was not a good actor. "You may as
well wake up, because otherwise I shall shake you."

"Why am I to be shaked up in bed?"

"Because I want to speak to you."

"Why am I to be made to speak when I want to sleep?"

"Papa has been talking about you downstairs. He has come home from
Ballintubber, very tired and very unhappy, and he thinks you have
been made to go to bed without your supper because we have been
attacking you about religion. I have told him that nobody has said
a word to you."

"But you did."

"Not a word."

"You didn't tell him all that you told me--about letting in the
water?" This was asked in a tone of great anxiety.

"Not a word,--not as yet."

"And you won't? Mind, I tell you it's all untrue. What do I know
about letting in the water?"

"Who did it?"

"I'm not going to tell."

"You know, then?"

"No, I don't. But I'm not going to tell as though I knew it. You
don't care about it in your religion, but we Catholics don't like
telling lies."

"You saw nothing?"

"Whatever I saw I'm not to tell a lie about it."

"You've promised not, you mean?"

"Now, Edy, you're not going to trap me. You've got your own religion
and I've got mine. It's a great thing in our religion to be able to
hold your tongue. Father Malachi says it's one of the greatest trials
which a man has to go through."

"Then, Flory, am I to gather that you will say nothing further to
me?" Here the boy shook his head. "Because in that case I must tell
father. At any rate, he must be told, and if you do not tell him, I
shall."

"What is there to be told?"

"I shall tell him exactly what I saw,--and Ada. I saw,--we saw,--that
when the news came about the flood, you were conscious of it all.
If you will go to father and tell him the truth he will be but
very little angry with you. I don't suppose you had a hand in it
yourself."

"No!" shouted the boy.

"But I think you saw it, and that they made you swear an oath. Was
that not so?"

"No!" whispered the boy.

"I am sure it was so." Then the boy again plucked up his courage, and
declared with a loud voice, that it was not so.

That night before she retired to rest, Edith went to her father and
told him all that she had to say. She took Ada with her, and together
they used all their eloquence to make their father believe as they
believed.

"No," said Edith, "he has not confessed. But words drop from him
