ERY soon after her husband's death, things began to go wrong with Mrs. Flanagan. She had "a long, weak family," which was against her. Eight children she had, and the six eldest of them were girls, who were little good on the land. Labouring men were expensive to hire, and impossible to get when they were most wanted. Cattle sickened and died mysteriously. The old mare got feeble; the young mare broke her leg in a bog-hole. Year after year the pigs brought no price, and feeding stuff was dear. For five years the widow struggled on in an incompetent manner against impossible circumstances. Then she collapsed.
She owed four years' rent to the agent, and she owed a sum which did not bear thinking of to Patrick Sweeny, Mr. Patrick Sweeny, Esq., J.P., D.C., who kept the shop. The statement of the amount of this debt brought a weakness on Mrs. Flanagan when it arrived by post, a weakness from which she did not rally for more than a week. It was impossible to believe that the Indian meal, on which she fed her children and her chickens, the occasional lock of seed potatoes, the bag or two of patent fertiliser, the grain of tea, could have cost the monstrous sum which faced her at the foot of the bill. It was true that she had paid Mr. Patrick Sweeny no actual cash for nearly three years; but she had brought him eggs, pounds of butter, geese in the autumn, chickens in the spring; she had given her eldest daughter to his service, and twice he had bought young heifers from her. She had not investigated the condition of her account, but she believed in a vague way that things must be pretty even between her and Mr. Patrick Sweeny. The sudden disclosure of the real condition of affairs brought on the weakness.
She rallied to discover that she was going to be evicted. On the whole, she received the news with a sense of relief. Her farm was a good one, held at a judicial rent. The tenant's interest would sell for a respectable sum. The agent's claim would be satisfied, Mr. Patrick Sweeny's bill settled, and she would have enough left to pay her way to America. There, no doubt, the girls would get something to do. Anyway, she would have a little money in her pocket, and "Sure, God is good."
In due time notices appeared in the local paper of a sale by auction of the tenant's interest in Gorteen farm. There was much talk in the neighbourhood. It was reckoned that £250 would not be too high a price to pay for the place, and that maybe it would fetch £300. The land was good, and the rent was moderate. The manager of the local branch of the Dublin Bank was consulted by more than one ambitious speculator. He was willing to make advances to his customers for the purpose of purchasing the farm. The tenant's interest in the land was good security. There was every prospect of brisk bidding at the auction.
Mr. Patrick Sweeny, Esq., J.P., Chairman of the D.C.—it was thus that he liked his friends to describe him on the outside of the envelopes—was a great man in the locality. A very large number of people owed him money, and, therefore, were obliged to vote as he wished them to vote at elections. Therefore, he was Chairman of the District Council. His son was inspector of sheep-dipping, at a salary. His son-in-law was rate-collector, with a salary. He himself held the Union contracts for potatoes, turf, milk, flour, and meal, and sometimes acknowledged that he made a profit out of them. One of his nephews was the dispensary doctor; his salary was small, but he made something out of his private practice. Mr. Patrick Sweeny frequently advanced to impecunious farmers the amount necessary to pay the doctor's fees. Another nephew was Member of Parliament for the Southern Division of the County; he also drew a salary.
Once, a very long time ago, it was extremely profitable in Ireland to be connected with one of the great families. A man prospered if he was second cousin to Lord Shannon, or married to a distant relative of Mr. Ponsonby's. We live in a democratic age, and the old iniquities are swept away. The bluest blood is no use to a man now. To have an earl for a relative is nothing. The thing to be is the son of a provincial publican, or, if that is impossible, to marry his daughter or his niece.