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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Untilled Field
+by George Moore
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+Title: The Untilled Field
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+by George Moore
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+
+THE UNTILLED FIELD
+
+by George Moore
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+
+
+   I. IN THE CLAY
+  II. SOME PARISHIONERS
+ III. THE EXILE
+  IV. HOME SICKNESS
+   V. A LETTER TO ROME
+  VI. JULIA CAHILL'S CURSE
+ VII. A PLAYHOUSE IN THE WASTE
+VIII. THE WEDDING-GOWN
+  IX. THE CLERK'S QUEST
+   X. "ALMS-GIVING"
+  XI. SO ON HE FARES
+ XII. THE WILD GOOSE
+XIII. THE WAY BACK
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+IN THE CLAY
+
+
+
+
+It was a beautiful summer morning, and Rodney was out of his bed
+at six o'clock. He usually went for a walk before going to his
+studio, and this morning his walk had been a very pleasant one,
+for yesterday's work had gone well with him. But as he turned into
+the mews in which his studio was situated he saw the woman whom he
+employed to light his fire standing in the middle of the roadway.
+He had never seen her standing in the middle of the roadway before
+and his doors wide open, and he instantly divined a misfortune,
+and thought of the Virgin and Child he had just finished. There
+was nothing else in his studio that he, cared much about. A few
+busts, done long ago, and a few sketches; no work of importance,
+nothing that he cared about or that could not be replaced if it
+were broken.
+
+He hastened his steps and he would have run if he had not been
+ashamed to betray his fears to the char-woman.
+
+"I'm afraid someone has been into the studio last night. The hasp
+was off the door when I came this morning. Some of the things are
+broken."
+
+Rodney heard no more. He stood on the threshold looking round the
+wrecked studio. Three or four casts had been smashed, the floor
+was covered with broken plaster, and the lay figure was
+overthrown, Rodney saw none of these things, he only saw that his
+Virgin and Child was not on the modelling stool, and not seeing it
+there, he hoped that the group had been stolen, anything were
+better than that it should have been destroyed. But this is what
+had happened: the group, now a mere lump of clay, lay on the
+floor, and the modelling stand lay beside it.
+
+"I cannot think," said the charwoman, "who has done this. It was a
+wicked thing to do. Oh, sir, they have broken this beautiful
+statue that you had in the Exhibition last year," and she picked
+up the broken fragments of a sleeping girl.
+
+"That doesn't matter," said Rodney. "My group is gone."
+
+"But that, sir, was only in the clay. May I be helping you to pick
+it up, sir? It is not broken altogether perhaps."
+
+Rodney waved her aside. He was pale and he could not speak, and
+was trembling. He had not the courage to untie the cloths, for he
+knew there was nothing underneath but clay, and his manner was so
+strange that the charwoman was frightened. He stood like one dazed
+by a dream. He could not believe in reality, it was too mad, too
+discordant, too much like a nightmare. He had only finished the
+group yesterday!
+
+He still called it his Virgin and Child, but it had never been a
+Virgin and Child in the sense suggested by the capital letters,
+for he had not yet put on the drapery that would convert a naked
+girl and her baby into the Virgin and Child. He had of course
+modelled his group in the nude first, and Harding, who had been
+with him the night before last, had liked it much better than
+anything he had done, Harding had said that he must not cover it
+with draperies, that he must keep it for himself, a naked girl
+playing with a baby, a piece of paganism. The girl's head was not
+modelled when Harding had seen it. It was the conventional
+Virgin's head, but Harding had said that he must send for his
+model and put his model's head upon it. He had taken Harding's
+advice and had sent for Lucy, and had put her pretty, quaint
+little head upon it. He had done a portrait of Lucy. If this
+terrible accident had not happened last night, the caster would
+have come to cast it to-morrow, and then, following Harding's
+advice always, he would have taken a "squeeze," and when he got it
+back to the clay again he was going to put on a conventional head,
+and add the conventional draperies, and make the group into the
+conventional Virgin and Child, suitable to Father McCabe's
+cathedral.
+
+This was the last statue he would do in Ireland. He was leaving
+Ireland. On this point his mind was made up, and the money he was
+going to receive for this statue was the money that was going to
+take him away. He had had enough of a country where there had
+never been any sculpture or any painting, nor any architecture to
+signify. They were talking about reviving the Gothic, but Rodney
+did not believe in their resurrections or in their renaissance or
+in their anything. "The Gael has had his day. The Gael is
+passing." Only the night before he and Harding had had a long talk
+about the Gael, and he had told Harding that he had given up the
+School of Art, that he was leaving Ireland, and Harding had
+thought that this was an extreme step, but Rodney had said that he
+did not want to die, that no one wanted to die less than he did,
+but he thought he would sooner die than go on teaching. He had
+made some reputation and had orders that would carry him on for
+some years, and he was going where he could execute them, to where
+there were models, to where there was art, to where there was the
+joy of life, out of a damp religious atmosphere in which nothing
+flourished but the religious vocation.
+
+"Good Heavens! How happy I was yesterday, full of hope and
+happiness, my statue finished, and I had arranged to meet Harding
+in Rome. The blow had fallen in the night. Who had done this? Who
+had destroyed it?"
+
+He fell into a chair, and sat helpless like his own lay figure. He
+sat there like one on whom some stupor had fallen, and he was as
+white as one of the casts; the charwoman had never seen anyone
+give way like that before, and she withdrew very quietly.
+
+In a little while he got up and mechanically kicked the broken
+pieces of plaster aside. The charwoman was right, they had broken
+his sleeping girl: that did not matter much, but the beautiful
+slenderness, the grace he had caught from Lucy's figure--those
+slendernesses, those flowing rhythms, all these were gone; the
+lovely knees were ugly clay. Yes, there was the ruin, the ignoble
+ruin, and he could not believe in it; he still hoped he would wake
+and find he had been dreaming, so difficult is it to believe that
+the living have turned to clay.
+
+In front of him there was the cheval glass, and overcome though he
+was by misfortune he noticed that he was a small, pale, wiry, and
+very dark little man, with a large bony forehead. He had seen,
+strangely enough, such a bumpy forehead, and such narrow eyes in a
+Florentine bust, and it was some satisfaction to him to see that
+he was the typical Italian.
+
+"If I had lived three hundred years ago," he said, "I should have
+been one of Cellini's apprentices."
+
+And yet he was the son of a Dublin builder! His father had never
+himself thought to draw, but he had always taken an interest in
+sculpture and painting, and he had said before Rodney was born
+that he would like to have a son a sculptor. And he waited for the
+little boy to show some signs of artistic aptitude. He pondered
+every scribble the boy made, and scribbles that any child at the
+same age could have done filled him with admiration. But when
+Rodney was fourteen he remodelled some leaves that had failed to
+please an important customer; and his father was overcome with
+joy, and felt that his hopes were about to be realised. For the
+customer, who professed a certain artistic knowledge, praised the
+leaves that Rodney had designed, and soon after Rodney gave a
+still further proof of his desire for art by telling his mother he
+did not care to go to Mass, that Mass depressed him and made him
+feel unhappy, and he had begged to be allowed to stay at home and
+do some modelling. His father excused his son's want of religious
+feeling on the ground that no one can think of two things at once,
+and John was now bent on doing sculpture. He had converted a
+little loft into a studio, and was at work there from dusk to
+dusk, and his father used to steal up the ladder from time to time
+to watch his son's progress. He used to say there was no doubt
+that he had been forewarned, and his wife had to admit that it did
+seem as if he had had some pre-vision of his son's genius: how
+else explain the fact that he had said he would like to have a son
+a sculptor three months before the child was born?
+
+Rodney said he would like to go to the School of Art, and his
+father kept him there for two years, though he sorely wanted him
+to help in the business. There was no sacrifice that the elder
+Rodney would not have made for his son. But Rodney knew that he
+could not always count upon his father's help, and one day he
+realised quite clearly that the only way for him to become a
+sculptor was by winning scholarships. There were two waiting to be
+won by him, and he felt that he would have no difficulty in
+winning them. That year there was a scholarship for twenty-five
+pounds, and there was another scholarship that he might win in the
+following year, and he thought of nothing else but these
+scholarships until he had won them; then he started for Paris with
+fifty pounds in his pocket, and a resolve in his heart that he
+would live for a year and pay his fees out of this sum of money.
+Those were hard days, but they were likewise great days. He had
+been talking to Harding about those days in Paris the night before
+last, and he had told him of the room at the top of the house for
+which he paid thirty francs a month. There was a policeman on one
+side and there was a footman on the other. It was a bare little
+room, and he lived principally on bread. In those days his only
+regret was that he had not the necessary threepence to go to the
+cafe. "One can't go to the cafe without threepence to pay for the
+harmless bock, and if one has threepence one can sit in the cafe
+discussing Carpeaux, Rodin, and the mysteries, until two in the
+morning, when one is at last ejected by an exhausted proprietor at
+the head of numerous waiters."
+
+Rodney's resolutions were not broken; he had managed to live for
+nearly a year in Paris upon fifty pounds, and when he came to the
+end of his money he went to London in search of work. He found
+himself in London with two pounds, but he had got work from a
+sculptor, a pupil of Dalous: "a clever man," Rodney said, "a good
+sculptor; it is a pity he died." At this time Garvier was in
+fairly good health and had plenty of orders, and besides Rodney he
+employed three Italian carvers, and from these Italians Rodney
+learned Italian, and he spent two years in London earning three
+pounds a week. But the time came when the sculptor had no more
+work for Rodney, and one day he told him that he would not require
+him that week, there was no work for him, nor was there the next
+week or the next, and Rodney kicked his heels and pondered Elgin
+marbles for a month. Then he got a letter from the sculptor saying
+he had some work for him to do; and it was a good job of work, and
+Rodney remained with Garvier for two months, knowing very well
+that his three pounds a week was precarious fortune. Some time
+after, the sculptor's health began to fail him and he had to leave
+London. Rodney received news of his death two years afterwards. He
+was then teaching sculpture in the art schools of Northampton, and
+he wondered whether, if Garvier had lived, he would have succeeded
+in doing better work than he had done.
+
+From Northampton he went to Edinburgh, he wandered even as far as
+Inverness. From Inverness he had been called back to Dublin, and
+for seven years he had taught in the School of Art, saving money
+every year, putting by a small sum of money out of the two hundred
+pounds that he received from the Government, and all the money he
+got for commissions. He accepted any commission, he had executed
+bas-reliefs from photographs. He was determined to purchase his
+freedom, and a sculptor requires money more than any other artist.
+
+Rodney had always looked upon Dublin as a place to escape from. He
+had always desired a country where there was sunshine and
+sculpture. The day his father took him to the School of Art he had
+left his father talking to the head-master, and had wandered away
+to look at a Florentine bust, and this first glimpse of Italy had
+convinced him that he must go to Italy and study Michael Angelo
+and Donatello. Only twice had he relaxed the severity of his rule
+of life and spent his holidays in Italy. He had gone there with
+forty pounds in his pocket, and had studied art where art had
+grown up naturally, independent of Government grants and
+mechanical instruction, in a mountain town like Perugia; and his
+natural home had seemed to him those narrow, white streets
+streaked with blue shadows. "Oh, how blue the shadows are there in
+the morning," he had said the other night to Harding, "and the
+magnificent sculpture and painting! In the afternoon the sun is
+too hot, but at evening one stands at the walls of the town and
+sees sunsets folding and unfolding over Italy. I am at home amid
+those Southern people, and a splendid pagan life is always before
+one's eyes, ready to one's hand. Beautiful girls and boys are
+always knocking at one's doors. Beautiful nakedness abounds.
+Sculpture is native to the orange zone--the embers of the
+renaissance smoulder under orange-trees."
+
+He had never believed in any Celtic renaissance, and all the talk
+he had heard about stained glass and the revivals did not deceive
+him. "Let the Gael disappear," he said. "He is doing it very
+nicely. Do not interfere with his instinct. His instinct is to
+disappear in America. Since Cormac's Chapel he has built nothing
+but mud cabins. Since the Cross of Cong he has imported Virgins
+from Germany. However, if they want sculpture in this last hour I
+will do some for them."
+
+And Rodney had designed several altars and had done some religious
+sculpture, or, as he put it to himself, he had done some sculpture
+on religious themes. There was no such thing as religious
+sculpture, and could not be. The moment art, especially sculpture,
+passes out of the domain of the folk tale it becomes pagan.
+
+One of Rodney's principal patrons was a certain Father McCabe, who
+had begun life by making an ancient abbey ridiculous by adding a
+modern steeple. He had ruined two parishes by putting up churches
+so large that his parishioners could not afford to keep them in
+repair. All this was many years ago, and the current story was
+that a great deal of difficulty had been experienced in settling
+Father McCabe's debts, and that the Bishop had threatened to
+suspend him if he built any more. However this may be, nothing was
+heard of Father McCabe for fifteen years. He retired entirely into
+private life, but at his Bishop's death he was heard of in the
+newspapers as the propounder of a scheme for the revival of Irish
+Romanesque. He had been to America, and had collected a large sum
+of money, and had got permission from his Bishop to set an example
+of what Ireland could do "in the line" of Cormac's Chapel.
+
+Rodney had designed an altar for him, and he had also given Rodney
+a commission for a statue of the Virgin. There were no models in
+Dublin. There was no nakedness worth a sculptor's while. One of
+the two fat unfortunate women that the artists of Dublin had been
+living upon for the last seven years was in child, the other had
+gone to England, and the memory of them filled Rodney with
+loathing and contempt and an extraordinary eagerness for Italy. He
+had been on the point of telling Father McCabe that he could not
+undertake to do the Virgin and Child because there were no models.
+He had just stopped in time. He had suddenly remembered that the
+priest did not know that sculptors use models; that he did not
+know, at all events, that a nude model would be required to model
+a Virgin from, and he had replied ambiguously, making no promise
+to do this group before he left Ireland. "If I can get a model
+here I will do it," he had said to himself. "If not, the
+ecclesiastic will have to wait until I get to Italy."
+
+Rodney no more believed in finding a good model in Dublin than he
+believed in Christianity. But the unexpected had happened. He had
+discovered in Dublin the most delicious model that had ever
+enchanted a sculptor's eyes, and this extraordinary good fortune
+had happened in the simplest way. He had gone to a solicitor's
+office to sign an agreement for one of Father McCabe's altars, and
+as he came in he saw a girl rise from her typewriting machine.
+There was a strange idle rhythm in her walk as she crossed the
+office, and Rodney, as he stood watching her, divined long
+tapering legs and a sinuous back. He did not know what her face
+was like. Before she had time to turn round, Mr. Lawrence had
+called him into his office, and he had been let out by a private
+door. Rodney had been dreaming of a good model, of the true
+proportions and delicate articulations that in Paris and Italy are
+knocking at your door all day, and this was the very model he
+wanted for his girl feeding chickens and for his Virgin, and he
+thought of several other things he might do from her. But he might
+as well wish for a star out of heaven, for if he were to ask that
+girl to sit to him she would probably scream with horror; she
+would run to her confessor, and the clergy would be up in arms.
+Rodney had put the girl out of his head, and had gone on with his
+design for an altar. But luck had followed him for this long
+while, and a few days afterwards he had met the pretty clerk in a
+tea-room. He had not seen her face before, and he did not know who
+it was until she turned to go, and as she was paying for her tea
+at the desk he asked her if Mr. Lawrence were in town. He could
+see that she was pleased at being spoken to. Her eyes were alert,
+and she told him that she knew he was doing altars for Father
+McCabe, and Father McCabe was a cousin of hers, and her father had
+a cheese-monger's shop, and their back windows overlooked the mews
+in which Rodney had his studio.
+
+"How late you work! Sometimes your light does not go out until
+twelve o'clock at night."
+
+Henceforth he met her at tea in the afternoons, and they went to
+the museum together, and she promised to try to get leave from her
+father and mother to sit to him for a bust. But she could only sit
+to him for an hour or two before she went to Mr. Lawrence, and
+Rodney said that she would be doing him an extraordinary favour if
+she would get up some hours earlier and sit to him from eight till
+ten. It was amusing to do the bust, but the bust was only a
+pretext. What he wanted her to do was to sit for the nude, and he
+could not help trying to persuade her, though he did not believe
+for a moment that he would succeed. He took her to the museum and
+he showed her the nude, and told her how great ladies sat for
+painters in the old times. He prepared the way very carefully, and
+when the bust was finished he told her suddenly that he must go to
+a country where he could get models. He could see she was
+disappointed at losing him, and he asked her if she would sit.
+
+"You don't want a nude model for Our Blessed Lady. Do you?"
+
+There was a look, half of hesitation, half of pleasure, and he
+knew that she would sit to him, and he guessed she would have sat
+to him long ago if he had asked her. No doubt his long delay in
+asking her to sit had made her fear he did not think her figure a
+good one. He had never had such a model before, not in France or
+in Italy, and had done the best piece of work he had ever done in
+his life. Harding had seen it, and had said that it was the best
+piece that he had done. Harding had said that he would buy it from
+him if he got rid of the conventional head, and when Harding had
+left him he had lain awake all night thinking how he should model
+Lucy's head, and he was up and ready for her at eight, and had
+done the best head he had ever done in his life.
+
+Good God! that head was now flattened out, and the child was
+probably thrown back over the shoulders. Nothing remained of his
+statue. He had not the strength to do or to think. He was like a
+lay figure, without strength for anything, and if he were to hear
+that an earthquake was shaking Dublin into ruins he would not
+care. "Shake the whole town into the sea," he would have said.
+
+The charwoman had closed the door, and he did not hear Lucy until
+she was in the studio.
+
+"I have come to tell you that I cannot sit again. But what has
+happened?"
+
+Rodney got up, and she could see that his misfortune was greater
+than her's.
+
+"Who has done this?" she said. "Your casts are all broken."
+
+"Who, indeed, has done this?"
+
+"Who broke them? What has happened? Tell me. They have broken the
+bust you did of me. And the statue of the Virgin--has anything
+happened to that?"
+
+"The statue of the Virgin is a lump of clay. Oh, don't look at it.
+I am out of my mind."
+
+She took two or three steps forward.
+
+"There it is," he said. "Don't speak about it, don't touch it."
+
+"Something may be left."
+
+"No, nothing is left. Don't look at me that way. I tell you
+nothing is left. It is a lump of clay, and I cannot do it again. I
+feel as if I never could do a piece of sculpture again, as if I
+never wanted to. But what are you thinking of? You said just now
+that you could not sit to me again. Tell me, Lucy, and tell me
+quickly. I can see you know something about this. You suspect
+someone."
+
+"No, I suspect no one. It is very strange."
+
+"You were going to tell me something when you came in. You said
+you could not sit to me again. Why is that?"
+
+"Because they have found out everything at home, that I sat for
+you, for the Virgin."
+
+"But they don't know that--"
+
+"Yes, they do. They know everything. Father McCabe came in last
+night, just after we had closed the shop. It was I who let him in,
+and mother was sorry. She knew he had come to ask father for a
+subscription to his church. But I had said that father and mother
+were at home, and when I brought him upstairs and we got into the
+light, he stood looking at me. He had not seen me for some years,
+and I thought at first it was because he saw me grown up. He sat
+down, and began to talk to father and mother about his church, and
+the altars he had ordered for it, and the statues, and then he
+said that you were doing a statue for him, and mother said that
+she knew you very well, and that you sometimes came to spend an
+evening with us, and that I sat to you. It was then that I saw him
+give a start. Unfortunately, I was sitting under a lamp reading a
+book, and the light was full upon my face, and he had a good view
+of it. I could see that he recognised me at once. You must have
+shown him the statue. It was yesterday you changed the head."
+
+"You had not gone an hour when he called, and I had not covered up
+the group. Now I am beginning to see light. He came here anxious
+to discuss every sort of thing with me, the Irish Romanesque, the
+Celtic renaissance, stained glass, the possibility of rebuilding
+another Cormac's Chapel. He sat warming his shins before the
+stove, and I thought he would have gone on for ever arguing about
+the possibility of returning to origins of art. I had to stop him,
+he was wasting all my day, and I brought over that table to show
+him my design for the altar. He said it was not large enough, and
+he took hours to explain how much room the priest would require
+for his book and his chalice. I thought I should never have got
+rid of him. He wanted to know about the statue of the Virgin, and
+he was not satisfied when I told him it was not finished. He
+prowled about the studio, looking into everything. I had sent him
+a sketch for the Virgin and Child, and he recognised the pose as
+the same, and he began to argue. I told him that sculptors always
+used models, and that even a draped figure had to be done from the
+nude first, and that the drapery went on afterwards. It was
+foolish to tell him these things, but one is tempted to tread on
+their ignorance, their bigotry; all they say and do is based on
+hatred of life. Iconoclast and peasant! He sent some religion-
+besotted slave to break my statue."
+
+"I don't think Father McCabe would have done that; he has got me
+into a great deal of trouble, but you are wronging him. He would
+not get a ruffian to break into your studio."
+
+Rodney and Lucy stood looking at each other, and she had spoken
+with such conviction that he felt she might be right.
+
+"But who else could do it except the priest? No one had any
+interest in having it done except the priest. He as much as told
+me that he would never get any pleasure from the statue now that
+he knew it had been done from a naked woman. He went away thinking
+it out. Ireland is emptying before them. By God, it must have been
+he. Now it all comes back to me. He has as much as said that
+something of the temptation of the naked woman would transpire
+through the draperies. He said that. He said that it would be a
+very awful thing if the temptations of the flesh were to transpire
+through the draperies of the Virgin. From the beginning they have
+looked upon women as unclean things. They have hated woman. Woman
+have to cover up their heads before they go into the churches.
+Everything is impure in their eyes, in their impure eyes, whereas
+I saw nothing in you but loveliness. He was shocked by those round
+tapering legs; and would have liked to curse them; and the dainty
+design of the hips, the beautiful little hips, and the breasts
+curved like shells, that I modelled so well. It is he who
+blasphemes. They blaspheme against Life.... My God, what a vile
+thing is the religious mind. And all the love and veneration that
+went into that statue! There it is: only a lump of clay."
+
+"I am sure you are wronging Father Tom; he has his faults, but he
+would not do such a thing as that."
+
+"Yes," said Rodney, "he would. I know them better than you. I know
+the creed. But you did not finish your story. Tell me what
+happened when he began to suspect that you sat for the statue."
+
+"He asked me if I had seen the statue of the Virgin in your
+studio. I grew red all over. I could not answer him, and mother
+said, 'Why don't you answer Father Tom?' I could see from his
+manner that he knew that I had sat for the statue. And then he
+said he wanted to speak to father and mother. Mother said I had
+read enough, that I had better go to bed."
+
+"And you went out of the room knowing what the priest was going to
+say?" said Rodney, melting into sympathy for the first time. "And
+then?"
+
+"I waited on the stairs for a little while, long enough to make
+sure that he was telling them that I had sat for the statue. I
+heard the door open, father came out, they talked on the landing.
+I fled into my room and locked the door, and just as I locked the
+door I heard father say, 'My daughter! you're insulting my
+daughter!' You know father is suffering from stone, and mother
+said, 'If you don't stop I shall be up with you all night,' and so
+she was. All the night I heard father moaning, and to-day he is so
+ill the doctor is with him, and he has been taken to the hospital,
+and mother says when he leaves the hospital he will turn me out of
+the house."
+
+"Well," said Rodney, "great misfortunes have happened us both. It
+was a cruel thing of the priest to tell your father that you sat
+for me. But to pay someone to wreck my studio!"
+
+Lucy begged of him not to believe too easily that Father McCabe
+had done this. He must wait a little while, and he had better
+communicate with the police. They would be able to find out who
+had done it.
+
+"Now," she said, "I must go."
+
+He glanced at the rags that had once covered his statue, but he
+had not the courage to undo them. If his statue had been cast the
+ruin would not be so irreparable. It could be put together in some
+sort of way.
+
+Who would have done it but the priest? It was difficult to believe
+that a priest could do such a thing, that anyone could do such a
+thing, it was an inhuman thing to do. He might go to the police as
+Lucy had suggested, and the police would inquire the matter out.
+But would that be of any satisfaction; a wretched fine, a few
+days' imprisonment. Of one thing he was sure, that nowhere except
+in Ireland could such a thing happen. Thank God he was going!
+There was at least satisfaction in knowing that only twelve hours
+of Ireland remained. To-morrow evening he would be in Paris. He
+would leave the studio as it was. Maybe he might take a few busts
+and sketches, a few books, and a few pictures; he must take some
+of them with him, and he tried to formulate some plan. But he
+could not collect his thoughts sufficiently to think out the
+details. Would there be time to have a case made, or should he
+leave them to be sold, or should he give orders that they should
+be sent after him?
+
+At that moment his eyes went towards the lump of clay, and he
+wished that he had asked the charwoman to take it out of his
+studio. He thought of it as one thinks of a corpse, and he took
+down a few books and tied them up with a string, and then forgot
+what he was doing. He and his country were two thousand years
+apart, and would always be two thousand years apart, and then
+growing superstitious, he wondered if his country had punished him
+for his contempt. There was something extraordinarily fateful in
+the accident that had happened to him. Such an accident had never
+happened to anyone before. A most singular accident! He stood
+looking through the studio unable to go on with his packing,
+thinking of what Harding and he had been saying to each other. The
+"Celtic renaissance!" Harding believed, or was inclined to
+believe, that the Gael was not destined to disappear, that in
+making the Cross of Cong he had not got as far as he was intended
+to get. But even Harding had admitted that no race had taken to
+religion quite so seriously as the Celt. The Druids had put aside
+the oak leaves and put on the biretta. There had never been a
+religious revolution in Ireland. In the fifth and sixth centuries
+all the intelligence of Ireland had gone into religion. "Ireland
+is immersed in the religious vocation, and there can be no
+renaissance without a religious revolt." The door of the studio
+opened. It was Lucy; and he wondered what she had come back for.
+
+"It wasn't Father Tom. I knew it wasn't," she said.
+
+"Do you know who it was then?"
+
+"Yes, my brothers, Pat and Taigdh."
+
+"Pat and Taigdh broke my statue! But what did they do that for?
+What did I ever do to them?"
+
+"I saw them whispering together. I could see they had a secret,
+something inspired me, and when Taigdh went out I got Pat by
+himself and I coaxed him and I frightened him. I told him that
+things had been broken in your studio, and that the police were
+making inquiries. I saw at once that he knew all about it. He got
+frightened and he told me that last night when I went to my room
+he and Taigdh came out of their room and had listened on the
+stairs. They did not understand everything that was said, they
+only understood that I had sat for a statue, and that the priest
+did not wish to put it up in his church, and that perhaps he would
+have to pay for it, and if he did not the Bishop would suspend
+him--you know there has always been talk about Father Tom's debts.
+They got talking, and Taigdh said he would like to see the statue,
+and he persuaded Pat to follow him, and they climbed along the
+wall and dropped into the mews, and got the hasp off the door with
+the kitchen poker."
+
+"But why did they break the statue?" said Rodney.
+
+"I don't think they know why themselves. I tried to get Pat to
+tell me, but all he could tell me was that he had bumped against a
+woman with a cloak on." "My lay figure."
+
+"And in trying to get out of the studio they had knocked down a
+bust, and after they had done that Taigdh said: 'We had better
+have down this one. The priest does not like it, and if we have it
+down he won't have to pay for it.'"
+
+"They must have heard the priest saying that he did not want the
+statue."
+
+"Very likely they did, but I am sure the priest never said that he
+wanted the statue broken."
+
+"Oh, it is a great muddle," said Rodney. "But there it is. My
+statue is broken. Two little boys have broken it. Two little boys
+who overheard a priest talking nonsense, and did not quite
+understand. I am going away to-night."
+
+"Then I shall not see you again,... and you said I was a good
+model."
+
+Her meaning was clear to him. He remembered how he had stood in
+the midst of his sculpture asking himself what a man is to do when
+a girl, walking with a walk at once idle and rhythmical, stops
+suddenly and puts her hand on his shoulder and looks up in his
+face. He had sworn he would not kiss her again and he had broken
+his oath, but the desire of her as a model had overborne every
+other desire. Now he was going away for ever, and his heart told
+him that she was as sweet a thing as he would find all the world
+over. But if he took her with him he would have to look after her
+till the end of his life. This was not his vocation. His
+hesitation endured but a moment, if he hesitated at all.
+
+"You'd like to go away with me, but what should I do with you. I'm
+thirty-five and you're sixteen." He could see that the difference
+of age did not strike her--she was not looking into the remote
+future.
+
+"I don't think, Lucy, your destiny is to watch me making statues.
+Your destiny is a gayer one than that. You want to play the piano,
+don't you?"
+
+"I should have to go to Germany to study, and I have no money.
+Well," she said, "I must go back now. I just came to tell you who
+had wrecked your studio. Good-bye. It has all been an unlucky
+business for both of us."
+
+"A beautiful model," Rodney said to himself, as he watched her
+going up the mews. "But there are other girls just as good in
+Paris and in Rome." And he remembered one who had sat to him in
+Paris, and this gave him courage. "So it was two little boys," he
+said, "who wrecked my studio. Two stupid little boys; two little
+boys who have been taught their Catechism, and will one day aspire
+to the priesthood." And that it should be two stupid little boys
+who had broken his statue seemed significant. "Oh, the ignorance,
+the crass, the patent ignorance! I am going. This is no place for
+a sculptor to live in. It is no country for an educated man. It
+won't be fit for a man to live in for another hundred years. It is
+an unwashed country, that is what it is!"
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+SOME PARISHIONERS
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+
+The way before him was plain enough, yet his uncle's apathy and
+constitutional infirmity of purpose seemed at times to thwart him.
+Some two or three days ago, he had come running down from Kilmore
+with the news that a baby had been born out of wedlock, and Father
+Stafford had shown no desire that his curate should denounce the
+girl from the altar.
+
+"The greatest saints," he said, "have been kind, and have found
+excuses for the sins of others."
+
+And a few days later, when Father Maguire told his uncle that the
+Salvationists had come to Kilmore, and that he had walked up the
+village street and slit their drum with a carving knife, his uncle
+had not approved of his conduct, and what had especially annoyed
+Father Tom was that his uncle seemed to deplore the slitting of
+the drum in the same way as he deplored that the Kavanaghs had a
+barrel of porter in every Saturday, namely, as one of those
+regrettable excesses to which human nature is liable. On being
+pressed he had agreed with his nephew that dancing and drinking
+were no preparation for the Sabbath, but he would not agree that
+evil could be suppressed by force. He had even hinted that too
+strict a rule brought about a revolt against the rule, and when
+Father Tom had expressed his disbelief at any revolt against the
+authority of the priest, Father Stafford said:--
+
+"They may just leave you, they may just go to America."
+
+"Then you think that it is our condemnation of sin that is driving
+the people to America."
+
+"My dear Tom, you told me the other day that you met a lad and a
+lass walking along the roadside, and that you drove them home. You
+told me you were sure they were talking about things they should
+not talk about; you have no right to assume these things. You're
+asking of the people an abstinence you don't practice yourself.
+Sometimes your friends are women."
+
+"Yes. But--"
+
+Father Tom's anger prevented him from finding an adequate
+argument. Father Stafford pushed the tobacco bowl towards his
+nephew.
+
+"You're not smoking, Tom."
+
+"Your point is that a certain amount of vice is inherent in human
+nature, and that if we raise the standard of virtuous living our
+people will escape from us to New York or London."
+
+"The sexes mix freely everywhere in western Europe; only in
+Ireland and Turkey is there any attempt made to separate them."
+
+Later in the evening Father Tom insisted that the measure of
+responsibility was always the same.
+
+"I should be sorry,' said his uncle, "to say that those who
+inherit drunkenness bear the same burden of responsibility as
+those who come of parents who are quite sane--"
+
+"You cannot deny, uncle John, that free will and predestination--"
+
+"My dear Tom, I really must go to bed. It is after midnight."
+
+As he walked home, Father Maguire thought of the great change he
+perceived in his uncle. Father Stafford liked to go to bed at
+eleven, the very name of St. Thomas seemed to bore him; fifteen
+years ago he would sit up till morning. Father Maguire remembered
+the theological debates, sometimes prolonged till after three
+o'clock, and the passionate scholiast of Maynooth seemed to him
+unrecognisable in the esurient Vicar-General, only occasionally
+interested in theology, at certain hours and when he felt
+particularly well. He could not reconcile the two ages, his mind
+not being sufficiently acute to see that after all no one can
+discuss theology for more than five-and-twenty years without
+wearying of the subject.
+
+The moon was shining among the hills and the mystery of the
+landscape seemed to aggravate his sensibility, and he asked
+himself if the guardians of the people should not fling themselves
+into the forefront of the battle. Men came to preach heresy in his
+parish--was he not justified in slitting their drum?
+
+He had recourse to prayer, and he prayed for strength and for
+guidance. He had accepted the Church, and in the Church he saw
+only apathy, neglect, and bad administration on the part of his
+superiors.... He had read that great virtues are, like large sums
+of money, deposited in the bank, whereas humility is like the
+pence, always at hand, always current. Obedience to our superiors
+is the sure path. He could not persuade himself that it was right
+for him to allow the Kavanaghs to continue a dissolute life of
+drinking and dancing. They were the talk of the parish; and he
+would have spoken against them from the altar, but his uncle had
+advised him not to do so. Perhaps his uncle was right; he might be
+right regarding the Kavanaghs. In the main he disagreed with his
+uncle, but in this particular instance it might be well to wait
+and pray that matters might improve.
+
+Father Tom believed Ned Kavanagh to be a good boy. Ned was going
+to marry Mary Byrne, and Father Tom had made up this marriage. The
+Byrnes did not care for the marriage--they were prejudiced against
+Ned on account of his family. But he was not going to allow them
+to break off the marriage. He was sure of Ned, but in order to
+make quite sure he would get him to take the pledge. Next morning
+when the priest had done his breakfast, and was about to unfold
+his newspaper, his servant opened the door, and told him that Ned
+Kavanagh was outside and wanted to see him.
+
+It was a pleasure to look at this nice, clean boy, with his
+winning smile, and the priest thought that Mary could not wish for
+a better husband. Ned's smile seemed a little fainter than usual,
+and his face was paler; the priest wondered, and presently Ned
+told the priest that he had come to confession, and going down on
+his knees, he told the priest that he had been drunk last Saturday
+night, and that he had come to take the pledge. He would never do
+any good while he was at home, and one of the reasons he gave for
+wishing to marry Mary Byrne was his desire to leave home. The
+priest asked him if matters were mending, and if his sister showed
+any signs of wishing to be married.
+
+"Sorra sign," said Ned.
+
+"That's bad news you're bringing me," said the priest, and he
+walked up and down the room, and they talked over Kate's wilful
+character.
+
+"From the beginning she did not like living at home," said the
+priest.
+
+"I don't care about living at home," said Ned.
+
+"But for a different reason," remarked the priest. "You want to
+leave home to get married, and have a wife and children, if God is
+pleased to give you children."
+
+Kate had been in numerous services, and the priest sat thinking of
+the stories he had heard. He had heard that Kate had come back
+from her last situation in a cab, wrapped up in blankets, saying
+she was ill. On inquiry it was found that she had only been three
+or four days in her situation; three weeks had to be accounted
+for. He had questioned her himself regarding this interval, but
+had not been able to get any clear and definite answer from her.
+
+"She and mother never stop quarrelling about Pat Connex."
+
+"It appears," said the priest, "that your mother went out with a
+jug of porter under her apron, and offered a sup of it to Pat
+Connex, who was talking with Peter M'Shane, and now he is up at
+your cabin every Saturday."
+
+"That's it," said Ned.
+
+"Mrs. Connex was here the other day, and I can tell you that if
+Pat marries your sister he will find himself cut off with a
+shilling."
+
+"She's been agin us all the while," said Ned. "Her money has made
+her proud, but I don't blame her. If I had the fine house she has,
+maybe I would be as proud as she."
+
+"Maybe you would," said the priest. "But what I am thinking of is
+your sister Kate. She will never get Pat Connex. Pat will never go
+against his mother."
+
+"Well, you see he comes up and plays the melodion on Saturday
+night," said Ned, "and she can't stop him from doing that."
+
+"Then you think," said the priest, "that Pat will marry your
+sister?"
+
+"I don't think she wants to marry him."
+
+"If she doesn't want to marry him, what's all this talk about?"
+
+"She likes to meet Pat in the evenings and go for a walk with him,
+and she likes him to put his arm round her waist and kiss her,
+saving your reverence's pardon."
+
+"It is strange that you should be so unlike. You come here and ask
+me to speak to Mary Byrne's parents for you, and that I'll do,
+Ned, and it will be all right. You will make a good husband, and
+though you were drunk last night, you have taken the pledge to-
+day, and I will make a good marriage for Kate, too, if she'll
+listen to me."
+
+"And who may your reverence be thinking of?"
+
+"I'm thinking of Peter M'Shane. He gets as much as six shillings a
+week and his keep on Murphy's farm, and his mother has got a bit
+of money, and they have a nice, clean cabin. Now listen to me.
+There is a poultry lecture at the school-house to-night. Do you
+think you could bring your sister with you?"
+
+"We used to keep a great many hens at home, and Kate had the
+feeding of them, and now she's turned agin them, and she wants to
+live in town, and she even tells Pat Connex she would not marry a
+farmer, however much he was worth."
+
+"But if you tell her that Pat Connex will be at the lecture will
+she come?"
+
+"Yes, your reverence, if she believes me."
+
+"Then do as I bid you," said the priest; "you can tell her that
+Pat Connex will be there."
+
+
+II
+
+After leaving the priest Ned crossed over the road to avoid the
+public-house. He went for a walk on the hills, and it was about
+five when he turned towards the village. On his way there he met
+his father, and Ned told him that he had been to see the priest,
+and that he was going to take Mary to the lecture.
+
+Michael Kavanagh wished his son God-speed. He was very tired; and
+he thought it was pretty hard to come home after a long day's work
+to find his wife and daughter quarrelling.
+
+"I am sorry your dinner is not ready, father, but it won't be long
+now. I'll cut the bacon."
+
+"I met Ned on the road," said her father. "He has gone to fetch
+Mary. He is going to take her to the lecture on poultry-keeping at
+the school-house."
+
+"Ah, he has been to the priest, has he?" said Kate, and her mother
+asked her why she said that, and the wrangle began again.
+
+Ned was the peacemaker; there was generally quiet in the cabin
+when he was there. He came in with Mary, a small, fair girl, and a
+good girl, who would keep his cabin tidy. His mother and sisters
+were broad-shouldered women with blue-black hair and red cheeks,
+and it was said that he had said he would like to bring a little
+fair hair into the family.
+
+"We've just come in for a minute," said Mary. "Ned said that
+perhaps you'd be coming with us."
+
+"All the boys in the village will be there to-night, said Ned.
+"You had better come with us." And pretending he wanted to get a
+coal of fire to light his pipe, Ned whispered to Kate as he passed
+her, "Pat Connex will be there."
+
+She looked at the striped sunshade she has brought back from the
+dressmaker's--she had once been apprenticed to a dressmaker--but
+Ned said that a storm was blowing and she had better leave the
+sunshade behind.
+
+The rain beat in their faces and the wind came sweeping down the
+mountain and made them stagger. Sometimes the road went straight
+on, sometimes it turned suddenly and went up-hill. After walking
+for a mile they came to the school-house. A number of men were
+waiting outside, and one of the boys told them that the priest had
+said they were to keep a look out for the lecturer, and Ned said
+that he had better stay with them, that his lantern would be
+useful to show her the way. They went into a long, smoky room. The
+women had collected into one corner, and the priest was walking up
+and down, his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat. Now
+he stopped in his walk to scold two children who were trying to
+light a peat fire in a tumbled down grate.
+
+"Don't be tired, go on blowing," he said. "You are the laziest
+child I have seen this long while."
+
+Ned came in and blew out his lantern, but the lady he had mistaken
+for the lecturer was a lady who had come to live in the
+neighbourhood lately, and the priest said:--
+
+"You must be very much interested in poultry, ma'am, to come out
+on such a night as this."
+
+The lady stood shaking her waterproof.
+
+"Now, then, Lizzie, run to your mother and get the lady a chair."
+
+And when the child came back with the chair, and the lady was
+seated by the fire, he said:--
+
+"I'm thinking there will be no lecturer here to-night, and that it
+would be kind of you if you were to give the lecture yourself. You
+have read some books about poultry, I am sure?"
+
+"Well, a little--but--"
+
+"Oh, that doesn't matter," said the priest. "I'm sure the book you
+have read is full of instruction."
+
+He walked up the room towards a group of men and told them they
+must cease talking, and coming back to the young woman, he said:--
+
+"We shall be much obliged if you will say a few words about
+poultry. Just say what you have in your mind about the different
+breeds."
+
+The young woman again protested, but the priest said:--
+
+"You will do it very nicely." And he spoke like one who is not
+accustomed to being disobeyed. "We will give the lecturer five
+minutes more."
+
+"Is there no farmer's wife who could speak," the young lady said
+in a fluttering voice. "She would know much more than I. I see
+Biddy M'Hale there. She has done very well with her poultry."
+
+"I daresay she has," said the priest, "but the people would pay no
+attention to her. She is one of themselves. It would be no
+amusement to them to hear her."
+
+The young lady asked if she might have five minutes to scribble a
+few notes. The priest said he would wait a few minutes, but it did
+not matter much what she said.
+
+"But couldn't some one dance or sing," said the young lady.
+
+"Dancing and singing!" said the priest. "No!"
+
+And the young lady hurriedly scribbled a few notes about fowls for
+laying, fowls for fattening, regular feeding, warm houses, and
+something about a percentage of mineral matter. She had not half
+finished when the priest said:--
+
+"Now will you stand over there near the harmonium. Whom shall I
+announce?"
+
+The young woman told him her name, and he led her to the harmonium
+and left her talking, addressing most of her instruction to Biddy
+M'Hale, a long, thin, pale-faced woman, with wistful eyes.
+
+"This won't do," said the priest, interrupting the lecturer,--"I'm
+not speaking to you, miss, but to my people. I don't see one of
+you taking notes, not even you, Biddy M'Hale, though you have made
+a fortune out of your hins. Didn't I tell you from the pulpit that
+you were to bring pencil and paper and write down all you heard.
+If you had known years ago all this young lady is going to tell
+you you would be rolling in your carriages to-day."
+
+Then the priest asked the lecturer to go on, and the lady
+explained that to get hens to lay about Christmas time, when eggs
+fetched the best price, you must bring on your pullets early.
+
+"You must," she said, "set your eggs in January."
+
+"You hear that," said the priest. "Is there anyone who has got
+anything to say about that? Why is it that you don't set your eggs
+in January?"
+
+No one answered, and the lecturer went on to tell of the
+advantages that would come to the poultry-keeper whose eggs were
+hatched in December.
+
+As she said this, the priest's eyes fell upon Biddy M'Hale, and,
+seeing that she was smiling, he asked her if there was any reason
+why eggs could not be hatched in the beginning of January.
+
+"Now, Biddy, you must know all about this, and I insist on your
+telling us. We are here to learn."
+
+Biddy did not answer.
+
+"Then what were you smiling at?"
+
+"I wasn't smiling, your reverence."
+
+"Yes; I saw you smiling. Is it because you think there isn't a
+brooding hin in January?"
+
+It had not occurred to the lecturer that hens might not be
+brooding so early in the year, and she waited anxiously. At last
+Biddy said:--
+
+"Well, your reverence, it isn't because there are no hins
+brooding. You'll get brooding hins at every time in the year; but,
+you see, you can't rear chickens earlier than March. The end of
+February is the earliest I have ever seen. But, of course, if you
+could rear them in January, all that the young lady said would be
+quite right. I have nothing to say agin it. I have no fault to
+find with anything she says, your reverence."
+
+"Only that it can't be done." said the priest. "Well, you ought to
+know, Biddy."
+
+The villagers were laughing.
+
+"That will do," said the priest. "I don't mind your having a bit
+of amusement, but you're here to learn."
+
+And as he looked round the room, quieting the villagers into
+silence, his eyes fell on Kate. "That's all right," he thought,
+and he looked for the others, and spied Pat Connex and Peter
+M'Shane near the door. "They're here, too," he thought. "When the
+lecture is over I will see them and bring them all together. Kate
+Kavanagh won't go home until she promises to marry Peter. I have
+had enough of her goings on in my parish."
+
+But Kate had caught sight of Peter. She would get no walk home
+with Pat that night, and she suspected her brother of having done
+this for a purpose. She got up to go.
+
+"I don't want anyone to leave this room," said the priest. "Kate
+Kavanagh, why are you going? Sit down till the lecture is over,"
+
+And as Kate had not strength to defy the priest she sat down, and
+the lecturer continued for a little while longer. The priest could
+see that the lecturer had said nearly all she had to say, and he
+had begun to wonder how the evening's amusement was to be
+prolonged. It would not do to let the people go home until Michael
+Dunne had closed his public-house, and the priest looked round the
+audience thinking which one he might call upon to say a few words
+on the subject of poultry-keeping.
+
+From one of the back rows a voice was heard:--
+
+"What about the pump, your reverence?"
+
+"Well, indeed, you may ask," said the priest.
+
+And immediately he began to speak of the wrong they had suffered
+by not having a pump in the village. The fact that Almighty God
+had endowed Kilmore with a hundred mountain streams did not
+release the authorities from the obligation of supplying the
+village with a pump. Had not the authorities put up one in the
+neighbouring village?
+
+"You should come out," he said, "and fight for your rights. You
+should take off your coats like men, and if you do I'll see that
+you get your rights," and he looked round for someone to speak.
+
+There was a landlord among the audience, and as he was a Catholic
+the priest called upon him to speak. He said that he agreed with
+the priest in the main. They should have their pump, if they
+wanted a pump; if they didn't, he would suggest that they asked
+for something else. Farmer Byrne said he did not want a pump, and
+then everyone spoke his mind, and things got mixed. The Catholic
+landlord regretted that Father Maguire was against allowing a
+poultry-yard to the patients in the lunatic asylum. If, instead of
+supplying a pump, the Government would sell them eggs for hatching
+at a low price, something might be gained. If the Government would
+not do this, the Government might be induced to supply books on
+poultry free of charge. It took the Catholic landlord half an hour
+to express his ideas regarding the asylum, the pump, and the
+duties of the Government, and in this way the priest succeeded in
+delaying the departure of the audience till after closing time.
+"However fast they walk," he said to himself, "they won't get to
+Michael Dunne's public-house in ten minutes, and he will be shut
+by then." It devolved upon him to bring the evening's amusement to
+a close with a few remarks, and he said:--
+
+"Now, the last words I have to say to you I'll address to the
+women. Now listen to me. If you pay more attention to your poultry
+you'll never be short of half a sovereign to lend your husbands,
+your sons, or your brothers."
+
+These last words produced an approving shuffling of feet in one
+corner of the room, and seeing that nothing more was going to
+happen, the villagers got up and they went out very slowly, the
+women curtseying and the men lifting their caps to the priest as
+they passed him.
+
+He had signed to Ned and Mary that he wished to speak to them, and
+after he had spoken to Ned he called Kate and reminded her that he
+had not seen her at confession lately.
+
+"Pat Connex and Peter M'Shane, now don't you be going. I will have
+a word with you presently." And while Kate tried to find an excuse
+to account for her absence from confession, the priest called to
+Ned and Mary, who were talking at a little distance. He told them
+he would be waiting for them in church tomorrow, and he said he
+had never made a marriage that gave him more pleasure. He alluded
+to the fact that they had come to him. He was responsible for this
+match, and he accepted the responsibility gladly. His uncle, the
+Vicar-General, had delegated all the work of the parish to him.
+
+"Father Stafford," he said abruptly, "will be very glad to hear of
+your marriage, Kate Kavanagh."
+
+"My marriage," said Kate .... "I don't think I shall ever be
+married."
+
+"Now, why do you say that?" said the priest. Kate did not know why
+she had said that she would never be married. However, she had to
+give some reason, and she said:--
+
+"I don't think, your reverence, anyone would have me."
+
+"You are not speaking your mind," said the priest, a little
+sternly. "It is said that you don't want to be married, that you
+like courting better."
+
+"I'd like to be married well enough," said Kate.
+
+"Those who wish to make safe, reliable marriages consult their
+parents and they consult the priest. I have made your brother's
+marriage for him. Why don't you come to me and ask me to make up a
+marriage for you?"
+
+"I think a girl should make her own marriage, your reverence."
+
+"And what way do you go about making up a marriage? Walking about
+the roads in the evening, and going into public-houses, and
+leaving your situations. It seems to me, Kate Kavanagh, you have
+been a long time making up this marriage."
+
+"Now, Pat Connex, I've got a word with you. You're a good boy, and
+I know you don't mean any harm by it; but I have been hearing
+tales about you. You've been up to Dublin with Kate Kavanagh. Your
+mother came up to speak to me about this matter yesterday, and she
+said: 'Not a penny of my money will he ever get if he marries
+her,' meaning the girl before you. Your mother said; 'I've got
+nothing to say against her, but I've got a right to choose my own
+daughter-in-law.' These are your mother's very words, Pat, so you
+had better listen to reason. Do you hear me, Kate?"
+
+"I hear your reverence."
+
+"And if you hear me, what have you got to say to that?"
+
+"He's free to go after the girl he chooses, your reverence," said
+Kate.
+
+"There's been courting enough," the priest said. "If you aren't
+going to be married you must give up keeping company. I see Paddy
+Boyle outside the door. Go home with him. Do you hear what I'm
+saying, Pat? Go straight home, and no stopping about the roads.
+Just do as I bid you; go straight home to your mother."
+
+Pat did not move at the bidding of the priest. He stood watching
+Kate as if he were waiting for a sign from her, but Kate did not
+look at him.
+
+"Do you hear what I'm saying to you?" said the priest.
+
+"Yes, I hear," said Pat.
+
+"And aren't you going?" said the priest.
+
+Everyone was afraid Pat would raise his hand against the priest,
+and they looked such strong men, both of them, that everyone
+wondered which would get the better of the other.
+
+"You won't go home when I tell you to do so. We will see if I
+can't put you out of the door then."
+
+"If you weren't a priest," said Pat, "the devil a bit of you would
+put me out of the door."
+
+"If I weren't a priest I would break every bone in your body for
+talking to me like that. Now out you go," he said, taking him by
+the collar, and he put him out.
+
+"And now, Kate Kavanagh," said the priest, coming back from the
+door, "you said you didn't marry because no man would have you.
+Peter has been waiting for you ever since you were a girl of
+sixteen years old, and I may say it for him, since he doesn't say
+much himself, that you have nearly broken his heart."
+
+"I'm sure I never meant it. I like Peter."
+
+"You acted out of recklessness without knowing what you were
+doing."
+
+A continual smile floated round Peter's moustache, and he looked
+like a man to whom rebuffs made no difference. His eyes were
+patient and docile; and whether it was the presence of this great
+and true love by her side, or whether it was the presence of the
+priest, Kate did not know, but a great change came over her, and
+she said:--
+
+"I know that Peter has been very good, that he has cared for me
+this long while .... If he wishes to make me his wife--"
+
+When Kate gave him her hand there was a mist in his eyes, and he
+stood trembling before her.
+
+
+III
+
+Next morning, as Father Maguire was leaving the house, his servant
+handed him a letter. It was from an architect who had been down to
+examine the walls of the church. The envelope that Father Maguire
+was tearing open contained his report, and Father Maguire read
+that it would require two hundred pounds to make the walls secure.
+Father Maguire was going round to the church to marry Mary Byrne
+and Ned Kavanagh, and he continued to read the report until he
+arrived at the church. The wedding party was waiting, but the
+architect's report was much more important than a wedding, and he
+wandered round the old walls examining the cracks as he went. He
+could see they were crumbling, and he believed the architect was
+right, and that it would be better to build a new church. But to
+build a new church three or four thousand pounds would be
+required, and the architect might as well suggest that he should
+collect three or four millions.
+
+And Ned and Mary noticed the dark look between the priest's eyes
+as he came out of the sacristy, and Ned regretted that his
+reverence should be out of his humour that morning, for he had
+spent three out of the five pounds he had saved to pay the priest
+for marrying him. He had cherished hopes that the priest would
+understand that he had had to buy some new clothes, but the priest
+looked so cross that it was with difficulty he summoned courage to
+tell him that he had only two pounds left.
+
+"I want two hundred pounds to make the walls of the church safe.
+Where is the money to come from? All the money in Kilmore goes
+into drink," he added bitterly, "into blue trousers. No, I won't
+marry you for two pounds. I won't marry you for less than five. I
+will marry you for nothing or I will marry you for five pounds,"
+he added, and Ned looked round the wedding guests; he knew that
+none had five shillings in his pocket, and he did not dare to take
+the priest at his word and let him marry him for nothing.
+
+Father Maguire felt that his temper had got the better of him, but
+it was too late to go back on what he said. Marry them for two
+pounds with the architect's letter in the pocket of his cassock!
+And if he were to accept two pounds, who would pay five to be
+married? If he did not stand out for his dues the marriage fee
+would be reduced from five pounds to one pound ... And if he
+accepted Ned's two pounds his authority would be weakened; he
+would not be able to get them to subscribe to have the church made
+safe. On the whole he thought he had done right, and his servant
+was of the same opinion.
+
+"They'd have the cassock off your back, your reverence, if they
+could get it."
+
+"And the architect writing to me that the walls can't be made safe
+under two hundred pounds, and the whole lot of them not earning
+less than thirty shillings a week, and they can't pay the priest
+five pounds for marrying them."
+
+In the course of the day he went to Dublin to see the architect;
+and next morning it occurred to him that he might have to go to
+America to get the money to build a new church, and as he sat
+thinking the door was opened and the servant said that Biddy
+M'Hale wanted to see his reverence.
+
+She came in curtseying, and before saying a word she took ten
+sovereigns out of her pocket and put them upon the table. The
+priest thought she had heard of the architect's report, and he
+said:--
+
+"Now, Biddy, I am glad to see you. I suppose you have brought me
+this for my church. You have heard of the money it will cost to
+make the walls safe."
+
+"No, your reverence, I did not hear any more than that there were
+cracks in the walls."
+
+"But you have brought me this money to have the cracks mended?"
+
+"Well, no, your reverence. I have been thinking a long time of
+doing something for the church, and I thought I should like to
+have a window put up in the church with coloured glass in it."
+
+Father Maguire was touched by Biddy's desire to do something for
+the church, and he thought he would have no difficulty in
+persuading her. He could get this money for the repairs, and he
+told her that her name would be put on the top of the subscription
+list.
+
+"A subscription from Miss M'Hale--L10. A subscription from Miss
+M'Hale."
+
+Biddy did not answer, and the priest could see that it would give
+her no pleasure whatever to subscribe to mending the walls of his
+church, and it annoyed him to see her sitting in his own chair
+stretching out her hands to take the money back. He could see that
+her wish to benefit the church was merely a pretext for the
+glorification of herself, and the priest began to argue with the
+old woman. But he might have spared himself the trouble of
+explaining that it was necessary to have a new church before you
+could have a window. She understood well enough it was useless to
+put a window up in a church that was going to fall down. But her
+idea still was St. Joseph in a red cloak and the Virgin in blue
+with a crown of gold on her head, and forgetful of everything
+else, she asked him whether her window in the new church should be
+put over the high altar, or if it should be a window lighting a
+side altar.
+
+"But, my good woman, ten pounds will not pay for a window. You
+couldn't get anything to speak of in the way of a window for less
+than fifty pounds."
+
+He had expected to astonish Biddy, but she did not seem
+astonished. She said that although fifty pounds was a great deal
+of money she would not mind spending all that money if she were to
+have her window all to herself. She had thought at first of only
+putting in part of the window, a round piece at the top of the
+window, and she had thought that that could be bought for ten
+pounds. The priest could see that she had been thinking a good
+deal of this window, and she seemed to know more about it than he
+expected. "It is extraordinary," he said to himself, "how a desire
+of immortality persecutes these second-class souls. A desire of
+temporal immortality," he said, fearing he had been guilty of a
+heresy.
+
+"If I could have the whole window to myself, I would give you
+fifty pounds, your reverence."
+
+The priest had no idea she had saved as much money as that.
+
+"The hins have been very good to me, your reverence, and I would
+like to put up the window in the new church better than in the old
+church."
+
+"But I've got no money, my good woman, to build the church."
+
+"Ah, won't your reverence go to America and get the money. Aren't
+our own kith and kin over there, and aren't they always willing to
+give us money for our churches."
+
+The priest spoke to her about statues, and suggested that perhaps
+a statue would be a more permanent gift, but the old woman knew
+that stained glass was more permanent, and that it could be
+secured from breakage by means of wire netting.
+
+"Do you know, Biddy, it will require three or four thousand pounds
+to build a new church. If I go to America and do my best to get
+the money, how much will you help me with?"
+
+"Does your reverence mean for the window?"
+
+"No, Biddy, I was thinking of the church itself."
+
+And Biddy said that she would give him five pounds to help to
+build the church and fifty pounds for her window, and, she added,
+"If the best gilding and paint costs a little more I would be
+sorry to see the church short."
+
+"Well, you say, Biddy, you will give five pounds towards the
+church. Now, let us think how much money I could get in this
+parish."
+
+He had a taste for gossip, and he liked to hear everyone's
+domestic details. She began by telling him she had met Kate
+Kavanagh on the road, and Kate had told her that there had been
+great dancing last night.
+
+"But there was no wedding," said the priest.
+
+"I only know, your reverence, what Kate Kavanagh told me. There
+had been great dancing last night. The supper was ordered at
+Michael Dunne's, and the cars were ordered, and they went to
+Enniskerry and back."
+
+"But Michael Dunne would not dare to serve supper to people who
+were not married," said the priest.
+
+"The supper had been ordered, and they would have to pay for it
+whether they ate it or not. There was a pig's head, and the cake
+cost eighteen shillings, and it was iced."
+
+"Never mind the food," said the priest, "tell me what happened."
+
+"Kate said that after coming back from Enniskerry, Michael Dunne
+said: 'Is this the wedding party?' and that Ned jumped off the
+car, and said: 'To be sure. Amn't I the wedded man.' And they had
+half a barrel of porter."
+
+"Never mind the drink," said the priest, "what then?"
+
+"There was dancing first and fighting after. Pat Connex and Peter
+M'Shane were both there. You know Pat plays the melodion, and he
+asked Peter to sing, and Peter can't sing a bit, and he was
+laughed at. So he grabbed a bit of stick and hit Pat on the head,
+and hit him badly, too. I hear the doctor had to be sent for."
+
+"That is always the end of their dancing and drinking," said the
+priest. "And what happened then, what happened? After that they
+went home?"
+
+"Yes, your reverence, they went home."
+
+"Mary Byrne went home with her own people, I suppose, and Ned went
+back to his home."
+
+"I don't know, your reverence, what they did."
+
+"Well, what else did Kate Kavanagh tell you?"
+
+"She had just left her brother and Mary, and they were going
+towards the Peak. That is what Kate told me when I met her on the
+road."
+
+"Mary Byrne would not go to live with a man to whom she was not
+married. But you told me that Kate said she had just left Mary
+Byrne and her brother."
+
+"Yes, they were just coming out of the cabin," said Biddy. "She
+passed them on the road."
+
+"Out of whose cabin?" said the priest.
+
+"Out of Ned's cabin. I know it must have been out of Ned's cabin,
+because she said she met them at the cross roads."
+
+He questioned the old woman, but she grew less and less explicit.
+
+"I don't like to think this of Mary Byrne, but after so much
+dancing and drinking, it is impossible to say what might not have
+happened."
+
+"I suppose they forgot your reverence didn't marry them."
+
+"Forgot!" said the priest. "A sin has been committed, and through
+my fault."
+
+"They will come to your reverence to-morrow when they are feeling
+a little better."
+
+The priest did not answer, and Biddy said:--
+
+"Am I to take away my money, or will your reverence keep it for
+the stained glass window."
+
+"The church is tumbling down, and before it is built up you want
+me to put up statues."
+
+"I'd like a window as well or better."
+
+"I've got other things to think of now."
+
+"Your reverence is very busy. If I had known it I would not have
+come disturbing you. But I'll take my money with me."
+
+"Yes, take your money," he said. "Go home quietly, and say nothing
+about what you have told me. I must think over what is best to be
+done."
+
+Biddy hurried away gathering her shawl about her, and this great
+strong man who had taken Pat Connex by the collar and could have
+thrown him out of the school-room, fell on his knees and prayed
+that God might forgive him the avarice and anger that had caused
+him to refuse to marry Ned Kavanagh and Mary Byrne.
+
+"Oh! my God, oh! my God," he said, "Thou knowest that it was not
+for myself that I wanted the money, it was to build up Thine Own
+House."
+
+He remembered that his uncle had warned him again and again aginst
+the sin of anger. He had thought lightly of his uncle's counsels,
+and he had not practised the virtue of humility, which, as St.
+Teresa said, was the surest virtue to seek in this treacherous
+world.
+
+"Oh, my God, give me strength to conquer anger."
+
+The servant opened the door, but seeing the priest upon his knees,
+she closed it quietly, and the priest prayed that if sin had been
+committed he might bear the punishment.
+
+And on rising from his knees he felt that his duty was to seek out
+the sinful couple. But how to speak to them of their sins? The sin
+was not their's. He was the original wrong-doer. If Ned Kavanagh
+and Mary Byrne were to die and lose their immortal souls, how
+could the man who had been the cause of the loss of two immortal
+souls, save his own, and the consequences of his refusal to marry
+Ned Kavanagh and Mary Byrne seemed to reach to the very ends of
+Eternity.
+
+He walked to his uncle's with great swift steps, hardly seeing his
+parishioners as he passed them on the road.
+
+"Is Father Stafford in?"
+
+"Yes, your reverence."
+
+"Uncle John, I have come to consult you."
+
+The priest sat huddled in his arm-chair over the fire, and Father
+Maguire noticed that his cassock was covered with snuff, and he
+noticed the fringe of reddish hair about the great bald head, and
+he noticed the fat inert hands. And he noticed these things more
+explicitly than he had ever noticed them before, and he wondered
+why he noticed them so explicitly, for his mind was intent on a
+matter of great spiritual importance.
+
+"I have come to ask you," Father Tom said, "regarding the blame
+attaching to a priest who refuses to marry a young man and a young
+woman, there being no impediment of consanguinity or other."
+
+"But have you refused to marry anyone because they couldn't pay
+you your dues?"
+
+"Listen, the church is falling."
+
+"My dear Tom, you should not have refused to marry them," he said,
+as soon as his soul-stricken curate had laid the matter before
+him.
+
+"Nothing can justify my action in refusing to marry them," said
+Father Tom, "nothing. Uncle John, I know that you can extenuate,
+that you are kind, but I do not see it is possible to look at it
+from any other side."
+
+"My dear Tom, you are not sure they remained together; the only
+knowledge you have of the circumstances you obtained from that old
+woman, Biddy M'Hale, who cannot tell a story properly. An old
+gossip, who manufactures stories out of the slightest materials
+... but who sells excellent eggs; her eggs are always fresh. I had
+two this morning."
+
+"Uncle John, I did not come here to be laughed at."
+
+"I am not laughing at you, my dear Tom; but really you know very
+little about this matter."
+
+"I know well enough that they remained together last night. I
+examined the old woman carefully, and she had just met Kate
+Kavanagh on the road. There can be no doubt about it," he said.
+
+"But," said Father John, "they intended to be married; the
+intention was there."
+
+"Yes, but the intention is no use. We are not living in a country
+where the edicts of the Council of Trent have not been
+promulgated."
+
+"That's true," said Father John. "But how can I help you? What am
+I to do?"
+
+"Are you feeling well enough for a walk this morning? Could you
+come up to Kilmore?"
+
+"But it is two miles--I really--"
+
+"The walk will do you good. If you do this for me, Uncle John--"
+
+"My dear Tom, I am, as you say, not feeling very well this
+morning, but--"
+
+He looked at his nephew, and seeing that he was suffering, he
+said:--
+
+"I know what these scruples of conscience are; they are worse than
+physical suffering."
+
+But before he decided to go with his nephew to seek the sinners
+out, he could not help reading him a little lecture.
+
+"I don't feel as sure as you do that a sin has been committed, but
+admitting that a sin has been committed, I think you ought to
+admit that you set your face against the pleasure of these poor
+people too resolutely."
+
+"Pleasure," said Father Tom. "Drinking and dancing, hugging and
+kissing each other about the lanes."
+
+"You said dancing--now, I can see no harm in it."
+
+"There is no harm in dancing, but it leads to harm. If they only
+went back with their parents after the dance, but they linger in
+the lanes."
+
+"It was raining the other night, and I felt sorry, and I said,
+'Well, the boys and girls will have to stop at home to-night,
+there will be no courting to-night.' If you do not let them walk
+about the lanes and make their own marriages, they marry for
+money. These walks at eventide represent all the aspiration that
+may come into their lives. After they get married, the work of the
+world grinds all the poetry out of them."
+
+"Walking under the moon," said Father Tom, "with their arms round
+each other's waists, sitting for hours saying stupid things to
+each other--that isn't my idea of poetry. The Irish find poetry in
+other things except sex."
+
+"Mankind," said Father John, "is the same all the world over. The
+Irish are not different from other races; do not think it. Woman
+represents all the poetry that the ordinary man is capable of
+appreciating."
+
+"And what about ourselves?"
+
+"We are different. We have put this interest aside. I have never
+regretted it, and you have not regretted it either."
+
+"Celibacy has never been a trouble to me."
+
+"But, Tom, your own temperament should not prevent you from
+sympathy with others. You are not the whole of human nature; you
+should try to get a little outside yourself."
+
+"Can one ever do this?" said Father Tom.
+
+"Well, you see what a difficulty your narrow-mindedness has
+brought you into."
+
+"I know all that," said Father Tom. "It is no use insisting upon
+it. Now will you come with me? They must be married this morning.
+Will you come with me? I want you to talk to them. You are kinder
+than I am. You sympathise with them more than I do, and it wasn't
+you who refused to marry them."
+
+Father John got out of his arm-chair and staggered about the room
+on his short fat legs, trying to find his hat. Father Tom said:--
+
+"Here it is. You don't want your umbrella. There's no sign of
+rain." "No," said his uncle, "but it will be very hot presently.
+My dear Tom, I can't walk fast."
+
+"I am sorry, I didn't know I was walking fast."
+
+"You are walking at the rate of four miles an hour at the least."
+
+"I am sorry, I will walk slower."
+
+At the cross rods inquiry was made, and the priests were told that
+the cabin Ned Kavanagh had taken was the last one.
+
+"That's just another half-mile," remarked Father John.
+
+"If we don't hasten we shall be late."
+
+"We might rest here," said Father John, "for a moment," and he
+leaned against a gate. "My dear Tom, it seems to me you're
+agitating yourself a little unnecessarily about Ned Kavanagh and
+his wife--I mean the girl he is going to marry."
+
+"I am quite sure. Ned Kavanagh brought Mary back to his cabin.
+There can be no doubt."
+
+"Even so," said Father John. "He may have thought he was married."
+
+"How could he have thought he was married unless he was drunk, and
+that cannot be put forward as an excuse. No, my dear uncle, you
+are inclined for subtleties this morning."
+
+"He may have thought he was married. Moreover, he intended to be
+married, and if through forgetfulness--"
+
+"Forgetfulness!" cried Father Maguire. "A pretty large measure of
+forgetfulness!"
+
+"I shouldn't say that a mortal sin has been committed; a venial
+one .... If he intended to be married--"
+
+"Oh, my dear uncle, we shall be late, we shall be late!"
+
+Father Stafford repressed the smile that gathered in the corner of
+his lips, and he remembered how Father Tom had kept him out of bed
+till two o'clock in the morning, talking to him about St. Thomas
+Aquinas.
+
+"If they're to be married to-day we must be getting on." And
+Father Maguire's stride grew more impatient. "I'll walk on in
+front."
+
+At last he spied a woman in a field, and she told him that the
+married couple had gone towards the Peak. Most of them had gone
+for a walk, but Pat Connex was in bed, and the doctor had to be
+sent for.
+
+"I've heard," said Father Tom, "of last night's drunkenness. Half
+a barrel of porter; there's what remains," he said, pointing to
+some stains on the roadway. "They were too drunk to turn off the
+tap."
+
+"I heard your reverence wouldn't marry them," the woman said.
+
+"I am going to bring them down to the church at once."
+
+"Well, if you do," said the woman, "you won't be a penny the
+poorer; you will have your money at the end of the week. And how
+do you do, your reverence." The woman dropped a curtsey to Father
+Stafford. "It's seldom we see you up here."
+
+"They have gone towards the Peak," said Father Tom, for he saw his
+uncle would take advantage of the occasion to gossip. "We shall
+catch them up there."
+
+"I am afraid I am not equal to it, Tom. I'd like to do this for
+you, but I am afraid I am not equal to another half-mile up-hill."
+
+Father Maguire strove to hypnotize his parish priest.
+
+"Uncle John, you are called upon to make this effort. I cannot
+speak to these people as I should like to."
+
+"If you spoke to them as you would like to, you would only make
+matters worse," said Father John.
+
+"Very likely, I'm not in a humour to contest these things with
+you. But I beseech you to come with me. Come," he said, "take my
+arm."
+
+They went a few hundred yards up the road, then there was another
+stoppage, and Father Maguire had again to exercise his power of
+will, and he was so successful that the last half-mile of the road
+was accomplished almost without a stop.
+
+At Michael Dunne's, the priests learned that the wedding party had
+been there, and Father Stafford called for a lemonade.
+
+"Don't fail me now, Uncle John. They are within a few hundred
+yards of us. I couldn't meet them without you. Think of it. If
+they were to tell me that I had refused to marry them for two
+pounds, my authority would be gone for ever. I should have to
+leave the parish."
+
+"My dear Tom, I would do it if I could, but I am completely
+exhausted."
+
+At that moment sounds of voices were heard.
+
+"Listen to them, Uncle John." And the curate took the glass from
+Father John. "They are not as far as I thought, they are sitting
+under these trees. Come," he said.
+
+They walked some twenty yards, till they reached a spot where the
+light came pouring through the young leaves, and all the brown
+leaves of last year were spotted with light. There were light
+shadows amid the rocks and pleasant mosses, and the sounds of
+leaves and water, and from the top of a rock Kate listened while
+Peter told her they would rebuild his house.
+
+"The priests are after us," she said.
+
+And she gave a low whistle, and the men and boys looked round, and
+seeing the priests coming, they dispersed, taking several paths,
+and none but Ned and Mary were left behind. Ned was dozing, Mary
+was sitting beside him fanning herself with her hat; they had not
+heard Kate's whistle, and they did not see the priests until they
+were by them.
+
+"Now, Tom, don't lose your head, be quiet with them."
+
+"Will you speak to them, or shall I?" said Father Tom.
+
+In the excitement of the moment he forgot his own imperfections
+and desired to admonish them.
+
+"I think you had better let me speak to them," said Father John.
+"You are Ned Kavanagh," he said, "and you are Mary Byrne, I
+believe. Now, I don't know you all, for I am getting an old man,
+and I don't often come up this way. But notwithstanding my age,
+and the heat of the day, I have come up, for I have heard that you
+have not acted as good Catholics should. I don't doubt for a
+moment that you intended to get married, but you have, I fear,
+been guilty of a great sin, and you've set a bad example."
+
+"We were on our way to your reverence now," said Mary. "I mean to
+his reverence."
+
+"Well," said Father Tom, "you are certainly taking your time over
+it, lying here half asleep under the trees."
+
+"We hadn't the money," said Mary, "it wasn't our fault."
+
+"Didn't I say I'd marry you for nothing?"
+
+"But sure, your reverence, that's only a way of speaking."
+
+"There's no use lingering here," said Father Tom. "Ned, you took
+the pledge the day before yesterday, and yesterday you were
+tipsy."
+
+"I may have had a drop of drink in me, your reverence. Pat Connex
+passed me the mug of porter and I forgot myself."
+
+"And once," said the priest, "you tasted the porter you thought
+you could go on taking it."
+
+Ned did not answer, and the priests whispered together.
+
+"We are half way now," said Father Tom, "we can get there before
+twelve o'clock."
+
+"I don't think I'm equal to it," said Father John. "I really don't
+think--"
+
+The sounds of wheels were heard, and a peasant driving a donkey
+cart came up the road.
+
+"You see it is all up-hill," said Father John. "See how the road
+ascends. I never could manage it."
+
+"The road is pretty flat at the top of the hill once you get to
+the top of the hill, and the cart will take you to the top."
+
+It seemed undignified to get into the donkey cart, but his
+nephew's conscience was at stake, and the Vicar-General got in,
+and Father Tom said to the unmarried couple:--
+
+"Now walk on in front of us, and step out as quickly as you can."
+
+And on the way to the church Father Tom remembered that he had
+caught sight of Kate standing at the top of the rock talking to
+Peter M'Shane. In a few days they would come to him to be married,
+and he hoped that Peter and Kate's marriage would make amends for
+this miserable patchwork, for Ned Kavanagh and Mary Byrne's
+marriage was no better than patchwork.
+
+
+IV
+
+Mrs. Connex promised the priest to keep Pat at home out of Kate's
+way, and the neighbours knew it was the priest's wish that they
+should do all they could to help him to bring about this marriage,
+and everywhere Kate went she heard nothing talked of but her
+marriage.
+
+The dress that Kate was to be married in was a nice grey silk. It
+had been bought at a rummage sale, and she was told that it suited
+her. But Kate had begun to feel that she was being driven into a
+trap. In the week before her marriage she tried to escape. She
+went to Dublin to look for a situation; but she did not find one.
+She had not seen Pat since the poultry lecture, and his neglect
+angered her. She did not care what became of her.
+
+On the morning of her wedding she turned round and asked her
+sister if she thought she ought to marry Peter, and Julia said it
+would be a pity if she didn't. Six cars had been engaged, and,
+feeling she was done for, she went to the church, hoping it would
+fall down on her. Well, the priest had his way, and Kate felt she
+hated him and Mrs. M'Shane, who stood on the edge of the road. The
+fat were distributed alongside of the lean, and the bridal party
+drove away, and there was a great waving of hands, and Mrs.
+M'Shane waited until the last car was out of sight.
+
+Her husband had been dead many years, and she lived with her son
+in a two-roomed cabin. She was one of those simple, kindly natures
+that everyone likes and that everyone despises, and she returned
+home like a lonely goose, waddling slowly, a little overcome by
+the thought of the happiness that awaited her son. There would be
+no more lonely evenings in the cabin; Kate would be with him now,
+and later on there would be some children, and she waddled home
+thinking of the cradle and the joy it would be to her to take her
+grandchildren upon her knee. When she returned to the cottage she
+sat down, so that she might dream over her happiness a little
+longer. But she had not been sitting long when she remembered
+there was a great deal of work to be done. The cabin would have to
+be cleaned from end to end, there was the supper to be cooked, and
+she did not pause in her work until everything was ready. At five
+the pig's head was on the table, and the sheep's tongues; the
+bread was baked; the barrel of porter had come, and she was
+expecting the piper every minute. As she stood with her arms
+akimbo looking at the table, thinking of the great evening it
+would be, she thought how her old friend, Annie Connex, had
+refused to come to Peter's wedding. Wasn't all the village saying
+that Kate would not have married Peter if she had not been driven
+to it by the priest and by her mother.
+
+"Poor boy," she thought, "his heart is so set upon her that he has
+no ears for any word against her."
+
+She could not understand why people should talk ill of a girl on
+her wedding day. "Why shouldn't a girl be given a chance?" she
+asked herself. "Why should Annie Connex prevent her son from
+coming to the dance? If she were to go to her now and ask her if
+she would come? and if she would not come herself, if she would
+let Pat come round for an hour? If Annie would do this all the
+gossips would have their tongues tied. Anyhow she could try to
+persuade her." And she locked her door and walked up the road and
+knocked at Mrs. Connex's.
+
+Prosperity in the shapes of pig styes and stables had collected
+round Annie's door, and Mrs. M'Shane was proud to be a visitor in
+such a house.
+
+"I came round, Annie, to tell you they're married."
+
+"Well, come in, Mary," she said, "if you have the time."
+
+The first part of the sentence was prompted by the news that Kate
+was safely married and out of Pat's way; and the second half of
+the sentence, "if you have the time," was prompted by a wish that
+Mary should see that she need not come again for some time at
+least.
+
+To Annie Connex the Kavanagh family was abomination. The father
+got eighteen shillings a week for doing a bit of gardening. Ned
+had been a quarryman, now he was out of work and did odd jobs. The
+Kavanaghs took in a baby, and they got five or six shillings a
+week for that. Mrs. Kavanagh sold geraniums at more than their
+value, and she got more than the market value for her chickens--
+she sold them to charitable folk who were anxious to encourage
+poultry farming; and now Julia, the second daughter, had gone in
+for lace making, and she made a lace that looked as if it were cut
+out of paper, and sold it for three times its market value.
+
+And to sell above market value was abominable to Annie Connex. Her
+idea of life was order and administration, and the village she
+lived in was thriftless and idle. The Kavanaghs received out-door
+relief; they got two shillings a week off the rates, though every
+Saturday evening they bought a quarter barrel of porter, and Annie
+Connex could not believe in the future of a country that would
+tolerate such a thing. If her son had married a Kavanagh her life
+would have come to an end, and the twenty years she had worked for
+him would have been wasted years. Thank God, Kate was out of her
+son's way, and on seeing Mary she resolved that Pat should never
+cross the M'Shane's threshold.
+
+Mrs. M'Shane looked round the comfortable kitchen, with sides of
+bacon, and home-cured hams hanging from the rafters. She had not
+got on in life as well as Mrs. Connex, and she knew she would
+never have a beautiful closed range, but an open hearth till the
+end of her days. She could never have a nice dresser with a pretty
+carved top. The dresser in her kitchen was deal, and had no nice
+shining brass knobs on it. She would never have a parlour, and
+this parlour had in it a mahogany table and a grandfather's clock
+that would show you the moon on it just the same as it was in the
+sky, and there was a glass over the fireplace. This was Annie
+Connex's own parlour. The parlour on the other side of the house
+was even better furnished, for in the summer months Mrs. Connex
+bedded and boarded her lodgers for one pound or one pound five
+shillings a week.
+
+"So she was married to-day, and Father Maguire married her after
+all. I never thought he would have brought her to it. Well, I'm
+glad she's married." It rose to Mary's lips to say, "you are glad
+she didn't marry your son," but she put back the words. "It comes
+upon me as a bit of surprise, for sure and all I could never see
+her settling down in the parish."
+
+"Them that are the wildest before marriage are often the best
+after, and I think it will be like that with Kate."
+
+"I hope so," said Annie. "And there is reason why it should be
+like that. She must have liked Peter better than we thought; you
+will never get me to believe that it was the priest's will or
+anybody's will that brought Kate to do what she did."
+
+"I hope she'll make my boy a good wife."
+
+"I hope so, too," said Annie, and the women sat over the fire
+thinking it out.
+
+Annie Connex wore an apron, and a black straw hat; and her eyes
+were young, and kind, and laughing, but Mrs. M'Shane, who had
+known her for twenty years, often wondered what Annie would have
+been like if she had not got a kind husband, and if good luck had
+not attended her all through life.
+
+"We never had anyone like her before in the parish. I hear she
+turned round to her sister Julia, who was dressing her, and said,
+'Now am I to marry him, or shall I go to America?' And she was
+putting on her grey dress at the time."
+
+"She looked well in that grey dress; there was lace on the front
+of it, and everyone said that a handsomer girl hasn't been married
+in the parish for years. There isn't a man in the parish that
+would not be in Peter's place to-day if he only dared."
+
+"I don't catch your meaning, Mary."
+
+"Well, perhaps I oughtn't to have said it now that she's my own
+daughter, but I think many would have been a bit afraid of her
+after what she said to the priest three days ago."
+
+"She did have her tongue on him. People are telling all ends of
+stories."
+
+"Tis said that Father Maguire was up at the Kavanagh's three days
+ago, and I heard that she hunted him. She called him a policeman,
+and a tax collector, and a landlord, and if she said this she said
+more to a priest than anyone ever said before. 'There are plenty
+of people in the parish,' she said, 'who believe he could turn
+them into rabbits if he liked.' As for the rabbits she isn't far
+from the truth, though I don't take it on myself to say if it be a
+truth or a lie. But I know for a fact that Patsy Rogan was going
+to vote for the Unionist to please his landlord, but the priest
+had been to see his wife, who was going to be confined, and didn't
+he tell her that if Patsy voted for the wrong man there would be
+horns on the new baby, and Mrs. Rogan was so frightened that she
+wouldn't let her husband go when he came in that night till he had
+promised to vote as the priest wished."
+
+"Patsy Rogan is an ignorant man," said Annie, "there are many like
+him even here."
+
+"Ah, sure there will be always some like him. Don't we like to
+believe the priest can do all things."
+
+"But Kate doesn't believe the priest can do these things. Anyhow
+she's married, and there will be an end to all the work that has
+been going on."
+
+"That's true for you, Annie, and that's just what I came to talk
+to you about. I think now she's married we ought to give her a
+chance. Every girl ought to get her chance, and the way to put an
+end to all this talk about her will be for you to come round to
+the dance to-night."
+
+"I don't know that I can do that. I am not friends with the
+Kavanaghs, though I always bid them the time of day when I meet
+them on the road."
+
+"If you come in for a few minutes, or if Pat were to come in for a
+few minutes. If Peter and Pat aren't friends they'll be enemies."
+
+"Maybe they'd be worse enemies if I don't keep Pat out of Kate's
+way. She's married Peter; but her mind is not settled yet."
+
+"Yes, Annie, I've thought of all that; but they'll be meeting on
+the road, and, if they aren't friends, there will be quarrelling,
+and some bad deed may be done."
+
+Annie did not answer, and, thinking to convince her, Mary said:--
+
+"You wouldn't like to see a corpse right over your window."
+
+"It ill becomes you, Mary, to speak of corpses after the blow that
+Peter gave Pat with his stick at Ned Kavanagh's wedding. No; I
+must stand by my son, and I must keep him out of the low Irish,
+and he won't be safe until I get him a good wife."
+
+"The low Irish! indeed, Annie, it ill becomes you to talk that way
+of your neighbours. Is it because none of us have brass knockers
+on our doors? I have seen this pride growing up in you, Annie
+Connex, this long while. There isn't one in the village now that
+you've any respect for except the grocer, that black Protestant,
+who sits behind his counter and makes money, and knows no
+enjoyment in life at all."
+
+"That's your way of looking at it; but it isn't mine. I set my
+face against my son marrying Kate Kavanagh, and you should have
+done the same."
+
+"Something will happen to you for the cruel words you have spoken
+to me this day."
+
+"Mary, you came to ask me to your son's wedding, and I had to tell
+you--"
+
+"Yes, and you've told me that you won't come, and that you hate
+the Kavanaghs, and you've said all you could against them. I
+should not have listened to all you said; if I did, it is because
+we have known each other these twenty years. Don't I remember well
+the rags you had on your back when you came to this village. It
+ill becomes--"
+
+Mrs. M'Shane got up and went out and Annie followed her to the
+gate.
+
+The sounds of wheels and hoofs were heard, and the wedding party
+passed by, and on the first car whom should they see but Kate
+sitting between Pat and Peter.
+
+"Good-bye, Annie. I see that Pat's coming to our dance after all.
+I must hurry down the road to open the door to him."
+
+And she laughed as she waddled down the road, and she could not
+speak for want of breath when she got to the door. They were all
+there, Pat and the piper and Kate and Peter and all their friends;
+and she could not speak? and hadn't the strength to find the key.
+She could only think of the black look that had come over Annie's
+face when she saw Pat sitting by Kate on the car. She had told
+Annie that she would be punished, and Mrs. M'Shane laughed as she
+searched for the key, thinking how quickly her punishment had
+come.
+
+She searched for the key, and all the while they were telling her
+how they had met Pat at Michael Dunne's.
+
+"When he saw us he tried to sneak into the yard; but I went after
+him. And don't you think I did right?" Kate said, as they went
+into the house. And when they were all inside, she said: "Now I'll
+get the biggest jug of porter, and one shall drink one half and
+the other the other."
+
+Peter was fond of jugs, and had large and small; some were white
+and brown, and some were gilt, with pink flowers. At last she
+chose the great brown one.
+
+"Now, Peter, you'll say something nice."
+
+"I'll say, then," said Peter, "this is the happiest day of my
+life, as it should be, indeed; for haven't I got the girl that I
+wanted, and hasn't Pat forgiven me for the blow I struck him? For
+he knows well I wouldn't hurt a hair of his head. Weren't we boys
+together? But I had a cross drop in me at the time, and that was
+how it was."
+
+Catching sight of Kate's black hair and rosy cheeks, which were
+all the world to him, he stopped speaking and stood looking at
+her, unheedful of everything; and he looked so good and foolish at
+that time that more than one woman thought it would be a weary
+thing to live with him.
+
+"Now, Pat, you must make a speech, too," said Kate.
+
+"I haven't any speech in me," he said. "I'm glad enough to be
+here; but I'm sore afraid my mother saw me sitting on the car, and
+I think I had better be going home and letting you finish this
+marriage."
+
+"What's that you're saying?" said Kate. "You won't go out of this
+house till you've danced a reel with me, and now sit down at the
+table next to me; and, Peter, you sit on the other side of him, so
+that he won't run away to his mother."
+
+Her eyes were as bright as coals of fire, and she called to her
+father, who was at the end of the table, to have another slice of
+pig's head, and to the piper, who was having his supper in the
+window, to have a bit more; and then she turned to Pat, who said
+never a word, and laughed at him for having nothing to say.
+
+It seemed to them as if there was no one in the room but Kate; and
+afterwards they remembered things. Ned remembered that Kate had
+seemed to put Pat out of her mind. She had stood talking to her
+husband, and she had said that he must dance with her, though it
+was no amusement to a girl to dance opposite Peter. And Mary,
+Ned's wife, remembered how Kate, though she had danced with Peter
+in the first reel, had not been able to keep her eyes from the
+corner where Pat sat sulking, and that, sudden-like, she had grown
+weary of Peter. Mary remembered she had seen a wild look pass in
+Kate's eyes, and that she had gone over to Pat and pulled him out.
+
+It was a pleasure for a girl to dance opposite to Pat, so cleverly
+did his feet move to the tune. And everyone was admiring them when
+Pat cried out:--
+
+"I'm going home. I bid you all good-night; here finish this
+wedding as you like."
+
+And before anyone could stop him he had run out of the house.
+
+"Peter, go after him," Kate said; "bring him back. It would be ill
+luck on our wedding night for anyone to leave us like that."
+
+Peter went out of the door, and was away some time; but he came
+back without Pat.
+
+"The night is that dark, I lost him," he said. Then Kate did not
+seem to care what she said. Her black hair fell down, and she told
+Peter he was a fool, and that he should have run faster. Her
+mother said it was the porter that had been too much for her; but
+she said it was the priest's blessing, and this frightened
+everyone. But, after saying all this, she went to her husband,
+saying that he was very good to her, and she had no fault to find
+with him. But no sooner were the words out of her mouth than her
+mind seemed to wander, and everyone had expected her to run out of
+the house. But she went into the other room instead, and shut the
+door behind her. Everyone knew then there would be no more dancing
+that night; and the piper packed up his pipes. And Peter sat by
+the fire, and he seemed to be crying. They were all sorry to leave
+him like this; and, so that he might not remember what had
+happened, Ned drew a big jug of porter, and put it by him.
+
+He drank a sup out of it, but seemed to forget everything, and the
+jug fell out of his hand.
+
+"Never mind the pieces, Peter," his mother said.
+
+"You can't put them together; and it would be better for you not
+to drink any more porter. Go to bed. There's been too much
+drinking this night."
+
+"Mother, I want to know why she said I didn't run fast enough
+after Pat. And didn't she know that if I hit Pat so hard it was
+because there were knobs on his stick; and didn't I pick up his
+stick by mistake of my own."
+
+"Sure, Peter, it wasn't your fault; we all know that and Kate
+knows it too. Now let there be no more talking or drinking. No,
+Peter, you've had enough porter for to-night."
+
+He looked round the kitchen, and seeing that Kate was not there,
+he said:--
+
+"She's in the other room, I think; mother, you'll be wantin' to go
+to bed."
+
+And Peter got on his feet and stumbled against the wall, and his
+mother had to help him towards the door.
+
+"Is it drunk I am, mother? Will you open the door for me?"
+
+But Mrs. M'Shane could not open the door, and she said:--
+
+"I think she's put a bit of stick in it."
+
+"A bit of stick in the door? And didn't she say that she didn't
+want to marry me? Didn't she say something about the priest's
+blessing?"
+
+And then Peter was sore afraid that he would not get sight of his
+wife that night, and he said:--
+
+"Won't she acquie-esh-sh?"
+
+And Kate said:--
+
+"No, I won't"
+
+And then he said:--
+
+"We were married in church-to-day, you acquie-eshed."
+
+And she said:--
+
+"I'll not open the door to you. You're drunk, Peter, and not fit
+to enter a decent woman's room."
+
+"It isn't because I've a drop too much in me that you should have
+fastened the door on me; it is because you're thinking of the blow
+I've gave Pat. But, Kate, it was because I loved you so much that
+I struck him. Now will you open--the door?"
+
+"No, I'll not open the door to-night," she said. "I'm tired and
+want to go to sleep."
+
+And when he said he would break open the door, she said:--
+
+"You're too drunk, Peter, and sorra bit of good it will do you.
+I'll be no wife to you to-night, and that's as true as God's in
+heaven."
+
+"Peter," said his mother, "don't trouble her to-night. There has
+been too much dancing and drinking."
+
+"It's a hard thing ... shut out of his wife's room."
+
+"Peter, don't vex her to-night. Don't hammer her door any more."
+
+"Didn't she acquie-esh? Mother, you have always been agin me.
+Didn't she acquie-esh?"
+
+"Oh, Peter, why do you say I'm agin you?"
+
+"Did you hear her say that I was drunk. If you tell me I'm drunk
+I'll say no more. I'll acquie-esh."
+
+"Peter, you must go to sleep."
+
+"Yes, go to sleep. ... I want to go to sleep, but she won't open
+the door."
+
+"Peter, never mind her."
+
+"It isn't that I mind; I'm getting sleepy, but what I want to
+know, mother, before I go to bed, is if I'm drunk. Tell me I'm not
+drunk on my wedding night, and, though Kate--and I'll acquie-esh
+in all that may be put upon me."
+
+He covered his face with his hands and his mother begged him not
+to cry. He became helpless, she put a blanket under his head and
+covered him with another blanket, and went up the ladder and lay
+down in the hay. She asked herself what had she done to deserve
+this trouble? and she cried a great deal; and the poor, hapless
+old woman was asleep in the morning when Peter stumbled to his
+feet. And, after dipping his head in a pail of water, he
+remembered that the horses were waiting for him in the farm. He
+walked off to his work, staggering a little, and as soon as he was
+gone Kate drew back the bolt of the door and came into the
+kitchen.
+
+"I'm going, mother," she called up to the loft.
+
+"Wait a minute, Kate," said Mrs. M'Shane, and she was half way
+down the ladder when Kate said:--
+
+"I can't wait, I'm going."
+
+She walked up the road to her mother's, and she hardly saw the
+fields or the mountains, though she knew she would never look upon
+them again. And her mother was sweeping out the house. She had the
+chairs out in the pathway. She had heard that the rector was
+coming down that afternoon, and she wanted to show him how
+beautifully clean she kept the cabin.
+
+"I've come, mother, to give you this," and she took the wedding
+ring off her finger and threw it on the ground. "I don't want it;
+I shut the door on him last night, and I'm going to America to-
+day. You see how well the marriage that you and the priest made up
+together has turned out."
+
+"Going to America," said Mrs. Kavanagh, and it suddenly occurred
+to her that Kate might be going to America with Pat Connex, but
+she did not dare to say it.
+
+She stood looking at the bushes that grew between their cottage
+and the next one, and she remembered how she and her brother used
+to cut the branches of the alder to make pop guns, for the alder
+branches are full of sap, and when the sap is expelled there is a
+hole smooth as the barrel of a gun. "I'm going," she said
+suddenly, "there's nothing more to say. Good-bye."
+
+She walked away quickly, and her mother said, "She's going with
+Pat Connex." But she had no thought of going to America with him.
+It was not until she met him a little further on, at the cross
+roads, that the thought occurred to her that he might like to go
+to America with her. She called him, and he came to her, and he
+looked a nice boy, but she thought he was better in Ireland. And
+the country seemed far away, though she was still in it, and the
+people too, though she was still among them.
+
+"I'm going to America, Pat."
+
+"You were married yesterday."
+
+"Yes, that was the priest's doing and mother's and I thought they
+knew best. But I'm thinking one must go one's way, and there's no
+judging for one's self here. That's why I'm going. You'll find
+some other girl, Pat."
+
+"There's not another girl like you in the village. We're a dead
+and alive lot. You stood up to the priest."
+
+"I didn't stand up to him enough. You're waiting for someone. Who
+are you waiting for?"
+
+"I don't like to tell you, Kate."
+
+She pressed him to answer her, and he told her he was waiting for
+the priest. His mother had said he must marry, and the priest was
+coming to make up a marriage for him.
+
+"Everything's mother's."
+
+"That's true, Pat, and you'll give a message for me. Tell my
+mother-in-law that I've gone."
+
+"She'll be asking me questions and I'll be sore set for an
+answer."
+
+She looked at him steadily, but she left him without speaking, and
+he stood thinking.
+
+He had had good times with her, and all such times were ended for
+him for ever. He was going to be married and he did not know to
+whom. Suddenly he remembered he had a message to deliver, and he
+went down to the M'Shanes' cabin.
+
+"Ah, Mrs. M'Shane," he said, "it was a bad day for me when she
+married Peter. But this is a worse one, for we've both lost her."
+
+"My poor boy will feel it sorely."
+
+When Peter came in for his dinner his mother said: "Peter, she's
+gone, she's gone to America, and you're well rid of her."
+
+"Don't say that, mother, I am not well rid of her, for there's no
+other woman in the world for me except her that's gone. Has she
+gone with Pat Connex?"
+
+"No, he said nothing about that, and it was he who brought the
+message."
+
+"I've no one, mother, to blame but myself. I was drunk last night,
+and how could she let a drunken fellow like me into her room."
+
+He went out to the backyard, and his mother heard him crying till
+it was time for him to go back to work.
+
+
+V
+
+As he got up to go to work he caught sight of Biddy M'Hale coming
+up the road; he rushed past her lest she should ask him what he
+was crying about, and she stood looking after him for a moment,
+and went into the cabin to inquire what had happened.
+
+"Sure she wouldn't let her husband sleep with her last night,"
+said Mrs. M'Shane, "and you'll be telling the priest that. It will
+be well he should know it at once."
+
+Biddy would have liked to have heard how the wedding party had met
+Pat Connex on the road, and what had happened after, but the
+priest was expecting her, and she did not dare to keep him waiting
+much longer. But she was not sorry she had been delayed, for the
+priest only wanted to get her money to mend the walls of the old
+church, and she thought that her best plan would be to keep him
+talking about Kate and Peter. He was going to America to-morrow or
+the day after, and if she could keep her money till then it would
+be safe.
+
+His front door was open, he was leaning over the green paling that
+divided his strip of garden from the road, and he looked very
+cross indeed.
+
+She began at once:--
+
+"Sure, your reverence, there's terrible work going on in the
+village, and I had to stop to listen to Mrs M'Shane. Kate
+Kavanagh, that was, has gone to America, and she shut her door on
+him last night, saying he was drunk."
+
+"What's this you're telling me?"
+
+"If your reverence will listen to me--"
+
+"I'm always listening to you, Biddy M'Hale. Go on with your
+story."
+
+It was a long time before he fully understood what had happened,
+but at last all the facts seemed clear, and he said:--
+
+"I'm expecting Pat Connex."
+
+Then his thoughts turned to the poor husband weeping in the
+backyard, and he said:--
+
+"I made up this marriage so that she might not go away with Pat
+Connex."
+
+"Well, we've been saved that," said Biddy.
+
+"Ned Kavanagh's marriage was bad enough, but this is worse. It is
+no marriage at all."
+
+"Ah, your reverence, you musn't be taking it to heart. If the
+marriage did not turn out right it was the drink."
+
+"Ah, the drink--the drink," said the priest, and he declared that
+the brewer and the distiller were the ruin of Ireland.
+
+"That's true for you; at the same time we musn't forget that they
+have put up many a fine church."
+
+"It would be impossible, I suppose, to prohibit the brewing of ale
+and the distillation of spirit." The priest's brother was a
+publican and had promised a large subscription. "And now, Biddy,
+what are you going to give me to make the walls secure. I don't
+want you all to be killed while I am away."
+
+"There's no fear of that, your reverence; a church never fell down
+on anyone."
+
+"Even so, if it falls down when nobody's in it where are the
+people to hear Mass?"
+
+"Ah, won't they be going down to hear Mass at Father Stafford's?"
+
+"If you don't wish to give anything say so."
+
+"Your reverence, amn't I--?"
+
+"We don't want to hear about that window."
+
+Biddy began to fear she would have to give him a few pounds to
+quiet him. But, fortunately, Pat Connex came up the road, and she
+thought she might escape after all.
+
+"I hear, Pat Connex, you were dancing with Kate Kavanagh, I should
+say Kate M'Shane, and she went away to America this morning. Have
+you heard that?"
+
+"I have, your reverence. She passed me on the road this morning."
+
+"And you weren't thinking you might stop her?"
+
+"Stop her," said Pat. "Who could stop Kate from doing anything she
+wanted to do?"
+
+"And now your mother writes to me, Pat Connex, to ask if I will
+get Lennon's daughter for you."
+
+"I see your reverence has private business with Pat Connex. I'll
+be going," said Biddy, and she was many yards down the road before
+he could say a word.
+
+"Now, Biddy M'Hale, don't you be going." But Biddy pretended not
+to hear him.
+
+"Will I be running after her," said Pat, "and bringing her back?"
+
+"No, let her go. If she doesn't want to help to make the walls
+safe I'm not going to go on my knees to her. ... You'll all have
+to walk to Father Stafford's to hear Mass. Have you heard your
+mother say what she's going to give towards the new church, Pat
+Connex?"
+
+"I think she said, your reverence, she was going to send you ten
+pounds."
+
+"That's very good of her," and this proof that a public and
+religious spirit was not yet dead in his parish softened the
+priest's temper, and, thinking to please him and perhaps escape a
+scolding, Pat began to calculate how much Biddy had saved.
+
+"She must be worth, I'm thinking, close on one hundred pounds to-
+day." As the priest did not answer, he said, "I wouldn't be
+surprised if she was worth another fifty."
+
+"Hardly as much as that," said the priest.
+
+"Hadn't her aunt the house we're living in before mother came to
+Kilmore, and they used to have the house full of lodgers all the
+summer. It's true that her aunt didn't pay her any wages, but when
+she died she left her a hundred pounds, and she has been making
+money ever since."
+
+This allusion to Biddy's poultry reminded the priest that he had
+once asked Biddy what had put the idea of a poultry farm into her
+head, and she had told him that when she was taking up the
+lodgers' meals at her aunt's she used to have to stop and lean
+against the banisters, so heavy were the trays.
+
+"One day I slipped and hurt myself, and I was lying on my back for
+more than two years, and all the time I could see the fowls
+pecking in the yard, for my bed was by the window. I thought I
+would like to keep fowls when I was older."
+
+The priest remembered the old woman standing before him telling
+him of her accident, and while listening he had watched her,
+undecided whether she could be called a hunchback. Her shoulders
+were higher than shoulders usually are, she was jerked forward
+from the waist, and she had the long, thin arms, and the long,
+thin face, and the pathetic eyes of the hunchback. Perhaps she
+guessed his thoughts. She said:--
+
+"In those days we used to go blackberrying with the boys. We used
+to run all over the hills."
+
+He did not think she had said anything else, but she had said the
+words in such a way that they suggested a great deal--they
+suggested that she had once been very happy, and that she had
+suffered very soon the loss of all her woman's hopes. A few weeks,
+a few months, between her convalescence and her disappointment had
+been all her woman's life. The thought that life is but a little
+thing passed across the priest's mind, and then he looked at Pat
+Connex and wondered what was to be done with him. His conduct at
+the wedding would have to be inquired into, and the marriage that
+was being arranged would have to be broken off if Kate's flight
+could be attributed to him.
+
+"Now, Pat Connex, we will go to Mrs. M'Shane. I shall want to hear
+her story."
+
+"Sure what story can she tell of me? Didn't I run out of the house
+away from Kate when I saw what she was thinking of? What more
+could I do?"
+
+"If Mrs. M'Shane tells the same story as you do we'll go to your
+mother's, and afterwards I'll go to see Lennon about his
+daughter."
+
+Pat's dancing with Kate and Kate's flight to America had reached
+Lennon's ears, and it did not seem at all likely that he would
+consent to give his daughter to Pat Connex, unless, indeed, Pat
+Connex agreed to take a much smaller dowry than his mother had
+asked for.
+
+These new negotiations, his packing, a letter to the Bishop, and
+the payment of bills fully occupied the last two days, and the
+priest did not see Biddy again till he was on his way to the
+station. She was walking up and down her poultry-yard, telling her
+beads, followed by her poultry; and it was with difficulty that he
+resisted the impulse to ask her for a subscription, but the driver
+said if they stopped they would miss the train.
+
+"Very well," said the priest, and he drove past her cabin without
+speaking to her.
+
+In the bar-rooms of New York, while trying to induce a
+recalcitrant loafer to part with a dollar, he remembered that he
+had not met anyone so stubborn as Biddy. She had given very
+little, and yet she seemed to be curiously mixed up with the
+building of the church. She was the last person he saw on his way
+out, and, a few months later, he was struck by the fact that she
+was the first parishioner he saw on his return. As he was driving
+home from the station in the early morning whom should he see but
+Biddy, telling her beads, followed by her poultry. The scene was
+the same except that morning was substituted for evening. This was
+the first impression. On looking closer he noticed that she was
+not followed by as many Plymouth Rocks as on the last occasion.
+
+"She seems to be going in for Buff Orpingtons," he said to
+himself.
+
+"It's a fine thing to see you again, and your reverence is looking
+well. I hope you've been lucky in America?"
+
+"I have brought home some money anyhow, and the church will be
+built, and you will tell your beads under your window one of these
+days."
+
+"Your reverence is very good to me, and God is very good."
+
+And she stood looking after him, thinking how she had brought him
+round to her way of thinking. She had always known that the
+Americans would pay for the building, but no one else but herself
+would be thinking of putting up a beautiful window that would do
+honour to God and Kilmore. And it wasn't her fault if she didn't
+know a good window from a bad one, as well as the best of them.
+And it wasn't she who was going to hand over her money to the
+priest or his architect to put up what window they liked. She had
+been inside every church within twenty miles of Kilmore, and would
+see that she got full value for her money.
+
+At the end of the week she called at the priest's house to tell
+him the pictures she would like to see in the window, and the
+colours. But the priest's servant was not certain whether Biddy
+could see his reverence.
+
+"He has a gentleman with him."
+
+"Isn't it the architect he has with him? Don't you know that it is
+I who am putting up the window?"
+
+"To be sure," said the priest; "show her in." And he drew forward
+a chair for Miss M'Hale, and introduced her to the architect. The
+little man laid his pencil aside, and this encouraged Biddy, and
+she began to tell him of the kind of window she had been thinking
+of. But she had not told him half the things she wished to have
+put into the window when he interrupted her, and said there would
+be plenty of time to consider what kind of window should be put in
+when the walls were finished and the roof was upon them.
+
+"Perhaps it is a little premature to discuss the window, but you
+shall choose the subjects you would like to see represented in the
+window, and as for the colours, the architect and designer will
+advise you. But I am sorry to say, Biddy, that this gentleman says
+that the four thousand pounds the Americans were good enough to
+give me will not do much more than build the walls."
+
+"They're waiting for me to offer them my money, but I won't say a
+word," Biddy said to herself; and she sat fidgetting with her
+shawl, coughing from time to time, until the priest lost his
+patience.
+
+"Well, Biddy, we're very busy here, and I'm sure you want to get
+back to your fowls. When the church is finished we'll see if we
+want your window." The priest had hoped to frighten her, but she
+was not the least frightened. Her faith in her money was abundant;
+she knew that as long as she had her money the priest would come
+to her for it on one pretext or another, sooner or later. And she
+was as well pleased that nothing should be settled at present, for
+she was not quite decided whether she would like to see Christ
+sitting in judgment, or Christ crowning His Virgin Mother; and
+during the next six months she pondered on the pictures and the
+colours, and gradually the design grew clearer.
+
+And every morning, as soon as she had fed her chickens, she went
+up to Kilmore to watch the workmen. She was there when the first
+spadeful of earth was thrown up, and as soon as the walls showed
+above the ground she began to ask the workmen how long it would
+take them to reach the windows, and if a workman put down his
+trowel and wandered from his work she would tell him it was God he
+was cheating; and later on, when the priest's money began to come
+to an end he could not pay the workmen full wages, she told them
+they were working for God's Own House, and that He would reward
+them in the next world.
+
+"Hold your tongue," said a mason. "If you want the church built
+why don't you give the priest the money you're saving, and let him
+pay us?"
+
+"Keep a civil tongue in your head, Pat Murphy. It isn't for myself
+I am keeping it back. Isn't it all going to be spent?"
+
+The walls were now built, and amid the clatter of the slater's
+hammers Biddy began to tell the plasterers of the beautiful
+pictures that would be seen in her window; and she gabbled on,
+mixing up her memories of the different windows she had seen,
+until at last her chatter grew wearisome, and they threw bits of
+mortar, laughing at her for a crazy old woman, or the priest would
+suddenly come upon them, and they would scatter in all directions,
+leaving him with Biddy.
+
+"What were they saying to you, Biddy?"
+
+"They were saying, your reverence, that America is a great place."
+
+"You spend a great deal of your time here, Biddy, and I suppose
+you are beginning to see that it takes a long time to build a
+church. Now you are not listening to what I am saying. You are
+thinking about your window; but you must have a house before you
+can have a window."
+
+"I know that very well, your reverence; but, you see, God has
+given us the house."
+
+"God's House consists of little more than walls and a roof."
+
+"Indeed it does, your reverence; and amn't I saving up all my
+money for the window?"
+
+"But, my good Biddy, there is hardly any plastering done yet. The
+laths have come in, and there isn't sufficient to fill that end of
+the church, and I have no more money."
+
+"Won't you reverence be getting the rest of the money in America?
+And I am thinking a bazaar would be a good thing. Wouldn't we all
+be making scapulars, and your reverence might get medals that the
+Pope had blessed."
+
+Eventually he drove her out of the church with his umbrella. But
+as his anger cooled he began to think that perhaps Biddy was
+right--a bazaar might be a good thing, and a distribution of
+medals and scapulars might induce his workmen to do some overtime.
+He went to Dublin to talk over this matter with some pious
+Catholics, and an old lady wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, two or
+three others subscribed smaller sums, and the plasterers were busy
+all next week. But these subscriptions did not go nearly as far
+towards completing the work as he had expected. The architect had
+led him astray, and he looked around the vast barn that he had
+built and despaired. It seemed to him it would never be finished
+in his lifetime. A few weeks after he was again running short of
+money, and he was speaking to his workmen one Saturday afternoon,
+telling them how they could obtain a plenary indulgence by
+subscribing so much towards the building of the church, and by
+going to Confession and Communion on the first Sunday of the
+month, and if they could not afford the money they could give
+their work. He was telling them how much could be done if every
+workman were to do each day an hour of overtime, when Biddy
+suddenly appeared, and, standing in front of the men, she raised
+up her hands and said they should not pass her until they had
+pledged themselves to come to work on Monday.
+
+"But haven't we got our wives and little ones, and haven't we to
+think of them?" said a workman.
+
+"Ah, one can live on very little when one is doing the work of
+God," said Biddy.
+
+The man called her a vain old woman, who was starving herself so
+that she might put up a window, and they pushed her aside and went
+away, saying they had to think of their wives and children.
+
+The priest turned upon her angrily and asked her what she meant by
+interfering between him and his workmen.
+
+"Now, don't be angry with me, your reverence. I will say a prayer,
+and you will say a word or two in your sermon to-morrow."
+
+And he spoke in his sermon of the disgrace it would be to Kilmore
+if the church remained unfinished. The news would go over to
+America, and what priest would be ever able to get money there
+again to build a church?
+
+"Do you think a priest likes to go about the barrooms asking for
+dollars and half-dollars? Would you make his task more unpleasant?
+If I have to go to America again, what answer shall I make if they
+say to me: 'Well, didn't your workmen leave you at Kilmore? They
+don't want churches at Kilmore. Why should we give you money for a
+church?'"
+
+There was a great deal of talking that night in Michael Dunne's,
+and they were all of one mind, that it would be a disgrace to
+Kilmore if the church were not finished; but no one could see that
+he could work for less wages than he was in the habit of getting.
+As the evening wore on the question of indulgences was raised, and
+Ned Kavanagh said:--
+
+"The devil a bit of use going against the priest, and the
+indulgences will do us no harm."
+
+"The devil a bit, but maybe a great deal of good," said Peter
+M'Shane, and an hour later they were staggering down the road
+swearing they would stand by the priest till the death.
+
+But on Monday morning nearly all were in their beds; only half a
+dozen came to the work, and the priest sent them away, except one
+plasterer. There was one plasterer who, he thought, could stand on
+the scaffold. "If I were to fall I'd go straight to Heaven," the
+plasterer said, and he stood so near the edge, and his knees
+seemed so weak under him, that Biddy thought he was going to fall.
+
+"It would be better for you to finish what you are doing; the Holy
+Virgin will be more thankful to you."
+
+"Aye, maybe she would," he said, and he continued his work
+mechanically.
+
+He was working at the clustered columns about the window Biddy had
+chosen for her stained glass, and she did not take her eyes off
+him. The priest returned a little before twelve o'clock, as the
+plasterer was going to his dinner, and he asked him if he were
+feeling better.
+
+"I'm all right, your reverence, and it won't occur again."
+
+"I hope he won't go down to Michael Dunne's during his dinner
+hour," he said to Biddy. "If you see any further sign of drink
+upon him when he comes back you must tell me."
+
+"He is safe enough, your reverence. Wasn't he telling me while
+your reverence was having your breakfast that if he fell down he
+would go straight to Heaven, and he opened his shirt and showed me
+he was wearing the scapular of the Holy Virgin."
+
+And Biddy began to advocate a sale of scapulars.
+
+"A sale of scapulars will not finish my church. You're all a
+miserly lot here, you want everything done for you."
+
+"Weren't you telling me, your reverence, that a pious lady in
+Dublin--"
+
+"The work is at a stand-still. If I were to go to America to-
+morrow it would be no use unless I could tell them it was
+progressing."
+
+"Sure they don't ask any questions in America, they just give
+their money."
+
+"If they do, that's more than you're doing at home. I want to
+know, Biddy, what you are going to do for this church. You're
+always talking about it; you're always here and you have given
+less than any one else."
+
+"Didn't I offer your reverence a sovereign once since I gave you
+the five pounds?"
+
+"You don't seem to understand, Biddy, that you can't put up your
+window until the plastering is finished."
+
+"I think I understand that well enough, but the church will be
+finished."
+
+"How will it be finished? When will it be finished?"
+
+She did not answer, and nothing was heard in the still church but
+her irritating little cough.
+
+"You're very obstinate. Well, tell me where you would like to have
+your window."
+
+"It is there I shall be kneeling, and if you will let me put my
+window there I shall see it when I look up from my beads. I should
+like to see the Virgin and I should like to see St. John with her.
+And don't you think, your reverence, we might have St. Joseph as
+well. Our Lord would have to be in the Virgin's arms, and I think,
+your reverence, I would like Our Lord coming down to judge us, and
+I should like to have Him on His throne on the day of Judgment up
+at the top of the window."
+
+"I can see you've been thinking a good deal about this window,"
+the priest said.
+
+She began again and the priest heard the names of the different
+saints she would like to see in stained glass, and he let her
+prattle on. But his temper boiled up suddenly and he said:--
+
+"You'd go on like this till midnight if I let you. Now, Biddy
+M'Hale, you've been here all the morning delaying my workmen. Go
+home to your fowls."
+
+And she ran away shrinking like a dog, and the priest walked up
+and down the unfinished church. "She tries my temper more than
+anyone I ever met," he said to himself. At that moment he heard
+some loose boards clanking, and thinking it was the old woman
+coming back he looked round, his eyes flaming. But the intruder
+was a short and square-set man, of the type that one sees in
+Germany, and he introduced himself as an agent of a firm of
+stained glass manufacturers. He told Father Maguire they had heard
+in Germany of the beautiful church he was building. "I met an old
+woman on the road, and she told me that I would find you in the
+church considering the best place for the window she was going to
+put up. She looks very poor."
+
+"She's not as poor as she looks; she's been saving money all her
+life for this window. Her window is her one idea, and, like people
+of one idea, she's apt to become a little tiresome."
+
+"I don't quite understand."
+
+He began telling the story, and seeing that the German was
+interested in the old woman he began to acquire an interest in her
+himself, an unpremeditated interest; he had not suspected that
+Biddy was so interesting. The German said she reminded him of the
+quaint sculpture of Nuremburg, and her character reminded him of
+one of the German saints, and talking of Biddy and medievalism and
+Gothic art and stained glass the priest and the agent for the
+manufacture of stained glass in Munich walked up and down the
+unfinished church until the return of the plasterer reminded the
+priest of his embarrassments, and he took the German into his
+confidence.
+
+"These embarrassments always occur," said the agent, "but there is
+no such thing as an unfinished church in Ireland; if you were to
+let her put up the window subscriptions would pour in."
+
+"How's that?"
+
+"A paragraph in the newspaper describing the window, the gift of a
+local saint. I think you told me her name was M'Hale, and that she
+lives in the village."
+
+"Yes, you pass her house on the way to the station."
+
+The German took his leave abruptly, and when he was half-way down
+the hill he asked some children to direct him.
+
+"Is it Biddy M'Hale, that has all the hins, and is going to put up
+a window in the church, that you're wanting?"
+
+The German said that that was the woman he wanted, and the eldest
+child said:--
+
+"You will see her feeding her chickens, and you must call to her
+over the hedge."
+
+And he did as he was bidden.
+
+"Madam ... the priest has sent me to show you some designs for a
+stained glass window."
+
+No one had ever addressed Biddy as Madam before. She hastened to
+let him into the house, and wiped the table clean so that he could
+spread the designs upon it. The first designs he showed here were
+the four Evangelists, but he would like a woman's present to her
+church to be in a somewhat lighter style, and he showed her a
+picture of St. Cecilia that fascinated her for a time; and then he
+suggested that a group of figures would look handsomer than a
+single figure. But she could not put aside the idea of the window
+that had grown up in her mind, and after some attempts to persuade
+her to accept a design they had in stock he had to give way and
+listen.
+
+At the top of the picture, where the window narrowed to a point,
+Our Lord sat dressed in white on a throne, placing a golden crown
+on the head of the Virgin kneeling before him. About him were the
+women who had loved him, and the old woman said she was sorry she
+was not a nun, and hoped that Christ would not think less of her.
+As far as mortal sin was concerned she could say she had never
+committed one. At the bottom of the window there were suffering
+souls. The cauldrons that Biddy wished to see them in, the agent
+said, would be difficult to introduce--the suffering of the souls
+could be artistically indicated by flames.
+
+"I shall have great joy," she said, "seeing the blessed women
+standing about our Divine Lord, singing hymns in His praise, and
+the sight of sinners broiling will make me be sorrowful."
+
+She insisted on telling the German of the different churches she
+had visited, and the windows she had seen, and she did not notice
+that he was turning over his designs and referring to his note
+book while she was talking. Suddenly he said:--
+
+"Excuse me, but I think we have got the greater part of the window
+you wish for in stock, and the rest can be easily made up. Now the
+only question that remains is the question of the colours you care
+about."
+
+"I have always thought there's no colour like blue. I'd like the
+Virgin to wear a blue cloak."
+
+She did not know why she had chosen that colour, but the agent
+told her that she was quite right; blue signified chastity; and
+when the German had gone she sat thinking of the Virgin and her
+cloak. The Minorcas, and Buff Orpingtons, and Plymouth Rocks came
+through the door cackling, and while feeding them she sat, her
+eyes fixed on the beautiful evening sky, wondering if the blue in
+the picture would be as pale, or if it would be a deeper blue.
+
+She remembered suddenly that she used to wear a blue ribbon when
+she went blackberrying among the hills; she found it in an old box
+and tied it round her neck. The moment she put it on her memory
+was as if lighted up with the memories of the saints and the
+miracles they had performed, and she went to Father Maguire to
+tell him of the miracle. That the agent should have in stock the
+very window she had imagined seemed a miracle, and she was
+encouraged to think some miraculous thing had happened when the
+priest asked her to tell him exactly what her window was like. She
+had often told him before but he had never listened to her. But
+now he recognised her window as an adaptation of Fra Angelico's
+picture, and he told her how the saint had wandered from monastery
+to monastery painting pictures on the walls. More he could not
+tell her, but he promised to procure a small biography of the
+saint. She received the book a few days after, and as she turned
+over the leaves she heard the children coming home from school,
+and she took the book out to them, for her sight was failing, and
+they read bits of it aloud, and she frightened them by dropping on
+her knees and crying out that God had been very good to her.
+
+She wandered over the country visiting churches, returning to
+Kilmore suddenly. She was seen as usual at sunrise and at sunset
+feeding her poultry, and then she went away again, and the next
+time she was heard of was in a church near Dublin celebrated for
+its stained glass. A few days after Ned Kavanagh met her hurrying
+up the road from the station, and she told him she had just
+received a letter from the Munich agent saying he had forwarded
+her window. It was to arrive to-morrow.
+
+It was expected some time about mid-day, but Biddy's patience was
+exhausted long before, and she walked a great part of the way to
+Dublin to meet the dray. She returned with it, walking with the
+draymen, but within three miles of Kilmore she was so tired that
+they had to put her on the top of the boxes, and a cheer went up
+from the villagers when she was lifted down. She called to the
+workmen to be careful in unpacking the glass; and when they were
+putting it up she went down on her knees and prayed that no
+accident might happen.
+
+At sunset the church had to be closed, and it was with difficulty
+that she was persuaded to leave it. Next morning at sunrise she
+was knocking at the door of the woman who was charged with the
+cleaning of the church, asking for the key.
+
+And from that day she was hardly ever out of the church; the
+charwoman began to complain that she could not get on with her
+work, and she was telling the priest that Biddy was always at her
+elbow, asking her to come to her window, saying she would show her
+things she had not seen before, when their conversation was
+interrupted by Biddy. She seemed a little astray, a little
+exalted, and Father Maguire watched her as she knelt with uplifted
+face, telling her beads. He noticed that her fingers very soon
+ceased to move; and that she held the same bead a long time
+between her fingers. Minutes passed, but her lips did not move;
+her eyes were fixed on the panes and her look was so enraptured
+that he began to wonder if Paradise were being revealed to her.
+
+And while the priest wondered, Biddy listened to music
+inconceivably tender. She had been awakened from her prayers by
+the sound of a harp string touched very gently; and the note had
+floated down like a flower, and all the vibrations were not dead
+when the same note floated down the aisles once more. Biddy
+listened, anxious to hear it a third time. Once more she heard it,
+and the third time she saw the saint's fingers moving over the
+strings; and she played a little tune of six notes. And it was at
+the end of the second playing of the tune that the priest touched
+Biddy on the shoulder. She looked up and it was a long while
+before she saw him, and she was greatly grieved that she had been
+awakened from her dream. She said it was a dream because her
+happiness had been so great; and she stood looking at the priest,
+fain, but unable, to tell how she had been borne beyond her usual
+life, that her whole being had answered to the music the saint
+played, and looking at him, she wondered what would have happened
+if he had not awakened her.
+
+Next day was Sunday, and she was in the church at sunrise
+listening for the music. But she heard and saw nothing until the
+priest had reached the middle of the Mass. The acolyte had rung
+the bell to prepare the people for the Elevation, and it was then
+that she heard a faint low sound that the light wire emitted when
+the saint touched her harp, and she noticed that it was the same
+saint that had played yesterday, the tall saint with the long fair
+hair who stood apart from the others, looking more intently at Our
+Blessed Lord than the others. She touched her harp again and the
+note vibrated for a long while, and when the last vibrations died
+she touched the string again. The note was sweet and languid and
+intense, and it pierced to the very core of Biddy. The saint's
+hand passed over the strings, producing faint exquisite sounds, so
+faint that Biddy felt no surprise they were not heard by anyone
+else; it was only by listening intently that she could hear them.
+Yesterday's little tune appeared again, a little tune of six
+notes, and it seemed to Biddy even more exquisite than it had
+seemed when she first heard it. The only difference between to-day
+and yesterday was, that to-day all the saints struck their harps,
+and after playing for some time the music grew white like snow and
+remote as star-fire, and yet Biddy heard it more clearly than she
+had heard anything before, and she saw Our Lord more clearly than
+she had ever seen anybody else. She saw Him look up when He had
+placed the crown on His Mother's head; she heard Him sing a few
+notes, and then the saints began to sing. The window filled up
+with song and colour, and all along the window there was a
+continual transmutation of colour and song. The figures grew
+taller, and they breathed extraordinary life. It sang like a song
+within them, and it flowed about them and out of them in a sort of
+pearl-coloured mist. The vision clove the church along and across,
+and through it she could see the priest saying his Mass, and when
+he raised the Host above his head, Biddy saw Our Lord look at her,
+and His eyes brightened as if with love of her. He seemed to have
+forgotten the saints that sang His praises so beautifully, and
+when He bent towards her and she felt His presence about her, she
+cried out:--
+
+"He is coming to take me in His arms!"
+
+And it was then that Biddy fell out of her place and lay at length
+on the floor of the church, pale as a dead woman. The clerk went
+to her, but he could not carry her out; she lay rigid as one who
+had been dead a long while and she muttered, "He is coming to put
+the gold crown on my head." The clerk moved away, and she swooned
+again.
+
+Her return to her ordinary perceptions was slow and painful. The
+people had left long ago, and she tottered out of the empty church
+and followed the road to her cabin without seeing it or the people
+whom she met on the road. At last a woman took her by the arm and
+led her into her cabin, and spoke to her. She could not answer at
+first, but she awoke gradually, and she began to remember that she
+had heard music in the window and that Our Lord had sung to her.
+The neighbour left her babbling. She began to feed her chickens,
+and was glad when she had fed them. She wanted to think of the
+great and wonderful sights she had seen. She could not
+particularise, preferring to remember her vision as a whole,
+unwilling to separate the music from the colour, or the colour and
+the music from the adoration of the saints.
+
+As the days went by her life seemed to pass more and more out of
+the life of the ordinary day. She seemed to live, as it were, on
+the last verge of human life; the mortal and the immortal mingled;
+she felt she had been always conscious of the immortal, and that
+nothing had happened except the withdrawing of a veil. The memory
+of her vision was still intense in her, but she wished to renew
+it; and waited next Sunday breathless with anticipation. The
+vision began at the same moment, the signal was the same as
+before; the note from the harp string floated down the aisles and
+when it had been repeated three times the saintly fingers moved
+over the strings, and she heard the beautiful little tune.
+
+Every eye was upon her, and forgetful of the fact that the priest
+was celebrating Mass, they said, "Look, she hears the saints
+singing about her. She sees Christ coming." The priest heard Biddy
+cry out "Christ is coming," and she fell prone and none dared to
+raise her up, and she lay there till the Mass was finished. When
+the priest left the altar she was still lying at length, and the
+people were about her; and knowing how much she would feel the
+slightest reproof, he did not say a word that would throw doubt on
+her statement. He did not like to impugn a popular belief, but he
+felt obliged to exercise clerical control.
+
+"Now, Biddy, I know you are a very pious woman, but I cannot allow
+you to interrupt the Mass."
+
+"If the Lord comes to me am I not to receive Him, your reverence?"
+
+"In the first place I object to your dress; you are not properly
+dressed."
+
+She wore a bright blue cloak, she seemed to wear hardly anything
+else, and tresses of dirty hair hung over her shoulders.
+
+"The Lord has not said anything to me about my dress, your
+reverence, and He put His gold crown on my head to-day."
+
+"Biddy, is all this true?"
+
+"As true as you're standing there."
+
+"I am not asking you if your visions are true. I have my opinion
+about that. I am asking if they are true to you."
+
+"True to me, your reverence? I don't rightly understand."
+
+"I want to know if you think Our Lord put a gold crown on your
+head to-day."
+
+"To be sure He did, your reverence."
+
+"If He did, where is it?"
+
+"Where is it, your reverence? It is with Him, to be sure. He
+wouldn't be leaving it on my head and me walking about the parish--
+that would not be reasonable at all, I am thinking. He doesn't
+want me to be robbed."
+
+"There is no one in the parish who would rob you."
+
+"Maybe some one would come out of another parish, if I was walking
+about with a gold crown on my head. And such a crown as He put
+upon it!--I am sorry you did not see it, but your reverence was
+saying the holy Mass at the time."
+
+And she fell on her knees and clung to his cassock.
+
+"And you saw the crown, Biddy?"
+
+"I had it on my head, your reverence."
+
+"And you heard the saints singing?"
+
+"Yes, and I will tell you what they were singing," and she began
+crooning. "Something like that, your reverence. You don't believe
+me, but we have only our ears and our eyes to guide us."
+
+"I don't say I don't believe you, Biddy, but you may be deceived."
+
+"Sorra deceiving, your reverence, or I've been deceived all my
+life. And now, your reverence, if you have no more business with
+me I will go, for they are waiting in the chapel yard to hear me
+tell them about the crown that was put upon my head."
+
+"Well, Biddy, I want you to understand that I cannot have you
+interrupting the Mass. I cannot permit it. The visions may be
+true, or not true, but you must not interrupt the Mass. Do you
+hear me?"
+
+The acolyte had opened the door of the sacristy, she slipped
+through it, and the priest took off his cassock. As he did so, he
+noticed that the acolytes were anxious to get out; they were at
+the window watching, and when the priest looked out of the window
+he saw the people gathered about Biddy, and could see she had
+obtained an extraordinary hold on the popular imagination; no one
+noticed him when he came out of the sacristy; they were listening
+to Biddy, and he stood unnoticed amid the crowd for a few minutes.
+
+"She's out of her mind," he said. "She's as good as mad. What did
+she tell me--that Our Lord put a crown on her head."
+
+It was difficult to know what to do. News of her piety had reached
+Dublin. People had been down to Kilmore to see her and had given
+subscriptions, and he understood that Biddy had enabled him to
+furnish his church with varnished pews and holy pictures. A pious
+Catholic lady had sent him two fine statues of Our Lady and St.
+Joseph. St. Joseph was in a purple cloak and Our Lady wore a blue
+cloak, and there were gold stars upon it. He had placed these two
+statues on the two side altars. But there were many things he
+wanted for his church, and he could only get them through Biddy.
+It was, therefore, his interest to let her remain in Kilmore, only
+she could not be allowed to interrupt the Mass, and he felt that
+he must be allowed to pass in and out of his church without having
+to put up with extravagant salutations.
+
+He was going home to his breakfast and a young man extremely
+interested in ecclesiastical art was coming to breakfast with him.
+The young man had a great deal to say about Walter Pater and
+Chartres Cathedral, and Father Maguire feared he was cutting but a
+very poor figure in the eyes of this young man, for he could not
+keep his thoughts on what the young man was saying, he was
+thinking of Biddy; he hardly thought of anything else but her now;
+she was absorbing the mind of his entire parish, she interrupted
+the Mass, he could not go into his church without being accosted
+by this absurd old woman, and this young man, a highly cultivated
+young man, who had just come from Italy, and who took the highest
+interest in architecture, would not be able to see his church in
+peace. As soon as they entered it they would be accosted by this
+old woman; she would follow them about asking them to look at her
+window, telling them her visions, which might or might not be
+true. She had a knack of hiding herself--he often came upon her
+suddenly behind the pillars, and sometimes he found her in the
+confessional. As soon as he crossed the threshold he began to look
+for her, and not finding her in any likely place, his fears
+subsided, and he called the young man's attention to the altar
+that had been specially designed for his church. And the young man
+had begun to tell the priest of the altars he had seen that Spring
+in Italy, when suddenly he uttered a cry, he had suddenly felt a
+hand upon his shoulder.
+
+"Your honour will be well rewarded if you will come to my window.
+Now why should I tell you a lie, your reverence?"
+
+She threw herself at the priest's feet and besought him to believe
+that the saints had been with her, and that every word she was
+speaking was the truth.
+
+"Biddy, if you don't go away at once I will not allow you inside
+the church to-morrow."
+
+The young man looked at the priest, surprised at his sternness,
+and the priest said:--
+
+"She has become a great trial to us at Kilmore. Come aside and I
+will tell you about her."
+
+And when the priest had told the young man about the window the
+young man asked if Biddy would have to be sent away.
+
+"I hope not, for if she were separated from her window she would
+certainly die. It came out of her savings, out of the money she
+made out of chickens."
+
+"And what has become of the chickens?"
+
+"She has forgotten all about them; they wandered away or died. She
+has been evicted, and she lives now in an out-house. She lives on
+the bits of bread and the potatoes the neighbours give her. The
+things of this world are no longer realities to her. Her realities
+are what she sees and hears in that window. She told me last night
+the saints were singing about her. I don't like to encourage her
+to talk, but if you would like to hear her--Biddy, come here!"
+
+The old woman came back as a dog comes to its master, joyful, and
+with brightening eyes.
+
+"Tell us what you saw last night."
+
+"Well, your reverence, I was asleep, and there suddenly came a
+knocking at the door, and I got up, and then I head a voice say,
+'Open the door.' There was a beautiful young man outside, his hair
+was yellow and curly, and he was dressed in white. He came into
+the room first, and he was followed by other saints, and they had
+harps in their hands, and they sang for a long while; they sang
+beautiful music. Come to the window and you will hear it for
+yourselves. Someone is always singing it in the window, not always
+as clearly as they did last night."
+
+"We'll go to see your window presently."
+
+The old woman crept back to her place, and the priest and the
+young man began to talk about the possibilities of miracles in
+modern times, and they talked on until the sudden sight of Biddy
+gave them pause.
+
+"Look at her," said the young man, "can you doubt that she sees
+Heaven, quite plainly, and that the saints visited her just as she
+told us?"
+
+"No doubt, no doubt. But she's a great trial to us at Mass ....
+The Mass must not be interrupted."
+
+"I suppose even miracles are inconvenient at times, Father
+Maguire. Be patient with her, let her enjoy her happiness."
+
+And the two men stood looking at her, trying vainly to imagine
+what her happiness might be.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+THE EXILE
+
+
+
+
+I
+
+Pat Phelan's bullocks were ready for the fair, and so were his
+pigs; but the two fairs happened to come on the same day, and he
+thought he would like to sell the pigs himself. His eldest son,
+James, was staying at home to help Catherine Ford with her
+churning; Peter, his second son, was not much of a hand at a
+bargain; it was Pat and James who managed the farm, and when Peter
+had gone to bed they began to wonder if Peter would be able to
+sell the bullocks. Pat said Peter had been told the lowest price
+he could take, James said there was a good demand for cattle, and
+at last they decided that Peter could not fail to sell the beasts.
+
+Pat was to meet Peter at the cross-roads about twelve o'clock in
+the day. But he had sold his pigs early, and was half an hour in
+front of him, and sitting on the stile waiting for his son, he
+thought if Peter got thirteen pounds apiece for the bullocks he
+would say he had done very well. A good jobber, he thought, would
+be able to get ten shillings apiece more for them; and he went on
+thinking of what price Peter would get, until, suddenly looking up
+the road, whom should he see but Peter coming down the road with
+the bullocks in front of him. He could hardly believe his eyes,
+and it was a long story that Peter told him about two men who
+wanted to buy the bullocks early in the morning. They had offered
+him eleven pounds ten, and when he would not sell them at that
+price they had stood laughing at the bullocks and doing all they
+could to keep off other buyers. Peter was quite certain it was not
+his fault, and he began to argue. But Pat Phelan was too
+disappointed to argue with him, and he let him go on talking. At
+last Peter ceased talking, and this seemed to Pat Phelan a good
+thing.
+
+The bullocks trotted in front of them. They were seven miles from
+home, and fifteen miles are hard on fat animals, and he could
+truly say he was at a loss of three pounds that day if he took
+into account the animals' keep.
+
+Father and son walked on, and not a word passed between them till
+they came to Michael Quinn's public-house. "Did you get three
+pounds apiece for the pigs, father?"
+
+"I did, and three pounds five."
+
+"We might have a drink out of that."
+
+It seemed to Peter that the men inside were laughing at him or at
+the lemonade he was drinking, and, seeing among them one who had
+been interfering with him all day, he told him he would put him
+out of the house, and he would have done it if Mrs. Quinn had not
+told him that no one put a man out of her house without her leave.
+
+"Do you hear that, Peter Phelan?"
+
+"If you can't best them at the fair," said his father, "it will be
+little good for you to put them out of the public-house
+afterwards."
+
+And on that Peter swore he would never go to a fair again, and
+they walked on until they came to the priest's house.
+
+"It was bad for me when I listened to you and James. If I hadn't I
+might have been in Maynooth now."
+
+"Now, didn't you come home talking of the polis?"
+
+"Wasn't that after?"
+
+They could not agree as to when his idea of life had changed from
+the priesthood to the police, nor when it had changed back from
+the police to the priesthood, and Peter talked on, telling of the
+authors he had read with Father Tom--Caesar, Virgil, even
+Quintillian. The priest had said that Quintillian was too
+difficult for him, and Pat Phelan was in doubt whether the
+difficulty of Quintillian was a sufficient reason for preferring
+the police to the priesthood.
+
+"Any way it isn't a girl that's troubling him," he said to
+himself, and he looked at Peter, and wondered how it was that
+Peter did not want to be married. Peter was a great big fellow,
+over six feet high, that many a girl would take a fancy to, and
+Pat Phelan had long had his eye on a girl who would marry him. And
+his failure to sell the bullocks brought all the advantages of
+this marriage to Pat Phelan's mind, and he began to talk to his
+son. Peter listened, and seemed to take an interest in all that
+was said, expressing now and then a doubt if the girl would marry
+him; the possibility that she might seemed to turn his thoughts
+again towards the priesthood.
+
+The bullocks had stopped to graze, and Peter's indecisions threw
+Pat Phelan fairly out of his humour.
+
+"Well, Peter, I am tired listening to you. If it's a priest you
+want to be, go in there, and Father Tom will tell you what you
+must do, and I'll drive the bullocks home myself." And on that Pat
+laid his hand on the priest's green gate, and Peter walked
+through.
+
+II
+
+There were trees about the priest's house, and there were two
+rooms on the right and left of the front door. The parlour was on
+the left, and when Peter came in the priest was sitting reading in
+his mahogany arm-chair. Peter wondered if it were this very
+mahogany chair that had put the idea of being a priest into his
+head. Just now, while walking with his father, he had been
+thinking that they had not even a wooden arm-chair in their house,
+though it was the best house in the village--only some stools and
+some plain wooden chairs.
+
+The priest could see that Peter had come to him for a purpose. But
+Peter did not speak; he sat raising his pale, perplexed eyes,
+looking at the priest from time to time, thinking that if he told
+Father Tom of his failure at the fair, Father Tom might think he
+only wished to become a priest because he had no taste for
+farming.
+
+"You said, Father Tom, if I worked hard I should be able to read
+Quintillian in six months."
+
+The priest's face always lighted up at the name of a classical
+author, and Peter said he was sorry he had been taken away from
+his studies. But he had been thinking the matter over, and his
+mind was quite made up, and he was sure he would sooner be a
+priest than anything else.
+
+"My boy, I knew you would never put on the policeman's belt. The
+Bishop will hold an examination for the places that are vacant in
+Maynooth." Peter promised to work hard and he already saw himself
+sitting in an arm-chair, in a mahogany arm-chair, reading
+classics, and winning admiration for his learning.
+
+He walked home, thinking that everything was at last decided, when
+suddenly, without warning, when he was thinking of something else,
+his heart misgave him. It was as if he heard a voice saying: "My
+boy, I don't think you will ever put on the cassock. You will
+never walk with the biretta on your head." The priest had said
+that he did not believe he would ever buckle on the policeman's
+belt. He was surprised to hear the priest say this, though he had
+often heard himself thinking the same thing. What surprised and
+frightened him now was that he heard himself saying he would never
+put on the cassock and the biretta. It is frightening to hear
+yourself saying you are not going to do the thing you have just
+made up your mind you will do.
+
+He had often thought he would like to put the money he would get
+out of the farm into a shop, but when it came to the point of
+deciding he had not been able to make up his mind. He had always
+had a great difficulty in knowing what was the right thing to do.
+His uncle William had never thought of anything but the
+priesthood. James never thought of anything but the farm. A
+certain friend of his had never thought of doing anything but
+going to America. Suddenly he heard some one call him.
+
+It was Catherine, and Peter wondered if she were thinking to tell
+him she was going to marry James. For she always knew what she
+wanted. Many said that James was not the one she wanted, but Peter
+did not believe that, and he looked at Catherine and admired her
+face, and thought what a credit she would be to the family. No one
+wore such beautifully knitted stockings as Catherine, and no one's
+boots were so prettily laced.
+
+But not knowing exactly what to say, he asked her if she had come
+from their house, and he went on talking, telling her that she
+would find nobody in the parish like James. James was the best
+farmer in the parish, none such a judge of cattle; and he said all
+this and a great deal more, until he saw that Catherine did not
+care to talk about James at all.
+
+"I daresay all you say is right, Peter; but you see he's your
+brother."
+
+And then, fearing she had said something hurtful, she told him
+that she liked James as much as a girl could like a man who was
+not going to be her husband.
+
+"And you are sure, Catherine, that James is not going to be your
+husband?"
+
+"Yes," she said, "quite sure."
+
+Their talk had taken them as far as Catherine's door, and Peter
+went away wondering why he had not told her he was going to
+Maynooth; for no one would have been able to advise him as well as
+Catherine, she had such good sense.
+
+III
+
+There was a quarter of a mile between the two houses, and while
+Peter was talking to Catherine, Pat Phelan was listening to his
+son James, who was telling his father that Catherine had said she
+would not marry him.
+
+Pat was over sixty, but he did not give one the impression of an
+old man. The hair was not grey, there was still a little red in
+the whiskers. James, who sat opposite to him, holding his hands to
+the blaze, was not as good-looking a man as his father, the nose
+was not as fine, nor were the eyes as keen. There was more of the
+father in Peter than in James.
+
+When Peter opened the half-door, awaking the dozen hens that
+roosted on the beam, he glanced from one to the other, for he
+suspected that his father was telling James how he had failed to
+sell the bullocks. But the tone of his father's voice when he
+asked him what had detained him on the road told him he was
+mistaken; and then he remembered that Catherine had said she would
+not marry James, and he began to pity his brother.
+
+"I met Catherine on the road, and I could do no less than walk as
+far as her door with her."
+
+"You could do no less than that, Peter," said James.
+
+"And what do you mean by that, James?"
+
+"Only this, that it is always the crooked way, Peter; for if it
+had been you that had asked her she would have had you and
+jumping."
+
+"She would have had me!"
+
+"And now don't you think you had better run after her, Peter, and
+ask her if she'll have you?"
+
+"I'll never do that; and it is hurtful, James, that you should
+think such a thing of me, that I would go behind your back and try
+to get a girl from you."
+
+"I did not mean that, Peter; but if she won't have me, you had
+better try if you can get her."
+
+And suddenly Peter felt a resolve come into his heart, and his
+manner grew exultant.
+
+"I've seen Father Tom, and he said I can pass the examination. I'm
+going to be a priest."
+
+And when they were lying down side by side Peter said, "James, it
+will be all right." Knowing there was a great heart-sickness on
+his brother, he put out his hand. "As sure as I lie here she will
+be lying next you before this day twelvemonths. Yes, James, in
+this very bed, lying here where I am lying now."
+
+"I don't believe it, Peter."
+
+Peter loved his brother, and to bring the marriage about he took
+some money from his father and went to live at Father Tom's, and
+he worked so hard during the next two months that he passed the
+Bishop's examination. And it was late one night when he went to
+bid them good-bye at home.
+
+"What makes you so late, Peter?"
+
+"Well, James, I didn't want to meet Catherine on the road."
+
+"You are a good boy, Peter," said the father, "and God will reward
+you for the love you bear your brother. I don't think there are
+two better men in the world. God has been good to me to give me
+two such sons."
+
+And then the three sat round the fire, and Pat Phelan began to
+talk family history.
+
+"Well, Peter, you see, there has always been a priest in the
+family, and it would be a pity if there's not one in this
+generation. In '48 your grand-uncles joined the rebels, and they
+had to leave the country. You have an uncle a priest, and you are
+just like your uncle William."
+
+And then James talked, but he did not seem to know very well what
+he was saying, and his father told him to stop--that Peter was
+going where God had called him.
+
+"And you will tell her," Peter said, getting up, "that I have
+gone."
+
+"I haven't the heart for telling her such a thing. She will be
+finding it out soon enough."
+
+Outside the house--for he was sleeping at Father Tom's that night--
+Peter thought there was little luck in James's eyes; inside the
+house Pat Phelan and James thought that Peter was settled for
+life.
+
+"He will be a fine man standing on an altar," James said, "and
+perhaps he will be a bishop some day."
+
+"And you'll see her when you're done reaping, and you won't forget
+what Peter told you," said Pat Phelan.
+
+And, after reaping, James put on his coat and walked up the
+hillside, where he thought he would find Catherine.
+
+"I hear Peter has left you," she said, as he opened the gate to
+let the cows through.
+
+"He came last night to bid us good-bye."
+
+And they followed the cows under the tall hedges.
+
+"I shall be reaping to-morrow," he said. "I will see you at the
+same time."
+
+And henceforth he was always at hand to help her to drive her cows
+home; and every night, as he sat with his father by the fire, Pat
+Phelan expected James to tell him about Catherine. One evening he
+came back overcome, looking so wretched that his father could see
+that Catherine had told him she would not marry him.
+
+"She won't have me," he said.
+
+"A man can always get a girl if he tries long enough," his father
+said, hoping to encourage him.
+
+"That would be true enough for another. Catherine knows she will
+never get Peter. Another man might get her, but I'm always
+reminding her of Peter."
+
+She told him the truth one day, that if she did not marry Peter
+she would marry no one, and James felt like dying. He grew pale
+and could not speak.
+
+At last he said, "How is that?"
+
+"I don't know. I don't know, James. But you mustn't talk to me
+about marriage again."
+
+And he had to promise her not to speak of marriage again, and he
+kept his word. At the end of the year she asked him if he had any
+news of Peter.
+
+"The last news we had of him was about a month ago, and he said he
+hoped to be admitted into the minor orders."
+
+And a few days afterwards he heard that Catherine had decided to
+go into a convent.
+
+"So this is the way it has ended," he thought. And he seemed no
+longer fit for work on the farm. He was seen about the road
+smoking, and sometimes he went down to the ball-alley, and sat
+watching the games in the evening. It was thought that he would
+take to drink, but he took to fishing instead, and was out all day
+in his little boat on the lake, however hard the wind might blow.
+The fisherman said he had seen him in the part of the lake where
+the wind blew the hardest, and that he could hardly pull against
+the waves.
+
+"His mind is away. I don't think he'll do any good in this
+country," his father said.
+
+And the old man was very sad, for when James was gone he would
+have no one, and he did not feel he would be able to work the farm
+for many years longer. He and James used to sit smoking on either
+side of the fireplace, and Pat Phelan knew that James was thinking
+of America all the while. One evening, as they were sitting like
+this, the door was opened suddenly.
+
+"Peter!" said James. And he jumped up from the fire to welcome his
+brother.
+
+"It is good for sore eyes to see the sight of you again," said Pat
+Phelan. "Well, tell us the news. If we had known you were coming
+we would have sent the cart to meet you."
+
+As Peter did not answer, they began to think that something must
+have happened. Perhaps Peter was not going to become a priest
+after all, and would stay at home with his father to learn to work
+the farm.
+
+"You see, I did not know myself until yesterday. It was only
+yesterday that--"
+
+"So you are not going to be a priest? We are glad to hear that,
+Peter."
+
+"How is that?"
+
+He had thought over what he should say, and without waiting to
+hear why they were glad, he told them the professor, who
+overlooked his essays, had refused to recognize their merits--he
+had condemned the best things in them; and Peter said it was
+extraordinary that such a man should be appointed to such a place.
+Then he told that the Church afforded little chances for the
+talents of young men unless they had a great deal of influence.
+
+And they sat listening to him, hearing how the college might be
+reformed. He had a gentle, winning way of talking, and his father
+and brother forgot their own misfortunes thinking how they might
+help him.
+
+"Well, Peter, you have come back none too soon."
+
+"And how is that? What have you been doing since I went away? You
+all wanted to hear about Maynooth."
+
+"Of course we did, my boy. Tell him, James."
+
+"Oh! it is nothing particular," said James. "It is only this,
+Peter--I am going to America."
+
+"And who will work the farm?"
+
+"Well, Peter, we were thinking that you might work it yourself."
+
+"I work the farm! Going to America, James! But what about
+Catherine?"
+
+"That's what I'm coming to, Peter. She has gone into a convent.
+And that's what's happened since you went away. I can't stop here,
+Peter--I will never do a hand's turn in Ireland--and father is
+getting too old to go to the fairs. That's what we were thinking
+when you came in."
+
+There was a faint tremble in his voice, and Peter saw how heart-
+sick his brother was.
+
+"I will do my best, James."
+
+"I knew you would."
+
+"Yes, I will," said Peter; and he sat down by the fire.
+
+And his father said:--
+
+"You are not smoking, Peter."
+
+"No," he said; "I've given up smoking."
+
+"Will you drink something?" said James. "We have got a drain of
+whiskey in the house."
+
+"No, I have had to give up spirits. It doesn't agree with me. And
+I don't take tea in the morning. Have you got any cocoa in the
+house?"
+
+It was not the cocoa he liked, but he said he would be able to
+manage.
+
+
+
+IV
+
+And when the old man came through the doorway in the morning
+buttoning his braces, he saw Peter stirring his cocoa. There was
+something absurd as well as something attractive in Peter, and his
+father had to laugh when he said he couldn't eat American bacon.
+
+"My stomach wouldn't retain it. I require very little, but that
+little must be the best."
+
+And when James took him into the farmyard, he noticed that Peter
+crossed the yard like one who had never been in a farmyard before;
+he looked less like a farmer than ever, and when he looked at the
+cows, James wondered if he could be taught to see the difference
+between an Alderney and a Durham.
+
+"There's Kate," he said; "she's a good cow; as good a cow as we
+have, and we can't get any price for her because of that hump on
+her back."
+
+They went to the styes; there were three pigs there and a great
+sow with twelve little bonhams, and the little ones were white
+with silky hair, and Peter asked how old they were, and when they
+would be fit for killing. And James told Peter there were seven
+acres in the Big field.
+
+"Last year we had oats in the Holly field; next year you'll sow
+potatoes there." And he explained the rotation of crops. "And,
+now," he said, "we will go down to Crow's Oak. You have never done
+any ploughing, Peter; I will show you."
+
+It was extraordinary how little Peter knew. He could not put the
+harness on the horse, and he reminded James that he had gone into
+the post-office when he left school. James gave in to him that the
+old red horse was hard to drive, but James could drive him better
+than Peter could lead him; and Peter marvelled at the skill with
+which James raised his hand from the shaft of the plough and
+struck the horse with the rein whilst he kept the plough steady
+with the other hand.
+
+"Now, Peter, you must try again."
+
+At the end of the headland where the plough turned, Peter always
+wanted to stop and talk about something; but James said they would
+have to get on with the work, and Peter walked after the plough,
+straining after it for three hours, and then he said: "James, let
+me drive the horse. I can do no more."
+
+"You won't feel it so much when you are accustomed to it," said
+James.
+
+Anything seemed to him better than a day's ploughing: even getting
+up at three in the morning to go to a fair.
+
+He went to bed early, as he used to, and they talked of him over
+the fire, as they used to. But however much they talked, they
+never seemed to find what they were seeking--his vocation--until
+one evening an idea suddenly rose out of their talk.
+
+"A good wife is the only thing for Peter," said Pat.
+
+And they went on thinking.
+
+"A husband would be better for her," said Pat Phelan, "than a
+convent."
+
+"I cannot say I agree with you there. Think of all the good them
+nuns are doing."
+
+"She isn't a nun yet," said Pat Phelan.
+
+And the men smoked on a while, and they ruminated as they smoked.
+
+"It would be better, James, that Peter got her than that she
+should stay in a convent."
+
+"I wouldn't say that," said James.
+
+"You see," said his father, "she did not go into the convent
+because she had a calling, but because she was crossed in love."
+
+And after another long while James said, "It is a bitter dose, I
+am thinking, father, but you must go and tell her that Peter has
+left Maynooth."
+
+"And what would the Reverend Mother be saying to me if I went to
+her with such a story as that? Isn't your heart broken enough
+already, James, without wanting me to be breaking it still more?
+Sure, James, you could never see her married to Peter?"
+
+"If she were to marry Peter I should be able to go to America, and
+that is the only thing for me."
+
+"That would be poor consolation for you, James."
+
+"Well, it is the best I shall get, to see Peter settled, and to
+know that there will be some one to look after you, father."
+
+"You are a good son, James."
+
+They talked on, and as they talked it became clearer to them that
+some one must go to-morrow to the convent and tell Catherine that
+Peter had left Maynooth.
+
+"But wouldn't it be a pity," said Pat Phelan, "to tell her this if
+Peter is not going to marry her in the end?"
+
+"I'll have him out of his bed," said James, "and he'll tell us
+before this fire if he will or won't."
+
+"It's a serious thing you are doing, James, to get a girl out of a
+convent, I am thinking."
+
+"It will be on my advice that you will be doing this, father; and
+now I'll go and get Peter out of his bed."
+
+And Peter was brought in, asking what they wanted of him at this
+hour of the night; and when they told him what they had been
+talking about and the plans they had been making, he said he would
+be catching his death of cold, and they threw some sods of turf on
+the fire.
+
+"It is against myself that I am asking a girl to leave the
+convent, even for you, Peter," said James. "But we can think of
+nothing else."
+
+"Peter will be able to tell us if it is a sin that we'd be doing."
+
+"It is only right that Catherine should know the truth before she
+made her vows," Peter said. "But this is very unexpected, father.
+I really--"
+
+"Peter, I'd take it as a great kindness. I shall never do a hand's
+turn in this country. I want to get to America. It will be the
+saving of me."
+
+"And now, Peter," said his father, "tell us for sure if you will
+have the girl?"
+
+"Faith I will, though I never thought of marriage, if it be to
+please James." Seeing how heart-sick his brother was, he said, "I
+can't say I like her as you like her; but if she likes me I will
+promise to do right by her. James, you're going away; we may never
+see you again. It is all very sad. And now you'll let me go back
+to bed."
+
+"Peter, I knew you would not say no to me; I can't bear this any
+longer."
+
+"And now," said Peter, "let me go back to bed. I am catching my
+death."
+
+And he ran back to his room, and left his brother and father
+talking by the fire.
+
+
+
+V
+
+Pat thought the grey mare would take him in faster than the old
+red horse; and the old man sat, his legs swinging over the shaft,
+wondering what he should say to the Reverend Mother, and how she
+would listen to his story; and when he came to the priest's house
+a great wish came upon him to ask the priest's advice. The priest
+was walking up his little lawn reading his breviary, and a great
+fear came on Pat Phelan, and he thought he must ask the priest
+what he should do.
+
+The priest heard the story over the little wall, and he was sorry
+for the old man.
+
+It took him a long time to tell the story, and when he was
+finished the priest said:--
+
+"But where are you going, Pat?"
+
+"That's what I stopped to tell you, your reverence. I was thinking
+I might be going to the convent to tell Catherine that Peter has
+come back."
+
+"Well it wasn't yourself that thought of doing such a thing as
+that, Pat Phelan."
+
+But at every word the priest said Pat Phelan's face grew more
+stubborn, and at last he said:--
+
+"Well, your reverence, that isn't the advice I expected from you,"
+and he struck the mare with the ends of the reins and let her trot
+up the hill. Nor did the mare stop trotting till she had reached
+the top of the hill, and Pat Phelan had never known her do such a
+thing before. From the top of the hill there was a view of the
+bog, and Pat thought of the many fine loads of turf he had had out
+of that bog, and the many young fellows he had seen there cutting
+turf. "But every one is leaving the country," the old man said to
+himself, and his chin dropped into his shirt-collar, and he held
+the reins loosely, letting the mare trot or walk as she liked. And
+he let many pass him without bidding them the hour of the day, for
+he was too much overcome by his own grief to notice anyone.
+
+The mare trotted gleefully; soft clouds curled over the low
+horizon far away, and the sky was blue overhead; and the poor
+country was very beautiful in the still autumn weather, only it
+was empty. He passed two or three fine houses that the gentry had
+left to caretakers long ago. The fences were gone, cattle strayed
+through the woods, the drains were choked with weeds, the stagnant
+water was spreading out into the fields, and Pat Phelan noticed
+these things, for he remembered what this country was forty years
+ago. The devil a bit of lonesomeness there was in it then.
+
+He asked a girl if they would be thatching the house that autumn;
+but she answered that the thatch would last out the old people,
+and she was going to join her sister in America.
+
+"She's right--they're all there now. Why should anyone stop here?"
+the old man said.
+
+The mare tripped, and he took this to be a sign that he should
+turn back. But he did not go back. Very soon the town began, in
+broken pavements and dirty cottages; going up the hill there were
+some slated roofs, but there was no building of any importance
+except the church.
+
+At the end of the main street, where the trees began again, the
+convent stood in the middle of a large garden, and Pat Phelan
+remembered he had heard that the nuns were doing well with their
+dairy and their laundry.
+
+He knocked, and a lay-sister peeped through the grating, and then
+she opened the door a little way, and at first he thought he would
+have to go back without seeing either Catherine or the Reverend
+Mother. For he had got no further than "Sister Catherine," when
+the lay-sister cut him short with the news that Sister Catherine
+was in retreat, and could see no one. The Reverend Mother was
+busy.
+
+"But," said Pat, "you're not going to let Catherine take vows
+without hearing me."
+
+"If it is about Sister Catherine's vows--"
+
+"Yes, it is about them I've come, and I must see the Reverend
+Mother."
+
+The lay-sister said Sister Catherine was going to be clothed at
+the end of the week.
+
+"Well, that is just the reason I've come here."
+
+On that the lay-sister led him into the parlour, and went in
+search of the Reverend Mother.
+
+The floor was so thickly bees-waxed that the rug slipped under his
+feet, and, afraid lest he might fall down, he stood quite still,
+impressed by the pious pictures on the walls, and by the large
+books upon the table, and by the poor-box, and by the pious
+inscriptions. He began to think how much easier was this pious
+life than the life of the world--the rearing of children, the
+failure of crops, and the loneliness. Here life slips away without
+one perceiving it, and it seemed a pity to bring her back to
+trouble. He stood holding his hat in his old hands, and the time
+seemed very long. At last the door opened, and a tall woman with
+sharp, inquisitive eyes came in.
+
+"You have come to speak to me about Sister Catherine?"
+
+"Yes, my lady."
+
+"And what have you got to tell me about her?"
+
+"Well, my son thought and I thought last night--we were all
+thinking we had better tell you--last night was the night that my
+son came back."
+
+At the word Maynooth a change of expression came into her face,
+but when he told that Peter no longer wished to be a priest her
+manner began to grow hostile again, and she got up from her chair
+and said:--
+
+"But really, Mr. Phelan, I have got a great deal of business to
+attend to."
+
+"But, my lady, you see that Catherine wanted to marry my son
+Peter, and it is because he went to Maynooth that she came here. I
+don't think she'd want to be a nun if she knew that he didn't want
+to be a priest."
+
+"I cannot agree with you, Mr. Phelan, in that. I have seen a great
+deal of Sister Catherine--she has been with us now for nearly a
+year--and if she ever entertained the wishes you speak of, I feel
+sure she has forgotten them. Her mind is now set on higher
+things."
+
+"Of course you may be right, my lady, very likely. It isn't for me
+to argue with you about such things; but you see I have come a
+long way, and if I could see Catherine herself--"
+
+"That is impossible. Catherine is in retreat."
+
+"So the lay-sister told me; but I thought--"
+
+"Sister Catherine is going to be clothed next Saturday, and I can
+assure you, Mr. Phelan, that the wishes you tell me of are
+forgotten. I know her very well. I can answer for Sister
+Catherine."
+
+The rug slipped under the peasant's feet and his eyes wandered
+round the room; and the Reverend Mother told him how busy she was,
+she really could not talk to him any more that day.
+
+"You see, it all rests with Sister Catherine herself."
+
+"That's just it," said the old man; "that's just it, my lady. My
+son Peter, who has come from Maynooth, told us last night that
+Catherine should know everything that has happened, so that she
+may not be sorry afterwards, otherwise I wouldn't have come here,
+my lady. I wouldn't have come to trouble you."
+
+"I am sorry, Mr. Phelan, that your son Peter has left Maynooth. It
+is sad indeed when one finds that one has not a vocation. But that
+happens sometimes. I don't think that it will be Catherine's case.
+And now, Mr. Phelan, I must ask you to excuse me," and the
+Reverend Mother persuaded the unwilling peasant into the passage,
+and he followed the lay-sister down the passage to the gate and
+got into his cart again.
+
+"No wonder," he thought, "they don't want to let Catherine out,
+now that they have got that great farm, and not one among them,
+I'll be bound, who can manage it except Catherine."
+
+At the very same moment the same thoughts passed through the
+Reverend Mother's mind. She had not left the parlour yet, and
+stood thinking how she should manage if Catherine were to leave
+them. "Why," she asked, "should he choose to leave Maynooth at
+such a time? It is indeed unfortunate. There is nothing," she
+reflected, "that gives a woman so much strength as to receive the
+veil. She always feels stronger after her clothing. She feels that
+the world is behind her."
+
+The Reverend Mother reflected that perhaps it would be better for
+Catherine's sake and for Peter's sake--indeed, for everyone's
+sake--if she were not to tell Catherine of Pat Phelan's visit
+until after the clothing. She might tell Catherine three months
+hence. The disadvantage of this would be that Catherine might hear
+that Peter had left Maynooth. In a country place news of this kind
+cannot be kept out of a convent. And if Catherine were going to
+leave, it were better that she should leave them now than leave
+them six months hence, after her clothing.
+
+"There are many ways of looking at it," the Reverend Mother
+reflected. "If I don't tell her, she may never hear it. I might
+tell her later when she has taught one of the nuns how to manage
+the farm." She took two steps towards the door and stopped to
+think again, and she was thinking when a knock came to the door.
+She answered mechanically, "Come in," and Catherine wondered at
+the Reverend Mother's astonishment.
+
+"I wish to speak to you, dear mother," she said timidly. But
+seeing the Reverend Mother's face change expression, she said,
+"Perhaps another time will suit you better."
+
+The Reverend Mother stood looking at her, irresolute; and
+Catherine, who had never seen the Reverend Mother irresolute
+before, wondered what was passing in her mind.
+
+"I know you are busy, dear mother, but what I have come to tell
+you won't take very long."
+
+"Well, then, tell it to me, my child."
+
+"It is only this, Reverend Mother. I had better tell you now, for
+you are expecting the Bishop, and my clothing is fixed for the end
+of the week, and--"
+
+"And," said the Reverend Mother, "you feel that you are not
+certain of your vocation."
+
+"That is it, dear mother. I thought I had better tell you."
+Reading disappointment in the nun's face, Catherine said, "I
+hesitated to tell you before. I had hoped that the feeling would
+pass away; but, dear mother, it isn't my fault; everyone has not a
+vocation."
+
+Then Catherine noticed a softening in the Reverend Mother's face,
+and she asked Catherine to sit down by her; and Catherine told her
+she had come to the convent because she was crossed in love, and
+not as the others came, because they wished to give up their wills
+to God.
+
+"Our will is the most precious thing in us, and that is why the
+best thing we can do is to give it up to you, for in giving it up
+to you, dear mother, we are giving it up to God. I know all these
+things, but--"
+
+"You should have told me of this when you came here, Catherine,
+and then I would not have advised you to come to live with us."
+
+"Mother, you must forgive me. My heart was broken, and I could not
+do otherwise. And you have said yourself that I made the dairy a
+success."
+
+"If you had stayed with us, Catherine, you would have made the
+dairy a success; but we have got no one to take your place.
+However, since it is the will of God, I suppose we must try to get
+on as well as we can without you. And now tell me, Catherine, when
+it was that you changed your mind. It was only the other day you
+told me you wished to become a nun. You said you were most anxious
+for your clothing. How is it that you have changed your mind?"
+
+Catherine's eyes brightened, and speaking like one illuminated by
+some inward light, she said:--
+
+"It was the second day of my retreat, mother. I was walking in the
+garden where the great cross stands amid the rocks. Sister Angela
+and Sister Mary were with me, and I was listening to what they
+were saying, when suddenly my thoughts were taken away and I
+remembered those at home. I remembered Mr. Phelan, and James, who
+wanted to marry me, but whom I would not marry; and it seemed to
+me that I saw him leaving his father--it seemed to me that I saw
+him going away to America. I don't know how it was--you will not
+believe me, dear mother--but I saw the ship lying in the harbour,
+that is to take him away. And then I thought of the old man
+sitting at home with no one to look after him, and it was not a
+seeming, but a certainty, mother. It came over me suddenly that my
+duty was not here, but there. Of course you can't agree with me,
+but I cannot resist it, it was a call."
+
+"But the Evil One, my dear child, calls us too; we must be careful
+not to mistake the devil's call for God's call."
+
+"Mother, I daresay." Tears came to Catherine's eyes, she began to
+weep. "I can't argue with you, mother, I only know--"She could not
+speak for sobbing, and between her sobs she said, "I only know
+that I must go home."
+
+She recovered herself very soon, and the Reverend Mother took her
+hand and said:--
+
+"Well, my dear child, I shall not stand in your way."
+
+Even the Reverend Mother could not help thinking that the man who
+got her would get a charming wife. Her face was rather long and
+white, and she had long female eyes with dark lashes, and her eyes
+were full of tenderness. She had spoken out of so deep a
+conviction that the Reverend Mother had begun to believe that her
+mission was perhaps to look after this hapless young man; and when
+she told the Reverend Mother that yesterday she had felt a
+conviction that Peter was not going to be a priest, the Reverend
+Mother felt that she must tell her of Pat Phelan's visit.
+
+"I did not tell you at once, my dear child, because I wished to
+know from yourself how you felt about this matter," the nun said;
+and she told Catherine that she was quite right, that Peter had
+left Maynooth. "He hopes to marry you, Catherine."
+
+A quiet glow came into the postulant's eyes, and she seemed
+engulfed in some deep joy.
+
+"How did he know that I cared for him?" the girl said, half to
+herself, half to the nun.
+
+"I suppose his father or his brother must have told him," the nun
+answered.
+
+And then Catherine, fearing to show too much interest in things
+that the nun deemed frivolous, said, "I am sorry to leave before
+my work is done here. But, mother, so it has all come true; it was
+extraordinary what I felt that morning in the garden," she said,
+returning to her joy. "Mother, do you believe in visions?"
+
+"The saints, of course, have had visions. We believe in the
+visions of the saints."
+
+"But after all, mother, there are many duties besides religious
+duties."
+
+"I suppose, Catherine, you feel it to be your duty to look after
+this young man?"
+
+"Yes, I think that is it. I must go now, mother, and see Sister
+Angela, and write out for her all I know about the farm, and what
+she is to do, for if one is not very careful with a farm one loses
+a great deal of money. There is no such thing as making two ends
+meet. One either makes money or loses money."
+
+And then Catherine again seemed to be engulfed in some deep joy,
+out of which she roused herself with difficulty.
+
+
+VI
+
+When her postulant left the room, the Reverend Mother wrote to
+Pat Phelan, asking him to come next morning with his cart to fetch
+Catherine. And next morning, when the lay-sister told Catherine
+that he was waiting for her, the Reverend Mother said:--
+
+"We shall be able to manage, Catherine. You have told Sister
+Angela everything, and you will not forget to come to see us, I
+hope."
+
+"Mr. Phelan," said the lay-sister, "told me to tell you that one
+of his sons is going to America to-day. Sister Catherine will have
+to go at once if she wishes to see him."
+
+"I must see James. I must see him before he leaves for America.
+Oh," she said, turning to the Reverend Mother, "do you remember
+that I told you I had seen the ship? Everything has come true. You
+can't believe any longer that it is not a call."
+
+Her box was in the cart, and as Pat turned the mare round he said:
+"I hope we won't miss James at the station. That's the reason I
+came for you so early. I thought you would like to see him."
+
+"Why did you not come earlier?" she cried. "All my happiness will
+be spoilt if I don't see James."
+
+The convent was already behind her, and her thoughts were now upon
+poor James, whose heart she had broken. She knew that Peter would
+never love her as well as James, but this could not be helped. Her
+vision in the garden consoled her, for she could no longer doubt
+that she was doing right in going to Peter, that her destiny was
+with him.
+
+She knew the road well, she knew all the fields, every house and
+every gap in the walls. Sign after sign went by; at last they were
+within sight of the station. The signal was still up, and the
+train had not gone yet; at the end of the platform she saw James
+and Peter. She let Pat Phelan drive the cart round; she could get
+to them quicker by running down the steps and crossing the line.
+The signal went down.
+
+"Peter," she said, "we shall have time to talk presently. I want
+to speak to James now."
+
+And they walked up to the platform, leaving Peter to talk to his
+father.
+
+"Paddy Maguire is outside," Pat said; "I asked him to stand at the
+mare's head."
+
+"James," said Catherine, "it is very sad you are going away. We
+may never see you again, and there is no time to talk, and I've
+much to say to you."
+
+"I am going away, Catherine, but maybe I will be coming back some
+day. I was going to say maybe you would be coming over after me;
+but the land is good land, and you'll be able to make a living out
+of it."
+
+And then they spoke of Peter. James said he was too great a
+scholar for a farmer, and it was a pity he could not find out what
+he was fit for--for surely he was fit for something great after
+all.
+
+And Catherine said:--
+
+"I shall be able to make something out of Peter."
+
+His emotion almost overcame him, and Catherine looked aside so
+that she should not see his tears.
+
+"This is no time for talking of Peter," she said. "You are going
+away, James, but you will come back. You will find another woman
+better than I am in America, James. I don't know what to say to
+you. The train will be here in a minute. I am distracted. But one
+day you will be coming back, and we shall be very proud of you
+when you come back. I shall rebuild the house, and we shall be all
+happy then. Oh! here's the train. Good-bye; you have been very
+good to me. Oh, James! shall I ever see you again?"
+
+Then the crowd swept them along, and James had to take his
+father's hand and his brother's hand. There were a great many
+people in the station--hundreds were going away in the same ship
+that James was going in. The train was followed by wailing
+relatives. They ran alongside of the train, waving their hands
+until they could no longer keep up with the train. James waved a
+red handkerchief until the train was out of sight. It disappeared
+in a cutting, and a moment after Catherine and Peter remembered
+they were standing side by side. They were going to be married in
+a few days! They started a little, hearing a step beside them. It
+was old Phelan.
+
+"I think," he said, "it is time to be getting home."
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+HOME SICKNESS
+
+
+He told the doctor he was due in the bar-room at eight o'clock in
+the morning; the bar-room was in a slum in the Bowery; and he had
+only been able to keep himself in health by getting up at five
+o'clock and going for long walks in the Central Park.
+
+"A sea voyage is what you want," said the doctor. "Why not go to
+Ireland for two or three months? You will come back a new man."
+
+"I'd like to see Ireland again."
+
+And then he began to wonder how the people at home were getting
+on. The doctor was right. He thanked him, and three weeks
+afterwards he landed in Cork.
+
+As he sat in the railway carriage he recalled his native village--
+he could see it and its lake, and then the fields one by one, and
+the roads. He could see a large piece of rocky land--some three or
+four hundred acres of headland stretching out into the winding
+lake. Upon this headland the peasantry had been given permission
+to build their cabins by former owners of the Georgian house
+standing on the pleasant green hill. The present owners considered
+the village a disgrace, but the villagers paid high rents for
+their plots of ground, and all the manual labour that the Big
+House required came from the village: the gardeners, the stable
+helpers, the house and the kitchen maids.
+
+He had been thirteen years in America, and when the train stopped
+at his station, he looked round to sec if there were any changes
+in it. It was just the same blue limestone station-house as it was
+thirteen years ago. The platform and the sheds were the same, and
+there were five miles of road from the station to Duncannon. The
+sea voyage had done him good, but five miles were too far for him
+to-day; the last time he had walked the road, he had walked it in
+an hour and a half, carrying a heavy bundle on a stick.
+
+He was sorry he did not feel strong enough for the walk; the
+evening was fine, and he would meet many people coming home from
+the fair, some of whom he had known in his youth, and they would
+tell him where he could get a clean lodging. But the carman would
+be able to tell him that; he called the car that was waiting at
+the station, and soon he was answering questions about America.
+But Bryden wanted to hear of those who were still living in the
+old country, and after hearing the stories of many people he had
+forgotten, he heard that Mike Scully, who had been away in a
+situation for many years as a coachman in the King's County, had
+come back and built a fine house with a concrete floor. Now there
+was a good loft in Mike Scully's house, and Mike would be pleased
+to take in a lodger.
+
+Bryden remembered that Mike had been in a situation at the Big
+House; he had intended to be a jockey, but had suddenly shot up
+into a fine tall man, and had had to become a coachman instead.
+Bryden tried to recall the face, but he could only remember a
+straight nose, and a somewhat dusky complexion. Mike was one of
+the heroes of his childhood, and his youth floated before him, and
+he caught glimpses of himself, something that was more than a
+phantom and less than a reality. Suddenly his reverie was broken:
+the carman pointed with his whip, and Bryden saw a tall, finely-
+built, middle-aged man coming through the gates, and the driver
+said:--
+
+"There's Mike Scully."
+
+Mike had forgotten Bryden even more completely than Bryden had
+forgotten him, and many aunts and uncles were mentioned before he
+began to understand.
+
+"You've grown into a fine man, James," he said, looking at
+Bryden's great width of chest. "But you are thin in the cheeks,
+and you're sallow in the cheeks too."
+
+"I haven't been very well lately--that is one of the reasons I
+have come back; but I want to see you all again."
+
+Bryden paid the carman, wished him "God-speed," and he and Mike
+divided the luggage between them, Mike carrying the bag and Bryden
+the bundle, and they walked round the lake, for the townland was
+at the back of the demesne; and while they walked, James proposed
+to pay Mike ten shillings a week for his board and lodging.
+
+He remembered the woods thick and well-forested; now they were
+windworn, the drains were choked, and the bridge leading across
+the lake inlet was falling away. Their way led between long fields
+where herds of cattle were grazing; the road was broken--Bryden
+wondered how the villagers drove their carts over it, and Mike
+told him that the landlord could not keep it in repair, and he
+would not allow it to be kept in repair out of the rates, for then
+it would be a public road, and he did not think there should be a
+public road through his property.
+
+At the end of many fields they came to the village, and it looked
+a desolate place, even on this fine evening, and Bryden remarked
+that the county did not seem to be as much lived in as it used to
+be. It was at once strange and familiar to see the chickens in the
+kitchen; and, wishing to re-knit himself to the old habits, he
+begged of Mrs. Scully not to drive them out, saying he did not
+mind them. Mike told his wife that Bryden was born in Duncannon,
+and when he mentioned Bryden's name she gave him her hand, after
+wiping it in her apron, saying he was heartily welcome, only she
+was afraid he would not care to sleep in a loft.
+
+"Why wouldn't I sleep in a loft, a dry loft! You're thinking a
+good deal of America over here," said he, "but I reckon it isn't
+all you think it. Here you work when you like and you sit down
+when you like; but when you have had a touch of blood-poisoning as
+I had, and when you have seen young people walking with a stick,
+you think that there is something to be said for old Ireland."
+
+"Now won't you be taking a sup of milk? You'll be wanting a drink
+after travelling," said Mrs. Scully.
+
+And when he had drunk the milk Mike asked him if he would like to
+go inside or if he would like to go for a walk.
+
+"Maybe it is sitting down you would like to be."
+
+And they went into the cabin, and started to talk about the wages
+a man could get in America, and the long hours of work.
+
+And after Bryden had told Mike everything about America that he
+thought would interest him, he asked Mike about Ireland. But Mike
+did not seem to be able to tell him much that was of interest.
+They were all very poor--poorer, perhaps, than when he left them.
+
+"I don't think anyone except myself has a five pound note to his
+name."
+
+Bryden hoped he felt sufficiently sorry for Mike. But after all
+Mike's life and prospects mattered little to him. He had come back
+in search of health; and he felt better already; the milk had done
+him good, and the bacon and cabbage in the pot sent forth a
+savoury odour. The Scullys were very kind, they pressed him to
+make a good meal; a few weeks of country air and food, they said,
+would give him back the health he had lost in the Bowery; and when
+Bryden said he was longing for a smoke, Mike said there was no
+better sign than that. During his long illness he had never wanted
+to smoke, and he was a confirmed smoker.
+
+It was comfortable to sit by the mild peat fire watching the smoke
+of their pipes drifting up the chimney, and all Bryden wanted was
+to be let alone; he did not want to hear of anyone's misfortunes,
+but about nine o'clock a number of villagers came in, and their
+appearance was depressing. Bryden remembered one or two of them--
+he used to know them very well when he was a boy; their talk was
+as depressing as their appearance, and he could feel no interest
+whatever in them. He was not moved when he heard that Higgins the
+stone-mason was dead; he was not affected when he heard that Mary
+Kelly, who used to go to do the laundry at the Big House, had
+married; he was only interested when he heard she had gone to
+America. No, he had not met her there, America is a big place.
+Then one of the peasants asked him if he remembered Patsy
+Carabine, who used to do the gardening at the Big House. Yes, he
+remembered Patsy well. Patsy was in the poor-house. He had not
+been able to do any work on account of his arm; his house had
+fallen in; he had given up his holding and gone into the poor-
+house. All this was very sad, and to avoid hearing any further
+unpleasantness, Bryden began to tell them about America. And they
+sat round listening to him; but all the talking was on his side;
+he wearied of it; and looking round the group he recognised a
+ragged hunchback with grey hair; twenty years ago he was a young
+hunchback, and, turning to him, Bryden asked him if he were doing
+well with his five acres.
+
+"Ah, not much. This has been a bad season. The potatoes failed;
+they were watery--there is no diet in them."
+
+These peasants were all agreed that they could make nothing out of
+their farms. Their regret was that they had not gone to America
+when they were young; and after striving to take an interest in
+the fact that O'Connor had lost a mare and foal worth forty pounds
+Bryden began to wish himself back in the slum. And when they left
+the house he wondered if every evening would be like the present
+one. Mike piled fresh sods on the fire, and he hoped it would show
+enough light in the loft for Bryden to undress himself by.
+
+The cackling of some geese in the road kept him awake, and the
+loneliness of the country seemed to penetrate to his bones, and to
+freeze the marrow in them. There was a bat in the loft--a dog
+howled in the distance--and then he drew the clothes over his
+head. Never had he been so unhappy, and the sound of Mike
+breathing by his wife's side in the kitchen added to his nervous
+terror. Then he dozed a little; and lying on his back he dreamed
+he was awake, and the men he had seen sitting round the fireside
+that evening seemed to him like spectres come out of some unknown
+region of morass and reedy tarn. He stretched out his hands for
+his clothes, determined to fly from this house, but remembering
+the lonely road that led to the station he fell back on his
+pillow. The geese still cackled, but he was too tired to be kept
+awake any longer. He seemed to have been asleep only a few minutes
+when he heard Mike calling him. Mike had come half way up the
+ladder and was telling him that breakfast was ready. "What kind of
+breakfast will he give me?" Bryden asked himself as he pulled on
+his clothes. There were tea and hot griddle cakes for breakfast,
+and there were fresh eggs; there was sunlight in the kitchen and
+he liked to hear Mike tell of the work he was going to do in the
+fields. Mike rented a farm of about fifteen acres, at least ten of
+it was grass; he grew an acre of potatoes and some corn, and some
+turnips for his sheep. He had a nice bit of meadow, and he took
+down his scythe, and as he put the whetstone in his belt Bryden
+noticed a second scythe, and he asked Mike if he should go down
+with him and help him to finish the field.
+
+"You haven't done any mowing this many a year; I don't think you'd
+be of much help. You'd better go for a walk by the lake, but you
+may come in the afternoon if you like and help to turn the grass
+over."
+
+Bryden was afraid he would find the lake shore very lonely, but
+the magic of returning health is the sufficient distraction for
+the convalescent, and the morning passed agreeably. The weather
+was still and sunny. He could hear the ducks in the reeds. The
+hours dreamed themselves away, and it became his habit to go to
+the lake every morning. One morning he met the landlord, and they
+walked together, talking of the country, of what it had been, and
+the ruin it was slipping into. James Bryden told him that ill
+health had brought him back to Ireland; and the landlord lent him
+his boat, and Bryden rowed about the islands, and resting upon his
+oars he looked at the old castles, and remembered the pre-historic
+raiders that the landlord had told him about. He came across the
+stones to which the lake dwellers had tied their boats, and these
+signs of ancient Ireland were pleasing to Bryden in his present
+mood.
+
+As well as the great lake there was a smaller lake in the bog
+where the villagers cut their turf. This lake was famous for its
+pike, and the landlord allowed Bryden to fish there, and one
+evening when he was looking for a frog with which to bait his line
+he met Margaret Dirken driving home the cows for the milking.
+Margaret was the herdsman's daughter, and she lived in a cottage
+near the Big House; but she came up to the village whenever there
+was a dance, and Bryden had found himself opposite to her in the
+reels. But until this evening he had had little opportunity of
+speaking to her, and he was glad to speak to someone, for the
+evening was lonely, and they stood talking together.
+
+"You're getting your health again," she said. "You'll soon be
+leaving us."
+
+"I'm in no hurry."
+
+"You're grand people over there; I hear a man is paid four dollars
+a day for his work."
+
+"And how much," said James, "has he to pay for his food and for
+his clothes?"
+
+Her cheeks were bright and her teeth small, white and beautifully
+even; and a woman's soul looked at Bryden out of her soft Irish
+eyes. He was troubled and turned aside, and catching sight of a
+frog looking at him out of a tuft of grass he said:--
+
+"I have been looking for a frog to put upon my pike line."
+
+The frog jumped right and left, and nearly escaped in some bushes,
+but he caught it and returned with it in his hand.
+
+"It is just the kind of frog a pike will like," he said. "Look at
+its great white belly and its bright yellow back."
+
+And without more ado he pushed the wire to which the hook was
+fastened through the frog's fresh body, and dragging it through
+the mouth he passed the hooks through the hind legs and tied the
+line to the end of the wire.
+
+"I think," said Margaret, "I must be looking after my cows; it's
+time I got them home."
+
+"Won't you come down to the lake while I set my line?"
+
+She thought for a moment and said:--
+
+"No, I'll see you from here."
+
+He went down to the reedy tarn, and at his approach several snipe
+got up, and they flew above his head uttering sharp cries. His
+fishing-rod was a long hazel stick, and he threw the frog as far
+as he could into the lake. In doing this he roused some wild
+ducks; a mallard and two ducks got up, and they flew towards the
+larger lake. Margaret watched them; they flew in a line with an
+old castle; and they had not disappeared from view when Bryden
+came towards her, and he and she drove the cows home together that
+evening.
+
+They had not met very often when she said, "James, you had better
+not come here so often calling to me."
+
+"Don't you wish me to come?"
+
+"Yes, I wish you to come well enough, but keeping company is not
+the custom of the country, and I don't want to be talked about."
+
+"Are you afraid the priest would speak against us from the altar?"
+
+"He has spoken against keeping company, but it is not so much what
+the priest says, for there is no harm in talking."
+
+"But if you are going to be married there is no harm in walking
+out together."
+
+"Well, not so much, but marriages are made differently in these
+parts; there is not much courting here."
+
+And next day it was known in the village that James was going to
+marry Margaret Dirken.
+
+His desire to excel the boys in dancing had aroused much gaiety in
+the parish, and for some time past there had been dancing in every
+house where there was a floor fit to dance upon; and if the
+cottager had no money to pay for a barrel of beer, James Bryden,
+who had money, sent him a barrel, so that Margaret might get her
+dance. She told him that they sometimes crossed over into another
+parish where the priest was not so averse to dancing, and James
+wondered. And next morning at Mass he wondered at their simple
+fervour. Some of them held their hands above their heads as they
+prayed, and all this was very new and very old to James Bryden.
+But the obedience of these people to their priest surprised him.
+When he was a lad they had not been so obedient, or he had
+forgotten their obedience; and he listened in mixed anger and
+wonderment to the priest who was scolding his parishioners,
+speaking to them by name, saying that he had heard there was
+dancing going on in their homes. Worse than that, he said he had
+seen boys and girls loitering about the roads, and the talk that
+went on was of one kind--love. He said that newspapers containing
+love-stories were finding their way into the people's houses,
+stories about love, in which there was nothing elevating or
+ennobling. The people listened, accepting the priest's opinion
+without question. And their submission was pathetic. It was the
+submission of a primitive people clinging to religious authority,
+and Bryden contrasted the weakness and incompetence of the people
+about him with the modern restlessness and cold energy of the
+people he had left behind him.
+
+One evening, as they were dancing, a knock came to the door, and
+the piper stopped playing, and the dancers whispered:--
+
+"Some one has told on us; it is the priest."
+
+And the awe-stricken villagers crowded round the cottage fire,
+afraid to open the door. But the priest said that if they did not
+open the door he would put his shoulder to it and force it open.
+Bryden went towards the door, saying he would allow no one to
+threaten him, priest or no priest, but Margaret caught his arm and
+told him that if he said anything to the priest, the priest would
+speak against them from the altar, and they would be shunned by
+the neighbours. It was Mike Scully who went to the door and let
+the priest in, and he came in saying they were dancing their souls
+into hell.
+
+"I've heard of your goings on," he said--"of your beer-drinking
+and dancing. I will not have it in my parish. If you want that
+sort of thing you had better go to America."
+
+"If that is intended for me, sir, I will go back to-morrow.
+Margaret can follow."
+
+"It isn't the dancing, it's the drinking I'm opposed to," said the
+priest, turning to Bryden.
+
+"Well, no one has drunk too much, sir," said Bryden.
+
+"But you'll sit here drinking all night," and the priest's eyes
+went towards the corner where the women had gathered, and Bryden
+felt that the priest looked on the women as more dangerous than
+the porter.
+
+"It's after midnight," he said, taking out his watch. By Bryden's
+watch it was only half-past eleven, and while they were arguing
+about the time Mrs. Scully offered Bryden's umbrella to the
+priest, for in his hurry to stop the dancing the priest had gone
+out without his; and, as if to show Bryden that he bore him no
+ill-will, the priest accepted the loan of the umbrella, for he was
+thinking of the big marriage fee that Bryden would pay him.
+
+"I shall be badly off for the umbrella to-morrow," Bryden said, as
+soon as the priest was out of the house. He was going with his
+father-in-law to a fair. His father-in-law was learning him how to
+buy and sell cattle. And his father-in-law was saying that the
+country was mending, and that a man might become rich in Ireland
+if he only had a little capital. Bryden had the capital, and
+Margaret had an uncle on the other side of the lake who would
+leave her all he had, that would be fifty pounds, and never in the
+village of Duncannon had a young couple begun life with so much
+prospect of success as would James Bryden and Margaret Dirken.
+
+Some time after Christmas was spoken of as the best time for the
+marriage; James Bryden said that he would not be able to get his
+money out of America before the spring. The delay seemed to vex
+him, and he seemed anxious to be married, until one day he
+received a letter from America, from a man who had served in the
+bar with him. This friend wrote to ask Bryden if he were coming
+back. The letter was no more than a passing wish to see Bryden
+again. Yet Bryden stood looking at it, and everyone wondered what
+could be in the letter. It seemed momentous, and they hardly
+believed him when he said it was from a friend who wanted to know
+if his health were better. He tried to forget the letter, and he
+looked at the worn fields, divided by walls of loose stones, and a
+great longing came upon him.
+
+The smell of the Bowery slum had come across the Atlantic, and had
+found him out in this western headland; and one night he awoke
+from a dream in which he was hurling some drunken customer through
+the open doors into the darkness. He had seen his friend in his
+white duck jacket throwing drink from glass into glass amid the
+din of voices and strange accents; he had heard the clang of money
+as it was swept into the till, and his sense sickened for the bar-
+room. But how should he tell Margaret Dirken that he could not
+marry her? She had built her life upon this marriage. He could not
+tell her that he would not marry her... yet he must go. He felt as
+if he were being hunted; the thought that he must tell Margaret
+that he could not marry her hunted him day after day as a weasel
+hunts a rabbit. Again and again he went to meet her with the
+intention of telling her that he did not love her, that their
+lives were not for one another, that it had all been a mistake,
+and that happily he had found out it was a mistake soon enough.
+But Margaret, as if she guessed what he was about to speak of,
+threw her arms about him and begged him to say he loved her, and
+that they would be married at once. He agreed that he loved her,
+and that they would be married at once. But he had not left her
+many minutes before the feeling came upon him that he could not
+marry her--that he must go away. The smell of the bar-room hunted
+him down. Was it for the sake of the money that he might make
+there that he wished to go back? No, it was not the money. What
+then? His eyes fell on the bleak country, on the little fields
+divided by bleak walls; he remembered the pathetic ignorance of
+the people, and it was these things that he could not endure. It
+was the priest who came to forbid the dancing. Yes, it was the
+priest. As he stood looking at the line of the hills the bar-room
+seemed by him. He heard the politicians, and the excitement of
+politics was in his blood again. He must go away from this place--
+he must get back to the bar-room. Looking up he saw the scanty
+orchard, and he hated the spare road that led to the village, and
+he hated the little hill at the top of which the village began,
+and he hated more than all other places the house where he was to
+live with Margaret Dirken--if he married her. He could see it from
+where he stood--by the edge of the lake, with twenty acres of
+pasture land about it, for the landlord had given up part of his
+demesne land to them.
+
+He caught sight of Margaret, and he called to her to come through
+the stile.
+
+"I have just had a letter from America."
+
+"About the money?" she said.
+
+"Yes, about the money. But I shall have to go over there."
+
+He stood looking at her, seeking for words; and she guessed from
+his embarrassment that he would say to her that he must go to
+America before they were married.
+
+"Do you mean, James, you will have to go at once?"
+
+"Yes," he said, "at once. But I shall come back in time to be
+married in August. It will only mean delaying our marriage a
+month."
+
+They walked on a little way talking; every step he took James felt
+that he was a step nearer the Bowery slum. And when they came to
+the gate Bryden said:--
+
+"I must hasten or I shall miss the train."
+
+"But," she said, "you are not going now--you are not going to-
+day?"
+
+"Yes, this morning. It is seven miles. I shall have to hurry not
+to miss the train."
+
+And then she asked him if he would ever come back.
+
+"Yes," he said, "I am coming back."
+
+"If you are coming back, James, why not let me go with you?"
+
+"You could not walk fast enough. We should miss the train."
+
+"One moment, James. Don't make me suffer; tell me the truth. You
+are not coming back. Your clothes--where shall I send them?"
+
+He hurried away, hoping he would come back. He tried to think that
+he liked the country he was leaving, that it would be better to
+have a farmhouse and live there with Margaret Dirken than to serve
+drinks behind a counter in the Bowery. He did not think he was
+telling her a lie when he said he was coming back. Her offer to
+forward his clothes touched his heart, and at the end of the road
+he stood and asked himself if he should go back to her. He would
+miss the train if he waited another minute, and he ran on. And he
+would have missed the train if he had not met a car. Once he was
+on the car he felt himself safe--the country was already behind
+him. The train and the boat at Cork were mere formulae; he was
+already in America.
+
+The moment he landed he felt the thrill of home that he had not
+found in his native village, and he wondered how it was that the
+smell of the bar seemed more natural than the smell of the fields,
+and the roar of crowds more welcome than the silence of the lake's
+edge. However, he offered up a thanksgiving for his escape, and
+entered into negotiations for the purchase of the bar-room.
+
+He took a wife, she bore him sons and daughters, the bar-room
+prospered, property came and went; he grew old, his wife died, he
+retired from business, and reached the age when a man begins to
+feel there are not many years in front of him, and that all he has
+had to do in life has been done. His children married,
+lonesomeness began to creep about him; in the evening, when he
+looked into the fire-light, a vague, tender reverie floated up,
+and Margaret's soft eyes and name vivified the dusk. His wife and
+children passed out of mind, and it seemed to him that a memory
+was the only real thing he possessed, and the desire to see
+Margaret again grew intense. But she was an old woman, she had
+married, maybe she was dead. Well, he would like to be buried in
+the village where he was born.
+
+There is an unchanging, silent life within every man that none
+knows but himself, and his unchanging, silent life was his memory
+of Margaret Dirken. The bar-room was forgotten and all that
+concerned it, and the things he saw most clearly were the green
+hillside, and the bog lake and the rushes about it, and the
+greater lake in the distance, and behind it the blue lines of
+wandering hills.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+A LETTER TO ROME
+
+
+One morning the priest's housekeeper mentioned as she gathered up
+the breakfast things, that Mike Mulhare had refused to let his
+daughter Catherine marry James Murdoch until he had earned the
+price of a pig.
+
+"This is bad news," said the priest, and he laid down the
+newspaper.
+
+"And he waited for her all the summer! Wasn't it in February last
+that he came out of the poor-house? And the fine cabin he has
+built for her! He'll be that lonesome, he'll be going to America."
+
+"To America!" said the priest.
+
+"Maybe it will be going back to the poor-house he'll be, for he'll
+never earn the price of his passage at the relief works."
+
+The priest looked at her for a moment as if he did not catch her
+meaning, and then a knock came at the door, and he said:--
+
+"The inspector is here, and there are people waiting for me."
+
+And while he was distributing the clothes he had received from
+Manchester, he argued with the inspector as to the direction the
+new road should take; and when he came back from the relief works,
+there was his dinner. He was busy writing letters all the
+afternoon; it was not until he had handed them to the post-
+mistress that his mind was free to think of poor James Murdoch,
+who had built a cabin at the end of one of the famine roads in a
+hollow out of the way of the wind. From a long way off the priest
+could see him digging his patch of bog.
+
+And when he caught sight of the priest he stuck his spade in the
+ground and came to meet him. He wore a pair of torn corduroy
+trousers out of which two long naked feet appeared; and there was
+a shirt, but it was torn, the wind thrilled in a naked breast, and
+the priest thought his housekeeper was right, that James must go
+back to the poor-house. There was a wild look in his eyes, and he
+seemed to the priest like some lonely animal just come out of its
+burrow. His mud cabin was full of peat smoke, there were pools of
+green water about it, but it had been dry, he said, all the
+summer; and he had intended to make a drain.
+
+"It's hard luck, your reverence, and after building this house for
+her. There's a bit of smoke in the house now, but if I got
+Catherine I wouldn't be long making a chimney. I told Mike he
+should give Catherine a pig for her fortune, but he said he would
+give her a calf when I bought the pig, and I said, 'Haven't I
+built a fine house and wouldn't it be a fine one to rear him in.'"
+
+And they walked through the bog, James talking to the priest all
+the way, for it was seldom he had anyone to talk to.
+
+"Now I must not take you any further from your digging."
+
+"Sure there's time enough," said James, "amn't I there all day."
+
+"I'll go and see Mike Mulhare myself," said the priest.
+
+"Long life to your reverence."
+
+"And I will try to get you the price of the pig."
+
+"Ah,'tis your reverence that's good to us."
+
+The priest stood looking after him, wondering if he would give up
+life as a bad job and go back to the poor-house. But while
+thinking of James Murdoch, he was conscious of an idea; it was
+still dim and distant, but every moment it emerged, it was taking
+shape.
+
+Ireland was passing away. In five-and-twenty years, if some great
+change did not take place, Ireland would be a Protestant country.
+"There is no one in this parish except myself who has a decent
+house to live in," he murmured; and then an idea broke suddenly in
+his mind. The Greek priests were married. They had been allowed to
+retain their wives in order to avoid a schism. Rome had always
+known how to adapt herself to circumstances, and there was no
+doubt that if Rome knew Ireland's need of children Rome would
+consider the revocation of the decree--the clergy must marry.
+
+He walked very slowly, and looking through the peat stacks he saw
+St. Peter's rising above a rim of pearl-coloured mountains, and
+before he was aware of it he had begun to consider how he might
+write a letter to Rome. Was it not a fact that celibacy had only
+been made obligatory in Ireland in the twelfth century?
+
+When he returned home, his housekeeper was anxious to hear about
+James Murdoch, but the priest sat possessed by the thought of
+Ireland becoming a Protestant country; and he had not moved out of
+his chair when the servant came in with his tea. He drank his tea
+mechanically, and walked up and down the room, and it was a long
+time before he took up his knitting. But that evening he could not
+knit, and he laid the stocking aside so that he might think.
+
+Of what good would his letter be? A letter from a poor parish
+priest asking that one of the most ancient decrees should be
+revoked! The Pope's secretary would pitch his letter into the
+waste paper basket. The Pope would be only told of its contents!
+The cardinals are men whose thoughts move up and down certain
+narrow ways, clever men no doubt, but clever men are often the
+dupes of conventions. All men who live in the world accept the
+conventions as truths. And the idea of this change in
+ecclesiastical law had come to him because he lived in a waste
+bog.
+
+But was he going to write the letter? He could not answer the
+question! Yes, he knew that sooner or later he must write this
+letter. "Instinct," he said, "is a surer guide than logic. My
+letter to Rome was a sudden revelation." The idea had fallen as it
+were out of the air, and now as he sat knitting by his own
+fireside it seemed to come out of the corners of the room.
+
+"When you were at Rathowen," his idea said, "you heard the clergy
+lament that the people were leaving the country. You heard the
+Bishop and many eloquent men speak on the subject, but their words
+meant little, but on the bog road the remedy was revealed to you.
+
+"The remedy lies with the priesthood. If each priest were to take
+a wife about four thousand children would be born within the year,
+forty thousand children would be added to the birth-rate in ten
+years. Ireland would be saved by her priesthood!"
+
+The truth of this estimate seemed beyond question, nevertheless,
+Father MacTurnan found it difficult to reconcile himself to the
+idea of a married clergy. One is always the dupe of prejudice. He
+knew that and went on thinking. The priests live in the best
+houses, eat the best food, wear the best clothes; they are indeed
+the flower of the nation, and would produce magnificent sons and
+daughters. And who could bring up their children according to the
+teaching of our holy church as well as priests?
+
+So did his idea speak to him, unfolding itself in rich variety
+every evening. Very soon he realised that other advantages would
+accrue, beyond the addition of forty thousand children to the
+birth-rate, and one advantage that seemed to him to exceed the
+original advantage would be the nationalisation of religion, the
+formation of an Irish Catholicism suited to the ideas and needs of
+the Irish people.
+
+In the beginning of the century the Irish lost their language, in
+the middle of the century the characteristic aspects of their
+religion. He remembered that it was Cardinal Cuilen who had
+denationalised religion in Ireland. But everyone recognised his
+mistake, and how could a church be nationalised better than by the
+rescission of the decree? Wives and the begetting of children
+would attach the priests to the soil of Ireland. It could not be
+said that anyone loved his country who did not contribute to its
+maintenance. He remembered that the priests leave Ireland on
+foreign missions, and he said: "Every Catholic who leaves Ireland
+helps to bring about the very thing that Ireland has been
+struggling against for centuries--Protestantism."
+
+This idea talked to him, and, one evening, it said, "Religion,
+like everything else, must be national," and it led him to
+contrast cosmopolitanism with parochialism. "Religion, like art,
+came out of parishes," he said. Some great force was behind him.
+He must write! He must write... .
+
+He dropped the ink over the table and over the paper, he jotted
+down his ideas in the first words that came to him until midnight;
+he could see his letter in all its different parts, and when he
+slept it floated through his sleep.
+
+"I must have a clear copy of it before I begin the Latin
+translation."
+
+He had written the English text thinking of the Latin that would
+come after, and very conscious of the fact that he had written no
+Latin since he had left Maynooth, and that a bad translation would
+discredit his ideas in the eyes of the Pope's secretary, who was
+doubtless a great Latin scholar. "The Irish priests have always
+been good Latinists," he murmured as he hunted through the
+dictionary.
+
+The table was littered with books, for he had found it necessary
+to create a Latin atmosphere before beginning his translation. He
+worked principally at night, and one morning about three he
+finished his translation, and getting up from his chair he walked
+to the whitening window. His eyes pained him, and he decided he
+would postpone reading over what he had written till morning.
+
+His illusions regarding his Latin were broken. He had laid his
+manuscript on a table by his bedside, and on awakening he had
+reached out his hand for it, but he had not read a page when he
+dropped it; and the manuscript lay on the floor while he dressed.
+He went into his breakfast, and when he had eaten his breakfast
+his nerve failed him. He could not bring himself to fetch the
+manuscript, and it was his housekeeper who brought it to him.
+
+"Ah," he said, "it is tasteless as the gruel that poor James
+Murdoch is eating." And taking a volume from the table--"St.
+Augustine's Confessions"--he said, "what diet there is here!"
+
+He stood reading. There was no idiom, he had used Latin words
+instead of English. At last he was interrupted by the wheels of a
+car stopping at his door. Father Meehan! Meehan could revise his
+Latin! None had written such good Latin at Maynooth as Meehan.
+
+"My dear Meehan, this is indeed a pleasant surprise."
+
+"I thought I'd like to see you. I drove over. But--I am not
+disturbing you.... You've taken to reading again. St. Augustine!
+And you're writing in Latin!"
+
+Father James's face grew red, and he took the manuscript out of
+his friend's hand.
+
+"No, you mustn't look at that."
+
+And then the temptation to ask him to overlook certain passages
+made him change his mind.
+
+"I was never much of a Latin scholar."
+
+"And you want me to overlook your Latin for you. But why are you
+writing Latin?"
+
+"Because I am writing to the Pope. I was at first a little
+doubtful, but the more I thought of this letter the more necessary
+it seemed to me."
+
+"And what are you writing to the Pope about?"
+
+"You see Ireland is going to become a Protestant country."
+
+"Is it?" said Father Meehan, and he listened a little while. Then,
+interrupting his friend, he said:--
+
+"I've heard enough. Now, I strongly advise you not to send this
+letter. We have known each other all our lives. Now my dear
+MacTurnan--"
+
+Father Michael talked eagerly, and Father MacTurnan sat listening.
+At last Father Meehan saw that his arguments were producing no
+effect, and he said:--
+
+"You don't agree with me."
+
+"It isn't that I don't agree with you. You have spoken admirably
+from your point of view, but our points of view are different."
+
+"Take your papers away, burn them!"
+
+Then, thinking his words were harsh, he laid his hand on his
+friend's shoulder and said:--
+
+"My dear MacTurnan, I beg of you not to send this letter."
+
+Father James did not answer; the silence grew painful, and Father
+Michael asked Father James to show him the relief works that the
+Government had ordered.
+
+They walked to where the poor people were working, but important
+as these works were the letter to Rome seemed more important to
+Father Michael, and he said:--
+
+"My good friend, there isn't a girl that would marry us; now is
+there? There isn't a girl in Ireland who would touch us with a
+forty foot pole. Would you have the Pope release the nuns from
+their vows?"
+
+"I think exceptions should be made in favour of those in orders.
+But I think it would be for the good of Ireland if the secular
+clergy were married."
+
+"That's not my point. My point is that even if the decree were
+rescinded we should not be able to get wives. You've been looking
+too long in the waste, my dear friend. You've lost yourself in a
+dream. We shouldn't get a penny. Our parishioners would say, 'Why
+should we support that fellow and his family?' That's what they'd
+say."
+
+"We should be poor, no doubt," said Father James. "But not so poor
+as our parishioners. My parishioners eat yellow meal, and I eat
+eggs and live in a good house."
+
+"We are educated men, and should live in better houses."
+
+"The greatest saints lived in deserts."
+
+And so the argument went on until the time came to say good-bye,
+and then Father James said:--
+
+"I shall be glad if you will give me a lift on your car. I want to
+go to the post-office."
+
+"To post your letter?"
+
+"The idea came to me--it came swiftly like a lightning flash, and
+I can't believe that it was an accident. If it had fallen into
+your mind with the suddenness that it fell into mine, you would
+believe that it was an inspiration."
+
+"It would take a great deal to make me believe I was inspired,"
+said Father Michael, and he watched Father James go into the post-
+office to register his letter.
+
+As he went home Father James met a long string of peasants
+returning from their work. The last was Norah Flynn, and the
+priest blushed deeply. It was the first time he had looked on one
+of his parishioners in the light of a possible spouse; he entered
+his house frightened, and when he looked round his parlour he
+asked himself if the day would come when he should see Norah Flynn
+sitting opposite to him in his armchair. And his face flushed
+deeper when he looked towards the bedroom door, and he fell on his
+knees and prayed that God's will might be made known to him.
+
+During the night he awoke many times, and the dream that had
+awakened him continued when he had left his bed, and he wandered
+round and round the room in the darkness, seeking a way. At last
+he reached the window and drew the curtain, and saw the dim dawn
+opening out over the bog.
+
+"Thank God," he said, "it was only a dream--only a dream."
+
+And lying down he fell asleep, but immediately another dream as
+horrible as the first appeared, and his housekeeper heard him
+beating on the walls.
+
+"Only a dream, only a dream," he said.
+
+He lay awake, not daring to sleep lest he might dream. And it was
+about seven o'clock when he heard his housekeeper telling him that
+the inspector had come to tell him they must decide what direction
+the new road should take. In the inspector's opinion it should run
+parallel with the old road. To continue the old road two miles
+further would involve extra labour; the people would have to go
+further to their work, and the stones would have to be drawn
+further. The priest held that the extra labour was of secondary
+importance. He said that to make two roads running parallel with
+each other would be a wanton humiliation to the people.
+
+But the inspector could not appreciate the priest's arguments. He
+held that the people were thinking only how they might earn enough
+money to fill their bellies.
+
+"I don't agree with you, I don't agree with you," said the priest.
+"Better go in the opposite direction and make a road to the sea."
+
+"Well, your reverence, the Government do not wish to engage upon
+any work that will benefit any special class. These are my
+instructions."
+
+"A road to the sea will benefit no one.... I see you are thinking
+of the landlord. But there is no harbour; no boat ever comes into
+that flat, waste sea."
+
+"Well, your reverence, one of these days a harbour may be made,
+whereas an arch would look well in the middle of the bog, and the
+people would not have to go far to their work."
+
+"No, no. A road to the sea will be quite useless; but its futility
+will not be apparent--at least, not so apparent--and the people's
+hearts will not be broken."
+
+The inspector seemed a little doubtful, but the priest assured him
+that the futility of the road would satisfy English ministers.
+
+"And yet these English ministers," the priest reflected, "are not
+stupid men; they are merely men blinded by theory and prejudice,
+as all men are who live in the world. Their folly will be apparent
+to the next generation, and so on and so on for ever and ever,
+world without end."
+
+"And the worst of it is," the priest said, "while the people are
+earning their living on these roads their fields will be lying
+idle, and there will be no crops next year."
+
+Father MacTurnan began to think of the cardinals and the
+transaction of business in the Vatican; cardinals and ministers
+alike are the dupes of convention. Only those who are estranged
+from habits and customs can think straightforward.
+
+"If, instead of insisting on these absurd roads, the Government
+would give me the money, I should be able to feed the people at a
+cost of about a penny a day, and they would be able to sow their
+potatoes. And if only the cardinals would consider the rescission
+of the decree on its merits Ireland would be saved from
+Protestantism."
+
+Some cardinal was preparing an answer--an answer might be even in
+the post. Rome might not think his letter worthy of an answer.
+
+A few days afterwards the inspector called to show him a letter he
+had just received from the Board of Works, and Father James had to
+write many letters and had to go to Dublin, and in the excitement
+of these philanthropic activities the emigration question was
+forgotten. He was talking to the inspector about the possibility
+of obtaining a harbour when the postman handed him a letter.
+
+"This is a letter from Father Moran. The Bishop wishes to see me.
+We will continue the conversation to-morrow. It is eight miles to
+Rathowen, and how much further is the Palace?"
+
+"A good seven," said the inspector. "You're not going to walk it,
+your reverence?"
+
+"Why not? In four hours I shall be there." He looked at his boots
+first, and hoped they would hold together; and then he looked at
+the sky, and hoped it would not rain.
+
+The sky was dim; all the light seemed to be upon the earth; a
+soft, vague sunlight floated over the bog. Now and again a yellow-
+hammer rose above the tufts of coarse grass and flew a little way.
+A line of pearl-coloured mountains showed above the low horizon,
+and he had walked eight miles before he saw a pine-wood. Some
+hundred yards further on there was a green field, but under the
+green sod there was peat, and a man and a boy were cutting it. The
+heather appeared again, and he had walked ten miles before he was
+clear of whins and heather.
+
+He walked on, thinking of his interview with the Bishop, and was
+nearly at the end of his journey when he noticed that one of his
+shoes had come unsewn, and he stopped at a cabin; and while the
+woman was looking for a needle and thread he mopped his face with
+a great red handkerchief that he kept in the pocket of his
+threadbare coat--a coat that had once been black, but had grown
+green with age and weather. He had out-walked himself, and feeling
+he would be tired, and not well able to answer the points that the
+Bishop would raise, he decided to rest awhile. The woman had found
+some beeswax, and he stopped half an hour stitching his shoe under
+the hawthorn that grew beside the cabin.
+
+He was still two miles from the Palace, and this last two miles
+proved very long. He arrived footsore and covered with dust, and
+he was so tired that he could hardly get up from his chair to
+receive Father Moran when he came into the parlour.
+
+"You seem to have walked a long way, Father MacTurnan."
+
+"About fifteen miles. I shall be all right presently. I suppose
+his Grace does not want to see me at once."
+
+"Well, that's just it. His Grace sent me to say he would see you
+at once. He expected you earlier."
+
+"I started the moment I received his Grace's letter. I suppose his
+Grace wishes to see me regarding my letter to Rome."
+
+The secretary hesitated, coughed, and Father MacTurnan wondered
+why Father Moran looked at him so intently. He returned in a few
+minutes, saying that his Grace was sorry that Father MacTurnan had
+had so long a walk. He hoped that he would rest awhile and partake
+of some refreshment.... The servant brought in some wine and
+sandwiches, and the secretary returned in half an hour. His Grace
+was now ready to receive him. Father Moran opened the library
+door, and Father MacTurnan saw the Bishop--a short, alert man,
+about fifty-five, with a sharp nose and grey eyes and bushy
+eyebrows. He popped about the room and gave his secretary many
+orders. Father MacTurnan wondered if the Bishop would ever finish
+talking to his secretary. He seemed to have finished, but a
+thought suddenly struck him, and he followed his secretary to the
+door, and Father MacTurnan began to fear that the Pope had not
+decided to place the Irish clergy on the same footing as the Greek
+clergy. If he had, the Bishop's interest in these many various
+matters would have subsided; his mind would be engrossed by the
+larger issue. On returning from the door his Grace passed Father
+MacTurnan without speaking to him, and going to his writing table
+he began to search amid his papers. At last Father MacTurnan
+said:--
+
+"Maybe your Grace is looking for my letter to Rome?"
+
+"Yes," said his Grace, "do you see it?"
+
+"It's under your Grace's hand, those blue papers."
+
+"Ah, yes," and his Grace leaned back in his arm-chair, leaving
+Father MacTurnan standing.
+
+"Won't you sit down, Father MacTurnan?" he said casually. "You've
+been writing to Rome, I see, advocating the revocation of the
+decree of celibacy. There's no doubt the emigration of Catholics
+is a very serious question. So far you have got the sympathy of
+Rome, and, I may say of myself; but am I to understand that it was
+your fear for the religious safety of Ireland that prompted you to
+write this letter?"
+
+"What other reason could there be?"
+
+Nothing was said for a long while, and then the Bishop's meaning
+began to break in his mind; his face flushed, and he grew
+confused. "I hope your grace doesn't think for a moment that--"
+
+"I only want to know if there is anyone--if your eyes ever went in
+a certain direction, if your thoughts ever said, 'Well, if the
+decree is revoked--'"
+
+"No, your Grace, no. Celibacy has been no burden to me--far from
+it. Sometimes I feared that it was celibacy that attracted me to
+the priesthood. Celibacy was a gratification rather than a
+sacrifice."
+
+"I am glad," said the Bishop, and he spoke slowly and
+emphatically, "that this letter was prompted by such impersonal
+motives."
+
+"Surely, your Grace, His Holiness did not suspect--"
+
+The Bishop murmured an euphonious Italian name, and Father
+MacTurnan understood that he was speaking of one of the Pope's
+secretaries.
+
+"More than once," said Father MacTurnan, "I feared that if the
+decree were revoked, I should not have had sufficient courage to
+comply with it."
+
+And then he told the Bishop how he had met Norah Flynn on the
+road. An amused expression stole into the Bishop's face, and his
+voice changed.
+
+"I presume you do not contemplate making marriage obligatory; you
+do not contemplate the suspension of the faculties of those who do
+not take wives?"
+
+"It seems to me that exception should be made in favour of those
+in orders, and, of course, in favour of those who have reached a
+certain age like your Grace."
+
+The Bishop coughed, and pretended to look for some paper which he
+had mislaid.
+
+"This was one of the many points that I discussed with Father
+Michael Meehan."
+
+"Oh, so you consulted Father Meehan," the Bishop said, looking up.
+
+"He came in one day I was reading over my Latin translation before
+posting it. I'm afraid the ideas that I submitted to the
+consideration of His Holiness have been degraded by my very poor
+Latin. I should have wished Father Meehan to overlook my Latin,
+but he refused. He begged of me not to send the letter."
+
+"Father Meehan," said his Grace, "is a great friend of yours. Yet
+nothing he could say could shake your resolution to write to
+Rome?"
+
+"Nothing," said Father MacTurnan. "The call I received was too
+distinct and too clear for me to hesitate."
+
+"Tell me about this call."
+
+Father MacTurnan told the Bishop that the poor man had come out of
+the work-house because he wanted to be married, and that Mike
+Mulhare would not give him his daughter until he had earned the
+price of a pig. "And as I was talking to him I heard my conscience
+say, 'No man can afford to marry in Ireland but the clergy.' We
+all live better than our parishioners."
+
+And then, forgetting the Bishop, and talking as if he were alone
+with his God, he described how the conviction had taken possession
+of him--that Ireland would become a Protestant country if the
+Catholic emigration did not cease. And he told how this conviction
+had left him little peace until he had written his letter.
+
+The priest talked on until he was interrupted by Father Moran.
+
+"I have some business to transact with Father Moran now," the
+Bishop said, "but you must stay to dinner. You have walked a long
+way, and you are tired and hungry."
+
+"But, your Grace, if I don't start now, I shall not get home until
+nightfall."
+
+"A car will take you back, Father MacTurnan. I will see to that. I
+must have some exact information about your poor people. We must
+do something for them."
+
+Father MacTurnan and the Bishop were talking together when the car
+came to take Father MacTurnan home, and the Bishop said:--
+
+"Father MacTurnan, you have borne the loneliness of your parish a
+long while."
+
+"Loneliness is only a matter of habit. I think, your Grace, I'm
+better suited to the place than I am for any other. I don't wish
+any change, if your Grace is satisfied with me."
+
+"No one will look after the poor people better than yourself,
+Father MacTurnan. But," he said, "it seems to me there is one
+thing we have forgotten. You haven't told me if you succeeded in
+getting the money to buy the pig."
+
+Father MacTurnan grew very red.... "I had forgotten it. The
+relief works--"
+
+"It's not too late. Here's five pounds, and this will buy him a
+pig."
+
+"It will indeed," said the priest, "it will buy him two!"
+
+He had left the Palace without having asked the Bishop how his
+letter had been received at Rome, and he stopped the car, and was
+about to tell the driver to go back. But no matter, he would hear
+about his letter some other time. He was bringing happiness to two
+poor people, and he could not persuade himself to delay their
+happiness by one minute. He was not bringing one pig, but two
+pigs, and now Mike Mulhare would have to give him Norah and a
+calf; and the priest remembered that James Murdoch had said, "What
+a fine house this will be to rear them in." There were many who
+thought that human beings and animals should not live together;
+but after all, what did it matter if they were happy? And the
+priest forgot his letter to Rome in the thought of the happiness
+he was bringing to two poor people. He could not see Norah Mulhare
+that night; but he drove down to the famine road, and he and the
+driver called till they awoke James Murdoch. The poor man came
+stumbling across the bog, and the priest told him the news.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+JULIA CAHILL'S CURSE
+
+
+In '95 I was agent of the Irish Industrial Society, and I spent
+three days with Father O'Hara making arrangements for the
+establishment of looms, for the weaving of homespuns and for
+acquiring plots of ground whereon to build schools where the
+village girls could practice lace-making.
+
+The priest was one of the chief supporters of our movement. He was
+a wise and tactful man, who succeeded not only in living on terms
+of friendship with one of the worst landlords in Ireland, but in
+obtaining many concessions from him. When he came to live in
+Culloch the landlord had said to him that what he would like to do
+would be to run the ploughshare through the town, and to turn
+"Culloch" into Bullock. But before many years had passed Father
+O'Hara had persuaded this man to use his influence to get a
+sufficient capital to start a bacon factory. And the town of
+Culloch possessed no other advantages except an energetic and
+foreseeing parish priest. It was not a railway terminus, nor was
+it a seaport.
+
+But, perhaps because of his many admirable qualities, Father
+O'Hara is not the subject of this story. We find stories in the
+lives of the weak and the foolish, and the improvident, and his
+name occurs here because he is typical of not a few priests I have
+met in Ireland.
+
+I left him early one Sunday morning, and he saying that twenty odd
+miles lay before me, and my first stopping place would be
+Ballygliesane. I could hear Mass there at Father Madden's chapel,
+and after Mass I could call upon him, and that when I had
+explained the objects of our Society I could drive to Rathowen,
+where there was a great gathering of the clergy. All the priests
+within ten miles round would be there for the consecration of the
+new church.
+
+On an outside car one divides one's time in moralising on the
+state of the country or in chatting with the driver, and as the
+driver seemed somewhat taciturn I examined the fields as we passed
+them. They were scanty fields, drifting from thin grass into bog,
+and from bog into thin grass again, and in the distance there was
+a rim of melancholy mountains, and the peasants I saw along the
+road seemed a counterpart of the landscape. "The land has made
+them," I said, "according to its own image and likeness," and I
+tried to find words to define the yearning that I read in their
+eyes as we drove past. But I could find no words that satisfied
+me.
+
+"Only music can express their yearning, and they have written it
+themselves in their folk tunes."
+
+My driver's eyes were the eyes that one meets everywhere in
+Ireland, pale, wandering eyes that the land seems to create, and I
+wondered if his character corresponded to his eyes; and with a
+view to finding if it did I asked him some questions about Father
+Madden. He seemed unwilling to talk, but I soon began to see that
+his silence was the result of shyness rather than dislike of
+conversation. He was a gentle, shy lad, and I told him that Father
+O'Hara had said I would see the loneliest parish in Ireland.
+
+"It's true for him," he answered, and again there was silence. At
+the end of a mile I asked him if the land in Father Madden's
+parish was poor, and he said no, it was the best land in the
+country, and then I was certain that there was some mystery
+attached to Father Madden.
+
+"The road over there is the mearing."
+
+And soon after passing this road I noticed that although the land
+was certainly better than the land about Culloch, there seemed to
+be very few people on it; and what was more significant than the
+untilled fields were the ruins, for they were not the cold ruins
+of twenty, or thirty, or forty years ago when the people were
+evicted and their tillage turned into pasture, but the ruins of
+cabins that had been lately abandoned. Some of the roof trees were
+still unbroken, and I said that the inhabitants must have left
+voluntarily.
+
+"Sure they did. Arn't we all going to America."
+
+"Then it was not the landlord?"
+
+"Ah, it's the landlord who'd have them back if he could."
+
+"And the priest? How does he get his dues?"
+
+"Those on the other side are always sending their money to their
+friends and they pay the priest. Sure why should we be staying?
+Isn't the most of us over there already. It's more like going home
+than leaving home."
+
+I told him we hoped to establish new looms in the country, and
+that Father O'Hara had promised to help us.
+
+"Father O'Hara is a great man," he said.
+
+"Well, don't you think that with the revival of industries the
+people might be induced to stay at home?"
+
+"Sorra stay," said he.
+
+I could see that he was not so convinced about the depopulation of
+Father O'Hara's parish as he was about Father Madden's, and I
+tried to induce him to speak his mind.
+
+"Well, your honour, there's many that think there's a curse on the
+parish."
+
+"A curse! And who put the curse on the parish?"
+
+"Isn't that the bell ringing for Mass, your honour?"
+
+And listening I could head a doleful pealing in the grey sky.
+
+"Does Father Madden know of this curse?"
+
+"Indeed he does; none better."
+
+"And does he believe in it?"
+
+"There's many who will tell you that he has been saying Masses for
+the last ten years, that the curse may be taken off the parish."
+
+We could now hear the bell tolling quite distinctly, and the
+driver pointed with his whip, and I could see the cross above the
+fir-trees.
+
+"And there," he said, "is Bridget Coyne," and I saw a blind woman
+being led along the road. At the moment I supposed he had pointed
+the woman out because she was blind, though this did not seem a
+sufficient reason for the note of wonder in his voice; but we were
+within a few yards of the chapel and there was no time to ask him
+who Bridget Coyne was. I had to speak to him about finding
+stabling for the horse. That, he said, was not necessary, he would
+let the horse graze in the chapel-yard while he himself knelt by
+the door, so that he could hear Mass and keep an eye on his horse.
+"I shall want you half an hour after Mass is over." Half an hour,
+I thought, would suffice to explain the general scope of our
+movement to Father Madden. I had found that the best way was to
+explain to each priest in turn the general scope of the movement,
+and then to pay a second visit a few weeks later. The priest would
+have considered the ideas that I had put into his head, he would
+have had time to assimilate them in the interval, and I could
+generally tell in the second visit if I should find in him a
+friend, an enemy, or an indifferent.
+
+There was something extraordinary in the appearance of Father
+Madden's church, a few peasants crouched here and there, and among
+them I saw the blind woman that the driver had pointed out on the
+road. She did not move during Mass; she knelt or crouched with her
+shawl drawn over her head, and it was not until the acolyte rang
+the communion bell that she dared to lift herself up. That day she
+was the only communicant, and the acolyte did not turn the altar
+cloth over the rails, he gave her a little bit of the cloth to
+hold, and, holding it firmly in her fingers, she lifted up her
+blind face, and when the priest placed the Host on her tongue she
+sank back overcome.
+
+"This blind woman," I said to myself, "will be the priest's last
+parishioner," and I saw the priest saying Mass in a waste church
+for the blind woman, everyone else dead or gone.
+
+All her days I said are spent by the cabin fire hearing of people
+going to America, her relations, her brothers and sisters had
+gone, and every seventh day she is led to hear Mass, to receive
+the Host, and to sink back. To-day and to-morrow and the next day
+will be spent brooding over her happiness, and in the middle of
+the week she will begin to look forward to the seventh day.
+
+The blind woman seemed strangely symbolical and the parish, the
+priest too. A short, thick-set man, with a large bald head and a
+fringe of reddish hair; his hands were fat and short, the nails
+were bitten, the nose was fleshy and the eyes were small, and when
+he turned towards the people and said "Pax Vobiscum" there was a
+note of command in his voice. The religion he preached was one of
+fear. His sermon was filled with flames and gridirons, and ovens
+and devils with pitchforks, and his parishioners groaned and shook
+their heads and beat their breasts.
+
+I did not like Father Madden or his sermon. I remembered that
+there were few young people left in his parish, and it seemed
+waste of time to appeal to him for help in establishing
+industries; but it was my business to seek the co-operation of
+every priest, and I could not permit myself such a licence as the
+passing over of any priest. What reason could I give? that I did
+not like his sermon or his bald head? And after Mass I went round
+to see him in the sacristy.
+
+The sacristy was a narrow passage, and there were two acolytes in
+it, and the priest was taking off his vestments, and people were
+knocking constantly at the door, and the priest had to tell the
+acolyte what answer to give. I had only proposed to myself to
+sketch the objects of our organisation in a general outline to the
+priest, but it was impossible even to do this, so numerous were
+the interruptions. When I came to unfold our system of payments,
+the priest said:--
+
+"It is impossible for me to listen to you here. You had better
+come round with me to my house."
+
+The invitation was not quite in accordance with the idea I had
+formed of the man, and while walking across the fields he asked me
+if I would have a cup of tea with him, and we spoke of the new
+church at Rathowen. It seemed legitimate to deplore the building
+of new churches, and I mentioned that while the churches were
+increasing the people were decreasing, and I ventured to regret
+that only two ideas seemed to obtain in Ireland, the idea of the
+religious vocation and the idea of emigration.
+
+"I see," said Father Madden, "you are imbued with all the new
+ideas."
+
+"But," I said, "you don't wish the country to disappear."
+
+"I do not wish it to disappear," he said, "but if it intends to
+disappear we can do nothing to prevent it from disappearing.
+Everyone is opposed to emigration now, but I remember when
+everyone was advocating it. Teach them English and emigrate them
+was the cure. Now," he said, "you wish them to learn Irish and to
+stay at home. And you are quite certain that this time you have
+found out the true way. I live very quiet down here, but I hear
+all the new doctrines. Besides teaching Paddy Durkin to feed his
+pig, I hear you are going to revive the Gothic. Music and
+literature are to follow, and among these resurrections there is a
+good deal of talk about pagan Ireland."
+
+We entered a comfortable, well-furnished cottage, with a good
+carpet on the floor, and the walls lined with books, and on either
+side of the fireplace there were easy chairs, and I thought of the
+people "on the other side."
+
+He took a pot of tea from the hob, and said:--
+
+"Now let me pour you out a cup of tea, and you shall tell me about
+the looms."
+
+"But," I said, "Father Madden, you don't believe much in the
+future of Ireland, you don't take very kindly to new ideas."
+
+"New ideas! Every ten years there is a new set. If I had said
+teach them Irish ten years ago I should have been called a fool,
+and now if I say teach them English and let them go to America I
+am called a reactionist. You have come from Father O'Hara;" I
+could see from the way he said the name that the priests were not
+friends; "and he has told you a great many of my people have gone
+to America. And perhaps you heard him say that they have not gone
+to America for the sake of better wages but because my rule is too
+severe, because I put down cross-road dances. Father O'Hara and I
+think differently, and I have no doubt he thinks he is quite
+right."
+
+While we breakfasted Father Madden said some severe things about
+Father O'Hara, about the church he had built, and the debt that
+was still upon it. I suppose my face told Father Madden of the
+interest I took in his opinions, for during breakfast he continued
+to speak his mind very frankly on all the subjects I wished to
+hear him speak on, and when breakfast was over I offered him a
+cigar and proposed that we should go for a walk on his lawn.
+
+"Yes," he said, "there are people who think I am a reactionist
+because I put down the ball-alley."
+
+"The ball-alley!"
+
+"There used to be a ball-alley by the church, but the boys
+wouldn't stop playing ball during Mass, so I put it down. But you
+will excuse me a moment." The priest darted off, and I saw him
+climb down the wall into the road; he ran a little way along the
+road calling at the top of his voice, and when I got to the wall I
+saw him coming back. "Let me help you," I said. I pulled him up
+and we continued our walk; and as soon as he had recovered his
+breath he told me that he had caught sight of a boy and girl
+loitering.
+
+"And I hunted them home."
+
+I asked him why, knowing well the reason, and he said:--
+
+"Young people should not loiter along the roads. I don't want
+bastards in my parish."
+
+It seemed to me that perhaps bastards were better than no children
+at all, even from a religious point of view--one can't have
+religion without life, and bastards may be saints.
+
+"In every country," I said, "boys and girls walk together, and the
+only idealism that comes into the lives of peasants is between the
+ages of eighteen and twenty, when young people meet in the lanes
+and linger by the stiles. Afterwards hard work in the fields kills
+aspiration."
+
+"The idealism of the Irish people does not go into sex, it goes
+into religion."
+
+"But religion does not help to continue the race, and we're
+anxious to preserve the race, otherwise there will be no religion,
+or a different religion in Ireland."
+
+"That is not certain."
+
+Later on I asked him if the people still believed in fairies. He
+said that traces of such beliefs survived among the mountain folk.
+
+"There is a great deal of Paganism in the language they wish to
+revive, though it may be as free from Protestantism as Father
+O'Hara says it is."
+
+For some reason or other I could see that folk-lore was
+distasteful to him, and he mentioned causally that he had put a
+stop to the telling of fairy-tales round the fire in the evening,
+and the conversation came to a pause.
+
+"Now I won't detain you much longer, Father Madden. My horse and
+car are waiting for me. You will think over the establishment of
+looms. You don't want the country to disappear."
+
+"No, I don't! And though I do not think the establishment of work-
+rooms an unmixed blessing I will help you. You must not believe
+all Father O'Hara says."
+
+The horse began to trot, and I to think. He had said that the
+idealism of the Irish peasant goes into other things than sex.
+
+"If this be true, the peasant is doomed," I said to myself, and I
+remembered that Father Madden would not admit that religion is
+dependent on life, and I pondered. In this country religion is
+hunting life to the death. In other countries religion has managed
+to come to terms with Life. In the South men and women indulge
+their flesh and turn the key on religious inquiry; in the North
+men and women find sufficient interest in the interpretation of
+the Bible and the founding of new religious sects. One can have
+faith or morals, both together seem impossible. Remembering how
+the priest had chased the lovers, I turned to the driver and asked
+if there was no courting in the country.
+
+"There used to be courting," he said, "but now it is not the
+custom of the country any longer."
+
+"How do you make up your marriages?"
+
+"The marriages are made by the parents, and I've often seen it
+that the young couple did not see each other until the evening
+before the wedding--sometimes not until the very morning of the
+wedding. Many a marriage I've seen broken off for a half a
+sovereign--well," he said, "if not for half a sovereign, for a
+sovereign. One party will give forty-nine pounds and the other
+party wants fifty, and they haggle over that pound, and then the
+boy's father will say, "Well, if you won't give the pound you can
+keep the girl."
+
+"But do none of you ever want to walk out with a young girl?" I
+said.
+
+"We're like other people, sir. We would like it well enough, but
+it isn't the custom of the country, and if we did it we would be
+talked about."
+
+I began to like my young carman, and his answer to my question
+pleased me as much as any answer he had yet given me, and I told
+him that Father Madden objected to the looms because they entailed
+meetings, etc., and if he were not present the boys would talk on
+subjects they should not talk about.
+
+"Now, do you think it is right for a priest to prevent men from
+meeting to discuss their business?" I said, turning to the driver,
+determined to force him into an expression of opinion.
+
+"It isn't because he thinks the men would talk about things they
+should not talk about that he is against an organization. Didn't
+he tell your honour that things would have to take their course.
+That is why he will do nothing, because he knows well enough that
+everyone in the parish will have to leave it, that every house
+will have to fall. Only the chapel will remain standing, and the
+day will come when Father Tom will say Mass to the blind woman and
+to no one else. Did you see the blind woman to-day at Mass, sir,
+in the right-hand corner, with the shawl over her head?"
+
+"Yes," I said, "I saw her. If any one is a saint, that woman seems
+to be one."
+
+"Yes, sir, she is a very pious woman, and her piety is so well
+known that she is the only one who dared to brave Father Madden;
+she was the only one who dared to take Julia Cahill to live with
+her. It was Julia who put the curse on the parish."
+
+"A curse! But you are joking."
+
+"No, your honour, there was no joke in it. I was only telling you
+what must come. She put her curse on the village twenty years ago,
+and every year a roof has fallen in and a family has gone away."
+
+"And you believe that all this happens on account of Julia's
+curse?"
+
+"To be sure I do," he said. He flicked his horse pensively with
+the whip, and my disbelief seemed to disincline him for further
+conversation.
+
+"But," I said, "who is Julia Cahill, and how did she get the power
+to lay a curse upon the village? Was she a young woman or an old
+one?"
+
+"A young one, sir."
+
+"How did she get the power?"
+
+"Didn't she go every night into the mountains? She was seen one
+night over yonder, and the mountains are ten miles off, and whom
+would she have gone to see except the fairies? And who could have
+given her the power to curse the village?"
+
+"But who saw her in the mountains? She would never walk so far in
+one evening."
+
+"A shepherd saw her, sir."
+
+"But he may have been mistaken."
+
+"He saw her speaking to some one, and nobody for the last two
+years that she was in this village dared to speak to her but the
+fairies and the old woman you saw at Mass to-day, sir."
+
+"Now, tell me about Julia Cahill; what did she do?"
+
+"It is said, sir, she was the finest girl in these parts. I was
+only a gossoon at the time, about eight or nine, but I remember
+that she was tall, sir, nearly as tall as you are, and she was as
+straight as one of those poplar-trees," he said, pointing to three
+trees that stood against the sky. "She walked with a little swing
+in her walk, so that all the boys, I have heard, who were grown up
+used to look after her, and she had fine black eyes, sir, and she
+was nearly always laughing. This was the time when Father Madden
+came to the parish. There was courting in it then, and every young
+man and every young woman made their own marriages, and their
+marriages were made at the cross-road dancing, and in the summer
+evenings under the hedges. There was no dancer like Julia; they
+used to gather about to see her dance, and whoever walked with her
+under the hedges in the summer, could never think about another
+woman. The village was fairly mad about her, many a fight there
+was over her, so I suppose the priest was right. He had to get rid
+of her; but I think he might not have been so hard upon her as he
+was. It is said that he went down to her house one evening;
+Julia's people were well-to-do people; they kept a shop; you might
+have seen it as we came along the road, just outside of the
+village it is. And when he came in there was one of the richest
+farmers in the country who was trying to get Julia for his wife.
+Instead of going to Julia, he had gone to the father. There are
+two counters in the shop, and Julia was at the other, and she had
+made many a good pound for her parents in that shop; and he said
+to the father: 'Now, what fortune are you going to give with
+Julia?' And the father said there was many a man who would take
+her without any, and Julia was listening quietly all the while at
+the opposite counter. The man who had come to marry her did not
+know what a spirited girl she was, and he went on till he got the
+father to say that he would give L70, and, thinking he had got him
+so far, he said, 'Julia will never cross my doorway unless you
+give her L80.' Julia said never a word, she just sat there
+listening, and it was then that the priest came in. He listened
+for awhile, and then he went over to Julia and said, 'Are you not
+proud to hear that you will have such a fine fortune?' And he
+said, 'I shall be glad to see you married. I would marry you for
+nothing, for I cannot have any more of your goings-on in my
+parish. You're the beginning of the dancing and courting here; the
+ball-alley, too--I am going to put all that down.' Julia did not
+answer a single word to him, and he went over to them that were
+disputing about the L80, and he said, 'Now, why not make it L75,'
+and the father agreed to that, since the priest said it, and the
+three men thought the marriage was settled. And Father Tom thought
+that he would get not less than L10 for the marrying of her. They
+did not even think to ask her, and little did they think what she
+was going to say, and what she said was that she would not marry
+any one until it pleased herself, and that she would pick a man
+out of this parish or out of the next that pleased her. Her
+husband should marry her, and not so many pounds to be paid when
+they signed the book or when the first baby was born. This is how
+marriages are settled now. Well, sir, the priest went wild when he
+heard Julia speak like this; he had only just come to the parish,
+and did not know how self-minded Julia was. Her father did,
+though, and he said nothing; he let Julia and the priest fight it
+out, and he said to the man who had come to marry her, 'My good
+man, you can go your way; you will never get her, I can tell
+that.' And the priest was heard saying, 'Do you think I am going
+to let you go on turning the head of every boy in the parish? Do
+you think I am going to see fighting and quarrelling for you? Do
+you think I am going to see you first with one boy and then with
+the other? Do you think I am going to hear stories like I heard
+last week about poor Peter Carey, who they say, has gone out of
+his mind on account of your treatment? No,' he said, 'I will have
+no more of you; I will have you out of my parish, or I will have
+you married.' Julia tossed her head, and her father got
+frightened. He promised the priest that she should walk no more
+with the young men in the evenings, for he thought he could keep
+her at home; but he might just as well have promised the priest to
+tie up the winds. Julia was out the same evening with a young man,
+and the priest saw her; and next evening she was out with another,
+and the priest saw her; and not a bit minded was she at the end of
+the month to marry any of them. It is said that he went down to
+speak to her a second time, and again a third time; it is said
+that she laughed at him. After that there was nothing for him to
+do but to speak against her from the altar. The old people say
+there were some terrible things in the sermon. I have heard it
+said that the priest called her the evil spirit that sets men mad.
+I don't suppose Father Madden intended to say so much, but once he
+is started the words come pouring out. The people did not
+understand half of what he said, but they were very much
+frightened, and I think more frightened at what they did not
+understand than at what they did. Soon after that the neighbours
+began to be afraid to go to buy anything in Cahill's shop; even
+the boys who were most mad after Julia were afraid to speak to
+her, and her own father put her out. No one in the parish would
+speak to her; they were all afraid of Father Madden. If it had not
+been for the blind woman you saw in the chapel to-day, sir, she
+would have had to go to the poor-house. The blind woman has a
+little cabin at the edge of the bog, and there Julia lived. She
+remained for nearly two years, and had hardly any clothes on her
+back, but she was beautiful for all that, and the boys, as they
+came back, sir, from the market used to look towards the little
+cabin in the hopes of catching sight of her. They only looked when
+they thought they were not watched, for the priest still spoke
+against her. He tried to turn the blind woman against Julia, but
+he could not do that; the blind woman kept her until money came
+from America. Some say that she went to America; some say that she
+joined the fairies. But one morning she surely left the parish.
+One morning Pat Quinn heard somebody knocking at his window,
+somebody asking if he would lend his cart to take somebody to the
+railway station. It was five o'clock in the morning, and Pat was a
+heavy sleeper, and he would not get up, and it is said that she
+walked barefooted all the way to the station, and that is a good
+ten miles."
+
+"But you said something about a curse."
+
+"Yes, sir, a man who was taking some sheep to the fair saw her:
+there was a fair that day. He saw her standing at the top of the
+road. The sun was just above the hill, and looking back she cursed
+the village, raising both hands, sir, up to the sun, and since
+that curse was spoken, every year a roof has fallen in."
+
+There was no doubt that the boy believed what he had told me; I
+could see that he liked to believe the story, that it was natural
+and sympathetic to him to believe in it; and for the moment I,
+too, believed in a dancing girl becoming the evil spirit of a
+village that would not accept her delight.
+
+"He has sent away Life," I said to myself, "and now they are
+following Life. It is Life they are seeking."
+
+"It is said, your honour, that she's been seen in America, and I
+am going there this autumn. You may be sure I will keep a look out
+for her."
+
+"But all this is twenty years ago. You will not know her. A woman
+changes a good deal in twenty years."
+
+"There will be no change in her, your honour. She has been with
+the fairies. But, sir, we shall be just in time to see the clergy
+come out of the cathedral after the consecration," he said, and he
+pointed to the town.
+
+It stood in the middle of a flat country, and as we approached it
+the great wall of the cathedral rose above dirty and broken
+cottages, and great masses of masonry extended from the cathedral
+into the town; and these were the nunnery, its schools and
+laundry; altogether they seemed like one great cloud.
+
+When, I said, will a ray from the antique sun break forth and
+light up this country again?
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+A PLAYHOUSE IN THE WASTE
+
+
+
+
+I had arranged to stay with Father MacTurnan till Monday, and I
+had driven many miles along the road that straggles like a grey
+thread through the brown bog. On either side there were bog-holes,
+and great ruts in the road; the horse shied frequently, and once I
+was preparing to leap from the car, but the driver assured me that
+the old horse would not leave the road.
+
+"Only once he was near leaving the road, and the wheel of the car
+must have gone within an inch of the bog-hole. It was the day
+before Christmas Day, and I was driving the doctor; he saw
+something, a small white thing gliding along the road, and he was
+that scared that the hair rose up and went through his cap."
+
+I could not tell from the driver's face whether he was aware of
+his extravagant speech. He seemed to have already forgotten what
+he had said, and we drove on through the bog till the dismal
+distant mountains and the cry of a plover forced me to speak
+again.
+
+"All this parish, then," I said, "is Father MacTurnan's."
+
+"Every mile of it, sir," he said, "every mile of it; and we see
+him riding along the roads on his bicycle going to sick-calls
+buttoned up in his old coat."
+
+"Do you often come this way?"
+
+"Not very often, sir. No one lives here except the poor people and
+the priest and the doctor. It is the poorest parish in Ireland,
+and every third or fourth year there's a famine; and they would
+have died long ago if it had not been for Father James."
+
+"And how does he help them?"
+
+"Isn't he always writing letters to the Government asking for
+relief works. Do you see those bits of roads? They are the relief
+works."
+
+"Where do those roads lead to?"
+
+"Nowhere. The road stops in the middle of the bog when the money
+is out."
+
+"But," I said, "surely it would be better if the money were spent
+upon permanent improvements, on drainage, for instance."
+
+The boy did not answer; he called to his horse, and I had to press
+him for an answer.
+
+"There's no fall, sir."
+
+"And the bog is too big," I added, in hope of encouraging
+conversation.
+
+"Faith it is, sir."
+
+"But we are not very far from the sea, are we?"
+
+"About a couple of miles."
+
+"Well, then," I said, "couldn't a harbour be made?"
+
+"They were thinking about that, but there's no depth of water, and
+the engineer said it would be cheaper to send the people to
+America. Everyone is against emigration now, but the people can't
+live here."
+
+"So there is no hope," I said, "for home industries, weaving,
+lace-making."
+
+"I won't say that."
+
+"But has it been tried?"
+
+"The candle do be burning in the priest's window till one in the
+morning, and he sitting up thinking of plans to keep the people at
+home. Do you see that house, sir, fornint my whip, at the top of
+the hill?" I said I did. "Well, that's the playhouse that he
+built."
+
+"A playhouse," I said.
+
+"Yes, sir; Father James hoped that people might come from Dublin
+to see it. No play like it had ever been acted in Ireland before,
+sir."
+
+"This carman of mine," I said to myself, "is an extraordinary
+fellow,--he has got a story about everyone; he is certainly a
+legitimate descendant of the old bards," and I leaned across the
+car and said to him:--
+
+"And was the play performed?"
+
+"No, sir. The priest had been learning them all the summer, but
+the autumn was on them before they had got it by rote, and a wind
+came and blew down one of the walls."
+
+"And couldn't Father MacTurnan get the money to build it up?"
+
+"Sure he might have got the money, but where would be the use when
+there was no luck in it."
+
+"And who were to act the play?"
+
+"The girls and boys in the parish, and the prettiest girl in all
+the parish was to play Good Deeds."
+
+"So it was a miracle play," I said.
+
+"Do you see that man there, sir? That's the priest coming out of
+James Burke's cabin."
+
+We should overtake Father MacTurnan in a minute or more. There was
+no time to hear the story, and I was sorry not to have heard the
+story of the playhouse from the car-driver. Father MacTurnan got
+up beside me, and told me we were about a mile from his house and
+that he had dinner for me. He was a tall, thin man, and his pale,
+wandering eyes reflected the melancholy of the distant mountains.
+
+"I hope," said the priest, "that you're not wet; we have had some
+showers here."
+
+"We were caught in a shower coming out of Rathowen, but nothing to
+signify."
+
+Our talk then turned on the consecration of the cathedral. I told
+him everything I thought would interest him, but all the while I
+was thinking what kind of house he lived in; I had only seen mud
+huts for many a mile; presently he pointed with his umbrella, and
+I saw a comfortable whitewashed cottage by the roadside. The idea
+of the playhouse was ringing in my head, and I began to wonder why
+he did not train a rose-bush against its wall, and a moment after
+I felt that it was well that he did not--a rose-bush could only
+seem incongruous facing that waste hill. We passed into the house,
+and seeing the priest's study lined with books, I said, "Reading
+is his distraction," and I looked forward to a pleasant talk about
+books when we had finished our business talk; "and he'll tell me
+about the playhouse," I said. After dinner, when we had said all
+we had to say on the possibilities of establishing local
+industries, the priest got up suddenly,--I thought he was going
+to take a book from the shelves to show me, but he had gone to
+fetch his knitting, and, without a word of explanation, he began
+to knit. I saw that he was knitting stockings, and from the
+rapidity that the needles went to and fro I guessed that he
+knitted every evening. It may have been only my fancy, but it
+seemed to me that the priest answered the questions I addressed to
+him about his books perfunctorily; it even seemed to me that he
+wished to avoid literary conversation. Yielding to his wish, or
+what I believed to be his wish, I spoke of practical things,
+saying that the worst feature of the case was that the Irish no
+longer cared to live in Ireland.
+
+"Even the well-to-do want to go away. The people are weary of the
+country; they have suffered too much. I think that they wish to
+lose themselves."
+
+"It will be a pity," the priest said.
+
+"A sort of natural euthanasia," I said. "A wish to forget
+themselves."
+
+"It will be a pity," the priest said again, and he began to speak
+of the seventh century, when Ireland had a religion of her own, an
+art of her own, and a literature of her own.
+
+We drew our chairs closer to the fire, and we spoke of the Cross
+of Cong and Cormac's Chapel, and began to mourn the race, as is
+customary in these times.
+
+"The Celt is melting like snow; he lingers in little patches in
+the corners of the field, and hands are stretched from every side,
+for it is human to stretch hands to fleeting things, but as well
+might we try to retain the snow."
+
+But as I grew despondent the priest grew hopeful, "No fine race
+has ever been blotted out." His eyes, I said, are as melancholy as
+the mountains, but nature has destined him to bring hope to the
+hopeless, and my delight in his character caused me to forget to
+ask him about the playhouse. He had started a school for lace-
+making, but instead of keeping them at home it had helped them to
+emigrate; I said that this was the worst feature of the case. But
+the priest found excellent reasons for thinking that the weaving
+industry would prove more remunerative; he was sure that if the
+people could only make a slight livelihood in their own country
+they would not want to leave it. He instanced Ireland in the
+eighteenth century,--the population had been killed off until only
+two millions remained, and in the nineteenth century the
+population stood at eight millions. I listened, letting the priest
+talk on, delighting in his incurable optimism; and when the
+servant opened the door and told the priest he was wanted, I saw
+him put on his old coat, grown green with age; I said to myself,
+"No man in the world is better at his own job than this one; hope
+is what they want;" and returning to the study after seeing him
+off I stopped suddenly, seeing his eyes filled with kindness as he
+sat by the deathbed and hearing his kind wisdom. That day I had
+seen a woman digging in a patch of bog under the grey sky. She
+wore a red petticoat, a handkerchief was tied round her head, and
+the moment she caught sight of us she flung down the spade and ran
+to the hovel, and a man appeared with a horn, and he blew the
+horn, running to the brow of the hill. I asked the driver the
+reason of their alarm, and he told me that we had been mistaken
+for the bailiff. This was true, for I saw two little sheep hardly
+bigger than geese driven away. There was a pool of green water
+about this hovel, and all the hovels in the district were the
+same,--one-roomed hovels, full of peat smoke, and on the hearth a
+black iron pot, with traces of some yellow meal stirabout in it.
+The dying man or woman would be lying in a corner on some straw,
+and the priest would speak a little Irish to these outcast Celts,
+"to those dim people who wander like animals through the waste," I
+said.
+
+The grey sky has blown over these people for so many generations
+that it has left them bare as the hills. A playhouse for these
+people! What defiance of nature's law! And watching the shapely
+sods of turf melting into white ash I thought of the dim people
+building the playhouse, obedient to the priest, unsuspicious of a
+new idea. A playhouse must have seemed to them as useless as a
+road that leads nowhere. The priest told them that people would
+come to see the play; but the idea of pleasure did not find a way
+into their minds. The playhouse had fallen!
+
+I piled more turf on the fire; the priest did not return, and the
+moaning of the wind put strange fancies into my head. My driver
+had spoken of a small white thing gliding along the road, and I
+regretted I had not asked him more about the apparition, if it
+were an apparition. A little later I wondered why the priest
+knitted. "His room is lined with books. He does not read, he
+knits,--a strange occupation. He never talks about books."
+
+I crossed the room to investigate the mystery, and I discovered a
+heap of woollen stockings. "All these he has knitted. But some
+strange story hangs about him," I said; and I lay awake a long
+while thinking of the people I should met on the morrow.
+
+And never shall I forget the spectacle. There are degrees in
+poverty, and I remember two men: their feet were bare, and their
+shirts were so torn that the curling breast hair was uncovered.
+They wore brown beards, and their skin was yellow with famine, and
+one of them cried out: "The white sun of heaven does not shine
+upon two poorer men than upon this man and myself." After the
+meeting they followed us, and the poor people seemed to me
+strangely anxious to tell of their condition. There were some
+women among them; they were kept back by the men, and they
+quarrelled among themselves, disputing who should talk to me; they
+had seen no one except each other for a long time, and I feared
+their interest in the looms was a conversational interest--it
+amused them to talk.
+
+The priest brought a bundle of clothes out of the house, and when
+the distribution was finished, I asked him to come for a walk up
+the hill and show me the playhouse.
+
+Again he hesitated, and I said, "You must come, Father MacTurnan,
+for a walk. You must forget the misfortunes of those people for a
+while." He yielded, and we spoke of the excellence of the road,
+and he told me that when he had conceived the idea of a playhouse
+he had arranged with the inspector that the road should go to the
+top of the hill.
+
+"It will not make much difference," he said, "for if there is ever
+a harbour made the road can be carried over the hill right down to
+the sea, and the hill, as you say, is not a very steep one."
+
+"There must be a fine view from the hill-top, and no doubt you
+often go there to read your breviary."
+
+"During the building of the playhouse I often used to be up here,
+and during the rehearsals I was here every day."
+
+I noticed that the tone of his voice never altered.
+
+A grey, shallow sea had slowly eaten away the rotten land, and the
+embay was formed by two low headlands hardly showing above the
+water at high tide.
+
+"I thought once," said the priest, "that if the play were a great
+success a line of flat-bottomed steamers might be built."
+
+"Pleasant dreams," I said to myself, "and he sitting here in the
+quiet evenings, reading his breviary, dreaming of a line of
+steamships crowded with visitors. He has been reading about the
+Oberammergau performances." And I spoke about these performances,
+agreeing with him that no one would have dared to predict that
+visitors would come from all sides of Europe to see a few peasants
+performing a miracle play in the Tyrol.
+
+"Come," I said, "into the playhouse. Let me see how you built it."
+
+The building was finished! The walls and the roof were finished,
+and a stage had been erected at the end of the building. But half
+a wall and some of the roof had fallen upon it, and the rubble had
+not been cleared away.
+
+"It would not cost many pounds to repair the damage," I said. "And
+having gone so far, you should give the play a chance."
+
+I was anxious to hear if he had discovered any aptitude for acting
+among the girls and the boys who lived in the cabins.
+
+"I think," said the priest, "that the play would have been very
+fairly acted, and I think that, with a little practice we might
+have done as well as they did at Oberammergau."
+
+But he was more willing to discuss the play that he had chosen
+than the talents of those who were going to perform it, and he
+told me that it had been written in the fourteenth century in
+Latin, and that he himself had translated it into Irish.
+
+"I wonder if it would have been possible to organise an excursion
+from Dublin. If the performance had been judiciously advertised--
+'Oberammergau in the West.'"
+
+"I used to think," said he, "it is eight miles from Rathowen, and
+the road is a bad one, and when they got here there would be no
+place for them to stay; they would have to go all the way back
+again, and that would be sixteen miles."
+
+"Yet it was as well to build this playhouse as to make a useless
+road--a road leading nowhere. While they were building this
+playhouse they thought they were accomplishing something. Never
+before did the poor people do anything, except for bare life. Do
+you know, Father MacTurnan, your playhouse touches me to the
+heart?" and I turned and looked. "Once Pleasure hovered over your
+parish, but the bird did not alight! Let me start a subscription
+for you in Dublin!" "I don't think," said the priest, "that it
+would be possible--"
+
+"Not for me to get fifty pounds?"
+
+"Yes," he said, "you might get the money, but I don't think we
+could ever get up a performance of the play."
+
+"And why not?" I said.
+
+"You see, the wind came and blew down the wall, and I think they
+look upon that wind as a manifestation of God's disapproval. The
+people are very pious, and looking back I think they felt that the
+time they spent in rehearsing might have been better spent. The
+idea of amusement shocks those who are not accustomed to the idea.
+The playhouse disturbed them in their ideas. They hear Mass on
+Sundays, and there are the Sacraments, and they remember that they
+have to die. It used to seem to me a very sad thing to see all the
+people going to America; it seemed to me the saddest thing in the
+world to see the poor Celt disappear in America, leaving his own
+country, leaving his language, and very often his religion."
+
+"And does it no longer seem to you sad that such a thing should
+happen?"
+
+"No, not if it is the will of God. God has specially chosen the
+Irish race to convert the world, no race has provided so many
+missionaries, no race has preached the gospel more frequently to
+the heathen; and once we realise that we have to die, and very
+soon, and that the Catholic Church is the only true church, our
+ideas about race and nationality fade from us. They come to seem
+very trite and foolish. We are here, not to make life successful
+and triumphant, but to gain heaven. That is the truth, and it is
+to the honour of the Irish people that they have been selected by
+God to preach the truth, even though they lose their nationality
+in preaching it. I do not expect you to accept these opinions. I
+know that you think very differently, but living here I have
+learned to acquiesce in the will of God."
+
+The priest stopped speaking suddenly, like one ashamed of having
+expressed himself too openly, and soon after we were met by a
+number of peasants, and the priest's attention was engaged; the
+inspector of the relief works had to speak to him; and I did not
+see him again until dinner-time.
+
+"You have given them hope," he said.
+
+This was gratifying to hear, and the priest sat listening while I
+told him of the looms already established in different parts of
+the country. We talked about half an hour, and then, like one who
+suddenly remembers, the priest got up and fetched his knitting.
+
+"Do you knit every evening?"
+
+"I have got into the way of knitting lately; it passes the time."
+
+"But do you never read?" I asked, and looked towards the book-
+shelves.
+
+"I used to read a great deal. But there wasn't a woman in the
+parish that could turn a heel properly, so that I had to learn to
+knit."
+
+"Do you like knitting better than reading?" I asked, feeling
+ashamed of my curiosity.
+
+"I have constantly to attend sick-calls, and if one is absorbed in
+a book one experiences a certain reluctance in putting it aside."
+
+"The people are very inconsiderate. Now, why did that man put off
+coming to fetch you till eleven o'clock last night? He knew his
+wife was ill."
+
+"Sometimes one is apt to think them inconsiderate."
+
+"The two volumes of miracle plays!"
+
+"Yes, and that's another danger, a book puts all kinds of ideas
+and notions into one's head. The idea of that playhouse came out
+of those books."
+
+"But" I said, "you do not think that God sent the storm because He
+did not wish a play to be performed."
+
+"One cannot judge God's designs. Whether God sent the storm or
+whether it was accident must remain a matter for conjecture, but
+it is not a matter of conjecture that one is doing certain good by
+devoting one's self to one's daily task, getting the Government to
+start new relief works, establishing schools for weaving--the
+people are entirely dependent upon me, and when I am attending to
+their wants I know I'm doing right. All the other is conjecture."
+
+The priest asked for further information regarding our system of
+payments, and I answered eagerly. I had begun to feel my curiosity
+to be disgraceful, and it was unnecessary,--my driver would tell
+me to-morrow why the playhouse had been abandoned.
+
+I relied on him to tell me; he was one of those who had the
+faculty for hearing things: he had heard that I had been up the
+hill with the priest to see the playhouse; he knew all about my
+walk with the priest, and was soon telling me that it was the
+curse of the Widow Sheridan that had brought down the wind that
+had wrecked the playhouse. For it was her daughter that the priest
+had chosen to play the part of Good Deeds in the miracle play. And
+the story the driver told me seemed true to the ideas of the
+primitive people who lived in the waste, and of the waste itself.
+The girl had been led astray one evening returning from
+rehearsal,--in the words of my car-driver, "She had been 'wake'
+going home one evening, and when the signs of her 'weakness' began
+to show upon her, her mother took the halter off the cow and tied
+the girl to the wall and kept her there until the child was born.
+And Mrs. Sheridan put a piece of string round its throat and
+buried it one night near the playhouse. And it was three nights
+after that the storm rose, and the child was seen pulling the
+thatch out of the roof."
+
+"But, did she murder the child?"
+
+"Sorra wan of me knows. She sent for the priest when she was
+dying, and told him what she had done."
+
+"But the priest would not reveal what he heard in the confession?"
+I said.
+
+"Mrs. Sheridan didn't die that night, not till the end of the
+week; and the neighbours heard her talking about the child that
+she buried, and then they all knew what the white thing was that
+had been seen by the roadside. And the night that the priest left
+her he saw the white thing standing in front of him; and if he
+hadn't been a priest he would have dropped down dead. But he knew
+well enough that it was the unbaptised child, and he took some
+water from the bog-hole and dashed it over it, saying, "I baptise
+thee in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy
+Ghost"
+
+The driver told his story like one saying his prayers, and he
+seemed to have forgotten that he had a listener.
+
+"And the ghost hasn't been seen again?" I said.
+
+"No, not that I know of."
+
+"I don't like your story," I said. "I like the story about Julia
+Cahill better."
+
+"Well, they're both true; one's as true as the other; and Julia
+and Margaret are in America. Once a woman is wake she must go to
+America."
+
+"It must have been a great shock to the priest."
+
+"Faith it was, sir, to meet an unbaptised child on the roadside,
+and the child the only bastard that was ever born in the parish,--
+so Tom Mulhare says, and he's the oldest man in the county of
+Mayo."
+
+"It was altogether a very queer idea, this playhouse."
+
+"It was indeed, sir, a queer idea; but you see he's a queer man.
+He has been always thinking of something to do good; and it is
+said that he thinks too much. Father James is a very queer man,
+your honour."
+
+At the end of a long silence, interrupted now and then by the
+melancholy cry with which he encouraged his horse, he began
+another story, how Father James MacTurnan had written to the Pope
+asking that the priests might marry, "so afeard was he that the
+Catholics were going to America and the country would become
+Protestant. And there's James Murdoch's cabin, and he is the man
+that got the five pounds that the bishop gave Father James to buy
+a pig." And when I asked him how he knew all these things, he
+said, "There isn't many days in the year that the old grey horse
+and myself don't do five-and-twenty miles, and I'm often in and
+out of Rathowen."
+
+"There is no doubt," I said to myself, "that this car-driver is
+the legitimate descendant of the ancient bards."
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+THE WEDDING-GOWN
+
+
+
+
+It was said, but with what truth I cannot say, that the Roche
+property had been owned by the O'Dwyers many years ago, several
+generations past, sometime in the eighteenth century. Only a faint
+legend of this ownership remained; only once had young Mr. Roche
+heard of it, and it was from his mother he had heard it; among the
+country people it was forgotten. His mother had told him that his
+great-great-grandfather, who had made large sums of money abroad,
+had increased his property by purchase from the O'Dwyers, who then
+owned, as well as farmed, the hillside on which the Big House
+stood. The O'Dwyers themselves had forgotten that they were once
+much greater people than they now were, but the master never spoke
+to them without remembering it, for though they only thought of
+themselves as small farmers, dependents on the squire, every one
+of them, boys and girls alike, retained an air of high birth,
+which at the first glance distinguished them from the other
+tenants of the estate. Though they were not aware of it, some
+sense of their remote origin must have survived in them, and I
+think that in a still more obscure way some sense of it survived
+in the country side, for the villagers did not think worse of the
+O'Dwyers because they kept themselves aloof from the pleasures of
+the village and its squabbles. The O'Dwyers kept themselves apart
+from their fellows without any show of pride, without wounding
+anyone's feelings.
+
+The head of the family was a man of forty, and he was the trusted
+servant, almost the friend, of the young master, he was his
+bailiff and his steward, and he lived in a pretty cottage by the
+edge of the lake. O'Dwyer's aunts, they were old women, of sixty-
+eight and seventy, lived in the Big House, the elder had been
+cook, and the younger housemaid, and both were now past their
+work, and they lived full of gratitude to the young master, to
+whom they thought they owed a great deal. He believed the debt to
+be all on his side, and when he was away he often thought of them,
+and when he returned home he went to greet them as he might go to
+the members of his own family. The family of the O'Dwyer's was
+long lived, and Betty and Mary had a sister far older than
+themselves, Margaret Kirwin, "Granny Kirwin," as she was called,
+and she lived in the cottage by the lake with her nephew, Alec
+O'Dwyer. She was over eighty, it was said that she was nearly
+ninety, but her age was not known exactly. Mary O'Dwyer said that
+Margaret was nearly twenty years older than she, but neither Betty
+nor Mary remembered the exact date of their sister's birth. They
+did not know much about her, for though she was their sister, she
+was almost a stranger to them. She had married when she was
+sixteen, and had gone away to another part of the country, and
+they had hardly heard of her for thirty years. It was said that
+she had been a very pretty girl, and that many men had been in
+love with her, and it was known for certain that she had gone away
+with the son of the game keeper of the grandfather of the present
+Mr. Roche, so you can understand what a very long while ago it
+was, and how little of the story of her life had come to the
+knowledge of those living now.
+
+It was certainly sixty years since she had gone away with this
+young man; she had lived with him in Meath for some years, nobody
+knew exactly how many years, maybe some nine or ten years, and
+then he had died suddenly, and his death, it appears, had taken
+away from her some part of her reason. It was known for certain
+that she left Meath after his death, and had remained away many
+years. She had returned to Meath about twenty years ago, though
+not to the place she had lived in before. Some said she had
+experienced misfortunes so great that they had unsettled her mind.
+She herself had forgotten her story, and one day news had come to
+Galway--news, but it was sad news, that she was living in some
+very poor cottage on the edge of Navan town, where her strange
+behaviour and her strange life had made a scandal of her. The
+priest had to inquire out her relations, and it took him some time
+to do this, for the old woman's answers were incoherent, but he at
+length discovered she came from Galway, and he had written to the
+O'Dwyers. And immediately on receiving the priest's letter, Alec
+sent his wife to Navan, and she had come back with the old woman.
+
+"And it was time indeed that I went to fetch her," she said. "The
+boys in the town used to make game of her, and follow her, and
+throw things at her, and they nearly lost the poor thing the
+little reason that was left to her. The rain was coming in through
+the thatch, there was hardly a dry place in the cabin, and she had
+nothing to eat but a few scraps that the neighbours gave her.
+Latterly she had forgotten how to make a fire, and she ate the
+potatoes the neighbours gave her raw, and on her back there were
+only a few dirty rags. She had no care for anything except for her
+wedding-gown. She kept that in a box covered over with paper so
+that no damp should get to it, and she was always folding it and
+seeing that the moth did not touch it, and she was talking of it
+when I came in at the door. She thought that I had come to steal
+it from her. The neighbours told me that that was the way she
+always was, thinking that someone had come to steal her wedding-
+gown."
+
+This was all the news of Margaret Kirwin that Alec O'Dwyer's wife
+brought back with her. The old woman was given a room in the
+cottage, and though with food and warmth and kind treatment she
+became a little less bewildered, a little less like a wild, hunted
+creature, she never got back her memory sufficiently to tell them
+all that had happened to her after her husband's death. Nor did
+she seem as if she wanted to try to remember, she was garrulous
+only of her early days when the parish bells rang for her wedding,
+and the furze was in bloom. This was before the Big House on the
+hill had been built. The hill was then a fine pasture for sheep,
+and Margaret would often describe the tinkling of the sheep-bells
+in the valley, and the yellow furze, and the bells that were
+ringing for her wedding. She always spoke of the bells, though no
+one could understand where the bells came from. It was not
+customary to ring the parish bell for weddings, and there was no
+other bell, so that it was impossible to say how Margaret could
+have got the idea into her head that bells were ringing for her
+when she crossed the hill on her way to the church, dressed in the
+beautiful gown, which the grandmother of the present Mr. Roche had
+dressed her in, for she had always been the favourite, she said,
+with the old mistress, a much greater favourite than even her two
+sisters had ever been. Betty and Mary were then little children
+and hardly remembered the wedding, and could say nothing about the
+bells.
+
+Margaret Kirwin walked with a short stick, her head lifted hardly
+higher than the handle and when the family were talking round the
+kitchen fire she would come among them for a while and say
+something to them, and then go away, and they felt they had seen
+someone from another world. She hobbled now and then as far as the
+garden gate, and she frightened the peasantry, so strange did she
+seem among the flowers--so old and forlorn, almost cut off from
+this world, with only one memory to link her to it. It was the
+spectral look in her eyes that frightened them, for Margaret was
+not ugly. In spite of all her wrinkles the form of the face
+remained, and it was easy, especially when her little grand-niece
+was by, to see that sixty-five years ago she must have had a long
+and pleasant face, such as one sees in a fox, and red hair like
+Molly.
+
+Molly was sixteen, and her grey dress reached only to her ankles.
+Everyone was fond of the poor old woman; but it was only Molly who
+had no fear of her at all, and one would often see them standing
+together beside the pretty paling that separated the steward's
+garden from the high road. Chestnut-trees grew about the house,
+and china roses over the walls, and in the course of the summer
+there would be lilies in the garden, and in the autumn hollyhocks
+and sunflowers. There were a few fruit-trees a little further on,
+and, lower down, a stream. A little bridge led over the stream
+into the meadow, and Molly and her grand-aunt used to go as far as
+the bridge, and everyone wondered what the child and the old woman
+had to say to each other. Molly was never able to give any clear
+account of what the old woman said to her during the time they
+spent by the stream. She had tried once to give Molly an account
+of one long winter when the lake was frozen from side to side.
+Then there was something running in her mind about the transport
+of pillars in front of the Big House--how they had been drawn
+across the lake by oxen, and how one of the pillars was now lying
+at the bottom of the lake. That was how Molly took up the story
+from her, but she understood little of it. Molly's solicitude for
+the old woman was a subject of admiration, and Molly did not like
+to take the credit for a kindness and pity which she did not
+altogether feel. She had never seen anyone dead, and her secret
+fear was that the old woman might die before she went away to
+service. Her parents had promised to allow her to go away when she
+was eighteen, and she lived in the hope that her aunt would live
+two years longer, and that she would be saved the terror of seeing
+a dead body. And it was in this intention that she served her
+aunt, that she carefully minced the old woman's food and insisted
+on her eating often, and that she darted from her place to fetch
+the old woman her stick when she rose to go. When Margaret Kirwin
+was not in the kitchen Molly was always laughing and talking, and
+her father and mother often thought it was her voice that brought
+the old woman out of her room. So the day Molly was grieving
+because she could not go to the dance the old woman remained in
+her room, and not seeing her at tea-time they began to be afraid,
+and Molly was asked to go fetch her aunt.
+
+"Something may have happened to her, mother. I daren't go."
+
+And when old Margaret came into the kitchen towards evening she
+surprised everyone by her question:--
+
+"Why is Molly crying?"
+
+No one else had heard Molly sob, if she had sobbed, but everyone
+knew the reason of her grief; indeed, she had been reproved for it
+many times that day.
+
+"I will not hear any more about it," said Mrs. O'Dwyer; "she has
+been very tiresome all day. Is it my fault if I cannot give her a
+gown to go to the dance?" And then, forgetting that old Margaret
+could not understand her, she told her that the servants were
+having a dance at the Big House, and had asked Molly to come to
+it. "But what can I do? She has got no gown to go in. Even if I
+had the money there would not be time to send for one now, nor to
+make one. And there are a number of English servants stopping at
+the house; there are people from all parts of the country, they
+have brought their servants with them, and I am not going to see
+my girl worse dressed than the others, so she cannot go. She has
+heard all this, she knows it.... I've never seen her so tiresome
+before." Mrs. O'Dwyer continued to chide her daughter; but her
+mother's reasons for not allowing her to go to the ball, though
+unanswerable, did not seem to console Molly, and she sat looking
+very miserable. "She has been sitting like that all day," said
+Mrs. O'Dwyer, "and I wish that it were to-morrow, for she will not
+be better until it is all over."
+
+"But, mother, I am saying nothing; I will go to bed. I don't know
+why you are blaming me. I am saying nothing. I can't help feeling
+miserable."
+
+"No, she don't look a bit cheerful," the old woman said, "and I
+don't like her to be disappointed." This was the first time that
+old Margaret had seemed to understand since she came to live with
+them what was passing about her, and they all looked at her, Mrs.
+O'Dwyer and Alec and Molly. They stood waiting for her to speak
+again, wondering if the old woman's speech was an accident, or if
+she had recovered her mind. "It is a hard thing for a child at her
+age not to be able to go to the dance at the Big House, now that
+she has been asked. No wonder Molly is unhappy. I remember the
+time that I should have been unhappy too, and she is very like
+me."
+
+"But, Granny, what can I do? She can't go in the clothes she is
+wearing, and she has only got one other frock, the one she goes to
+Mass in. I can't allow my daughter--"
+
+But seeing the old woman was about to speak Alec stopped his wife.
+
+"Let us hear what she has to say," he whispered.
+
+"There is my wedding-gown: that is surely beautiful enough for
+anyone to wear. It has not been worn since the day I wore it when
+the bells were ringing, and I went over the hill and was married;
+and I have taken such care of it that it is the same as it was
+that day. Molly will look very nice in it; she will look as I
+looked that day."
+
+No one spoke; father, mother, and daughter stood looking at the
+old woman. Her offer to lend her wedding-dress had astonished them
+as much as her recovery of her senses. Everything she once had,
+and there were tales that she had once been rich, had melted away
+from her; nothing but this gown remained. How she had watched over
+it! Since she had come to live with the O'Dwyers she had hardly
+allowed them to see it. When she took it out of its box to air it
+and to strew it with camphor she closed her room door. Only once
+had they seen it, and then only for a few moments. She had brought
+it out to show it, as a child brings its toy, but the moment they
+stretched their hands to touch it she had taken it away, and they
+had heard her locking the box it was in. But now she was going to
+lend it to Molly. They did not believe she meant what she was
+saying. They expected her to turn away and to go to her room,
+forgetful of what she had said. Even if she were to let Molly put
+the dress on, she would not let her go out of the house with it.
+She would change her mind at the last minute.
+
+"When does this dancing begin?" she asked, and when they told her
+she said there would be just time for her to dress Molly, and she
+asked the girl and her mother to come into her room. Mrs. O'Dwyer
+feared the girl would be put to a bitter disappointment, but if
+Molly once had the gown on she would not oblige her to take it
+off.
+
+"In my gown you will be just like what I was when the bells were
+ringing."
+
+She took the gown out of its box herself, and the petticoat and
+the stockings and the shoes; there was everything there.
+
+"The old mistress gave me all these. Molly has got the hair I used
+to have; she will look exactly like myself. Are they not beautiful
+shoes?" she said.
+
+"Look at the buckles. They will fit her very well; her feet are
+the same size as mine were."
+
+And Molly's feet went into the shoes just as if they had been made
+for her, and the gown fitted as well as the shoes, and Molly's
+hair was arranged as nearly as possible according to the old
+woman's fancy, as she used to wear her hair when it was thick and
+red like Molly's.
+
+The girl thought that Granny would regret her gift. She expected
+the old woman would follow her into the kitchen and ask her to
+take the things off, and that she would not be able to go to the
+ball after all. She did not feel quite safe until she was a long
+way from the house, about half-way up the drive. Her mother and
+father had said that the dance would not be over until maybe six
+o'clock in the morning, and they offered her the key of the house;
+but Granny had said that she would sit up for her.
+
+"I will doze a bit upon a chair. If I am tired I will lie down
+upon my bed. I shall hear Molly; I shall not sleep much. She will
+not be able to enter the house without my hearing her."
+
+It was extraordinary to hear her speak like this, and, a little
+frightened by her sudden sanity, they waited up with her until
+midnight. Then they tried to persuade her to go to bed, to allow
+them to lock up the house; but she sat looking into the fire,
+seeming to see the girl dancing at the ball quite clearly. She
+seemed so contented that they left her, and for an hour she sat
+dreaming, seeing Molly young and beautifully dressed in the
+wedding-gown of more than sixty years ago.
+
+Dream after dream went by, the fire had burned low, the sods were
+falling into white ashes, and the moonlight began to stream into
+the room. It was the chilliness that had come into the air that
+awoke her, and she threw several sods of turf on to the fire. An
+hour passed, and old Margaret awoke for the last time.
+
+"The bells are ringing, the bells are ringing," she said, and she
+went to the kitchen door; she opened it, and stood in the garden
+under the rays of the moon. The night of her marriage was just
+such a night as this one, and she had stood in the garden amid the
+summer flowers, just as she did now.
+
+"The day is beginning," she said, mistaking the moonlight for the
+dawn, and, listening, it seemed to her that she heard once more
+the sound of bells coming across the hill. "Yes, the bells are
+ringing," she said; "I can hear them quite clearly, and I must
+hurry and get dressed--I must not keep him waiting."
+
+And returning to the house, she went to her box, where her gown
+had lain so many years; and though no gown was there it seemed to
+her that there was one, and one more beautiful than the gown she
+had cherished. It was the same gown, only grown more beautiful. It
+had grown into softer silk, into a more delicate colour; it had
+become more beautiful, and she held the dream-gown in her hands
+and she sat with it in the moonlight, thinking how fair he would
+find her in it. Once her hands went to her hair, and then she
+dropped them again.
+
+"I must begin to dress myself; I must not keep him waiting."
+
+The moonlight lay still upon her knees, but little by little the
+moon moved up the sky, leaving her in the shadow.
+
+It was at this moment, as the shadows grew denser about old
+Margaret, that the child who was dancing at the ball came to think
+of her who had given her her gown, and who was waiting for her. It
+was in the middle of a reel she was dancing, and she was dancing
+it with Mr. Roche, that she felt that something had happened to
+her aunt.
+
+"Mr. Roche," she said, "you must let me go away; I cannot dance
+any more to-night. I am sure that something has happened to my
+aunt, the old woman, Margaret Kirwin, who lives with us in the
+Lodge. It was she who lent me this gown. This was her wedding-
+gown, and for sixty-five years it has never been out of her
+possession. She has hardly allowed anyone to see it; but she said
+that I was like her, and she heard me crying because I had no gown
+to go to the ball, and so she lent me her wedding-gown."
+
+"You look very nice, Molly, in the wedding-gown, and this is only
+a fancy." Seeing the girl was frightened and wanted to go, he
+said: "But why do you think that anything has happened to your
+aunt?"
+
+"She is very old."
+
+"But she is not much older than she was when you left her."
+
+"Let me go, Mr. Roche; I think I must go. I feel sure that
+something has happened to her. I never had such a feeling before,
+and I could not have that feeling if there was no reason for it."
+
+"Well, if you must go."
+
+She glanced to where the moon was shining and ran down the drive,
+leaving Mr. Roche looking after her, wondering if after all she
+might have had a warning of the old woman's death. The night was
+one of those beautiful nights in May, when the moon soars high in
+the sky, and all the woods and fields are clothed in the green of
+spring. But the stillness of the night frightened Molly, and when
+she stopped to pick up her dress she heard the ducks chattering in
+the reeds. The world seemed divided into darkness and light. The
+hawthorn-trees threw black shadows that reached into the hollows,
+and Molly did not dare to go by the path that led through a little
+wood, lest she should meet Death there. For now it seemed to her
+that she was running a race with Death, and that she must get to
+the cottage before him. She did not care to take the short cut,
+but she ran till her breath failed her. She ran on again, but when
+she went through the wicket she knew that Death had been before
+her. She knocked twice; receiving no answer she tried the latch,
+and was surprised to find the door unlocked. There was a little
+fire among the ashes, and after blowing the sod for some time she
+managed to light the candle, and holding it high she looked about
+the kitchen.
+
+"Auntie, are you asleep? Have the others gone to bed?"
+
+She approached a few steps, and then a strange curiosity came over
+her, and though she had always feared death she now looked
+curiously upon death, and she thought that she saw the likeness
+which her aunt had often noticed.
+
+"Yes," she said, "she is like me. I shall be like that some day if
+I live long enough."
+
+And then she knocked at the door of the room where her parents
+were sleeping.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+THE CLERK'S QUEST
+
+
+
+
+For thirty years Edward Dempsey had worked low down in the list
+of clerks in the firm of Quin and Wee. He did his work so well
+that he seemed born to do it, and it was felt that any change in
+which Dempsey was concerned would be unlucky. Managers had looked
+at Dempsey doubtingly and had left him in his habits. New partners
+had come into the business, but Dempsey showed no sign of
+interest. He was interested only in his desk. There it was by the
+dim window, there were his pens, there was his penwiper, there was
+the ruler, there was the blotting-pad. Dempsey was always the
+first to arrive and the last to leave. Once in thirty years of
+service he had accepted a holiday. It had been a topic of
+conversation all the morning, and the clerks tittered when he came
+into the bank in the afternoon saying he had been looking into the
+shop windows all the morning, and had come down to the bank to see
+how they were getting on.
+
+An obscure, clandestine, taciturn little man, occupying in life
+only the space necessary to bend over a desk, and whose conical
+head leaned to one side as if in token of his humility.
+
+It seemed that Dempsey had no other ambition than to be allowed to
+stagnate at a desk to the end of his life, and this modest
+ambition would have been realised had it not been for a slight
+accident--the single accident that had found its way into
+Dempsey's well-ordered and closely-guarded life. One summer's day,
+the heat of the areas arose and filled the open window, and
+Dempsey's somnolescent senses were moved by a soft and suave
+perfume. At first he was puzzled to say whence it came; then he
+perceived that it had come from the bundle of cheques which he
+held in his hand; and then that the odoriferous paper was a pale
+pink cheque in the middle of the bundle. He had hardly seen a
+flower for thirty years, and could not determine whether the odour
+was that of mignonette, or honeysuckle, or violet. But at that
+moment the cheques were called for; he handed them to his
+superior, and with cool hand and clear brain continued to make
+entries in the ledger until the bank closed.
+
+But that night, just an he was falling asleep, a remembrance of
+the insinuating perfume returned to him. He wondered whose cheque
+it was, and regretted not having looked at the signature, and many
+times during the succeeding weeks he paused as he was making
+entries in the ledger to think if the haunting perfume were rose,
+lavender, or mignonette. It was not the scent of rose, he was sure
+of that. And a vague swaying of hope began. Dreams that had died
+or had never been born floated up like things from the depths of
+the sea, and many old things that he had dreamed about or had
+never dreamed at all drifted about. Out of the depths of life a
+hope that he had never known, or that the severe rule of his daily
+life had checked long ago, began its struggle for life; and when
+the same sweet odour came again--he knew now it was the scent of
+heliotrope--his heart was lifted and he was overcome in a sweet
+possessive trouble. He sought for the cheque amid the bundle of
+cheques and, finding it, he pressed the paper to his face. The
+cheque was written in a thin, feminine handwriting, and was signed
+"Henrietta Brown," and the name and handwriting were pregnant with
+occult significances in Dempsey's disturbed mind. His hand paused
+amid the entries, and he grew suddenly aware of some dim, shadowy
+form, gracile and sweet-smelling as the spring-moist shadow of
+wandering cloud, emanation of earth, or woman herself? Dempsey
+pondered, and his absent-mindedness was noticed, and occasioned
+comment among the clerks.
+
+For the first time in his life he was glad when the office hours
+were over. He wanted to be alone, he wanted to think, he felt he
+must abandon himself to the new influence that he had so suddenly
+and unexpectedly entered his life. Henrietta Brown! the name
+persisted in his mind like a half-forgotten, half-remembered tune;
+and in his efforts to realise her beauty he stopped before the
+photographic displays in the shop windows; but none of the famous
+or the infamous celebrities there helped him in the least. He
+could only realise Henrietta Brown by turning his thoughts from
+without and seeking the intimate sense of her perfumed cheques.
+The end of every month brought a cheque from Henrietta Brown, and
+for a few moments the clerk was transported and lived beyond
+himself.
+
+An idea had fixed itself in his mind. He knew not if Henrietta
+Brown was young or old, pretty or ugly, married or single; the
+perfume and the name were sufficient, and could no longer be
+separated from the idea, now forcing its way through the fissures
+in the failing brain of this poor little bachelor clerk--that idea
+of light and love and grace so inherent in man, but which rigorous
+circumstance had compelled Dempsey to banish from his life.
+
+Dempsey had had a mother to support for many years, and had found
+it impossible to economise. But since her death he had laid by
+about one hundred and fifty pounds. He thought of this money with
+awe, and awed by his good fortune he wondered how much more he
+might save before he was forced to leave his employment; and to
+have touched a penny of his savings would have seemed to him a sin
+near to sacrilege. Yet he did not hesitate for a single moment to
+send Henrietta Brown, whose address he had been able to obtain
+through the bank books, a diamond brooch which had cost twenty
+pounds. He omitted to say whence it had come, and for days he
+lived in a warm wonderment, satisfied in the thought that she was
+wearing something that he had seen and touched.
+
+His ideal was now by him and always, and its dominion was so
+complete that he neglected his duties at the bank, and was
+censured by the amazed manager. The change of his condition was so
+obvious that it became the subject for gossip, and jokes were now
+beginning to pass into serious conjecturing. Dempsey took no
+notice, and his plans matured amid jokes and theories. The desire
+to write and reveal himself to his beloved had become imperative;
+and after some very slight hesitation--for he was moved more by
+instinct than by reason--he wrote a letter urging the fatality of
+the circumstances that separated them, and explaining rather than
+excusing this revelation of his identity. His letter was full of
+deference, but at the same time it left no doubt as to the nature
+of his attachments and hopes. The answer to this letter was a
+polite note begging him not to persist in this correspondence, and
+warning him that if he did it would become necessary to write to
+the manager of the bank. But the return of his brooch did not
+dissuade Dempsey from the pursuit of his ideal; and as time went
+by it became more and more impossible for him to refrain from
+writing love letters, and sending occasional presents of
+jewellery. When the letters and the jewellery were returned to him
+he put them away carelessly, and he bought the first sparkle of
+diamonds that caught his fancy, and forwarded ring, bracelet, and
+ear-ring, with whatever word of rapturous love that came up in his
+mind.
+
+One day he was called into the manager's room, severely
+reprimanded, and eventually pardoned in consideration of his long
+and faithful service. But the reprimands of his employers were of
+no use and he continued to write to Henrietta Brown, growing more
+and more careless of his secret. He dropped brooches about the
+office, and his letters. At last the story was whispered from desk
+to desk. Dempsey's dismissal was the only course open to the firm;
+and it was with much regret that the partners told their old
+servant that his services were no longer required.
+
+To their surprise Dempsey seemed quite unaffected by his
+dismissal; he even seemed relieved, and left the bank smiling,
+thinking of Henrietta, bestowing no thought on his want of means.
+He did not even think of providing himself with money by the sale
+of some of the jewellery he had about him, nor of his going to his
+lodging and packing up his clothes, he did not think how he should
+get to Edinburgh--it was there that she lived. He thought of her
+even to the exclusion of the simplest means of reaching her, and
+was content to walk about the streets in happy mood, waiting for
+glimpses of some evanescent phantom at the wood's edge wearing a
+star on her forehead, or catching sight in the wood's depths of a
+glistening shoulder and feet flying towards the reeds. Full of
+happy aspiration he wandered seeking the country through the many
+straggling villages that hang like children round the skirts of
+Dublin, and was passing through one of these at nightfall, and,
+feeling tired, he turned into the bar of an inn, and asked for
+bread and cheese.
+
+"Come a long way, governor?" said one of two rough fellows.
+
+"I am going a long way," replied Dempsey; "I am going north--very
+far north."
+
+"And what may yer be going north for, if I may make bold to ask?"
+
+"I am going to the lady I love, and I am taking her beautiful
+presents of jewellery."
+
+The two rough fellows exchanged glances; and it is easy to imagine
+how Dempsey was induced to let them have his diamonds, so that
+inquiries might be made of a friend round the corner regarding
+their value. After waiting a little while, Dempsey paid for his
+bread and cheese, and went in search of the thieves. But the face
+of Henrietta Brown obliterated all remembrance of thieves and
+diamonds, and he wandered for a few days, sustained by his dream
+and the crusts that his appearance drew from the pitiful. At last
+he even neglected to ask for a crust, and, foodless, followed the
+beckoning vision, from sunrise to sundown
+
+It was a soft, quiet summer's night when Dempsey lay down to sleep
+for the last time. He was very tired, he had been wandering all
+day, and threw himself on the grass by the roadside. He lay there
+looking up at the stars, thinking of Henrietta, knowing that
+everything was slipping away, and he passing into a diviner sense.
+Henrietta seemed to be coming nearer to him and revealing herself
+more clearly; and when the word of death was in his throat, and
+his eyes opened for the last time, it seemed to him that one of
+the stars came down from the sky and laid its bright face upon his
+shoulder.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+"ALMS-GIVING"
+
+
+
+
+As I searched for a penny it began to rain. The blind man opened
+a parcel and I saw that it contained a small tarpaulin cape. But
+the several coats I wore made it difficult to find my change; I
+thought I had better forego my charity that day, and I walked
+away. "Eight or nine hours a day waiting for alms is his earthly
+lot," I said, and walking towards the river, and leaning on the
+parapet, I wondered if he recognised the passing step--if he
+recognised my step--and associated them with a penny? Of what use
+that he should know the different steps? if he knew them there
+would be anticipation and disappointments. But a dog would make
+life comprehensible; and I imagined a companionship, a mingling of
+muteness and blindness, and the joy that would brighten the
+darkness when the dog leaped eagerly upon the blind man's knees. I
+imagined the joy of warm feet and limb, and the sudden poke of the
+muzzle. A dog would be a link to bind the blind beggar to the
+friendship of life. Now why has this small blind man, with a face
+as pale as a plant that never sees the sun, not a dog? A dog is
+the natural link and the only link that binds the blind beggar to
+the friendship of life.
+
+Looking round, I could see that he was taking off his little cape,
+for it had ceased raining. But in a few weeks it would rain every
+day, and the wind would blow from the river in great gusts. "Will
+he brave another winter?" I asked myself. "Iron blasts will sweep
+through the passage; they will find him through the torn shirt and
+the poor grey trousers, the torn waist-coat, the black jacket, and
+the threadbare over-coat--someone's cast-off garment.... Now, he
+may have been born blind, or he may have become blind; in any case
+he has been blind for many years, and if he persist in living he
+will have to brave many winters in that passage, for he is not an
+old man. What instinct compels him to bear his dark life? Is he
+afraid to kill himself? Does this fear spring from physical or
+from religious motives? Fear of hell? Surely no other motive would
+enable him to endure his life."
+
+In my intolerance for all life but my own I thought I could
+estimate the value of the Great Mockery, and I asked myself
+angrily why he persisted in living. I asked myself why I helped
+him to live. It would be better that he should throw himself at
+once into the river. And this was reason talking to me, and it
+told me that the most charitable act I could do would be to help
+him over the parapet. But behind reason there is instinct, and in
+obedience to an impulse, which I could not weigh or appreciate, I
+went to the blind man and put some money into his hand; the small
+coin slipped through his fingers; they were so cold that he could
+not retain it, and I had to pick it from the ground.
+
+"Thankee, sir. Can you tell, sir, what time it is?"
+
+And this little question was my recompense. He and I wanted to
+know the time. I asked him why he wanted to know the time, and he
+told me because that evening a friend was coming to fetch him.
+And, wondering who that friend might be, and, hoping he might tell
+me, I asked him about his case of pencils, expressing a hope that
+he sold them. He answered that he was doing a nice bit of trading.
+
+"The boys about here are a trouble," he said, "but the policeman
+on the beat is a friend of mine, and he watches them and makes
+them count the pencils they take. The other day they robbed me,
+and he gave them such a cuffing that I don't think they'll take my
+pencils again. You see, sir, I keep the money I take for the
+pencils in the left pocket, and the money that is given to me I
+keep in the right pocket. In this way I know if my accounts are
+right when I make them up in the evening."
+
+Now where, in what lonely room does he sit making up his accounts?
+but, not wishing to seem inquisitorial, I turned the conversation.
+
+"I suppose you know some of the passers-by."
+
+"Yes, I know a tidy few. There's one gentleman who gives me a
+penny every day, but he's gone abroad, I hear, and sixpence a week
+is a big drop."
+
+As I had given him a penny a day all the summer, I assumed he was
+speaking of me. And my sixpence a week meant a day's dinner,
+perhaps two days' dinners! It was only necessary for me to
+withhold my charity to give him ease. He would hardly be able to
+live without my charity, and if one of his other patrons were to
+do likewise the world would be freed from a life that I could not
+feel to be of any value.
+
+So do we judge the world if we rely on our reason, but instinct
+clings like a child and begs like a child, and my instinct begged
+me to succour this poor man, to give him a penny every day, to
+find out what his condition was, and to stop for a chat every time
+I gave him my penny. I had obeyed my instinct all the summer, and
+now reason had intervened, reason was in rebellion, and for a long
+time I avoided, or seemed to avoid, the passage where the blind
+man sat for eight or nine hours, glad to receive, but never asking
+for alms.
+
+I think I forgot the blind man for several months. I only
+remembered him when I was sitting at home, or when I was at the
+other side of the town, and sometimes I thought I made myself
+little excuses not to pass through the passage. Our motives are so
+vague, so complex and many, that one is never quite sure why one
+does a thing, and if I were to say that I did not give the blind
+man pennies that winter because I believed it better to deprive
+him of his means of livelihood and force him out of life than to
+help him to remain in life and suffer, I should be saying what was
+certainly untrue, yet the idea was in my mind, and I experienced
+more than one twinge of conscience when I passed through the
+passage. I experienced remorse when I hurried past him, too
+selfish to unbutton my coat, for every time I happened to pass him
+it was raining or blowing very hard, and every time I hurried away
+trying to find reasons why he bore his miserable life. I hurried
+to my business, my head full of chatter about St. Simon's
+Stylites, telling myself that he saw God far away at the end of
+the sky, His immortal hands filled with immortal recompenses;
+reason chattered about the compensation of celestial choirs, but
+instinct told me that the blind man standing in the stone passage
+knew of such miraculous consolations.
+
+As the winter advanced, as the winds grew harsher, my avoidance of
+the passage grew more marked, and one day I stopped to think, and
+asked myself why I avoided it.
+
+There was a faint warmth in the sky, and I heard my heart speaking
+to me quite distinctly, and it said:--
+
+"Go to the blind man--what matter about your ten minutes' delay;
+you have been unhappy since you refrained from alms-giving, and
+the blind beggar can feel the new year beginning."
+
+"You see, sir, I have added some shirt buttons and studs to the
+pencils. I don't know how they will go, but one never knows till
+one tries."
+
+Then he told me it was smallpox that destroyed his eyes, and he
+was only eighteen at the time.
+
+"You must have suffered very much when they told you your sight
+was going?"
+
+"Yes, sir. I had the hump for six weeks."
+
+"What do you mean?"
+
+"It doubled me up, that it did. I sat with my head in my hands for
+six weeks."
+
+"And after that?"
+
+"I didn't think any more about it--what was the good?"
+
+"Yes, but it must be difficult not to think, sitting here all
+alone."
+
+"One mustn't allow one's self to give way. One would break down if
+one did. I've some friends, and in the evening I get plenty of
+exercise."
+
+"What do you do in the evenings?"
+
+"I turn a hay-cutting machine in a stable."
+
+"And you're quite contented?"
+
+"I don't think, sir, a happier man than I passes through this
+gate-way once a month."
+
+He told me his little boy came to fetch him in the evening.
+
+"You're married?"
+
+"Yes, sir, and I've got four children. They're going away for
+their holidays next week."
+
+"Where are they going?"
+
+"To the sea. It will do them good; a blow on the beach will do
+them a power of good."
+
+"And when they come back they will tell you about it?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And do you ever go away for a holiday?"
+
+"Last year I went with a policeman. A gentleman who passes this
+way, one of my friends, paid four shillings for me. We had a nice
+dinner in a public house for a shilling, and then we went for a
+walk."
+
+"And this year are you going with the policeman?"
+
+"I hope so, a friend of mine gave me half-a-crown towards it."
+
+"I'll give you the rest."
+
+"Thankee, sir."
+
+A soft south wind was blowing, and an instinct as soft and as
+gentle filled my heart, and I went towards some trees. The new
+leaves were beginning in the branches; and sitting where sparrows
+were building their nests, I soon began to see further into life
+than I had seen before. "We're here," I said, "for the purpose of
+learning what life is, and the blind beggar has taught me a great
+deal, something that I could not have learnt out of a book, a
+deeper truth than any book contains." ... And then I ceased to
+think, for thinking is a folly when a soft south wind is blowing,
+and an instinct as soft and as gentle fills the heart.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+SO ON HE FARES
+
+
+
+
+His mother had forbidden him to stray about the roads, and
+standing at the garden gate, little Ulick Burke often thought he
+would like to run down to the canal and watch the boats passing.
+His father used to take him for walks along the towing path, but
+his father had gone away to the wars two years ago, and standing
+by the garden gate he remembered how his father used to stop to
+talk to the lock-keepers. Their talk often turned upon the canal
+and its business, and Ulick remembered that the canal ended in the
+Shannon, and that the barges met ships coming up from the sea.
+
+He was a pretty child with bright blue eyes, soft curls, and a shy
+winning manner, and he stood at the garden gate thinking how the
+boats rose up in the locks, how the gate opened and let the boats
+free, and he wondered if his father had gone away to the war in
+one of the barges. He felt sure if he were going away to the war
+he would go in a barge. And he wondered if the barge went as far
+as the war or only as far as the Shannon? He would like to ask his
+mother, but she would say he was troubling her with foolish
+questions, or she would begin to think again that he wanted to run
+away from home. He wondered if he were to hide himself in one of
+the barges whether it would take him to a battlefield where he
+would meet his father walking about with a gun upon his shoulder?
+
+And leaning against the gate-post, he swung one foot across the
+other, though he had been told by his mother that he was like one
+of the village children when he did it. But his mother was always
+telling him not to do something, and he could not remember
+everything he must not do. He had been told not to go to the canal
+lest he should fall in, nor into the field lest he should tear his
+trousers. He had been told he must not run in about in the garden
+lest he should tread on the flowers, and his mother was always
+telling him he was not to talk to the school children as they came
+back from school, though he did not want to talk to them. There
+was a time when he would have liked to talk to them, now he ran to
+the other side of the garden when they were coming home from
+school; but there was no place in the garden where he could hide
+himself from them, unless he got into the dry ditch. The school
+children were very naughty children; they climbed up the bank,
+and, holding on to the paling, they mocked at him; and their
+mockery was to ask him the way to "Hill Cottage;" for his mother
+had had the name painted on the gate, and no one else in the
+parish had given their cottage a name.
+
+However, he liked the dry ditch, and under the branches, where the
+wren had built her nest, Ulick was out of his mother's way, and
+out of the way of the boys; and lying among the dead leaves he
+could think of the barges floating away, and of his tall father
+who wore a red coat and let him pull his moustache. He was content
+to lie in the ditch for hours, thinking he was a bargeman and that
+he would like to use a sail. His father had told him that the
+boats had sails on the Shannon--if so it would be easy to sail to
+the war; and breaking off in the middle of some wonderful war
+adventure, some tale about his father and his father's soldiers,
+he would grow interested in the life of the ditch, in the coming
+and going of the wren, in the chirrup of a bird in the tall
+larches that grew beyond the paling.
+
+Beyond the paling there was a wood full of moss-grown stones and
+trees overgrown with ivy, and Ulick thought that if he only dared
+to get over the paling and face the darkness of the hollow on the
+other side of the paling, he could run across the meadow and call
+from the bank to a steersman. The steersman might take him away!
+But he was afraid his mother might follow him on the next barge,
+and he dreamed a story of barges drawn by the swiftest horses in
+Ireland.
+
+But dreams are but a makeshift life. He was very unhappy, and
+though he knew it was wrong he could not help laying plans for
+escape. Sometimes he thought that the best plan would be to set
+fire to the house; for while his mother was carrying pails of
+water from the back yard he would run away; but he did not dare to
+think out his plan of setting fire to the house, lest one of the
+spirits which dwelt in the hollow beyond the paling should come
+and drag him down a hole.
+
+One day he forgot to hide himself in the ditch, and the big boy
+climbed up the bank, and asked him to give him some gooseberries,
+and though Ulick would have feared to gather gooseberries for
+himself he did not like to refuse the boy, and he gave him some,
+hoping that the big boy would not laugh at him again. And they
+became friends, and very soon he was friends with them all, and
+they had many talks clustered in the corner, the children holding
+on to the palings, and Ulick hiding behind the hollyhocks ready to
+warn them.
+
+"It's all right, she's gone to the village," Ulick said, one day
+the big boy asked him to come with them, they were going to spear
+eels in the brook, and he was emboldened to get over the fence and
+to follow across the meadow, through the hazels, and very soon it
+seemed to him that they had wandered to the world's end. At last
+they came to the brook and the big boy turned up his trousers, and
+Ulick saw him lifting the stones with his left hand and plunging a
+fork into the water with his right. When he brought up a
+struggling eel at the end of the fork Ulick clapped his hands and
+laughed, and he had never been so happy in his life before.
+
+After a time there were no more stones to raise, and sitting on
+the bank they began to tell stories. His companions asked him when
+his father was coming back from the wars, and he told them how his
+father used to take him for walks up the canal, and how they used
+to meet a man who had a tame rat in his pocket. Suddenly the boys
+and girls started up, crying "Here's the farmer," and they ran
+wildly across the fields. However, they got to the high road long
+before the farmer could catch them, and his escape enchanted
+Ulick. Then the children went their different ways, the big boy
+staying with Ulick, who thought he must offer him some
+gooseberries. So they crossed the fence together and crouched
+under the bushes, and ate the gooseberries till they wearied of
+them. Afterwards they went to look at the bees, and while looking
+at the insects crawling in and out of their little door, Ulick
+caught sight of his mother, and she coming towards them. Ulick
+cried out, but the big boy was caught before he could reach the
+fence, and Ulick saw that, big as the boy was, he could not save
+himself from a slapping. He kicked out, and then blubbered, and at
+last got away. In a moment it would be Ulick's turn, and he feared
+she would beat him more than she had beaten the boy--for she hated
+him, whereas she was only vexed with the boy--she would give him
+bread and water--he had often had a beating and bread and water
+for a lesser wickedness than the bringing of one of the village
+boys into the garden to eat gooseberries.
+
+He put up his right hand and saved his right cheek, and then she
+tried to slap him on the left, but he put up his left hand, and
+this went on until she grew so angry that Ulick thought he had
+better allow her to slap him, for if she did not slap him at once
+she might kill him.
+
+"Down with your hands, sir, down with your hands, sir," she cried,
+but before he had time to let her slap him she said: "I will give
+you enough of bees," and she caught one that had rested on a
+flower and put it down his neck. The bee stung him in the neck
+where the flesh is softest, and he ran away screaming, unable to
+rid himself of the bee. He broke through the hedges of sweet pea,
+and he dashed through the poppies, trampling through the flower
+beds, until he reached the dry ditch.
+
+There is something frightful in feeling a stinging insect in one's
+back, and Ulick lay in the dry ditch, rolling among the leaves in
+anguish. He thought he was stung all over, he heard his mother
+laughing, and she called him a coward through an opening in the
+bushes, but he knew she could not follow him down the ditch. His
+neck had already begun to swell, but he forgot the pain of the
+sting in hatred. He felt he must hate his mother, however wicked
+it might be to do so. His mother had often slapped him, he had
+heard of boys being slapped, but no one had ever put a bee down a
+boy's back before; he felt he must always hate her, and creeping
+up through the brambles to where he could get a view of the
+garden, he waited until he saw her walk up the path into the
+house; and then, stealing back to the bottom of the ditch, he
+resolved to get over the paling. A few minutes after he heard her
+calling him, and then he climbed the paling, and he crossed the
+dreaded hollow, stumbling over the old stones.
+
+As he crossed the meadow he caught sight of a boat coming through
+the lock, but the lock-keeper knew him by sight, and would tell
+the bargeman where he came from, and he would be sent home to his
+mother. He ran on, trying to get ahead of the boat, creeping
+through hedges, frightened lest he should not be able to find the
+canal! Now he stopped, sure that he had lost it; his brain seemed
+to be giving way, and he ran on like a mad child up the bank. Oh,
+what joy! The canal flowed underneath the bank. The horse had just
+passed, the barge was coming, and Ulick ran down the bank calling
+to the bargeman. He plunged into the water, getting through the
+bulrushes. Half of the barge had passed him, and he held out his
+hands. The ground gave way and he went under the water; green
+light took the place of day, and when he struggled to the surface
+he saw the rudder moving. He went under again, and remembered no
+more until he opened his eyes and saw the bargeman leaning over
+him.
+
+"Now, what ails you to be throwing yourself into the water in that
+way?"
+
+Ulick closed his eyes; he had no strength for answering him, and a
+little while after he heard someone come on board the barge, and
+he guessed it must be the man who drove the horse. He lay with his
+eyes closed, hearing the men talking of what they should do with
+him. He heard a third voice and guessed it must be a man come up
+from the cabin. This man said it would be better to take him back
+to the last lock, and they began to argue about who should carry
+him. Ulick was terribly frightened, and he was just going to beg
+of them not to bring him back when he heard one of them say, "It
+will be easier to leave him at the next lock." Soon after, he felt
+the boat start again, and when Ulick opened his eyes, he saw
+hedges gliding past, and he hoped the next lock was a long way
+off.
+
+"Now," said the steersman, "since you are awaking out of your
+faint you'll be telling us where you come from, because we want to
+send you home again."
+
+"Oh," he said, "from a long way off, the Shannon."
+
+"The Shannon!" said the bargeman. "Why, that is more than seventy
+miles away. How did you come up here?"
+
+It was a dreadful moment. Ulick knew he must give some good answer
+or he would find himself in his mother's keeping very soon. But
+what answer was he to give? it was half accident, half cunning
+that made him speak of the Shannon. The steersman said again, "The
+Shannon is seventy miles away, how did you get up here?" and by
+this time Ulick was aware that he must make the bargemen believe
+that he had hidden himself on one of the boats coming up from the
+Shannon, and that he had given the bargemen some money, and then
+he burst into tears and told them he had been very unhappy at
+home; and when they asked him why he had been unhappy, he did not
+answer, but he promised he would not be a naughty boy any more if
+they would take him back to the Shannon. He would be a good boy
+and not run away again. His pretty face and speech persuaded the
+bargemen to bring him back to the Shannon; it was decided to say
+nothing about him to the lock-keeper, and he was carried down to
+the cabin. He had often asked his father if he might see the
+bargemen's cabin; and his father had promised him that the next
+time they went to the canal he should go on board a barge and see
+the cabin; but his father had gone away to the wars. Now he was in
+the bargemen's cabin, and he wondered if they were going to give
+him supper and if he would be a bargeman himself when he grew up
+to be a man.
+
+Some miles further the boat bumped the edge of the bridge, and on
+the other side of the bridge there was the lock, and he heard the
+lock gate shut behind the boat and the water pour into the lock;
+the lock seemed a long time filling, and he was frightened lest
+the lock-man might come down to the cabin, for there was no place
+where he could hide.
+
+After passing through the lock one of the men came down to see
+him, and he was taken on deck, and in the calm of the evening
+Ulick came to look upon the bargemen as his good angels. They gave
+him some of their supper, and when they arrived at the next lock
+they made their beds on the deck, the night being so warm. It
+seemed to Ulick that he had never seen the night before, and he
+watched the sunset fading streak by streak, and imagined he was
+the captain of a ship sailing in the Shannon. The stars were so
+bright that he could not sleep, and it amused him to make up a
+long story about the bargemen snoring by his side. The story ended
+with the sunset, and then the night was blue all over, and raising
+himself out of his blanket, he watched the moonlight rippling down
+the canal. Then the night grew grey. He began to feel very cold,
+and wrapped himself in his blanket tightly, and the world got so
+white that Ulick grew afraid, and he was not certain whether it
+would not be better to escape from the boat and run away while
+everybody slept.
+
+He lay awake maturing his little plan, seeing the greyness pass
+away and the sky fill up with pink and fleecy clouds.
+
+One of the men roused, and, without saying a word, went to fetch a
+horse from the stables, and another went to boil the kettle in the
+cabin, and Ulick asked if he might help him; and while he blew the
+fire he heard the water running into the lock, and thought what a
+fool they were making of the lock-keeper, and when the boat was
+well on its way towards the next lock the steersman called him to
+come up, and they breakfasted together. Ulick would have wished
+this life to go on for ever, but the following day the steersman
+said:--
+
+"There is only one lock more between this and our last stopping-
+place. Keep a look-out for your mother's cottage."
+
+He promised he would, and he beguiled them all the evening with
+pretended discoveries. That cabin was his mother's cabin. No, it
+was further on, he remembered those willow-trees. Ulick's object
+was to get as far away from his home as possible; to get as near
+the Shannon as he could.
+
+"There's not a mile between us and the Shannon now," said the
+steersman. "I believe you've been telling us a lot of lies, my
+young man."
+
+Ulick said his mother lived just outside the town, they would see
+the house when they passed through the last lock, and he planned
+to escape that night, and about an hour before the dawn he got up,
+and, glancing at the sleeping men, he stepped ashore and ran until
+he felt very tired. And when he could go no further he lay down in
+the hay in an outhouse.
+
+A woman found him in the hay some hours after, and he told her his
+story, and as the woman seemed very kind he laid some stress on
+his mother's cruelty. He mentioned that his mother had put a bee
+down his neck, and bending down his head he showed her where the
+bee had stung him. She stroked his pretty curls and looked into
+his blue eyes, and she said that anyone who could put a bee down a
+boy's neck must be a she-devil.
+
+She was a lone widow longing for someone to look after, and in a
+very short time Ulick was as much loved by his chance mother as he
+had been hated by his real mother.
+
+Three years afterwards she died, and Ulick had to leave the
+cottage.
+
+He was now a little over thirteen, and knew the ships and their
+sailors, and he went away in one of the ships that came up the
+river, and sailed many times round the coast of Ireland, and up
+all the harbours of Ireland. He led a wild rough life, and his
+flight from home was remembered like a tale heard in infancy,
+until one day, as he was steering his ship up the Shannon, a
+desire to see what they were doing at home came over him. The ship
+dropped anchor, and he went to the canal to watch the boats going
+home. And it was not long before he was asking one of the bargemen
+if he would take him on board. He knew the rules, and he knew they
+could be broken, and how, and he said if they would take him he
+would be careful the lockmen did not see him, and the journey
+began.
+
+The month was July, so the days were as endless and the country
+was as green and as full of grass, as they were when he had come
+down the canal, and the horse strained along the path, sticking
+his toes into it just as he had done ten years ago; and when they
+came to a dangerous place Ulick saw the man who was driving the
+horse take hold of his tail, just as he had seen him do ten years
+ago.
+
+"I think those are the rushes, only there are no trees, and the
+bank does not seem so high." And then he said as the bargeman was
+going to stop his horse, "No, I am wrong. It isn't there."
+
+They went on a few miles further, and the same thing happened
+again. At last he said, "Now I am sure it is there."
+
+And the bargeman called to the man who was driving the horse and
+stopped him, and Ulick jumped from the boat to the bank.
+
+"That was a big leap you took," said a small boy who was standing
+on the bank. "It is well you didn't fall in."
+
+"Why did you say that?" said Ulick, "is your mother telling you
+not to go down to the canal?"
+
+"Look at the frog! he's going to jump into the water," said the
+little boy.
+
+He was the same age as Ulick was when Ulick ran away, and he was
+dressed in the same little trousers and little boots and socks,
+and he had a little grey cap. Ulick's hair had grown darker now,
+but it had been as fair and as curly as this little boy's, and he
+asked him if his mother forbade him to go down to the canal.
+
+"Are you a bargeman? Do you steer the barge or do you drive the
+horse?"
+
+"I'll tell you about the barge if you'll tell me about your
+mother. Does she tell you not to come down to the canal?"
+
+The boy turned away his head and nodded it.
+
+"Does she beat you if she catches you here?"
+
+"Oh, no, mother never beats me."
+
+"Is she kind to you?"
+
+"Yes, she's very kind, she lives up there, and there's a garden to
+our cottage, and the name 'Hill Cottage' is painted up on the gate
+post."
+
+"Now," said Ulick, "tell me your name."
+
+"My name is Ulick."
+
+"Ulick! And what's your other name?"
+
+"Ulick Burke."
+
+"Ulick Burke!" said the big Ulick. "Well, my name is the same. And
+I used to live at Hill Cottage too."
+
+The boy did not answer.
+
+"Whom do you live with?"
+
+"I live with mother."
+
+"And what's her name?"
+
+"Well, Burke is her name," said the boy.
+
+"But her front name?"
+
+"Catherine."
+
+"And where's your father?"
+
+"Oh, father's a soldier; he's away."
+
+"But my father was a soldier too, and I used to live in that
+cottage."
+
+"And where have you been ever since?"
+
+"Oh," he said, "I've been a sailor. I think I will go to the
+cottage with you."
+
+"Yes," said little Ulick, "come up and see mother, and you'll tell
+me where you've been sailing," and he put his hand into the
+seafarer's.
+
+And now the seafarer began to lose his reckoning; the compass no
+longer pointed north. He had been away for ten years, and coming
+back he had found his own self, the self that had jumped into the
+water at this place ten years ago. Why had not the little boy done
+as he had done, and been pulled into the barge and gone away? If
+this had happened Ulick would have believed he was dreaming or
+that he was mad. But the little boy was leading him, yes, he
+remembered the way, there was the cottage, and its paling, and its
+hollyhocks. And there was his mother coming out of the house and
+very little changed.
+
+"Ulick, where have you been? Oh, you naughty boy," and she caught
+the little boy up and kissed him. And so engrossed was her
+attention in her little son that she had not noticed the man he
+had brought home with him.
+
+"Now who is this?" she said.
+
+"Oh, mother, he jumped from the boat to the bank, and he will tell
+you, mother, that I was not near the bank."
+
+"Yes, mother, he was ten yards from the bank; and now tell me, do
+you think you ever saw me before?"... She looked at him.
+
+"Oh, it's you! Why we thought you were drowned."
+
+"I was picked up by a bargeman."
+
+"Well, come into the house and tell us what you've been doing."
+
+"I've been seafaring," he said, taking a chair. "But what about
+this Ulick?"
+
+"He's your brother, that's all."
+
+His mother asked him of what he was thinking, and Ulick told her
+how greatly astonished he had been to find a little boy exactly
+like himself, waiting at the same place.
+
+"And father?"
+
+"Your father is away."
+
+"So," he said, "this little boy is my brother. I should like to
+see father. When is he coming back?"
+
+"Oh," she said, "he won't be back for another three years. He
+enlisted again."
+
+"Mother," said Ulick, "you don't seem very glad to see me."
+
+"I shall never forget the evening we spent when you threw yourself
+into the canal. You were a wicked child."
+
+"And why did you think I was drowned?"
+
+"Well, your cap was picked up in the bulrushes."
+
+He thought that whatever wickedness he had been guilty of might
+have been forgiven, and he began to feel that if he had known how
+his mother would receive him he would not have come home.
+
+"Well, the dinner is nearly ready. You'll stay and have some with
+us, and we can make you up a bed in the kitchen."
+
+He could see that his mother wished to welcome him, but her heart
+was set against him now as it had always been. Her dislike had
+survived ten years of absence. He had gone away and had met with a
+mother who loved him, and had done ten years' hard seafaring. He
+had forgotten his real mother--forgotten everything except the bee
+and the hatred that gathered in her eyes when she put it down his
+back; and that same ugly look he could now see gathering in her
+eyes, and it grew deeper every hour he remained in the cottage.
+His little brother asked him to tell him tales about the sailing
+ships, and he wanted to go down to the canal with Ulick, but their
+mother said he was to bide here with her. The day had begun to
+decline, his brother was crying, and he had to tell him a sea-
+story to stop his crying. "But mother hates to hear my voice," he
+said to himself, and he went out into the garden when the story
+was done. It would be better to go away, and he took one turn
+round the garden and got over the paling at the end of the dry
+ditch, at the place he had got over it before, and he walked
+through the old wood, where the trees were overgrown with ivy, and
+the stones with moss. In this second experience there was neither
+terror nor mystery--only bitterness. It seemed to him a pity that
+he had ever been taken out of the canal, and he thought how easy
+it would be to throw himself in again, but only children drown
+themselves because their mothers do not love them; life had taken
+a hold upon him, and he stood watching the canal, though not
+waiting for a boat. But when a boat appeared he called to the man
+who was driving the horse to stop, for it was the same boat that
+had brought him from the Shannon.
+
+"Well, was it all right?" the steersman said. "Did you find the
+house? How were they at home?"
+
+"They're all right at home," he said; "but father is still away. I
+am going back. Can you take me?"
+
+The evening sky opened calm and benedictive, and the green country
+flowed on, the boat passed by ruins, castles and churches, and
+every day was alike until they reached the Shannon.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+THE WILD GOOSE
+
+
+
+
+He remembered a green undulating country out of which the trees
+seemed to emerge like vapours, and a line of pearl-coloured
+mountains showing above the horizon on fine days. And this was
+all. But this slight colour-memory had followed him all through
+his wanderings. His parents had emigrated to Manchester when he
+was nine, and when he was sixteen he felt that he must escape from
+Manchester, from the overwhelming dreariness of the brick chimneys
+and their smoke cloud. He had joined a travelling circus on its
+way to the Continent, and he crossed with it from New Haven to
+Dieppe in charge of the lions. The circus crossed in a great
+storm; Ned was not able to get about, and the tossing of the
+vessel closed the ventilating slides, and when they arrived at
+Dieppe the finest lion was dead.
+
+"Well, there are other things to do in life besides feeding
+lions," he said; and taking up his fiddle he became interested in
+it. He played it all the way across the Atlantic, and everyone
+said there was no reason why he should not play in the opera
+house. But an interview with the music conductor dispelled
+illusions. Ned learnt from him that improvisations were not
+admissible in an opera house; and when the conductor told him what
+would be required of him he began to lose interest in his musical
+career. As he stood jingling his pence on the steps of the opera
+house a man went by who had crossed with Ned, and the two getting
+into conversation, Ned was asked if he could draw a map according
+to scale. It would profit him nothing to say no; he remembered he
+had drawn maps in the school in Manchester. A bargain was struck!
+he was to get ten pounds for his map! He ordered a table; he
+pinned out the paper, and the map was finished in a fortnight. It
+was of a mining district, and having nothing to do when it was
+finished he thought he would like to see the mine; the owners
+encouraged him to go there, and he did some mining in the morning--
+in the evenings he played his fiddle. Eventually he became a
+journalist.
+
+He wandered and wrote, and wandered again, until one day, finding
+himself in New York, he signed an agreement and edited a
+newspaper. But he soon wearied of expressing the same opinions,
+and as the newspaper could not change its opinions Ned volunteered
+to go to Cuba and write about the insurgents. And he wrote
+articles that inflamed the Americans against the Spaniards, and
+went over to the American lines to fight when the Americans
+declared war against Spain, and fought so well that he might have
+become a general if the war had lasted. But it was over, and,
+overpowered by an extraordinary dislike to New York, he felt he
+must travel. He wanted to see Europe again, and remembering the
+green plain of Meath, he said: "I'll go to Ireland."
+
+His father and mother were dead, and without a thought of his
+relations, he read the legends of Meath on his way out; he often
+sat considering his adventures, the circus, the mining camp, and
+his sympathy with the Cubans in their revolt against Spain; these
+convinced him of his Gaelic inheritance and that something might
+be done with Ireland. England's power was great, but Spain's power
+had been great too, and when Spain thought herself most powerful
+the worm had begun. Everything has its day, and as England
+decayed, Ireland would revive. A good time might be on its way to
+Ireland; if so he would like to be there or thereabouts; for he
+always liked to be in the van of a good time.
+
+He went straight to Tara, his mind bending rather to pagan than to
+Christian Ireland. Traces of Cormac's banqueting hall were pointed
+out to him, and he imagined what this great hall, built entirely
+of wood and hung about with skins, must have been. He was shown
+the Rath of Kings and the Rath of Grania. Her name brought to his
+mind her flight with Diarmuid and how when they had had to cross a
+stream and her legs were wetted, she had said to Diarmuid, who
+would not break his oath to Finn, "Diarmuid, you are a great
+warrior, but this water is braver than you!" "Perhaps this very
+stream!" he said, looking towards a stream that flowed from the
+well of Neamhtach or Pearly. But he was told it was this stream
+that had turned the first water mill in Ireland and that Cormac
+had put up the mill to save a beautiful bond-maid from toiling at
+the quern.
+
+The morning was spent in seeking the old sites, and in the
+afternoon he went to the inn and found a good number of villagers
+in the tap-room. He learned from them that there were cromlechs
+and Druid altars within walking distance of Tara, and decided on a
+walking tour. He wandered through the beautiful country,
+interested in Ireland's slattern life, touched by the kindness and
+simplicity of the people. "Poor people," he thought, "how touching
+it is to find them learning their own language," and he began to
+think out a series of articles about Ireland.
+
+"They talk of Cuchulain," he said, "but they prefer an Archbishop,
+and at every turn in their lives they are paying the priest. The
+title of my book shall be 'A Western Thibet,' an excellent title
+for my book!" and leaning on a gate and looking across a hay-
+field, he saw the ends of chapters.
+
+Now that he had a book to write, his return to America was
+postponed; a postponement was to Ned an indefinite period, and he
+was glad he was not returning to America till the spring, for he
+had found pleasant rooms in a farm-house. He would make them his
+head-quarters; for it was only by living in a farm-house he could
+learn the life of the people and its real mind. And he would have
+written his book just as he had planned it if he had not met Ellen
+Cronin.
+
+She was the only daughter of a rich farmer in the neighbourhood.
+He had heard so much about her learning and her pretty face that
+he was disposed to dispute her good looks; but in spite of his
+landlady's praise he had liked her pretty oval face. "Her face is
+pretty when you look at it," he said to his landlady. But this
+admission did not satisfy her. "Well, enthusiasm is pleasant," he
+thought, and he listened to her rambling talk.
+
+"She used to like to come to tea here, and after her tea she and
+my son James, who was the same age, used to make paper boats under
+the alder-trees."
+
+And the picture of Ellen making boats under alder-trees pleased
+Ned's fancy, and he encouraged the land-lady to tell him more
+about her. She told him that Ellen had not taken to study till she
+was twelve and that it was the priest who had set her reading
+books and had taught her Latin.
+
+Ned lay back in his chair smiling, listening to the landlady
+telling him about Ellen. She had chosen her own school. She had
+inquired into the matter, and had taken her father into her
+confidence one day by telling him of the advantages of this
+school. But this part of the story did not please Ned, and he said
+he did not like her a bit better for having chosen her own school.
+Nor did he like her better because her mistress had written to her
+father to say she had learned all that she could learn in Ireland.
+He liked her for her love of Ireland and her opposition to her
+father's ideas. Old Cronin thought Ireland a miserable country and
+England the finest in the world, whereas Ellen thought only of
+Irish things, and she had preferred the Dublin University to
+Oxford or Cambridge. He was told that her university career had
+been no less brilliant than her school career, and he raised his
+eyebrows when the landlady said that Miss Ellen used to have her
+professors staying at Mount Laurel, and that they used to talk
+Latin in the garden.
+
+But she was long ago done with the professors, and Ned asked the
+landlady to tell him what change had come over the mind of this
+somewhat pedantic young woman. And he was told that Ellen had
+abandoned her studies and professors for politics and politicians,
+and that these were a great trial to her father, into whose house
+no Nationalist member of Parliament had ever put his foot before.
+"Now the very men that Mr. Cronin used to speak of as men who were
+throwing stones at the police three years ago are dining with him
+to-day." And worse than her political opinions, according to Mr.
+Cronin, was her resolution to speak the language of her own
+country. "When he had heard her talking it to a boy she had up
+from the country to teach her, Mr. Cronin stuck both his hands
+into his stubbly hair and rushed out of the house like a wild
+man."
+
+It was pleasant to listen to the landlady's babble about the
+Cronins, for he was going to spend the evening with them; he had
+been introduced to her father, a tall, thin, taciturn man, who had
+somewhat gruffly, but not unkindly, asked him to come to spend the
+evening with them, saying that some friends were coming in, and
+there would be some music.
+
+Ned's life had been lived in newspaper offices, in theatres,
+circuses, and camps. He knew very little of society--nothing at
+all of European society--and was curious to see what an Irish
+country-house was like. The Cronins lived in a dim, red brick,
+eighteenth-century house. It stood in the middle of a large park,
+and the park was surrounded by old grey walls and Ned liked to
+lean on these walls, for in places they had crumbled, and admire
+the bracken in the hollows and the wind-blown hawthorn-trees
+growing on the other side of the long, winding drive. He had long
+wished to walk in the park and now he was there. The hawthorns
+were in bloom and the cuckoo was calling. The sky was dark
+overhead, but there was light above the trees, and long herds of
+cattle wandered and life seemed to Ned extraordinarily lovely and
+desirable at that moment. "I wonder what her dreams are? Winter
+and summer she looks at these mysterious hollows and these
+abundant hawthorn groves."
+
+The young lady had been pointed out to him as she went by, and he
+was impatient to be introduced to Ellen, but she was talking to
+some friends near the window, and she did not see him. He liked
+her white dress, there were pearls round her neck, and her red
+hair was pinned up with a tortoise-shell comb. She and her friends
+were looking over a photograph album, and Ned was left with Mr.
+Cronin to talk to him as best he could; for it was difficult to
+talk to this hard, grizzled man, knowing nothing about the war in
+Cuba nor evincing any interest in America. When Ned asked him
+about Ireland he answered in short sentences, which brought the
+conversation to abrupt closes. America having failed to draw him
+out, and Ireland, Ned began to talk of his landlady. But it was
+not until he related the conversation he had had with her that
+evening about Miss Cronin that the old farmer began to talk a
+little. Ned could see he was proud of his daughter; he regretted
+that she had not gone to Oxford, and said she would have carried
+all before her if she had gone there. Ned could see that what his
+landlady had told him was true--that old Cronin thought very
+little of Ireland. He hoped to get three minutes' conversation, at
+least, out of Girton, but the old farmer seemed to have said
+everything he had to say on the subject. The conversation failed
+again, and Ned was forced to speak to him of the interest that
+Miss Cronin took in the Irish language and her desire to speak it.
+At the mention of the Irish language, the old man grew gruffer,
+and remembering that the landlady had said that Miss Cronin was
+very religious, Ned spoke of the priests--there were two in the
+room--and he asked Mr. Cronin which of them had encouraged Miss
+Cronin to learn Irish. He had never heard the language spoken, and
+would like to hear it.
+
+"I believe, Mr. Cronin, it was Father Egan who taught your
+daughter Latin?"
+
+"It was so," said Mr. Cronin; "but he might have left the Irish
+alone, and politics, too. We keep them as fat as little bonhams,
+and they ought to be satisfied with that."
+
+Ned did not know what were little bonhams, and pretended a great
+interest when he was told that bonham was the Irish for sucking
+pig, and glancing at the priests he noticed that they were fat
+indeed, and he said, "There is nothing like faith for fattening.
+It is better than any oil-cake."
+
+Mr. Cronin gave a grunt and Ned thought he was going to laugh at
+this sally, but he suddenly moved away, and Ned wondered what had
+happened. It was Ellen who had crossed the room to speak to her
+father, and Ned could see that she had heard his remark, and he
+could see that the remark had angered her, that she thought it in
+bad taste. He prepared quickly a winning speech which would turn
+the edge of her indignation, but before he had time to speak the
+expression of her face changed and a look of pleasure passed into
+it; he could see that the girl liked him, and he hastened to tell
+her that his landlady had told him about the paper boats and the
+alder-trees. And Ellen began to speak about the landlady, saying
+she was a very good, kind woman, and she wanted to know if Ned
+were comfortable at the farm-house. But she seemed to have some
+difficulty in speaking, and then, as if moved by some mysterious
+influence, they walked across the room towards the window and sat
+under the shadow of the red damask curtains. A gentle breeze was
+blowing and the curtains filled with it and sank back with a
+mysterious rustle. And beyond them the garden lay dark and huddled
+in the shadows of great trees. He heard her say she was sorry that
+James, the landlady's son, had gone to America, and then they
+spoke of the forty thousand that were leaving Ireland every year.
+It was Ned who continued the conversation, but he could see that
+what he said hardly entered her ears at all. Yet she heard his
+voice in her heart, and he, too, heard her voice in his heart, and
+several times she felt she could not go on talking, and once she
+nearly lost consciousness and must have swayed a little, for he
+put out his hand to save her.
+
+They went into the garden and walked about in the dusk. He told
+her about the war in Cuba and about the impulse which had brought
+him back to Ireland, and his tale seemed to her the most momentous
+thing she had ever heard. She listened to his first impressions
+about Tara, and every moment it seemed to her that she was about
+to hear a great secret, a secret that had been troubling her a
+long while; every moment she expected to hear him speak it, and
+she almost cried when her father came to ask Ned if he would play
+for them.
+
+Ellen was not a musician, and another woman would have to
+accompany him. He was tall and thin and his hands were manly. She
+could hardly look at his hands without shuddering, so beautiful
+were they when they played the violin; and that night music said
+something more to her than it had ever said before. She heard
+again the sounds of birds and insects, and she saw again the gloom
+of the trees, and she felt again and more intensely the
+overpowering ecstasy, and she yielded herself utterly and without
+knowing why. When he finished playing he came to her and sat by
+her, and everything she said seemed to fall from her lips
+involuntarily. She seemed to have lost herself utterly, she seemed
+to have become a fluid, she yielded herself like a fluid; it was
+like dying: for she seemed to pass out of herself to become
+absorbed in the night. How the time past she knew not, and when
+her guests came to bid her good-bye she hardly saw them, and
+listened to their leave-taking with a little odd smile on her
+lips, and when everyone was gone she bade her father good-night
+absent-mindedly, fearing, however, that he would speak to her
+about Ned. But he only said good-night, and she went up the wide
+staircase conscious that the summer night was within the house and
+without it; that it lay upon the world, a burden sweet and still,
+like happiness upon the heart.
+
+She opened her window, and sat there hoping that something would
+come out of the night and whisper in her ear the secret that
+tormented her. The stars knew! If she could only read them! She
+felt she was feeling a little more than she was capable of
+understanding. The ecstasy grew deeper, and she waited for the
+revelation. But none came, and feeling a little ashamed she got up
+to close the window, and it was then that the revelation broke in
+her mind. She had met the man who was to lead the Irish people!
+They wanted a new leader, a leader with a new idea; the new leader
+must come from the outside, and he had come to them from America,
+and her emotion was so great that she would have liked to have
+awakened her father. She would have liked to have gone into the
+country waking the people up in the cottages, telling them that
+the leader had come. She stood entranced, remembering all he had
+said to her. He had told her he had been moved to return to
+Ireland after the war in Cuba, and she had not understood. The
+word married passed through her mind before she could stay it. But
+she was necessary to this man, of this she was sure; the Voice had
+told her. She was feeling more than she could understand, and she
+lay down in her bed certain that she had accomplished the first
+stage of her journey.
+
+And just then Ned was leaning on the garden gate. The summer night
+was sweet and still, and he wanted to think of this girl who had
+come so suddenly into his life. The idea of marriage flitted
+across his mind as it had flitted across hers, and he tried to
+remember the exact moment in Cuba when the wish to see Ireland had
+come into his mind. To believe in fate and predestination is an
+easy way out of life's labyrinth, and if one does not believe in
+something of the kind the figures will not come right. How did he
+know that he had not met this girl for some unknown purpose. He
+could see a great white star through a vista in the trees, and he
+said: "I believe that that star knows. Why will it not tell me?"
+
+And then he walked into the woods, and out under the moon, between
+the little grey fields. Some sheep had come out on the road and
+were lying upon it. "I suppose it's all very natural," he said.
+"The circus aspiring to the academy and the academy spying to the
+circus. Now, what am I going to do to-morrow? I suppose I must go
+to see her."
+
+He had visited all the ruins and pondered by all the cromlechs,
+and was a little weary of historic remains; the girl was too much
+in his mind to permit of his doing much writing. He might go to
+Dublin, where he had business, and in the morning he looked out
+the trains, but none seemed to suit his convenience, and at five
+o'clock he was at Laurel Hill listening to Ellen. She was anxious
+to talk to him about the political opportunity he could seize if
+he were so minded.
+
+"Men have always believed in fate," Ned said, and, interrupting
+him suddenly she asked him if he would come to see a pretty house
+in the neighbourhood--a house that would suit him perfectly, for
+he must have a house if he intended to go in for politics.
+
+They came back in the dusk, talking of painting and papering and
+the laying out of the garden. Ellen was anxious that the garden
+should be nice, and he had been much interested in the old family
+furniture at Laurel Hill, not with the spindle-legged Sheraton
+sideboard, but with the big Victorian furniture which the Cronins
+thought ugly. He liked especially the black mahogany sideboard in
+the dining-room, and he was enthusiastic about the four-post bed
+that Mr. Cronin had slept in for thirty years without ever
+thinking it was a beautiful thing. This massive furniture
+represented a life that Ned perceived for the first time, a sedate
+monotonous life; and he could see these people accomplishing the
+same tasks from daylight to dark; he admired the well-defined
+circle of their interests and the calm security with which they
+spoke of the same things every evening, deepening the tradition of
+their country and of their own characters; and he conceived a
+sudden passion for tradition, and felt he would like to settle
+down in these grass lands in an eighteenth-century house, living
+always amid heavy mahogany furniture, sleeping every night in a
+mahogany four-post bed: and he could not help thinking that if he
+did not get the mahogany four-post bed with the carved top,
+perhaps he would not care to marry Ellen at all.
+
+The next time he saw her their talk turned upon the house she had
+found for him, and she said if he did not take it he would
+certainly go back to America in the spring. She forgot herself a
+little; her father had to check her, and Ned returned home sure in
+his mind that she would marry him--if he asked her. And the next
+day he chose a pair of trousers that he thought becoming--they
+were cut wide in the leg and narrow over the instep. He looked out
+for a cravat that she had not seen him wear, and he chose the
+largest, and he put on his braided coat. He could not see that his
+moustache was not in keeping with his clothes: he had often
+intended to shave it, but to-day was not the day for shaving. She
+had liked his moustache, and he thought it would be a pity she
+should not enjoy it, however reprehensible her taste for it might
+be. And he pondered his side-whiskers, remembering they were in
+keeping with his costume (larger whiskers would be still more in
+keeping), and amused by his own fantastic notions, he thought he
+was beginning to look like the gentleman of seventy or eighty
+years ago that he had seen in varnished maplewood frames in the
+drawing-room at the Cronins'. His trousers were of a later period,
+but they were, nevertheless, contemporaneous with the period of
+the mahogany sideboard, and that was what he liked best.
+
+Suddenly he stopped, remembering that he had never wished to be
+married, because he never thought that he could love the same
+woman always, and now he asked himself if Ellen were an exception,
+and if he had been led back to Ireland to marry her. He had grown
+tired of women before, but it seemed to him that he never could
+grow tired of her. That remained to be seen; the one certain thing
+was that he was going to propose to her.
+
+He was told she was in the garden, and he was glad to dispense
+with the servant's assistance; he would find his way there
+himself, and, after some searching, he found the wicket. The thing
+itself and its name pleased him. When he had a garden he would
+have a wicket. He had already begun to associate Ellen with her
+garden. She was never so much herself as when attending her
+flowers, and to please her he had affected an interest in them,
+but when he had said that the flowers were beautiful his eyes went
+to the garden walls and Ellen had seen that they had interested
+him more than the flowers. He had said that the buttresses were of
+no use; they had been built because in those days people took a
+pleasure in making life seem permanent. The buttresses had enabled
+him to admire the roses planted between them, and he had grown
+enthusiastic; but she had laughed at his enthusiasm, seeing quite
+clearly that he admired the flowers because they enhanced the
+beauty of the walls.
+
+At the end of the garden there was a view of the Dublin mountains,
+and the long walk that divided the garden had been designed in
+order to draw attention to them. The contrast between the wild
+mountain and the homely primness of the garden appealed to his
+sense of the picturesque; and even now though the fate of his life
+was to be decided in a few minutes he could not but stay to admire
+the mysterious crests and hollows. In this faint day the mountains
+seemed more like living things, more mysterious and moving, than
+he had even seen them before, and he would have stood looking at
+them for a long while if he had not had to find Ellen. She was at
+the furthest end of the garden, where he had never been, beyond
+the rosary, beyond the grass-plot, and she was walking up and
+down. She seemed to have a fishing-net in her hand. But how could
+she be fishing in her garden? Ned did not know that there was a
+stream at the end of it; for the place had once belonged to monks,
+and they knew how to look after their bodily welfare and had
+turned the place into a trout preserve. But when Mr. Cronin had
+bought the property the garden was waste and the stream overgrown
+with willow-weed and meadow-sweet and every kind of brier. And it
+was Ellen who had discovered that the bottom of the stream was
+flagged and she had five feet of mud taken out of it, and now the
+stream was as bright and clear as in the time of the monks, and as
+full of trout. She had just caught two which lay on the grass
+panting, their speckled bellies heaving painfully.
+
+"There is a great big trout here," Ellen said, "he must be a pound
+weight, and we tried to catch him all last season, but he is very
+cunning, he dives and gets under the net." "I think we shall be
+able to catch him," said Ned, "if he is in the stream and if I
+could get another net."
+
+"The gardener will give you one."
+
+And presently Ned came back with a net, and they beat up the
+stream from different ends, Ellen taking the side next the wall.
+There was a path there nearly free from briers, and she held her
+light summer dress round her tightly. Ned thought he had never
+seen anyone so prettily dressed. She wore a striped muslin
+variegated with pink flowers; there were black bows in her hat and
+black ribbon was run down the bottom of her dress; she looked very
+pretty against the old wall touched here and there with ivy. And
+the grace of her movement enchanted Ned when she leaned forward
+and prevented the trout from escaping up the stream. But Ned's
+side of the stream was overgrown with briers and he could not make
+his way through them. Once he very nearly slipped into the stream,
+and only saved himself by catching some prickly briers, and Ellen
+had to come over to take the thorns out of his hand. Then they
+resumed their fishing, hunting the trout up and down the stream.
+But the trout had been hunted so often that he knew how to escape
+the nets, and dived at the right moment. At last wearied out he
+let Ned drive him against the bank. Ellen feared he would jump out
+of the net at the last moment, but he was tired and they landed
+him safely.
+
+And proud of having caught him they sat down beside him on the
+grass and Ellen said that the gardener and the gardener's boy had
+tried to catch him many times; that whenever they had company to
+dinner her father said it was a pity they had not the big trout on
+the table.
+
+The fishing had been great fun, principally on account of Ellen's
+figure, which Ned admired greatly, and now he admired her profile,
+its gravity appealed to him, and her attitude full of meditation.
+He watched her touching the gasping trout with the point of her
+parasol. She had drawn one leg under her. Her eyes were small and
+grey and gem-like, and there was a sweet look of interrogation in
+them now and then.
+
+"I like it, this lustreless day," said Ned, "and those swallows
+pursuing their food up and down the lustreless sky. It all seems
+like a fairy-tale, this catching of the fish, you and I. The day
+so dim," he said, "so quiet and low, and the garden is hushed.
+These things would be nothing to me were it not for you," and he
+put his hand upon her knee.
+
+She withdrew her knee quickly and a moment after got up, and Ned
+got up and followed her across the grass-plot, and through the
+rosary; not a word was said and she began to wonder he did not
+plead to be forgiven. She felt she should send him away, but she
+could not find words to tell him to go. His conduct was so
+unprecedented; no one had ever taken such a liberty before. It was
+shameful that she was not more angry, for she knew she was only
+trying to feel angry.
+
+"But," he said, suddenly, as if he divined her thoughts, "we've
+forgotten the fish; won't you come back and help me to carry them?
+I cannot carry three trout by myself."
+
+She was about to answer severely, but as she stood looking at him
+her thoughts yielded before an extraordinary feeling of delight;
+she tried in vain to collect her scattered mind--she wished to
+reproach him.
+
+"Are you going to answer me, Ellen?" and he took her hand.
+
+"Ned, are you a Catholic?" she said, turning suddenly.
+
+"I was born one, but I have thought little about religion. I have
+had other things to think about. What does it matter? Religion
+doesn't help us to love one another."
+
+"I should like you better if you were a good Catholic."
+
+"I wonder how that is?" he said, and he admired the round hand and
+its pretty articulations, and she closed her hand on his with a
+delicious movement.
+
+"I could like you better, Ned, if you were a Catholic.... I think
+I could."
+
+"What has my being a good Catholic got to do with your love of
+me?"
+
+And he watched the small and somewhat severe profile looking
+across the old grey wall into the flat grey sky.
+
+"I did not say I loved you," she said, almost angrily; "but if I
+did love you," she said, looking at him tenderly, "and you were
+religious, I should be loving something eternal. You don't
+understand what I mean? What I am saying to you must seem like
+nonsense."
+
+"No, it doesn't, Ellen, only I am content with the reality. I can
+love you without wings."
+
+He watched for the look of annoyance in her face that he knew his
+words would provoke, but her face was turned away.
+
+"I like you, but I am afraid of you. It is a very strange feeling.
+You ran away with a circus and you let the lion die and you went
+to fight in Cuba. You have loved other women, and I have never
+loved anyone. I never cared for a man until I saw you, until I
+looked up from the album."
+
+"I understand very well, Ellen; I knew something was going to
+happen to me in Ireland."
+
+She turned; he was glad to see her full face again. Her eyes were
+fixed upon him, but she saw through him, and jealous of her
+thought he drew her towards him.
+
+"Let us go into the arbour," he said. "I have never been into the
+arbour of clipped limes with you."
+
+"Why do you want to go into the arbour?"
+
+"I want to kiss you.... The gardener can see us now; a moment ago
+he was behind the Jerusalem artichokes."
+
+"I hadn't noticed the gardener; I hadn't thought about him."
+
+She had persuaded herself before she went into the arbour, and
+coming out of the arbour she said:--
+
+"I don't think father will raise any objection."
+
+"But you will speak to him. Hello! we're forgetting the fish, and
+it was the fish that brought all this about. Was it to bring this
+about that they lived or are to be eaten to-night at dinner?"
+
+"Ned, you take a strange pleasure in making life seem wicked."
+
+"I'm sorry I've been so unsuccessful, but will you ask you father
+to invite me, Ellen? and I'll try and make life seem nice--and the
+trout will try too."
+
+Ellen did not know whether she liked or disliked Ned's levity, but
+when she looked at him an overpowering emotion clouded her
+comprehension and she walked in silence, thinking of when he would
+kiss her again. At the end of the walk she stopped to bind up a
+carnation that had fallen from its stake.
+
+"Father will be wondering what has become of us."
+
+"I think," said Ned, and his own cowardice amused him, "I think
+you had better tell your father yourself. You will tell him much
+better than I."
+
+"And what will you do?" she said, turning suddenly and looking at
+him with fervid eyes. "Will you wait here for me?"
+
+"No, I will go home, and do you come and fetch me--and don't
+forget to tell him I caught the trout and have earned an
+invitation to dinner."
+
+His irresponsibility enchanted her in spite of herself--Ned had
+judged the situation rightly when he said: "It is the circus
+aspiring to the academy and the academy spying the circus." His
+epigram occurred to him as he walked home and it amused him, and
+he thought of how unexpected their lives would be, and he hummed
+beautiful music as he went along the roads, Schumann's Lotus
+Flower and The Moonlight. Then he recalled the beautiful duet,
+Siegmund's and Sieglinde's May Time, and turning from sublimity
+suddenly into triviality he chanted the somewhat common but
+expressive duet in Mireille, and the superficiality of its emotion
+pleased him at the moment and he hummed it until he arrived at the
+farm-house.
+
+Mrs. Grattan could tell his coming from afar, for no one in the
+country whistled so beautifully as Mr. Carmady, she said, "every
+note is clear and distinct; and it does not matter how many there
+are in the tune he will not let one escape him and there is always
+a pleasant look in his face when you open the door to him;" and
+she ran to the door.
+
+"Mrs. Grattan, won't you get me a cup of tea?" And then he felt he
+must talk to some one. "You needn't bring it upstairs, I will take
+it in the kitchen if you'll let me."
+
+Mrs. Grattan had a beautiful kitchen. It had an old dresser with a
+carved top and a grandfather's clock, and Ned liked to sit on the
+table and watch the stove. She poured him out a cup of tea and he
+drank it, swinging his legs all the time.
+
+"Well, Mrs. Grattan, I'll tell you some news--I think I am going
+to marry Miss Cronin."
+
+"Well," said she, "it doesn't astonish me," but she nearly let the
+teapot drop. "From the first day you came here I always thought
+something was going to happen to you."
+
+He had no sooner told her the news than he began to regret he had
+told her, and he said that Miss Cronin had gone to her father to
+ask his consent. Of course, if he did not give it, there would be
+no marriage.
+
+"But he will give it. Miss Ellen does exactly as she likes with
+him, and it's a fine fortune you will be having with her."
+
+"It isn't of that I am thinking," said Ned, "but of her red hair."
+
+"And you wouldn't believe me when I said that she was the
+prettiest girl in the country. Now you will see for yourself."
+
+Ned hadn't finished his tea when there was a knock at the door.
+
+"And how do you do, Miss Ellen?" said Mrs. Grattan, and Ellen
+guessed from her manner that Ned had told her.
+
+"Well, Mrs. Grattan, I am glad that you are the first person to
+bear the news to. I have just asked my father's consent and he has
+given it. I am going to marry Mr. Carmady."
+
+Mrs. Grattan was sorry there was no cake on the table, but there
+was some buttered toast in the oven; and Ellen reminded her of the
+paper boats and the alder-trees, and they spoke for a long time
+about her son James and about people that Ned knew nothing of,
+until Ned began to feel bored and went to the window. Every now
+and again he heard a word referring to their marriage, and when
+the women had done their talk, Ellen said:--
+
+"Father says you are to come back to dinner."
+
+"Mrs. Grattan," said Ned, "we caught three trout this afternoon,"
+and Ellen wondered why Ned should take so much trouble to explain
+the tale of their fishing, she was intending to talk to them of
+their honeymoon.
+
+"I was thinking, Ned, that as our love began in a love of Ireland,
+we might go for a tour round Ireland, and see the places that
+Ireland loves best."
+
+She was eager for a change of scene and a few weeks later they
+began their wanderings. The first place they visited was Tara,
+and, standing on the Mound of the Hostages, Ellen pointed out the
+Rath of Crania. All over Ireland there are cromlechs, and the
+people point to those as the places where the lovers had rested in
+their flight. Grania became one of Ned's heroines, and he spoke so
+much of her that Ellen grew a little jealous. They talked of her
+under the ruins of Dun Angus and under the arches of Cormac's
+Chapel, the last and most beautiful piece of Irish architecture.
+
+"We were getting on very well," Ned said, "until the English came.
+This was the last thing we did and after this no more."
+
+On another occasion he ascribed the failure of the Irish in art
+and literature to the fact that they had always loved the next
+world, and that the beautiful world under their feet had been
+neglected or given over to priests. "I hope, Ned," said she, "that
+you will soon be at the head of affairs."
+
+He took her hand and they wandered on amid the ruins, saying that
+as soon as their honeymoon was over they were going to live in a
+pretty house at the foot of the Dublin mountains.
+
+Her father had offered to make her an allowance, but she preferred
+a lump sum, and this lump sum of many thousands of pounds had been
+invested in foreign securities, for Ellen wished that Ned should
+be free to advocate whatever policy he judged best for Ireland.
+
+"My dear, shall we buy this table?"
+
+And while the price and the marquetry were discussed she
+remembered suddenly that a most experienced electioneering agent
+was coming to dinner.
+
+"I wish you hadn't asked him," said Ned; "I looked forward to
+spending the evening with you," and he watched happiness flash
+into her eyes.
+
+"There are plenty of evenings before us, and I hope you won't be
+tired of spending them with me."
+
+He said he never wished for better company, and they strolled on
+through the show-rooms.
+
+Turning from some tapestried curtains, he told her he was weary of
+the life of the camp. One night in Cuba they had crossed a
+mountain by a bridle-path. At the top of the mountain they had
+come to a ledge of rock three feet high and had to leap their
+horses one by one up this ledge, and the enemy might have attacked
+them at any moment. And this incident was typical of what his life
+had been for the last few years. It had been a skein of adventure,
+and now his wife was his adventure. Flowers stood in pretty vases
+on his table in the summer-time and around the room were his
+books, and on the table his pens and paper. The dining-room was
+always a little surprise, so profusely was the table covered with
+silver. There were beautiful dinner and dessert services to look
+at; the servants were well trained, they moved about the table
+quickly--in a word, his home was full of grace and beauty. Lately
+he had been a great deal from home and had come to look on Ellen
+as a delicious recompense for the fatigue of a week's
+electioneering in the West. The little train journey from Dublin
+was an extraordinary excitement, the passing of the stations one
+by one, the discovery of his wife on the platform, and walking
+home through the bright evening, telling how his speech had been
+received.
+
+Ellen always took Ned round the garden before they went into
+dinner, and after dinner he went to the piano; he loved his music
+as she loved her garden. She would listen to him for a while,
+pleased to find that she liked music. But she would steal away to
+her garden in a little while and he would go on playing for a long
+while before he would notice her absence; then he would follow
+her.
+
+"There were no late frosts this year, and I have never seen so
+many caterpillars!" she said one evening when he joined her. "See,
+they have eaten this flower nearly all away."
+
+"How bright the moon is, we can find them by the light of the
+moon."
+
+Passing behind the hollyhocks she threw the snails to Ned, not
+liking to tread upon them herself; Ellen was intent on freeing her
+flowers from gnawing insects and Ned tried to feel interested in
+them, but he liked the moonlight on the Dublin mountains far
+better. He could not remember which was Honesty and which was
+Rockit, and the difference had been pointed out to him many times.
+He liked Larkspur and Canterbury bells, or was it their names that
+he loved them for? He sometimes mistook one for the other just as
+Ellen mistook one sonata for another, but she always liked the
+same sonatas.
+
+"In another month the poppies will be over everything," she said,
+"and my pansies are beautiful--see these beautiful yellow pansies!
+But you are not looking at my garden."
+
+They went towards their apple-tree, and Ellen said it was the
+largest she had ever seen; its boughs were thickest over the seat,
+and shot out straight, making as it were a little roof. The moon
+was now brilliant among the boughs, and drawn by the moon they
+left their seat and passed out of the garden by the wicket, for
+that night they wished to see the fields with the woods sloping
+down to the long shores of the sea, and they stood watching,
+thinking they had never seen the sea so beautiful before. Now on
+the other side were the hills, and the moon led them up the
+hillside, up the little path by a ruined church and over a stream
+that was difficult to cross, for the stepping-stones were placed
+crookedly. Ellen took Ned's hand, and a little further on there
+were ash-trees and not a wind in all the boughs.
+
+"How grey the moonlight is on the mountain," Ned said, and they
+went through the furze where the cattle were lying, and the breath
+of the cattle was odorous in the night like the breath of the
+earth itself, and Ned said that the cattle were part of the earth;
+and then they sat on a Druid stone and wondered at the chance that
+brought them together, and they wondered how they could have lived
+if chance had not brought them together.
+
+Now, the stone they were sitting upon was a Druid stone, and it
+was from Ellen's lips that Ned heard how Brian had conquered the
+Danes, and how a century later a traitor had brought the English
+over; and she told the story of Ireland's betrayal with such
+ferveur that Ned felt she was the support his character required,
+the support he had been looking for all his life; her self-
+restraint and her gravity were the supports his character
+required, and these being thrown into the scale, life stood at
+equipoise. The women who had preceded Ellen were strange,
+fantastic women, counterparts of himself, but he had always
+aspired to a grave and well-mannered woman who was never
+ridiculous.
+
+She protested, saying that she wished Ned to express his own
+ideas. He pleaded that he was learning Ireland from her lips and
+that his own ideas about Ireland were superficial and false. Every
+day he was catching up new ideas and every day he was shedding
+them. He must wait until he had re-knit himself firmly to the
+tradition, and in talking to her he felt that she was the
+tradition; he was sure that he could do no better than accept her
+promptings, at least for the present.
+
+"We shall always think the same. Do you not feel that?" and when
+they returned to the house he fetched a piece of paper and pencil
+and begged of her to dictate, and then begged of her to write what
+she would like him to say. He said that the sight of her
+handwriting helped him, and he thought his life would crumble to
+pieces if she were taken from him.
+
+Ellen had always said he would be a success, and he was a success;
+he had begun to feel success revolving about him; he had begun to
+feel that he was the centre of things: for everyone listened when
+he spoke; his opinion was sought out, and he could see the people
+looking towards him for guidance. But there was a little rancour
+in his heart, as there always is in a man's heart when he is not
+speaking his whole heart, for not more than half of himself was
+engaged in the battle; he knew that he had given over half of
+himself as hostage--half of himself was in his wife's keeping--and
+he often wondered if it would break out of her custody in spite of
+her vigilance and his vows.
+
+He had told her that though he was no friend of the Church, he was
+not an active enemy, and believed that he was speaking the truth.
+The fight for free will would have to be fought in Ireland some
+day, and this fight was the most vital; but he agreed with her
+that other fights would have to be fought and won before the great
+fight could be arranged for. The order of the present day was for
+lesser battles, and he promised again and again he would not raise
+the religious question, and every time he promised his wife his
+life seemed to vanish; the lesser battles were necessary. It was
+the fight for free will that interested him. But a politician is
+the man who does the day's work. And in the autumn he agreed to go
+to America to speechify and to get money for the lesser battles.
+It was said he was the man who could get the money--what better
+man could they send than an Irish-American? An American soldier
+and a journalist. These obvious remarks were on everyone's lips,
+but after speaking everyone paused, for, notwithstanding Ellen's
+care, Ned was suspected; the priests had begun to suspect him, but
+there was no grounds for opposing him.
+
+He himself was despondent, whereas Ellen was enthusiastic. Her
+knowledge of Irish politics enabled her to see that Ned's chance
+had come.
+
+"If you succeed in America, you'll come back the first man in
+Ireland."
+
+"Even so," said Ned, "it would be more natural for you to be sorry
+that I am going."
+
+"I cannot be sorry and glad at the same time."
+
+"You will be lonely."
+
+"Very likely; but, Ned, I shall not be looking very well for the
+next two months."
+
+"You mean on account of the baby; the next few months will be a
+trying time for you; I should be with you."
+
+They continued to walk round and round their apple-tree and Ellen
+did not answer for a long while.
+
+"I want you to go to America. I don't care that you should see me
+losing my figure."
+
+"We have spent many pleasant hours under this apple-tree."
+
+"Yes, it has been a dear tree," she said.
+
+"And in about six years there will be one who will appreciate this
+tree as we have never appreciated it. I can see the little chap
+running after the apples."
+
+"But, Ned, it may be a girl."
+
+"Then it will be like you, dear."
+
+She said she would send a telegram and Ned shook the boughs, and
+their apple-gathering seemed to be portentous. The sound of apples
+falling in the dusk garden, a new life coming into the world!
+"Dear me," Ned said, "men have gathered apples and led their
+fruitful wives towards the house since the beginning of time." He
+said these words as he looked over the waste of water seeing
+Ireland melting into grey clouds. He turned and looked towards
+where the vessel was going. A new life was about to begin and he
+was glad of that. "For the next three months I shall be carried
+along on the tide of human affairs. In a week, in a week;" and
+that evening he entered into conversation with some people whom he
+thought would interest him. "It is a curious change," he said,
+three weeks later, as he walked home from a restaurant; and he
+enjoyed the change so much that he wondered if his love for his
+wife would be the same when he returned. "Yes, that will be
+another change." And for the next three months he was carried like
+a piece of wreckage from hotel to hotel. "How different this life
+is from the life in Ireland. Here we live in the actual moment."
+And he began to wonder. He had not been thinking five minutes when
+a knock came to the door, and he was handed a telegram containing
+two words: "A boy." He had always felt it was going to be a boy.
+"Though it does cost a shilling a word they might have let me know
+how she is," he thought. And he lay back in his chair thinking of
+his wife--indulging in sensations of her beauty, seeing her gem-
+like eyes, her pretty oval face, and her red hair scattered about
+the pillow. At first he was not certain whether the baby was lying
+by the side of the mother, but now he saw it, and he thrilled with
+a sense of wonder. The commonest of all occurrences never ceases
+to be the most wonderful, and there lay his wife and child in the
+room he knew so well--the curtains with a fruit pattern upon them,
+the pale wallpaper with roses climbing up a trellis, and pretty
+blue ribbons intervening between each line of roses. The room was
+painted white, and he knew the odour of the room well, and the
+sensation of the carpet. He could see the twilight, and the bulky
+nurse passing to and fro; and his thoughts went back to his child,
+and he began to wonder if it were like him or like its mother. It
+was probably like both. His eyes went to the clock, and he thought
+of the meeting he was going to. The notes of his speech were upon
+the table, but he found great difficulty in rousing himself out of
+his chair; it was so pleasant to lie there, thinking of his wife,
+of his home, and of his child. But into this vague wandering
+sensation of happy and beautiful things there came a sudden vision
+and a thought. He saw his wife take the baby and put it to her
+breast, and he could not bear to think that that beautiful breast,
+so dear to him, should suffer harm. He had often thought of Ellen
+as a beautiful marble--she was as full of exquisite lines as any
+marble--and only very rarely had he thought of her as a mother;
+the thought had never been entertained long, for it was never
+wholly sympathetic.
+
+Now his thoughts quickened, and it seemed urgent that he must
+communicate at once with his wife. She must not suckle the baby!
+Only by telegram could he reach her soon enough, but it was not
+possible to telegraph such a thing. He must write, but the letter
+would take six days to reach her, and he stood thinking. The post
+was going out: if he wrote at once she would get his letter in a
+week. He was due at the meeting in about twenty minutes; the notes
+of his speech still lay on the table, and he gathered them up and
+put them in his pocket, and drawing a sheet of paper towards him,
+he began a hurried letter. But as soon as he dipped his pen in the
+ink, he experienced great difficulty in expressing his feelings;
+they were intense enough, but they were vague, and he must find
+reasons. He must tell her that he loved her beauty, and that it
+must suffer no disfigurement from a baby's lips. No sooner did he
+put his feelings into words than they shocked him, and he knew how
+much more they would shock Ellen, and he wondered how he could
+think such things about his own child. The truth was, there was
+little time for thinking, and he had to tell Ellen what she must
+do. It so happened that he had heard only the other day that
+goat's milk was the exact equivalent to human, but it was often
+difficult to procure. "You will find no difficulty," he said, "at
+the foot of the Dublin mountains in procuring goat's milk." His
+thoughts rushed on, and he remembered the peasant women. One could
+easily be found who would put her baby on goat's milk and come and
+nurse his child for a few shillings--ten or fifteen shillings a
+week; Ellen's beauty was worth a great deal more. The hands of the
+clock went on, he had to close his letter and post it; and no
+sooner was it posted than he was beset by qualms of conscience.
+During the meeting he wondered what Ellen would think of his
+letter, and he feared it would shock her and trouble her; for,
+while considering the rights of the child, she would remember his
+admiration of her.
+
+He passed the following days uneasily, and when the seventh day
+came he had no difficulty in imagining Ellen reading his letter,
+and the scene he imagined was very like what really happened. His
+letter troubled Ellen greatly. She had been thinking only of her
+baby, she had been suckling it for several days, and it had given
+her pleasure to suckle it. She had not thought of herself at all,
+and Ned's order that she should pass her child on to another, and
+consider her personal charm for him, troubled her even to tears;
+and when she told the nurse her husband's wishes the nurse was
+sorry that Mrs. Carmady had been troubled, for she was still very
+weak. Now the child was crying; Ellen put it to her little cup-
+like breast, which was, nevertheless, full of milk, and it was for
+the nurse to tell her that a foster-mother could easily be found
+in the village; but this did not console her and she cried very
+bitterly. The doctor called. He did not think there was anything
+strange in Ned's letter. He approved of it! He said that Ellen was
+delicate and had nursed her baby long enough, and it appeared that
+he had been thinking of recommending a nurse to her, and he spoke
+of a peasant woman he had just seen. He spoke with so much
+assurance that Ellen was soothed, but he had not left her very
+long before she felt that medical opinion would not satisfy her,
+that she must have theological opinion as well, and she wrote a
+letter to Father Brennan asking him to come down to see her,
+mentioning that she had had a baby and could not go to see him. It
+would be a great relief to her to see him for a few minutes, and
+if he would come at once she would consider it a great favour. If
+it were possible for him to come down that very afternoon she
+would be deeply grateful. She wished to consult him, and on a
+matter on which she felt very deeply, and nothing, she said, but a
+priest's advice could allay her scruples.
+
+The nurse gave her a sheet of paper and a pencil, and she
+scribbled a letter as best she could in her bed, and lay back
+fatigued. The nurse said she must not fret, that Father Brennan
+would be sure to come to her at once if he were at home, and Ellen
+knew that that was so; and she felt that she was peevish, but she
+felt that Ned ought not to have written her that letter.
+
+The hours that afternoon were very long and she restless and weary
+of them, and she asked the nurse many times to go to the window to
+see if Father Brennan were coming. At last he came, and she told
+him of the letter she had received, not wishing to show him the
+letter, for it was somewhat extravagant, and she did not like a
+priest to read Ned's praise of her body. She was anxious, however,
+to give him a true account of the letter, and she would have
+talked a long while if the priest had not stopped her, saying the
+matter was one for the doctor to decide. The Church had never
+expressed any views on the subject: whether a mother was justified
+in nursing her child or in passing it over to a foster-mother. It
+was entirely a question for the doctor, and if the doctor advised
+such a course she would be wrong not to follow it. Ellen felt that
+she had been misunderstood, and she tried to tell the priest that
+Ned's letter had been inspired by his admiration of her, and that
+this seemed to her selfish. She wondered how a father could
+consider his wife before the child, but when she said this she did
+not feel she was speaking quite sincerely, and this troubled her;
+she was on the verge of tears, and the nurse came in and said she
+had spoken enough that afternoon, and the priest bade her good-by.
+The doctor came in soon after; there was some whispering, and
+Ellen knew that the woman he had brought with him was the foster-
+mother, and the baby was taken from her, and she saw it fix its
+gluttonous little lips on the foster-mother's breast.
+
+Now that the priest had ordered her conscience, she got well
+rapidly, and it was a pleasure to her to prepare herself for her
+husband's admiration. The nurse thought he would perceive no
+difference in her, but when they put on her stays it was quite
+clear that she had grown stouter, and she cried out, "I'm quite a
+little mother!" But the nurse said her figure would come back all
+right. Ned's return had been delayed, and this she regarded as
+fortunate, for there was no doubt that in a month she would be
+able to meet him, slight and graceful as she had ever been.
+
+As soon as she was able she went for long walks on the hills, and
+every day she improved in health and in figure; and when she read
+Ned's letter saying he would be in Cork in a few days she felt
+certain he would see no change in her. She opened her dress and
+could discern no difference; perhaps a slight wave in the breast's
+line; she was not quite sure and she hoped Ned would not notice
+it. And she chose a white dress. Ned liked her in white, and she
+tied it with a blue sash; she put on a white hat trimmed with
+china roses, and the last look convinced her that she had never
+looked prettier.
+
+"I never wore so becoming a hat," she said. She walked slowly so
+as not to be out of breath, and, swinging her white parasol over
+the tops of her tan boots, she stood at the end of the platform
+waiting for the train to come up.
+
+"I had expected to see you pale," he said, "and perhaps a little
+stouter, but you are the same, the very same." And saying that he
+would be able to talk to her better if he were free from his bag,
+he gave it to a boy to carry. And they strolled down the warm,
+dusty road.
+
+They lived about a mile and a half from the station, and there
+were great trees and old crumbling walls, and, beyond the walls,
+water meadows, and it was pleasant to look over the walls and
+watch the cattle grazing peacefully. And to-day the fields were so
+pleasant that Ned and Ellen could hardly speak from the pleasure
+of looking at them.
+
+"You've seen nothing more beautiful in America, have you, Ned?"
+
+There was so much to say it was difficult to know where to begin,
+and it was delicious to be stopped by the scent of the
+honeysuckle. Ned gathered some blossoms to put into his wife's
+dress, but while admiring her dress and her hat and her pretty red
+hair he remembered the letter he had written to her in answer to
+her telegram.
+
+"I've had many qualms about the letter I wrote you in answer to
+your telegram. After all, a child's right upon the mother is the
+first right of all. I wrote the letter in a hurry, and hardly knew
+what I was saying."
+
+"We got an excellent nurse, Ned, and the boy is doing very well."
+
+"So you said in your letters. But after posting my letter I said
+to myself: if it causes me trouble, how much more will it cause
+her?"
+
+"Your letter did trouble me, Ned. I was feeling very weak that
+morning and the baby was crying for me, for I had been nursing him
+for a week. I did not know what to do. I was torn both ways, so I
+sent up a note to Father Brennan asking him to come to see me, and
+he came down and told me that I was quite free to give my baby to
+a foster-mother."
+
+"But what does Father Brennan know about it more than anyone of
+us?"
+
+"The sanction of the Church, Ned--"
+
+"The sanction of the Church! What childish nonsense is this?" he
+said. "The authority of a priest. So it was not for me, but
+because a priest--"
+
+"But, Ned, there must be a code of morality, and these men devote
+their lives to thinking out one for us."
+
+He could see that she was looking more charming than she had ever
+looked before, but her beauty could not crush the anger out of
+him; and she never seemed further from him, not even when the
+Atlantic divided them.
+
+"Those men devote their lives to thinking out a code of morality
+for us! You submit your soul to their keeping. And what remains of
+you when you have given over your soul?"
+
+"But, Ned, why this outbreak? You knew I was a Catholic when you
+married me."
+
+"Yes, ... of course, and I'm sorry, Ellen, for losing my temper.
+But it is only in Ireland that women submit themselves body and
+soul. It is extraordinary; it is beyond human reason."
+
+They walked on in silence, and Ned tried to forget that his wife
+was a Catholic. Her religion did not prevent her from wearing a
+white dress and a hat with roses in it.
+
+"Shall I go up-stairs to see the baby, or will you bring him
+down?"
+
+"I'll bring him down."
+
+And it was a great lump of white flesh with blue eyes and a little
+red down on its head that she carried in her arms.
+
+"And now, Ned, forget the priest and admire your boy."
+
+"He seems a beautiful boy, so healthy and sleepy."
+
+"I took him out of his bed, but he never cries. Nurse said she
+never heard of a baby that did not cry. Do you know I'm sometimes
+tempted to pinch him to see if he can cry."
+
+She sat absorbed looking at the baby; and she was so beautiful and
+so intensely real at that moment that Ned began to forget that she
+had given the child out to nurse because the priest had told her
+that she might do so without sin.
+
+"I called him after you, Ned. It was Father Stafford who baptised
+him."
+
+"So he has been baptised!"
+
+"He was not three days old when he was baptised."
+
+"Of course. He could not have gone to heaven if he had not been
+baptised."
+
+"Ned, I don't think it kind of you to say these things to me. You
+never used to say them."
+
+"I am sorry, Ellen; I'll say no more, and I'm glad it was Father
+Stafford who baptised him. He is the most sensible priest we have.
+If all the clergy were like him I should find it easier to
+believe."
+
+"But religion has nothing to do with the clergy. It is quite
+possible to think the clergy foolish and yet to believe that the
+religion is the true one."
+
+"I like the clergy far better than their religion, and believe
+them to be worthy of a better one. I like Father Stafford, and you
+like having a priest to dinner. Let us ask him."
+
+"I'm afraid, Ned, that Father Stafford is getting old. He rarely
+leaves the house now and Father Maguire does all the work of the
+parish."
+
+She liked clerical gossip; the church was finished, and how Biddy
+heard the saints singing in the window made a fine tale.
+
+"So now we have a local saint."
+
+"Yes, and miracles!"
+
+"But do you believe in miracles?"
+
+"I don't know. I shouldn't like to say. One is not obliged to
+believe in them."
+
+"I'm sure you would enjoy believing in Biddy."
+
+"Oh, Ned, how aggressive you are, and the very day you come back."
+
+But why hadn't she asked him about America and about his speeches?
+He had looked forward to telling her about them. She seemed to
+care nothing about them; even when she spoke about them after
+dinner, he could see that she was not as much interested in
+politics as she used to be. However, she wore a white dress and
+black stockings; her red hair was charmingly pinned up with a
+tortoise-shell comb, and taking her upon his knee he thought it
+would be well to please himself with her as she was and forget
+what she was not.
+
+Next morning when he picked up the newspaper and the daily
+instalment of a cardinal's tour through Ireland caught his eye, he
+remembered that Ellen had sent for a theologian.... His eyes went
+down the columns of the newspaper and he said, "All the old
+flummery. Ireland's fidelity to her religion, etc., her devotion
+to Rome, etc.,--to everything," he said, "except herself.
+Propagations of the faith, exhortations to do as our ancestors had
+done, to do everything except make life joyous and triumphant."
+Looking across the page his eye was caught by the headline,
+"Profession of Irish Nuns in France." Further on in large letters,
+"Killmessan Cathedral: Bazaar." And these items of news were
+followed by a letter from a Bishop. "What a lot of Bishops!" he
+said. He read of "worthy" parish priests, and a little further on
+of "brilliant" young clergymen, and at every meeting the chair was
+taken by the "worthy" or by the "good" parish priest.
+
+"Well," he said, "if the newspaper reflects the mind of the people
+there is no hope."
+
+And he heard daily of new churches and new convents and the
+acquisition of property by the clergy. He heard tales of esuriency
+and avarice, and the persecution of the dancing-girl and the
+piper.
+
+"The clergy," he said, "are swallowing up the country," and he
+looked for some means whereby he might save the Gael.
+
+About this time an outcry was made against the ugliness of modern
+ecclesiastical architecture, and a number of enthusiasts were
+writing to the newspapers proposing a revival of Irish romanesque;
+they instanced Cormac's Chapel as the model that should be
+followed. Ned joined in the outcry that no more stained glass
+should be imported from Birmingham, and wrote to the newspapers
+many times that good sculpture and good painting and good glass
+were more likely to produce a religious fervour than bad. His
+purpose was to point a finger of scorn at the churches, and he
+hoped to plead a little later that there were too many churches,
+and that no more should be built until the population had begun to
+increase again. He looked forward to the time when he would be
+able to say right out that the Gael had spent enough of money on
+his soul, and should spend what remained to him on his body. He
+looked forward to the time when he should tell the Gael that his
+soul was his greatest expense, but the time was far off when he
+could speak plainly.
+
+The clergy were prepared to admit that German glass was not
+necessary for their successful mediation, but they were stubborn
+when Ned asked them to agree that no more churches were necessary.
+They were not moved by the argument that the population was
+declining and would not admit that there were too many churches or
+even that there were churches enough. The ecclesiastical mind is a
+subtle one and it knows that when men cease to build churches they
+cease to be religious. The instinct of the clergy was against Ned,
+but they had to make concessions, for the country was awakening to
+its danger, and Ned began to think that all its remaining energies
+were being concentrated in an effort to escape.
+
+Long years ago in America he had watched a small snake trying to
+swallow a frog. The snake sucked down the frog, and the frog
+seemed to acquiesce until the half of his body was down the
+snake's gullet, and then the frog bestirred himself and succeeded
+in escaping. The snake rested awhile and the next day he renewed
+his attack. At last the day came when the weary frog delayed too
+long and Ned watched him disappear down the snake's gullet.
+
+A good deal of Ireland was down the clerical throat and all would
+go down if Ireland did not bestir herself. Ireland was weakening
+daily, and every part of her that disappeared made it more
+difficult for her to extricate herself. Ned remembered that life
+and death, sickness and health, success and failure, are merely
+questions of balance. A nation is successful when its forces are
+at balance, and nations rise and fall because the centre of
+gravity shifts. A single Spaniard is as good as a single German,
+but the centre of gravity is in Spain no longer.
+
+Ned did not look upon religion as an evil; he knew religion to be
+necessary; but it seemed to him that the balance had been tilted
+in Ireland.
+
+He threw himself more and more into the education of the people,
+and politics became his chief interest. At last he had begun to
+live for his idea, and long absence from home and long drives on
+outside cars and evenings spent in inn parlours were accepted
+without murmurings; these discomforts were no longer perceived,
+whereas when he and Ellen used to sit over the fire composing
+speeches together, the thought of them filled him with despair. He
+used to complain that Ellen was always sending him away from home
+and to hard mutton shops and dirty bedrooms. He reminded her no
+more of these discomforts. He came back and spent a day or two
+with her, and went away again. She had begun to notice that he did
+not seem sorry to leave, but she did not reproach him, because he
+said he was working for Ireland. He tried to think the explanation
+a sufficient one. Did he not love his home? His home was a
+delightful relaxation. The moment he crossed the threshold his
+ideas went behind him and in the hour before dinner he played with
+his child and talked to Ellen about the house and the garden and
+the things he thought she was most interested in. After dinner she
+read or sewed and he spent an hour at the piano, and then he took
+her on his knees.
+
+And sometimes in the morning as he walked, with Ellen at his side,
+to catch the train, he wondered at his good fortune--the road was
+so pleasant, so wide and smooth and shaded, in fact just as he
+imagined the road should be, and Ellen was the very pleasantest
+companion a man could wish for. He looked on her, on his child and
+his house at the foot of the Dublin mountains, as a little work of
+art which he had planned out and the perfection of which entitled
+him to some credit. He compared himself to one who visits a
+larder, who has a little snack of something, and then puts down
+the cover, saying, "Now that's all right, that's safe for another
+week."
+
+Nevertheless he could see a little shadow gathering. His speeches
+were growing more explicit, and sooner or later his wife would
+begin to notice that he was attacking the clergy. Had she no
+suspicion? She was by nature so self-restrained that it was
+impossible to tell. He knew she read his speeches, and if she read
+them she must have noticed their anti-clerical tone.
+
+Last Saturday he had spoken to her about politics, but she had
+allowed the conversation to drop, and that had puzzled him. He was
+not well reported. The most important parts of his speech were
+omitted and for these omissions he looked upon the reporters and
+the editors as his best friends. He had managed to steer his way
+very adroitly up to the present, but the day of reckoning could
+not much longer be postponed; and one day coming home from a great
+meeting he remembered that he had said more than he intended to
+say, though he had intended to say a good deal. This time the
+reporter could not save him, and when his wife would read the
+newspaper to-morrow an explanation could hardly be avoided.
+
+He had thrown a book on the seat opposite, and he put it into his
+bag. Its Nihilism had frightened him at first, but he had returned
+to the book again and again and every time the attraction had
+become stronger. The train passed the signal box, and Ned was
+thinking of the aphorisms--the new Gospel was written in aphorisms
+varying from three to twenty lines in length--and he thought of
+these as meat lozenges each containing enough nutriment to make a
+gallon of weak soup suitable for invalids, and of himself as a
+sort of illicit dispensary.
+
+Ellen was not on the platform; something had delayed her, and he
+could see the road winding under trees, and presently he saw her
+white summer dress and her parasol aslant. There was no prettier,
+no more agreeable woman than Ellen in Ireland, and he thought it a
+great pity to have to worry her and himself with explanations
+about politics and about religion. To know how to sacrifice the
+moment is wisdom, and it would be better to sacrifice their walk
+than that she should read unprepared what he had said. But the
+evening would be lost! It would be lost in any case, for his
+thoughts would be running all the while on the morning paper.
+
+And they walked on together, he a little more silent than usual,
+for he was thinking how he could introduce the subject on which he
+had decided to speak to her, and Ellen more talkative, for she was
+telling how the child had delayed her, and it was not until they
+reached the prettiest part of the road that she noticed that Ned
+was answering perfunctorily.
+
+"What is the matter, dear? I hope you are not disappointed with
+the meeting?"
+
+"No, the meeting was well enough. There were a great number of
+people present and my speech was well received."
+
+"I am glad of that," she said, "but what is the matter, Ned?"
+
+"Nothing. I was thinking about my speech. I hope it will not be
+misunderstood. People are so stupid, and some will understand it
+as an attack on the clergy, whereas it is nothing of the kind."
+
+"Well," she said, "if it isn't it will be different from your
+other speeches."
+
+"How is that?"
+
+"All your speeches lately have been an attack upon the clergy
+direct or indirect. I daresay many did not understand them, but
+anyone who knows your opinions can read between the lines."
+
+"If you had read between the lines, Ellen, you would have seen
+that I have been trying to save the clergy from themselves. They
+are so convinced of their own importance that they forget that
+after all there must be a laity."
+
+Ellen answered very quietly, and there was a sadness in her
+gravity which Ned had some difficulty in appreciating. He went on
+talking, telling her that some prelate had pointed out lately, and
+with approbation, that although the population had declined the
+clergy had been increasing steadily year after year.
+
+"I am really," he said, "trying to save them from themselves. I am
+only pleading for the harmless and the necessary laity."
+
+Ellen did not answer him for a long while.
+
+"You see, Ned, I am hardly more to you now than any other woman.
+You come here occasionally to spend a day or two with me. Our
+married life has dwindled down to that. You play with the baby and
+you play with the piano, and you write your letters. I don't know
+what you are writing in them. You never speak to me of your ideas
+now. I know nothing of your politics."
+
+"I haven't spoken about politics much lately, Ellen, because I
+thought you had lost interest in them."
+
+"I have lost interest in nothing that concerns you. I have not
+spoken to you about politics because I know quite well that my
+ideas don't interest you any longer. You're absorbed in your own
+ideas, and we're divided. You sleep now in the spare room, so that
+you may have time to prepare your speeches."
+
+"But I sometimes come to see you in your room, Ellen."
+
+"Sometimes," she said, sadly, "but that is not my idea of
+marriage, nor is it the custom of the country, nor is it what the
+Church wishes."
+
+"I think, Ellen, you are very unreasonable, and you are generally
+so reasonable."
+
+"Well, don't let us argue any more," she said. "We shall never
+agree, I'm afraid."
+
+Ned remembered that he once used to say to her, "Ellen, we are
+agreed in everything."
+
+"If I had only known that it was going to turn out so disagreeable
+as this," Ned said to himself, "I should have held my tongue," and
+he was sorry for having displeased Ellen, so pretty did she look
+in her white dress and her hat trimmed with china roses; and
+though he did not care much for flowers he liked to see Ellen
+among her flowers; he liked to sit with her under the shady apple-
+tree, and the hollyhocks were making a fine show up in the air.
+
+"I think I like the hollyhocks better than any flowers, and the
+sunflowers are coming out," he said.
+
+He hesitated whether he should speak about the swallows, Ellen did
+not care for birds. The swallows rushed round the garden in groups
+of six and seven filling the air with piercing shrieks. He had
+never seen them so restless. He and Ellen walked across the sward
+to their seat and then Ellen asked him if he would like to see the
+child.
+
+"I've kept him out of bed and thought you might like to see him."
+
+"Yes," he said, "go fetch the baby and I will shake the boughs,
+and it will amuse him to run after the apples."
+
+"Differences of opinion arise," he said to himself, "for the mind
+changes and desire wanes, but the heart is always the same, and
+what an extraordinary bond the child is," he said, seeing Ellen
+leading the child across the sward. He forgot Ireland, forgot
+priests, and forgot politics, forgot everything. He lifted his
+little son in his arms and shook the boughs and saw the child run
+after the falling apples, stumbling and falling but never hurting
+himself.
+
+The quarrels of the day died down; the evening grew more beautiful
+under the boughs, and this intimate life round their apple-tree
+was strangely intense, and it grew more and more intense as the
+light died. Every now and then the child came to show them an
+apple he had picked up, and Ned said: "He thinks he has found the
+largest apples that have ever been seen." The secret of their
+lives seemed to approach and at every moment they expected to hear
+it. The tired child came to his mother and asked to be taken on
+her lap. An apple fell with a thud, the stars came out, and Ned
+carried his son, now half asleep, into the house, and they
+undressed him together, having forgotten, seemingly, their
+differences of opinion.
+
+But after dinner when they were alone in the drawing-room their
+relations grew strained again. Ned wanted to explain to Ellen that
+his movement was not anti-clerical, but he could see she did not
+wish to hear. He watched her take up her work and wondered what he
+could say to persuade her, and after a little while he began to
+think of certain pieces of music. But to go to the piano would be
+like a hostile act. The truth was that he had looked forward to
+the evening he was going to spend with her, he had imagined an
+ideal evening with her and could not reconcile himself to the
+loss. "The hour we passed in the garden was extraordinarily
+intense," he said to himself, and he regretted ever having talked
+to her about anything except simple things. "It is unwise of a man
+to make a comrade of his wife.... Now I wonder if she would be
+angry with me if I went to the piano--if I were to play something
+very gently? Perhaps a book would seem less aggressive." He went
+into his study and fetched his book, and very soon forgot Ellen.
+But she had not forgotten him, and she raised her eyes to look at
+him from time to time, knowing quite well that he was reading the
+book out of which he drew the greater part of his doctrine that he
+had alluded to on his way home, and that he had called the Gospel
+of Life.
+
+He turned the pages, and seeing that his love of her had been
+absorbed by the book, she stuck her needle in her work, folded it
+up, and put it into the work-basket.
+
+"I am going to bed, Ned." He looked up, and she saw he had
+returned from a world that was unknown to her, a world in which
+she had no part, and did not want to have a part, knowing it to be
+wicked. "You have been reading all the evening. You prefer your
+book to me. Good-night."
+
+She had never spoken to him so rudely before. He wondered awhile
+and went to the piano. She had gone out of the room very rudely.
+Now he was free to do what he liked, and what he liked most was to
+play Bach. The sound of the piano would reach her bedroom! Well,
+if it did--he had not played Bach for four weeks and he wanted to
+play Bach. Yes, he was playing Bach to please himself. He knew the
+piano would annoy her. And he was right.
+
+She had just lighted the candles on her dressing-table, and she
+paused and listened. It annoyed her that he should go to the piano
+the moment she left him, and that he should play dry intellectual
+Bach, for he knew that Bach did not interest her. She was tempted
+to ring for her maid, and would have sent down word to Ned that
+she would be obliged if he would stop playing, had it not seemed
+undignified to do so.
+
+As she undressed she lost control over herself, and lying in bed
+it seemed to her that Ned had hidden himself in a veil of kindness
+and good humour, and that the man she had married was a man
+without moral qualities, a man who would leave her without
+resentment, without disgust, who would say good-by to her as to
+some brief habit. She could hear Bach's interminable twiddles, and
+this exasperated her nerves and she wept through many preludes and
+fugues. Later on she must have heard the fugues in a dream, for
+the door opened; it passed over the carpet softly; and she heard
+Ned saying that he hoped the piano had not kept her awake. She
+heard him lay the candle on the table and come over to her
+bedside, and, leaning over her, he begged of her to turn round and
+speak to him.
+
+"My poor little woman, I hope I have not been cross with you this
+evening."
+
+She turned away petulantly, but he took her hand and held it and
+whispered to her, and gradually tempted her out of her anger, and
+taking some of her red hair from the pillow he kissed it. She
+still kept her head turned from him, but she could not keep back
+her happiness; it followed her like fire, enfolding her, and at
+last, raising herself up in the bed, she said:--
+
+"Oh, Ned, do you still love me?"
+
+When he came into her bed she slipped down so that she could lie
+upon his breast, and they fell asleep thinking of the early train
+he would have to catch in the morning.
+
+He was going to Dublin, and the servant knocked at the door at
+seven o'clock; Ellen roused a little asking if he must go to
+Dublin. She would like him to stay with her. But he could not
+stay, and she felt she must give him his breakfast. While tying
+her petticoats she went to the door of Ned's dressing-room asking
+him questions, for she liked to talk to him while he was shaving.
+After breakfast they walked to the station together, and she stood
+on the platform smiling and waving farewells.
+
+She turned home, her thoughts chattering like the sunshine among
+the trees; she leaned over the low, crumbling walls and looked
+across the water meadows. Two women were spending the morning
+under the trees; they were sewing. A man was lying at length
+talking to them. This group was part of external nature. The
+bewitching sunlight found a way into her heart, and it seemed to
+her that she would never be happy again.
+
+Ned had told her that he was not going to say anything about the
+priests at this meeting. Ah, if she were only sure he would not
+attack religion she would not mind him criticising the priests.
+They were not above criticism; they courted criticism, approving
+of a certain amount of lay criticism. But it was not the priests
+that Ned hated; it was religion; and his hatred of religion had
+increased since he began to read those books--she had seen him put
+one into his bag, and the rest of the set were in his study. When
+she got home she paused a moment, and, without knowing exactly
+why, she turned aside and did not go into his study.
+
+But next day the clock in the drawing-room stopped, and, wanting
+to know the time, she went into the study and looked at the clock,
+trying to keep her eyes from the bookcase. But in spite of herself
+she looked. The books were there: they had been thrust so far back
+that she could not read the name of the writer. Well, it did not
+matter, she did not care to know the name of the writer--Ned's
+room interested her more than the books. There was his table
+covered with his papers; and the thought passed through her mind
+that he might be writing the book he had promised her not to
+write. What he was writing was certainly for the printer--he was
+writing only on one side of the paper--and one of these days what
+he was writing would be printed.
+
+The study was on the ground floor, its windows overlooking the
+garden, and she glanced to see if the gardener were by, but her
+wish to avoid observation reminded her that she was doing a
+dishonourable action, and, standing with the papers in her hand,
+she hoped she would go out of the study without reading them. She
+began to read.
+
+The papers in her hand were his notes for the book he was writing,
+and the title caught her eye, "A Western Thibet." "So he is
+writing the book he promised me not to write," she said. But she
+could feel no anger, so conscious was she of her own shame. And
+she did not forget her shame until she remembered that it was her
+money that was supporting the agitation. He had been spending a
+great deal of money lately--they were rich now; her father had
+died soon after their marriage and all his money had come to her,
+and Ned was spending it on an anti-religious agitation. She had
+let Ned do what he liked; she had not cared what happened so long
+as she kept his love, and her moral responsibility became clearer
+and clearer. She must tell Ned that she could give him no more
+money unless he promised he would not say anything against the
+priests. He would make no such promise, and to speak about her
+money would exhibit her in a mean light, and she would lose all
+her influence. Now that they were reconciled she might win him
+back to religion; she had been thinking of this all yesterday. How
+could she tell him that she would take all her money away from
+him? Ned was the last person in the world who would be influenced
+by a threat.
+
+And looking round the room she asked herself why she had ever come
+into it to commit a dishonourable act! and much trouble had come
+upon her. But two thousand a year of her money was being spent in
+robbing the people of Ireland of their religion! Maybe thousands
+of souls would be lost--and through her fault.
+
+Ellen feared money as much as her father had loved it.
+
+"Good Heavens," she murmured to herself, "what am I to do?"
+Confession.... Father Brennan. She must consult him. The
+temptation to confide her secret became more decisive. Confession!
+She could ask the priest what she liked in confession, and without
+betraying Ned. And it was not ten o'clock yet. She would be in
+time for eleven o'clock Mass. Father Brennan would be hearing
+confessions after Mass, and she could get to Dublin on her bicycle
+in an hour. In three-quarters of an hour she was at the
+presbytery, and before the attendant could answer she caught sight
+of Father Brennan running down-stairs.
+
+"I only want to speak to you for a few minutes."
+
+"I am just going into church."
+
+"Can't I say a word to you before you go in?"
+
+And seeing how greatly agitated she was, he took her into the
+parlour, and she told him that though she trusted him implicitly
+she could not consult him on this particular question except in
+the confessional.
+
+"I shall be hearing confessions after Mass."
+
+If the priest told her she must withdraw her money from Ned, her
+marriage was a broken one. It was she who had brought Ned into
+politics; she had often spoken of her money in order to induce him
+to go into politics, and now it was her money that was forcing her
+to betray him. She had not thought of confession in her present
+difficulty as a betrayal, but it was one, and a needless one;
+Father Brennan could only tell her to withdraw her money; yet she
+must consult the priest--nothing else would satisfy her. She
+lacked courage: his advice would give her courage. But when she
+had told Ned that she could give him no more money, she would have
+to tell him she was acting on the priest's advice, for she could
+not go on living with him and not tell him everything. A secret
+would poison her life, and she had no difficulty in imagining how
+she would remember it; she could see it stopping her suddenly as
+she crossed the room when she was thinking of something quite
+different. The hardest confession of all would be to tell Ned that
+she had consulted the priest, and she did not think he would ever
+love her again. But what matter, so long as she was not weak and
+contemptible in the eyes of God. That is what she had to think of.
+The love of one's husband is of this world and temporary, but the
+love of God is for all eternity. All things are in the will of
+God. It was God that had sent her into Ned's room. She had been
+compelled, and now she was compelled again. It was God that had
+sent her to the priest; she was a mere puppet in the hands of God,
+and she prayed that she might be reconciled to His will, only
+daring to implore His mercy with one "Our Father" and one "Hail
+Mary." Further imploration would be out of place, she must not
+insist too much. God was all wisdom, and would know if the love of
+her husband might be spared to her, and she hoped she would be
+reconciled to His will even if her child should be taken from her.
+
+There were two penitents before her. One a woman, faded by time
+and deformed by work. From the black dress, come down to her
+through a succession of owners and now as nondescript as herself,
+Ellen guessed the woman to be one of the humblest class of
+servants, one of those who get their living by going out to work
+by the day. She leaned over the bench, and Ellen could see she was
+praying all the while, and Ellen wondered how Ned could expect
+this poor woman, earning a humble wage in humble service, to
+cultivate what he called "the virtue of pride." Was it not absurd
+to expect this poor woman to go through life trying to make life
+"exuberant and triumphant"? And Ellen wished she could show Ned
+this poor woman waiting to go into the confessional. In the
+confessional she would find a refined and learned man to listen to
+her, and he would have patience with her. Where else would she
+find a patient listener? Where else would she find consolation?
+"The Gospel of Life," indeed! How many may listen to the gospel of
+life, and for how long may anyone listen? Sooner or later we are
+that poor woman waiting to go into the confessional; she is the
+common humanity.
+
+The other penitent was a girl about sixteen. Her hair was not yet
+pinned up, and her dress was girlish even for her age, and Ellen
+judged her to be one of the many girls who come up to Dublin from
+the suburbs to an employment in a shop or in a lawyer's office,
+and who spend a few pence in the middle of the day in tea-rooms.
+The girl looked round the church so frequently that Ellen could
+not think of her as a willing penitent, but as one who had been
+sent to confession by her father and mother. At her age sensuality
+is omnipresent, and Ellen thought of the check confession is at
+such an age. If that girl overstepped the line she would have to
+confess everything, or face the frightful danger of a bad
+confession, and that is a danger that few Catholic girls are
+prepared to face.
+
+The charwoman spent a long time in the confessional, and Ellen did
+not begrudge her the time she spent, for she came out like one
+greatly soothed, and Ellen remembered that Ned had once described
+the soothed look which she noticed on the poor woman's face as "a
+look of foolish ecstasy, wholly divorced from the intelligence."
+But what intellectual ecstasy did he expect from this poor woman
+drifting towards her natural harbour--the poor-house?
+
+It was extraordinary that a man so human as Ned was in many ways
+should become so inhuman the moment religion was mentioned, and
+she wondered if the sight of that poor woman leaving the
+confessional would allay his hatred of the sacrament. At that
+moment the young girl came out. She hurried away, and Ellen went
+into the confessional to betray her husband.
+
+She was going to betray Ned, but she was going to betray him under
+the seal of confession, and entertained no thought that the priest
+would avail himself of any technicality in her confession to
+betray her. She was, nevertheless, determined that her confession
+should be technically perfect. She went into the confessional to
+confess her sins, and one of the sins she was going to confess was
+her culpable negligence regarding the application of her money.
+There were other sins. She had examined her conscience, and had
+discovered many small ones. She had lost her temper last night,
+and her temper had prevented her from saying her prayers, her
+temper and her love of Ned; for it were certainly a sin to desire
+anything so fervidly that one cannot give to God the love, the
+prayers, that belong to Him.
+
+During Mass the life of her soul had seemed to her strange and
+complex, and she thought that her confession would be a long one;
+but on her knees before the priest her soul seemed to vanish, and
+all her interesting scruples and phases of thought dwindled to
+almost nothing--she could not put her soul into words. The priest
+waited, but the matter on which she had come to consult him had
+put everything else out of her head.
+
+"I am not certain that what I am going to tell you is a sin, but I
+consider it as part of my confession," and she told him how she
+had given Ned her money and allowed him to apply it without
+inquiring into the application. "Since my child was born I have
+not taken the interest I used to take in politics. I don't think
+my husband is any longer interested in my ideas, and now he has
+told me that some kind of religious reformation is necessary in
+Ireland."
+
+"When did he tell you that?"
+
+"Yesterday--the day before. I went to the station to meet him and
+he told me as we walked home. For a long time I believed him: I
+don't mean that he told me falsehoods; he may have deceived
+himself. Anyhow he used to tell me that though his agitation might
+be described as anti-clerical no one could call it anti-religious.
+But this morning something led me into his room and I looked
+through his papers. I daresay I had no right to do so, but I did."
+
+"And you discovered from his papers that his agitation was
+directed against religion?"
+
+Ellen nodded.
+
+"I cannot think of anything more unfortunate," said the priest.
+
+Father Brennan was a little fat man with small eyes and a
+punctilious deferential manner, and his voice was slightly
+falsetto.
+
+"I cannot understand how your husband can be so unwise. I know
+very little of him, but I did not think he was capable of making
+so grave a mistake. The country is striving to unite itself, and
+we have been uniting, and now that we have a united Ireland, or
+very nearly, it appears that Mr. Carmady has come from America to
+divide us again. What can he gain by these tactics? If he tells
+the clergy that the moment Home Rule is granted an anti-religious
+party will rise up and drive them out of the country, he will set
+them against Home Rule, and if the clergy are not in favour of
+Home Rule who, I would ask Mr. Carmady, who will be in favour of
+it? And I will ask you, my dear child, to ask him--I suggest that
+you should ask him to what quarter he looks for support."
+
+"Ned and I never talk politics; we used to, but that is a long
+time ago."
+
+"He will only ruin himself. But I think you said you came to
+consult me about something."
+
+"Yes. You see a very large part of my money is spent in politics
+and I am not certain that I should not withdraw my money. It is
+for that I have come to consult you."
+
+Ellen had been addressing the little outline of the priest's
+profile, but when he heard the subject on which she had come to
+consult him he turned and she saw his large face, round and
+mottled. A little light gathered in his wise and kindly eyes, and
+Ellen guessed that he had begun to see his way out of the
+difficulty, and she was glad of it, for she reckoned her
+responsibility at a number of souls. The priest spoke very kindly,
+he seemed to understand how difficult it would be for her to tell
+her husband that she could not give him any more money unless he
+promised not to attack the clergy or religion, but she must do so.
+He pointed out that to attack one was to attack the other, for the
+greater mass of mankind understands religion only through the
+clergy.
+
+"You must not only withdraw your money," he said, "but you must
+use your influence to dissuade him."
+
+"I am afraid," said Ellen, "that when I tell him that I must
+withdraw my money, and that you have told me to do so--"
+
+"You need not say that I told you to do so."
+
+"I cannot keep anything back from my husband. I must tell him the
+whole truth," she said. "And when I tell him everything, I shall
+not only lose any influence that may remain, but I doubt very much
+if my husband will continue to live with me."
+
+"But your marriage was a love marriage?"
+
+"Yes, but that is a long time ago. It is four years ago."
+
+"I don't think your husband will separate himself from you, but
+even so I think--"
+
+"You will give me absolution?"
+
+She said this a little defiantly, and the priest wondered, and she
+left the confessional perplexed and a little ashamed and very much
+terrified.
+
+There was nothing for her to do in Dublin, she must go home and
+wait for her husband. He was not coming home until evening, and
+she rode home wondering how the day would pass, thinking the best
+time to tell him would be after dinner when he left the piano. If
+he were very angry with her she would go to her room. He would not
+go on living with her, she was sure of that, and her heart seemed
+to stand still when she entered the house and saw the study door
+open and Ned looking through the papers.
+
+"I have come back to look for some papers," he said. "It is very
+annoying. I have lost half the day," and he went on looking among
+his papers and she could see that he suspected nothing. "Do you
+know when is the next train?"
+
+She looked out the trains for him, and after he had found the
+papers he wanted they went into the garden.
+
+She talked of her flowers with the same interest as she had done
+many times before, and when he asked her to go for a walk with him
+on the hill she consented, although it was almost unbearable to
+walk with him for the last time through the places where they had
+walked so often, thinking that their lives would move on to the
+end unchanged; and they walked about the hill talking of Irish
+history, their eyes often resting on the slender outlines of
+Howth, until it was time for Ned to go to the station.
+
+"I shall be back in time for dinner. You will wait dinner a little
+for me, I may have to come back by a later train."
+
+And they walked down the hill together, Ned bidding her good-bye
+at the garden gate, saying she had walked enough that day, and she
+feeling the moment was at hand.
+
+"But, Ned, why are you going to Dublin? You are only going to see
+people who are anti-Catholic, who hate our religion, who are
+prejudiced against it."
+
+"But," he said, "why do you talk of these things. We have got on
+very much better since we have ceased to discuss politics
+together. We are agreed in everything else."
+
+She did not answer for a long time and then she said:--
+
+"But I don't see how we are to avoid discussing them, for it is my
+money that supports the agitation."
+
+"I never thought of that. So it is. Do you wish to withdraw it?"
+
+"You are not angry with me, Ned? You won't think it mean of me to
+withdraw my money? How are you going to go on without my money?
+You see I am wrecking your political career."
+
+"Oh," he said, "I shall be able to get on without it. Now, good-
+bye."
+
+"May I go to the station with you?"
+
+"If you like, only let us talk of something else. Everyone's
+conscience is his own law and you must act accordingly."
+
+She trotted by his side, and she begged of him not to laugh at her
+when he said that to be truly logical she would have to turn him
+out of the house, or at least to charge him for his board and
+lodging.
+
+The intonation of his voice laid her heart waste; she felt she was
+done for, and she walked home repeating the words, "I am done
+for."
+
+As she passed through her garden she saw that her flowers were
+dying for want of water, and she gave them a few cans of water;
+but she could not do much work, and though the cans were heavy,
+they were not as heavy as her heart. She sat down under the apple-
+tree and remembered her life. Her best days were her school-days.
+Then life was beginning. Now it seemed to her nearly over, and she
+only five-and-twenty. She never could take the same interest in
+politics as she had once taken, nor in books. She felt that her
+intelligence had declined. She was cleverer as a girl than she was
+as a woman.
+
+Ned was coming home for dinner, and some time that evening she
+would have to tell him that she had read his manuscript. She would
+have liked to meet him at the station, but thought it would be
+better not to go. The day wore away. Ned was in his best humour,
+and when she told him why she did not go to the station to meet
+him, he said it was foolish of her not to have come, for there was
+nothing he liked better than to stroll home with her in the
+evening, the road was so pleasant, etc.
+
+She could see that he had not noticed her dress or what he was
+eating, and it was irritating to see him sitting there with his
+spoon full of soup telling her how the Irish people would have to
+reduce their expenditure and think a little less of priests--for a
+while, at least--unless they were minded to pass away, to become
+absorbed in America.
+
+"I like Brennan," he said, throwing himself back in his chair. "He
+is a clever man. Brennan knows as well as I do there's too much
+money spent upon religion in Ireland. But, tell me, did he tell
+you explicitly that you should give me no more money?"
+
+"Yes. But, Ned--"
+
+"No, no, I am not in the least angry," he said, "I shall always
+get money to carry on politics. But what a game it is! And I
+suppose, Ellen, you consult him on every detail of your life?"
+
+Her admission that Father Brennan had taken down books and put on
+his spectacles delighted him.
+
+"Taking down tomes!" he said. "Splendid! Some of these gentlemen
+would discuss theology with God. I can see Father Brennan getting
+up: 'Sire, my reason for entering the said sin as a venal sin,
+etc.'"
+
+Very often during the evening the sewing dropped from her hands,
+and she sat thinking. Sooner or later she would nave to tell Ned
+she had read his manuscript. He would not mind her reading his
+manuscript, and though he hated the idea that anyone should turn
+to a priest and ask him for his interpretation regarding right and
+wrong, he had not, on the whole, been as angry as she had
+expected.
+
+At last she got up. "I am going to bed, Ned."
+
+"Isn't it very early?"
+
+"There is no use my stopping here. You don't want to talk to me;
+you'll go on playing till midnight."
+
+"Now, why this petulancy, Ellen? I think it shows a good deal of
+forgiveness for me to kiss you after the way you have behaved."
+
+She held a long string of grease in her fingers, and was melting
+it, and when she could no longer hold it in her fingers, she threw
+the end into the flame.
+
+"I've forgiven you, Ellen.... You never tell me anything of your
+ideas now; we never talk to each other, and if this last relation
+is broken there will be nothing ... will there?"
+
+"I sought Father Brennan's advice under the seal of confession,
+that was all. You don't think that--"
+
+"There are plenty of indirect ways in which he will be able to
+make use of the information he has got from you."
+
+"You have not yet heard how it happened, and perhaps when you do
+you will think worse of me. I went into your room to see what
+books you were reading. There was no harm in looking at a book;
+but you had put the books so far into the bookcase that I could
+not see the name of the author. I took up the manuscript from the
+table and glanced through it. I suppose I ought not to have done
+that: a manuscript is not the same as a book. And now goodnight."
+
+She had gone to her room and did not expect him. Well, the sensual
+coil was broken, and if he did not follow her now she would
+understand that it was broken. He had wanted freedom this long
+while. They had come to the end of the second period, and there
+are three--a year of mystery and passion, and then some years of
+passion without mystery. The third period is one of resignation.
+The lives of the parents pass into the children, and the mated
+journey on, carrying their packs. Seldom, indeed, the man and the
+woman weary of the life of passion at the same time and turn
+instinctively into the way of resignation like animals. Sometimes
+it is the man who turns first, sometimes it is the woman. In this
+case it was the man. He had his work to do, and Ellen had her
+child to think of, and each must think of his and her task from
+henceforth. Their tasks were not the same. Each had a different
+task; she had thrown, or tried to throw, his pack from his
+shoulders. She had thwarted him, or, tried to thwart him. He grew
+angry as he thought of what she had done. She had gone into his
+study and read his papers, and she had then betrayed him to a
+priest. He lay awake thinking how he had been deceived by Ellen;
+thinking that he had been mistaken; that her character was not the
+noble character he had imagined. But at the bottom of his heart he
+was true to the noble soul that religion could not extinguish nor
+even his neglect.
+
+She said one day: "Is it because I read your manuscript and told
+the priest, that you would not come to my room, or is it because
+you are tired of me?"
+
+"I cannot tell you; and, really, this conversation is very
+painful. I am engaged upon my work, and I have no thoughts for
+anything but it." Another time when he came from the piano and sat
+opposite to her she raised her eyes from her sewing and sat
+looking at him, and then getting up suddenly she put her hands to
+her forehead and said to herself: "I will conquer this," and she
+went out of the room.
+
+And from that day she did not trouble him with love. She obtained
+control over herself, and he remembered a mistress who had ceased
+to love him, and he had persecuted her for a long while with
+supplication. "She is at one with herself always," he said, and he
+tried to understand her. "She is one of those whose course through
+life is straight, and not zig-zag, as mine is." He liked to see
+her turn and look at the baby, and he said, "That love is the
+permanent and original element of things, it is the universal
+substance;" and he could trace Ellen's love of her child in her
+love of him; these loves were not two loves, but one love. And
+when walking one evening through the shadows, as they spoke about
+the destiny we can trace in our lives, about life and its
+loneliness, the conversation verged on the personal, and she said,
+with a little accent of regret, but not reproachfully:--
+
+"But, Ned, you could not live with anyone, at least not always. I
+think you would sooner not live with anyone."
+
+He did not dare to contradict her; he knew that she had spoken the
+truth; and Ned was sorry he was giving pain to Ellen, for there
+was no one he would have liked to please better. He regretted that
+he was what he was, that his course was zig-zag. For a moment he
+regretted that such a fate should have befallen Ellen. "I am not
+the husband that would have suited her," he said.... And then,
+after a moment's reflection, "I was her instinct; another would
+not have satisfied her instinct; constancy is not everything. It's
+a pity I cannot love her always, for none is more worthy of being
+loved."
+
+They became friends; he knew there was no danger of her betraying
+him again. Her responsibility ended with her money, and he told
+her how the agitation was progressing.
+
+"Oh, Ned, if I were only sure that your agitation was not directed
+against religion I would follow you. But you will never believe in
+me."
+
+"Yes, I believe in you. Come to Dublin with me; come to the
+meeting. I'd like you to hear my speech."
+
+"I would like to hear you speak, Ned; but I don't think I can go
+to the meeting."
+
+They were on their way to the station, and they walked some time
+without speaking. Then, speaking suddenly and gravely as if
+prompted by some deep instinct, Ellen said:--
+
+"But if you fail, Ned, you will be an outcast in Ireland, and if
+that happens you will go away, and I shall never see you again."
+
+He turned and stood looking at her. That he should fail and become
+an outcast were not at all unlikely. Her words seemed to him like
+a divination! But it is the unexpected that happens, she said to
+herself, and the train came up to the station, and he bade her
+good-bye, and settled himself down in a seat to consider his
+speech for the last time.
+
+"I shall say everything I dare, the moment is ripe; and the threat
+to hold out is that Ireland is becoming a Protestant country. And
+the argument to use is that the Catholics are leaving because
+there is no joy in Ireland."
+
+He went through the different sections of his speech introducing
+the word joy: Is Ireland going to become joyous? She has dreamed
+long enough among dead bones and ancient formulae. The little
+stations went by and the train rolled into Harcourt Street. He
+called a car. He was speaking at the Rotunda.
+
+He was speaking on the depopulation question, and he said that
+this question came before every other question. Ireland was now
+confronted with the possibility that in five-and-twenty years the
+last of Ireland would have disappeared in America. There were some
+who attributed the Irish emigration to economic causes: that was a
+simple and obvious explanation, one that could be understood by
+everybody; but these simple and obvious explanations are not
+often, if they are ever, the true ones. The first part of Ned's
+speech was taken up with the examination of the economic causes,
+and proving that these were not the origin of the evil. The
+country was joyless; man's life is joyless in Ireland. In every
+other country there were merry-makings. "You have only to go into
+the National Gallery," he said, "to see how much time the Dutch
+spent in merry-makings." All their pictures with the exception of
+Rembrandt's treated of joyful subjects, of peasants dancing under
+trees, peasants drinking and singing songs in taverns, and
+caressing servant girls. Some of their merry-makings were not of a
+very refined character, but the ordinary man is not refined, and
+in the most refined men there is often admiration and desire for
+common pleasure. In the country districts Irish life is one of
+stagnant melancholy, the only aspiration that comes into their
+lives is a religious one. "Of course it will be said that the
+Irish are too poor to pay for pleasure, but they are not too poor
+to spend fifteen millions a year upon religion." He was the last
+man in the world who would say that religion was not necessary,
+but if he were right in saying that numbers were leaving Ireland
+because Ireland was joyless he was right in saying that it was the
+duty of every Irishman to spend his money in making Ireland a
+joyful country. He was speaking now in the interests of religion.
+A country is antecedent to religion. To have religion you must
+first have a country, and if Ireland was not made joyful Ireland
+would become a Protestant country in about twenty-five years. In
+support of this contention he produced figures showing the rate at
+which the Catholics were emigrating. But not only were the
+Catholics emigrating--those who remained were becoming nuns and
+priests. As the lay population declined the clerics became more
+numerous. "Now," he said, "there must be a laity. It is a very
+commonplace thing to say, but this very commonplace truth is
+forgotten or ignored, and I come here to plead to-day for the
+harmless and the necessary laity." He knew that these words would
+get a laugh, and that the laugh would get him at least two or
+three minutes' grace, and these two or three minutes could not be
+better employed than with statistics, and he produced some
+astonishing figures. These figures were compiled, he said, by a
+prelate bearing an Irish name, but whose object in Ireland was to
+induce Irishmen and Irishwomen to leave Ireland. This would not be
+denied, though the pretext on which he wished Irish men and women
+to leave Ireland would be pleaded as justification. "But of this I
+shall speak," Ned said, "presently. I want you first to give your
+attention to the figures which this prelate produced, and with
+approbation. According to him there were ten convents and one
+hundred nuns in the beginning of the century, now there were
+twelve hundred convents and twenty thousand nuns. The prelate
+thinks that this is a matter for us to congratulate ourselves on.
+In view of our declining population I cannot agree, and I regret
+that prelates should make such thoughtless observations. Again I
+have to remind you of a fact that cannot be denied, but which is
+ignored, and it is that a celibate clergy cannot continue the
+population, and that if the population be not continued the tail
+of the race will disappear in America in about twenty-five
+years.... Not only does this prelate think that we should
+congratulate ourselves on the fact that while the lay population
+is decreasing the clerical population is increasing, but he thinks
+that Ireland should still furnish foreign missions. He came to
+Ireland to get recruits, to beseech Irishmen and Irishwomen to
+continue their noble work of the conversion of the world. No doubt
+the conversion of the world is a noble work. My point now is that
+Ireland has done her share in this noble work, and that Ireland
+can no longer spare one single lay Irishman or cleric or any
+Irishwoman. If the foreign mission is to be recruited it must be
+recruited at the expense of some other country."
+
+Ned suggested Belgium as the best recruiting ground. But it was
+the prelate's own business to find recruits, it was only Ned's
+business to say that Ireland had done enough for the conversion of
+the world. And this prelate with the Irish name and cosmopolitan
+heart, who thought it an admirable thing that the clerical
+population should increase, while the lay population declined; who
+thought that with the declining population Ireland should still
+send out priests and nuns to convert the world--was no true
+Irishman. He cared not a jot what became of his country, so long
+as Ireland continued to furnish him with priests and nuns for the
+foreign mission. This prelate was willing to bleed Ireland to
+death to make a Roman holiday. Ireland did not matter to him,
+Ireland was a speck--Ned would like to have said, a chicken that
+the prelate would drop into the caldron which he was boiling for
+the cosmopolitan restaurant; but this would be an attack upon
+religion, it would be too direct to be easily understood by the
+audience, and as the words came to his lips he changed the phrase
+and said, "a pinch of snuff in the Roman snuff-box." After this,
+Ned passed on to perhaps the most important part of his speech--to
+the acquisition of wealth by the clergy. He said that if the lay
+population had declined, and if the clerical population had
+increased, there was one thing that had increased with the clergy,
+and that was the wealth of the clergy. "I wish the cosmopolitan
+prelate had spoken upon this subject. I wonder if he inquired how
+much land has passed into the hands of the clergy in the last
+twenty years, and how many mortgages the religious hold upon land.
+I wonder if he inquired how many poultry-farms the nuns and the
+friars are adding to their convents and their monasteries; and now
+they are starting new manufactories for weaving--the weaving
+industry is falling into their hands. And there are no lay
+teachers in Ireland, now all the teaching is done by clerics. The
+Church is very rich in Ireland. If Ireland is the poorest country
+in the world, the Irish Church is richer than any other. All the
+money in Ireland goes into religion. There is only one other trade
+that can compete with it. Heaven may be for the laity, but this
+world is certainly for the clergy."
+
+More money was spent upon religion in Ireland than in any other
+country. Too much money was spent for the moment in building
+churches, and the great sums of money that were being spent on
+religion were not fairly divided. And passing rapidly on, Ned very
+adroitly touched upon the relative positions of the bishops and
+the priests and the curates. He told harrowing stories of the
+destitution of the curates, and he managed so well that his
+audience had not time to stop him. Everything he thought that they
+could not agree with he sandwiched between things that he knew
+they would agree with.
+
+Father Murphy stood a little distance on his right, a thick-set
+man, and as the sentences fell from Ned's lips he could see that
+Father Murphy was preparing his answer, and he guessed what Father
+Murphy's answer would be like. He knew Father Murphy to be an
+adroit speaker, and the priest began in a low key as Ned had
+expected him to do. He began by deploring the evils of emigration,
+and Mr. Carmady deserved their best thanks for attracting popular
+attention to this evil. They were indebted to him for having done
+this. Others had denounced the evil, but Mr. Carmady's eloquence
+had enabled him to do so as well, perhaps even better than it had
+been done before. He complimented Mr. Carmady on the picturesque
+manner in which he described the emptying of the country, but he
+could not agree with Mr. Carmady regarding the causes that had
+brought about this lamentable desire to leave the fatherland. Mr.
+Carmady's theory was that the emptying of Ireland was due to the
+fact that the Irish priests had succeeded in inducing men to
+refrain from the commission of sin. Mr. Carmady did not reproach
+the priests with having failed; he reproached them with having
+succeeded. A strange complaint. The cause of the emigration, which
+we all agreed in deploring, was, according to Mr. Carmady, the
+desire of a sinless people for sin. A strange accusation. The
+people, according to Mr. Carmady, were leaving Ireland because
+they wished to indulge in indecent living. Mr. Carmady did not use
+these words; the words he used were "The joy of life," but the
+meaning of the words was well known.
+
+"No race," he said, "had perhaps ever been libelled as the Irish
+race had been, but of all the libels that had ever been levelled
+against it, no libel had ever equalled the libel which he had
+heard uttered to-day, that the Irish were leaving Ireland in
+search of sin.
+
+"They had heard a great deal about the dancing-girl, and according
+to Mr. Carmady it would seem that a nation could save itself by
+jigging."
+
+"He is speaking very well, from his point of view," said Ned to
+himself.
+
+Father Murphy was a stout, bald-headed man with small pig-like
+eyes, and a piece seemed to have been taken from the top of his
+bony forehead. He was elegantly dressed in broadcloth and he wore
+a gold chain and he dangled his chain from time to time. He was
+clearly the well-fed, well-housed cleric who was making, in this
+world, an excellent living of his advocacy for the next, and Ned
+wondered how it was that the people did not perceive a discrepancy
+between Father Murphy's appearance and the theories he propounded.
+"The idealism of the Irish people," said the priest, "was
+inveterate," and he settled himself on his short legs and began
+his peroration.
+
+Ned had begun to feel that he had failed, he began to think of his
+passage back to America. Father Murphy was followed by a young
+curate, and the curate began by saying that Mr. Carmady would be
+able to defend his theories, and that he had no concern with Mr.
+Carmady's theories, though, indeed, he did not hear Mr. Carmady
+say anything which was contrary to the doctrine of our "holy
+religion." Father Murphy had understood Mr. Carmady's speech in
+quite a different light, and it seemed to the curate that he,
+Father Murphy, had put a wrong interpretation upon it; at all
+events he had put one which the curate could not share. Mr.
+Carmady had ventured, and, he thought, very properly, to call
+attention to the number of churches that were being built and the
+number of people who were daily entering the orders. He did not
+wish to criticise men and women who gave up their lives to God,
+but Mr. Carmady was quite right when he said that without a laity
+there could be no country. In Ireland the clergy were apt to
+forget this simple fact that celibates do not continue the race.
+Mr. Carmady had quoted from a book written by a priest in which
+the distinguished author had said he looked forward to the day
+when Ireland would be one vast monastery, and the curate agreed
+with Mr. Carmady that no more foolish wish had ever found its way
+into a book. He agreed with Mr. Carmady that a real vocation is a
+rare thing. No country had produced many painters or many
+sculptors or many poets, and a true religious vocation was equally
+rare. Mr. Carmady had pointed out that although the population had
+diminished the nuns and priests had increased, and Father Murphy
+must hold that Ireland must become one vast monastery, and the
+laity ought to become extinct, or he must agree with Mr. Carmady
+that there was a point when a too numerous clergy would
+overbalance the laity.
+
+Altogether an unexpected and plucky little speech, and long before
+it closed Ned saw that Father Murphy's triumph was not complete.
+Father Murphy's face told the same tale.
+
+The curate's argument was taken up by other curates, and Ned began
+to see he had the youth of the country on his side.
+
+He was speaking at the end of the week at another great meeting,
+and received even better support at this meeting than he had done
+at the first, and he returned home wondering what his wife was
+thinking of his success. But what matter? Ireland was waking from
+her sleep.... The agitation was running from parish to parish,
+it seemed as if the impossible were going to happen, and that the
+Gael was going to be free.
+
+The curates had grievances, and he applied himself to setting the
+inferior clergy against their superiors, and as the agitation
+developed he told the curates that they were no better than
+ecclesiastical serfs, that although the parish priests dozed in
+comfortable arm-chairs and drank champagne, the curates lived by
+the wayside and ate and drank very little and did all the work.
+
+But one day at Maynooth it was decided that curates had legitimate
+grievances, and that the people had grievances that were likewise
+legitimate. And at this great council it was decided that the
+heavy marriage fees and the baptismal fees demanded by the priests
+should be reduced. Concessions were accompanied by threats. Even
+so it required all the power of the Church to put down the
+agitation. Everyone stood agape, saying the bishops must win in
+the end. An indiscretion on Ned's part gave them the victory. In a
+moment of excitement he was unwise enough to quote John Mitchel's
+words "that the Irish would be free long ago only for their damned
+souls." A priest wrote to the newspapers pointing out that after
+these words there could be no further doubt that it was the
+doctrine of the French Revolution that Mr. Carmady was trying to
+force upon a Christian people. A bishop wrote saying that the
+words quoted were fit words for Anti-Christ. After that it was
+difficult for a priest to appear on the same platform, and the
+curates whose grievances had been redressed deserted, and the
+fight became an impossible one.
+
+Very soon Ned's meetings were interrupted, disagreeable scenes
+began to happen, and his letters were not admitted to the
+newspapers. A great solitude formed about him.
+
+"Well," he said one morning, "I suppose you have read the account
+in the paper of my ignominious escape. That is what they called
+it."
+
+"The wheel," Ellen said, "is always going round. You may be at the
+bottom now, but the wheel is going round, only there is no use
+opposing the people in their traditions, in their instinct... .
+And whether the race is destined to disappear or to continue it is
+certain that the last Gael will die a Catholic."
+
+"And the Red Indian will die with the scalp at his girdle."
+
+"We won't talk about religion, we'll talk about things we are
+agreed upon. I have heard you say yourself that you would not go
+back to America again, that you never enjoyed life until you came
+here."
+
+"That was because I met you, Ellen."
+
+"I have heard you praise Ireland as being the most beautiful and
+sympathetic country in the world."
+
+"It is true that I love these people, and I wish I could become
+one of them."
+
+"You would become one of them, and yet you would tear them to
+pieces because they are not what you want them to be."
+
+Sometimes he thought he would like to write "A Western Thibet,"
+but he was more a man of action than of letters. His writings had
+been so long confined to newspaper articles that he could not see
+his way from chapter to chapter. He might have overcome the
+difficulty, but doubt began to poison his mind. "Every race," he
+said, "has its own special genius. The Germans have or have had
+music. The French and Italians have or have had painting and
+sculpture. The English have or have had poetry. The Irish had, and
+alas! they still have their special genius, religious vocation."
+
+He used to go for long walks on the hills, and one day, lying in
+the furze amid the rough grass, his eyes following the course of
+the ships in the bay, he said: "Was it accident or my own
+fantastic temperament that brought me back from Cuba?" It seemed
+as if a net had been thrown over him and he had been drawn along
+like a fish in a net. "For some purpose," he said. "But for what
+purpose? I can perceive none, and yet I cannot believe that an
+accident brought me to Ireland and involved me in the destiny of
+Ireland for no purpose."
+
+And he did not need to take the book from his pocket, he knew the
+passage well, and he repeated it word for word while he watched
+the ships in the bay.
+
+"We were friends and we have become strangers, one to the other.
+Ah, yes; but it is so, and we do not wish to hide our
+strangerhood, or to dissemble as if we were ashamed of it. We are
+two ships each with a goal and a way; and our ways may draw
+together again and we may make holiday as before. And how
+peacefully the good ships used to lie in the same harbour, under
+the same sun; it seemed as if they had reached their goal, and it
+seemed as if there was a goal. But soon the mighty sway of our
+tasks laid on us as from of old sundered and drove us into
+different seas and different zones; and it may be that we shall
+never meet again and it may be that we shall meet and not know
+each other, so deeply have the different seas and suns changed us.
+The law that is over us decreed that we must become strangers one
+to the other; and for this we must reverence each other the more,
+and for this the memory of our past friendship becomes more
+sacred. Perhaps there is a vast invisible curve and orbit and our
+different goals and ways are parcel of it, infinitesimal segments.
+Let us uplift ourselves to this thought! But our life is too short
+and our sight too feeble for us to be friends except in the sense
+of this sublime possibility. So, let us believe in our stellar
+friendship though we must be enemies on earth."
+
+"A deep and mysterious truth," he said, "I must go, I must go," he
+said to himself. "My Irish life is ended. There is a starry orbit,
+and Ireland and I are parts of it, 'and we must believe in our
+stellar friendship though we are enemies upon earth.'"
+
+He wandered about admiring the large windless evening and the
+bright bay. Great men had risen up in Ireland and had failed
+before him, and it were easy to account for their failure by
+saying they were not close enough to the tradition of their race,
+that they had just missed it, but some of the fault must be the
+fault of Ireland.... The anecdote varies, but substantially it is
+always the same story: The interests of Ireland sacrificed to the
+interests of Rome.
+
+There came a whirring sound, and high overhead he saw three great
+birds flying through the still air, and he knew them to be wild
+geese flying south....
+
+War had broken out in South Africa, Irishmen were going out to
+fight once again; they were going to fight the stranger abroad
+when they could fight him at home no longer. The birds died down
+on the horizon, and there was the sea before him, bright and
+beautiful, with ships passing into the glimmering dusk, and among
+the hills a little mist was gathering. He remembered the great
+pagans who had wandered over these hills before scapulars and
+rosaries were invented. His thoughts came in flashes, and his
+happiness grew intense. He had wanted to go and the birds had
+shown him where he might go. His instinct was to go, he was
+stifling in Ireland. He might never find the country he desired,
+but he must get out of Ireland, "a mean ineffectual atmosphere,"
+he said, "of nuns and rosaries."
+
+A mist was rising, the lovely outlines of Howth reminded him of
+pagan Ireland. "They're like music," he said, and he thought of
+Usheen and his harp. "Will Usheen ever come again?" he said.
+"Better to die than to live here." And the mist thickened--he
+could see Howth no longer. "The land is dolorous," he said, and as
+if in answer to his words the most dolorous melody he had ever
+heard came out of the mist. "The wailing of an abandoned race," he
+said. "This is the soul-sickness from which we are fleeing." And
+he wandered about calling to the shepherd, and the shepherd
+answered, but the mist was so thick in the hollows that neither
+could find the other. After a little while the shepherd began to
+play his flageolet again; and Ned listened to it, singing it after
+him, and he walked home quickly, and the moment he entered the
+drawing-room he said to Ellen, "Don't speak to me; I am going to
+write something down," and this is what he wrote:--
+
+THE WILD GOOSE.
+
+[musical excerpt]
+
+"A mist came on suddenly, and I heard a shepherd playing this
+folk-tune. Listen to it. Is it not like the people? Is it not like
+Ireland? Is it not like everything that has happened? It is
+melancholy enough in this room, but no words can describe its
+melancholy on a flageolet played by a shepherd in the mist. It is
+the song of the exile; it is the cry of one driven out in the
+night--into a night of wind and rain. It is night, and the exile
+on the edge of the waste. It is like the wind sighing over bog
+water. It is a prophetic echo and final despair of a people who
+knew they were done for from the beginning. A mere folk-tune, mere
+nature, raw and unintellectual; and these raw folk-tunes are all
+that we shall have done: and by these and these alone, shall we be
+remembered."
+
+"Ned," she said at last, "I think you had better go away. I can
+see you're wearing out your heart here."
+
+"Why do you think I should go? What put that idea into your head?"
+
+"I can see you are not happy."
+
+"But you said that the wheel would turn, and that what was lowest
+would come to the top."
+
+"Yes, Ned; but sometimes the wheel is a long time in turning, and
+maybe it would be better for you to go away for a while."
+
+He told her that he had seen wild geese on the hill.
+
+"And it was from you I heard about the wild geese. You told me the
+history of Ireland, sitting on a Druid stone?"
+
+"You want to go, Ned? And the desire to go is as strong in you as
+in the wild geese."
+
+"Maybe; but I shall come back, Ellen."
+
+"Do you think you will, Ned? How can you if you go to fight for
+the Boers?"
+
+"There's nothing for me to do here. I want new life. It was you
+who said that I should go."
+
+"For five years you have been devoted to Ireland, and now you and
+Ireland are separated like two ships."
+
+"Yes, like two ships. Ireland is still going Rome-ward, and Rome
+is not my way."
+
+"You are the ship, Ned, and you came to harbour in Ireland. But
+you and I are like two ships that have lain side by side in the
+harbour, and now--"
+
+"And now what, Ellen? Go on!"
+
+"It seemed to me that we were like two ships."
+
+"That is the very thing I was thinking on the hills. The
+comparison of two ships rose up in my mind on the hill, and then I
+remembered a passage." And when he had repeated it she said:--
+
+"So there is no hope for us on earth. We are but segments of a
+starry curve, and must be content with our stellar friendship.
+But, Ned, we shall never be enemies on earth. I am not your enemy,
+and never shall be. So we have nothing to think of now but our
+past friendship. The memory of our past--is all that remains? And
+it was for that you left America after the Cuban war? There is our
+child. You love the little boy, don't you, Ned?"
+
+"Yes," he said, "I love the little boy.... But you'll bring him
+up a Catholic. You'll bring him up to love the things that I
+hate."
+
+"Let there be no bitterness between us to-night, Ned dear. Let
+there be only love. If not love, affection at least. This is our
+last night."
+
+"How is that?"
+
+"Because, Ned, when one is so bent upon going as you are it is
+better he should go at once. I give you your freedom. You can go
+in the morning or when you please. But remember, Ned, that you can
+come back when you please, that I shall be always glad to see
+you."
+
+They went up-stairs and looked for some time on the child, who was
+sleeping. Ellen took him out of his bed, and she looked very
+pretty, Ned thought, holding the half-awakened child, and she kept
+the little quilt about him so that he might not catch cold.
+
+He put his hands into his eyes and looked at his father, and then
+hid his face in his mother's neck, for the light blinded him and
+he wished to go to sleep.
+
+"Let me put him back in his bed," Ned said, and he took his son
+and put him back, and he kissed him. As he did so he wondered how
+it was that he could feel so much affection for his son and at the
+same time desire to leave his home.
+
+"Now, Ned, you must kiss me, and do not think I am angry with you
+for going. I know you are dull here, that you have got nothing
+further to do in Ireland, but it will be different when you come
+back."
+
+"And is it possible that you aren't angry with me, Ellen, for
+going?"
+
+"I am sorry you are going, Ned--in a way, but I should be more
+sorry to see you stay here and learn to hate me."
+
+"You are very wise, Ellen. But why did you read that manuscript?"
+
+"I suppose because God wished me to."
+
+One thing Ireland had done for him, and for that he would be
+always grateful to Ireland--Ireland had revealed a noble woman to
+him; and distance would bring a closer and more intimate
+appreciation of her.
+
+He left early next morning before she was awake in order to save
+her the pain of farewells, and all that day in Dublin he walked
+about, possessed by the great joyful yearning of the wild goose
+when it rises one bright morning from the warm marshes, scenting
+the harsh north through leagues of air, and goes away on steady
+wing-beats. But he did not feel he was a free soul until the
+outlines of Howth began to melt into the grey drift of evening.
+There was a little mist on the water, and he stood watching the
+waves tossing in the mist thinking that it were well that he had
+left home--if he had stayed he would have come to accept all the
+base moral coinage in circulation; and he stood watching the green
+waves tossing in the mist, at one moment ashamed of what he had
+done, at the next overjoyed that he had done it.
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+THE WAY BACK
+
+
+
+
+It was a pleasure to meet, even when they had nothing to say, and
+the two men had stopped to talk.
+
+"Still in London, Rodney."
+
+"Yes, till the end of the week; and then I go to Italy. And you?
+You're going to meet Sir Owen Asher at Marseilles."
+
+"I am going to Ireland," and, catching sight of a look of
+astonishment and disapproval on Rodney's face, Harding began to
+explain why he must return to Ireland.
+
+"The rest of your life is quite clear," said Rodney. "You knew
+from the beginning that Paris was the source of all art, that
+everyone here who is more distinguished than the others has been
+to Paris. We go to Paris with baskets on our backs, and sticks in
+our hands, and bring back what we can pick up. And having lived
+immersed in art till you're forty, you return to the Catholic
+Celt! Your biographer will be puzzled to explain this last
+episode, and, however he may explain it, it will seem a
+discrepancy."
+
+"I suppose one should think of one's biographer."
+
+"It will be more like yourself to get Asher to land you at one of
+the Italian ports. We will go to Perugia and see Raphael's first
+frescoes, done when he was sixteen, and the town itself climbing
+down into ravines. The streets are lonely at midday, but towards
+evening a breeze blows up from both seas--Italy is very narrow
+there--and the people begin to come out; and from the battlements
+one sees the lights of Assisi glimmering through the dusk."
+
+"I may never see Italy. Go on talking. I like to hear you talk
+about Italy."
+
+"There are more beautiful things in Italy than in the rest of the
+world put together, and there is nothing so beautiful as Italy.
+Just fancy a man like you never having seen the Campagna. I
+remember opening my shutters one morning in August at Frascati.
+The poisonous mists lay like clouds, but the sun came out and
+shone through them, and the wind drove them before it, and every
+moment a hill appeared, and the great aqueducts, and the tombs,
+and the wild grasses at the edge of the tombs waving feverishly;
+and here and there a pine, or group of pines with tufted heads,
+like Turner used to draw.... The plain itself is so shapely. Rome
+lies like a little dot in the middle of it, and it is littered
+with ruins. The great tomb of Cecilia Metella is there, built out
+of blocks of stone as big as an ordinary room. He must have loved
+her very much to raise such a tomb to her memory, and she must
+have been a wonderful woman." Rodney paused a moment and then he
+said: "The walls of the tombs are let in with sculpture, and there
+are seats for wayfarers, and they will last as long as the world,--
+they are ever-lasting."
+
+"Of one thing I'm sure," said Harding. "I must get out of London.
+I can't bear its ugliness any longer."
+
+The two men crossed Piccadilly, and Harding told Rodney Asher's
+reason for leaving London.
+
+"He says he is subject to nightmares, and lately he has been
+waking up in the middle of the night thinking that London and
+Liverpool had joined. Asher is right. No town ought to be more
+than fifty miles long. I like your description of Perugia. Every
+town should be walled round, now we trail into endless suburbs."
+
+"But the Green Park is beautiful, and these evening distances!"
+
+"Never mind the Green Park; come and have a cup of tea. Asher has
+bought a new picture. I'd like to show it to you. But," said
+Harding, "I forgot to tell you that I met your model."
+
+"Lucy Delaney? Where?"
+
+"Here, I met her here," said Harding, and he took Rodney's arm so
+that he might be able to talk to him more easily. "One evening, a
+week ago, I was loitering, just as I was loitering to-day, and it
+was at the very door of St. James's Hotel that she spoke to me."
+
+"How did she get to London? and I didn't know that you knew her."
+
+"A girl came up suddenly and asked me the way to the Gaiety
+Theatre, and I told her, adding, however, that the Gaiety Theatre
+was closed. 'What shall I do?' I heard her say, and she walked on;
+I hesitated and then walked after her. 'I beg your pardon,' I
+said, 'the Gaiety Theatre is closed, but there are other theatres
+equally good. Shall I direct you?' 'Oh, I don't know what I shall
+do. I have run away from home.... I have set fire to my school
+and have come over to London thinking that I might go on the
+stage.' She had set fire to her school! I never saw more winning
+eyes. But she's a girl men would look after, and not liking to
+stand talking to her in Piccadilly, I asked her to come down
+Berkeley Street. I was very curious to know who was this girl who
+had set fire to her school and had come over to London to go on
+the stage; and we walked on, she telling me that she had set fire
+to her school so that she might be able to get away in the
+confusion. I hoped I should not meet anyone I knew, and let her
+prattle on until we got to the Square. The Square shone like a
+ball-room with a great plume of green branches in the middle and
+every corner a niche of gaudy window boxes. Past us came the
+season's stream of carriages, the women resting against the
+cushions looking like finely cultivated flowers. The beauty of the
+Square that afternoon astonished me. I wondered how it struck
+Lucy. Very likely she was only thinking of her Gaiety Theatre!"
+
+"But how did you know her name?"
+
+"You remember it was at the corner of Berkeley Square that Evelyn
+Innes stood when she went to see Owen Asher for the first time,
+she used to tell me how she stood at the curb watching London
+passing by her, thinking that one day London would be going to
+hear her sing. As soon as there was a break in the stream of
+carriages I took Lucy across. We could talk unobserved in the
+Square, and she continued her story. 'I'm nearly seventeen,' she
+said, 'and I was sent back to school because I sat for a
+sculpture.'"
+
+"What did you sit for?"
+
+"For a statue of the Blessed Virgin, and a priest told on me."
+
+"Then you're Lucy Delaney, and the sculptor you sat for is John
+Rodney, one of my intimate friends."
+
+"What an extraordinary coincidence," said Rodney. "I never thought
+that Lucy would stay in Ireland. Go on with your story."
+
+"When I found out who she was there seemed no great harm in asking
+her in to have some tea. Asher will forgive you anything if
+there's a woman in it; you may keep him waiting half an hour if
+you assure him your appointment was with a married woman. Well,
+Lucy had arrived that morning in London with threepence in her
+pocket, so I told the footman to boil a couple of eggs. I should
+have liked to have offered her a substantial meal, but that would
+have set the servants talking. Never did a girl eat with a better
+appetite, and when she had finished a second plateful of buttered
+toast she began to notice the pictures. I could see that she had
+been in a studio and had talked about art. It is extraordinary how
+quick a girl is to acquire the ideas of a man she likes. She
+admired Manet's picture of Evelyn, and I told her Evelyn's story--
+knowing it would interest her. 'That such a happy fate should be a
+woman's and that she should reject it,' her eyes seemed to say.
+'She is now,' I said, 'singing Ave Marias at Wimbledon for the
+pecuniary benefit of the nuns and the possible salvation of her
+own soul.' Her walk tells the length of the limbs and the balance
+of the body, and my eyes followed her as she moved about the room,
+and when I told her I had seen the statue and had admired the
+legs, she turned and said, with a pretty pleased look, that you
+always said that she had pretty legs. When I asked her if you had
+made love to her, she said you had not, that you were always too
+busy with your sculpture."
+
+"One can't think of two things at the same time. If I had met her
+in Paris it would have been different."
+
+"Unfortunately I was dining out that evening. It was hard to know
+what to do. At last I thought of a lodging-house kept by a
+praiseworthy person, and took her round there and, cursing my
+dinner-party, I left her in charge of the landlady."
+
+"Like a pot of jam left carefully under cover... That will be all
+right till to-morrow," said Rodney.
+
+"Very likely. It is humiliating to admit it, but it is so; the
+substance of our lives is woman; all other things are
+irrelevancies, hypocrisies, subterfuges. We sit talking of sport
+and politics, and all the while our hearts are filled with
+memories of women and plans for the capture of women. Consciously
+or unconsciously we regard every young woman from the one point of
+view, 'Will she do?' You know the little look that passes between
+men and women as their hansoms cross? Do not the eyes say: 'Yes,
+yes, if we were to meet we might come to an understanding?' We're
+ashamed that it should be so, but it is the law that is over us.
+And that night at my dinner-party, while talking to wise mammas
+and their more or less guileless daughters, I thought of the
+disgrace if it were found out that I had picked up a girl in the
+street and put her in charge of the landlady."
+
+"But one couldn't leave her to the mercy of the street."
+
+"Quite so; but I'm speaking now of what was in the back of my
+mind."
+
+"The pot of jam carefully covered up," said Rodney, laughing.
+
+"Yes, the pot of jam; and while talking about the responsibilities
+of Empire, I was thinking that I might send out for a canvas in
+the morning and sketch something out on it; and when I got home I
+looked out a photograph of some women bathing. I expected her
+about twelve, and she found me hard at work.
+
+"Oh, I didn't know that you were a painter," she said.
+
+"No more I am, I used to be; and thinking of Rodney's statue and
+what I can see of you through that dress I thought I'd try and do
+something like you."
+
+"I'm thinner than that."
+
+"You're not thin."
+
+"We argued the point, and I tried to persuade her to give me a
+sitting. She broke away, saying that it wasn't the same thing, and
+that she had sat for you because there were no models in Dublin.
+'You've been very good to me,' she said, 'I should have had to
+sleep in the Park last night if it had not been for you. Do
+continue to be good to me and get me on the stage, for if you
+don't I shall have to go back to Dublin or to America.' 'America,'
+I said. 'Do you want to go to America?' She didn't answer, and
+when she was pressed for an answer, she said: 'Well, all the Irish
+go to America, I didn't mean anything more; I am too worried to
+know what I am saying,' and then, seeing me turn round to look at
+my picture, she said, 'I will sit to you one of these days, but I
+am too unhappy and frightened now. I don't like saying no; it is
+always disagreeable to say no.' And seeing it would give her no
+pleasure to sit, I did not ask her again."
+
+"I'm sorry you missed seeing something very beautiful."
+
+"I daresay she'd have sat if I'd have pressed her, but she was
+under my protection, and it seemed cowardly to press her, for she
+could not refuse. Suddenly we seemed to have nothing more to say
+to each other, and I asked her if she'd like to see a manager, and
+as it seemed a pity she should waste herself on the Gaiety Theatre
+I took her to see Sir Edward Higgins. The mummer was going out to
+lunch with a lord and could only think of the people he was going
+to meet. So we went to Dorking's Theatre, and we found Dorking
+with his acting manager. The acting manager had been listening for
+a long while and wasn't sorry for the interruption. But we had not
+been talking for more than two or three minutes when the call-boy
+brought in a bundle of newspaper cuttings, and the mummer had not
+the patience to wait until he was alone--one reads one's cuttings
+alone--he stuck his knees together and opened the bundle, columns
+of print flowed over his knees, and after telling us what the
+critics were saying about him, mention was made of Ibsen, and we
+wondered if there was any chance of getting the public to come to
+see a good play. You know the conversation drifts."
+
+"You couldn't get her an engagement," said Rodney, "I should have
+thought she was suited to the stage."
+
+"If there had been time I could have done something for her; she's
+a pretty girl, but you see all these things take a long time, and
+Lucy wanted an engagement at once. When we left the theatre I
+began to realise the absurdity of the adventure, and the danger to
+which I was exposing myself. I, a man of over forty, seeking the
+seduction of a girl of seventeen--for that is the plain English of
+it. We walked on side by side, and I asked myself, 'What am I to
+her, what is she to me? But one may argue with one's self
+forever."
+
+"One may indeed," said Rodney, laughing, "one may argue, but the
+law that is over us."
+
+"Well, the law that is over us compelled me to take her to lunch,
+and she enjoyed the lunch and the great restaurant. 'What a number
+of butlers,' she said. After lunch the same problem confronted me:
+Was I or was I not going to pursue the adventure? I only knew for
+certain that I could not walk about the streets with Lucy. She is
+a pretty girl, but she looked odd enough in her country clothes.
+Suddenly it struck me that I might take her into the country, to
+Wimbledon."
+
+"And you took her there and heard Evelyn Innes sing. And what did
+Lucy think? A very pretty experiment in experimental psychology."
+
+"The voice is getting thinner. She sang Stradella's Chanson
+D'Eglise, and Lucy could hardly speak when we came out of church.
+'Oh, what a wonderful voice,' she said, 'do you think she
+regrets?' 'Whatever we do we regret,' I answered, not because I
+thought the observation original, but because it seemed suitable
+to the occasion; 'and we regret still more what we don't do.' And
+I asked myself if I should write to Lucy's people as we walked
+about the Common. But Lucy wanted to hear about Owen Asher and
+Evelyn, and the operas she had sung, and I told the story of
+Tannhauser and Tristan. She had never heard such stories before,
+and, as we got up from the warm grass, she said that she could
+imagine Evelyn standing in the nuns' garden with her eyes fixed on
+the calm skies, getting courage from them to persevere. Wasn't it
+clever of her? We dined together in a small restaurant and I spent
+the evening with her in the lodging-house; the landlady let us her
+sitting-room. Lucy is charming, and her happiness is volatile and
+her melancholy too; she's persuasive and insinuating as a perfume;
+and when I left the house, it was as if I had come out of a
+moonlight garden. 'Thy green eyes look upon me... I love the
+moonlight of thine eyes.'"
+
+"Go on," said Rodney, "what happened after that?"
+
+"The most disagreeable thing that ever happened to me in my life.
+You don't know what it is to be really afraid. I didn't until a
+fellow came up to me at the club and asked me if I had seen the
+detectives. Fear is a terrible thing, Rodney; there is nothing so
+demoralising as fear. You know my staid old club of black mahogany
+and low ceilings, where half a dozen men sit dining and talking
+about hunting and two-year-olds. There is a man in that club who
+has asked me for the last ten years what I am going to do with my
+two-year-olds. He cannot remember that I never had a two-year-old.
+But that night he wasn't tipsy, and his sobriety impressed me; he
+sat down at my table, and after a while he leaned across and asked
+me if I knew that two detectives had been asking after me. 'You
+had better look to this. These things turn out devilish
+unpleasantly. Of course there is nothing wrong, but you don't want
+to appear in the police court,' he said."
+
+"Had she told?"
+
+"She was more frightened than I was when I told her what had
+happened, but she had done the mischief nevertheless. She had
+written to her people saying that she had met a friend of Mr.
+Rodney, and that he was looking after her, and that he lived in
+Berkeley Square; she was quite simple and truthful, and
+notwithstanding my fear I was sorry for her, for we might have
+gone away together somewhere, but, of course, that was impossible
+now; her folly left no course open to me except to go to Dublin
+and explain everything to her parents."
+
+"I don't see," said Rodney, "that there was anything against you."
+
+"Yes, but I was judging myself according to inward motives, and
+for some time I did not see how admirable my conduct would seem to
+an unintelligent jury. There is nothing to do between London and
+Holyhead, and I composed the case for the prosecution and the case
+for the defence and the judge's summing up. I wrote the articles
+in the newspapers next day and the paragraphs in the evening
+papers:... I had met her at the corner of Berkeley Street and she
+had asked me the way to the Gaiety Theatre; and, being anxious for
+her safety, I had asked her why she wanted the Gaiety Theatre, for
+of course if the case came to trial I should not have approved of
+the Gaiety, and disapproval would have won all the Methodists. The
+girl had told me that she had set fire to her school, and an
+excitable girl like that would soon be lost. I don't know what
+expression the newspapers would use--'in the labyrinths of London
+vice,' she was just the kind of girl that a little good advice
+might save from ruin. She had told me that she knew you, I was her
+only friend, etc. What could I do better than to take her to a
+lodging-house where I had lodged myself and put her in charge of
+the landlady? The landlady would be an important witness, and I
+think it was at Rugby Junction that I began to hear the judge
+saying I had acted with great discretion and kindness, and left
+the court without a stain upon my character. Nevertheless, I
+should have appeared in a police court on a charge of abducting a
+girl, a seventeen-year-old maiden; and not everyone would be duped
+by outward appearances, many would have guessed the truth, and,
+though we're all the same, every one tries to hide the secret of
+our common humanity. But I had forgotten to ask Lucy for the
+address. I only knew the name, and that the Delaneys were cheese-
+mongers, so I had to call on every cheese-monger called Delaney.
+My peregrinations were too absurd. 'Have you got a daughter? Has
+she left you and gone to London? And that all day in one form or
+another, for it was not until evening that I found the Delaneys I
+was seeking. The shop was shutting up, but there was a light in
+the passage, and one of the boys let me in and I went up the
+narrow stairs."
+
+"I know them," said Rodney.
+
+"And the room--"
+
+"I know it," said Rodney.
+
+"The horse-hair chairs full of holes."
+
+"I know the rails," said Rodney, "they catch you about here,
+across the thighs."
+
+"The table in the middle of the room; the smell of the petroleum
+lamp and the great chair--"
+
+"I know," said Rodney, "the Buddah seated! An enormous head! The
+smoking-cap and the tassel hanging out of it!"
+
+"The great cheeks hanging and the little eyes, intelligent eyes,
+too, under the eyebrows, the only animation in his face. He must
+be sixteen stone!"
+
+"He is eighteen."
+
+"The long clay pipe and the fat hands with the nails bitten."
+
+"I see you have been observing him," said Rodney.
+
+"The brown waistcoat with the white bone buttons, curving over the
+belly, and the belly shelving down into the short fat thighs, and
+the great feet wrapped in woollen slippers!"
+
+"He suffers terribly, and hardly dares to stir out of that chair
+on account of the stone in the bladder, which he won't have
+removed."
+
+"How characteristic the room seemed to me," said Harding. "The
+piano against the wall near the window."
+
+"I know," said Rodney. "Lucy used to sit there playing. She plays
+beautifully."
+
+"Yes, she plays very well."
+
+"Go on," said Rodney, "what happened?"
+
+"You know the mother, the thin woman with a pretty figure and the
+faded hair and the features like Lucy's,"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I had just begun my little explanation about the top of Berkeley
+Square, how a girl came up to me and asked me the way to the
+Gaiety Theatre, when this little woman rushed forward and, taking
+hold of both my hands, said: 'We are so much obliged to you; and
+we do not know how much to thank you.' A chair was pushed
+forward--"
+
+"Which chair?" said Rodney. "I know them all. Was it the one with
+the hole in the middle, or was the hole in the side?"
+
+"'If it hadn't been for you,' said Mrs. Delaney, 'I don't know
+what would have happened.' 'We've much to thank you for,' said the
+big man, and he begged to be excused for not getting up. His wife
+interrupted him in an explanation regarding his illness, and
+gradually I began to see that, from their point of view, I was
+Lucy's saviour, a white Knight, a modern Sir Galahad. They hoped I
+had suffered no inconvenience when the detectives called at the
+Club. They had communicated with Scotland Yard, not because they
+suspected me of wishing to abduct their daughter, but because they
+wished to recover their daughter, and it was important that she
+should be recovered at once, for she was engaged to be married to
+a mathematical instrument maker who was on his way from Chicago;
+he was expected in a few days; he was at that moment on the
+Atlantic, and if it had not been for my admirable conduct, Mrs.
+Delaney did not know what story she could have told Mr.
+Wainscott."
+
+"So Lucy is going to marry a mathematical instrument maker in
+Chicago?"
+
+"Yes," said Harding, "and she is probably married to him by now.
+It went to my heart to tell her that her mother was coming over to
+fetch her, and that the mathematical instrument maker would arrive
+early next week. But I had to tell her these unpleasant things,
+for I could not take her away in Owen Asher's yacht, her age and
+the circumstances forbade an agreeable episode among the Greek
+Islands. She is charming.... Poor Lucy! She slipped down on the
+floor very prettily and her hair fell on my knees. 'It isn't fair,
+you're going away on a yacht, and I am going to Chicago.' And when
+I lifted her up she sat upon my knees and wept. 'Why don't you
+take me away?' she said. 'My dear Lucy, I'm forty and you're
+seventeen.' Her eyes grew enigmatic. 'I shall never live with
+him,' she said."
+
+"Did you kiss her?"
+
+"We spent the evening together and I was sorry for her."
+
+"But you don't know for certain that she married Wainscott."
+
+"Yes. Wainscott wrote me a letter," and after some searching in
+his pockets Harding found the letter.
+
+"'DEAR SIR,--Mr. and Mrs. Delaney have told me of your kindness to
+Lucy, and Lucy has told me of the trouble you took trying to get
+her an engagement, and I write to thank you. Lucy did not know at
+the time that I had become a partner in the firm of Sheldon &
+Flint, and she thought that she might go on the stage and make
+money by singing, for she has a pretty voice, to help me to buy a
+partnership in the business of Sheldon & Flint. It was a kind
+thought. Lucy's heart is in the right place, and it was kind of
+you, sir, to take her to different managers. She has given me an
+exact account of all you did for her.
+
+"'We are going to be married to-morrow, and next week we sail for
+the States. I live, sir, in Chicago City, and if you are ever in
+America Lucy and myself will esteem it an honour if you will come
+to see us.
+
+"'Lucy would write to you herself if she were not tired, having
+had to look after many things.
+
+"'I am, dear sir,
+
+"'Very sincerely yours,
+
+"'JAMES WAINSCOTT.'"
+
+"Lucy wanted life," said Rodney, "and she will find her adventure
+sooner or later. Poor Lucy!"
+
+"Lucy is the stuff the great women are made of and will make a
+noise in the world yet."
+
+"It is well she has gone; for it is many years since there was
+honour in Ireland for a Grania."
+
+"Maybe you'll meet her in Paris and will do another statue from
+her."
+
+"It wouldn't be the same thing. Ah! my statue, my poor statue.
+Nothing but a lump of clay. I nearly went out of my mind. At first
+I thought it was the priest who ordered it to be broken. But no,
+two little boys who heard a priest talking. They tell strange
+stories in Dublin about that statue. It appears that, after seeing
+it, Father McCabe went straight to Father Brennan, and the priests
+sat till midnight, sipping their punch and considering this fine
+point of theology--if a man may ask a woman to sit naked to him;
+and then if it would be justifiable to employ a naked woman for a
+statue of the Virgin. Father Brennan said, 'Nakedness is not a
+sin,' and Father McCabe said, 'Nakedness may not be in itself a
+sin, but it leads to sin, and is therefore unjustifiable.' At
+their third tumbler of punch they had reached Raphael, and at the
+fourth Father McCabe held that bad statues were more likely to
+excite devotional feelings than good ones, bad statues being
+further removed from perilous Nature."
+
+"I can see the two priests, I can hear them. If an exception be
+made in favour of the Virgin, would the sculptor be justified in
+employing a model to do a statue of a saint?"
+
+"No one supposes that Rubens did not employ a model for his
+descent from the Cross," said Rodney.
+
+"A man is different, that's what the priests would say."
+
+"Yet, that slender body, slipping like a cut flower into women's
+hands, has inspired more love in woman than the Virgin has in
+men."
+
+"I can see these two obtuse priests. I can hear them. I should
+like to write the scene," said Harding.
+
+The footman brought in the tea, and Harding told him that if Mr.
+Carmady called he was to show him in, and it was not long after
+that a knock came at the front door.
+
+"You have come in time for a cup of tea, Carmady. You know
+Rodney?"
+
+"Yes, indeed."
+
+"Carmady used to come to my studio. Many's the time we've had
+about the possibility of a neo-pagan Celtic renaissance. But I did
+not know you were in London. When did you arrive?"
+
+"Yesterday. I'm going to South Africa. There's fighting going on
+there, and it is a brand new country."
+
+"Three Irishmen meet," said Rodney; "one seeking a country with a
+future, one seeking a country with a past, and one thinking of
+going back to a country without past or future."
+
+"Is Harding going back to Ireland?" said Carmady.
+
+"Yes," said Rodney. "You tried to snuff out the Catholic candle,
+but Harding hopes to trim it."
+
+"I'm tired of talking about Ireland. I've talked enough."
+
+"This is the last time, Carmady, you'll be called to talk about
+Ireland. We'd like to hear you."
+
+"There is no free thought, and where there is no free thought
+there is no intellectual life. The priests take their ideas from
+Rome cut and dried like tobacco and the people take their ideas
+from the priests cut and dried like tobacco. Ireland is a
+terrifying example of what becomes of a country when it accepts
+prejudices and conventions and ceases to inquire out the truth."
+
+"You don't believe," said Harding, "in the possibility of a Celtic
+renaissance--that with the revival of the languages?"
+
+"I do not believe in Catholics. The Catholic kneels like the camel
+that burdens may be laid upon him. You know as well as I do,
+Harding, that the art and literature of the fifteenth and
+sixteenth centuries were due to a sudden dispersal, a sudden
+shedding of the prejudices and conventions of the middle ages; the
+renaissance was a joyous returning to Hellenism, the source of all
+beauty. There is as little free love in Ireland as there is free
+thought; men have ceased to care for women and women to care for
+men. Nothing thrives in Ireland but the celibate, the priest, the
+nun, and the ox. There is no unfaith, and the violence of the
+priest is against any sensual transgression. A girl marries at
+once or becomes a nun--a free girl is a danger. There is no
+courtship, there is no walking out, and the passion which is the
+direct inspiration of all the world's music and art is reduced to
+the mere act of begetting children."
+
+"Love books his passage in the emigrant ship," said Rodney. "You
+speak truly. There are no bastards in Ireland; and the bastard is
+the outward sign of inward grace."
+
+"That which tends to weaken life is the only evil, that which
+strengthens life the only good, and the result of this puritanical
+Catholicism will be an empty Ireland."
+
+"Dead beyond hope of resurrection," said Rodney.
+
+"I don't say that; a wave of paganism may arise, and only a pagan
+revival can save Ireland."
+
+"Ah, the beautiful pagan world!" said Rodney; "morality is but a
+dream, an academic discussion, but beauty is a reality."
+
+"Out of the billions of men that have been born into the world,"
+said Carmady, "I am only sure that two would have been better
+unborn; and the second was but a reincarnation of the first."
+
+"And who were they?" said Rodney.
+
+"St. Paul and Luther. Had it not been for Paul, the whole ghostly
+theory would have been a failure, and had it not been for Luther
+the name of Christ would be forgotten now. When the acetic monk,
+barefooted, ragged, with prayer-haunted eyes, went to Rome, Rome
+had reverted to her ancient paganism, statues took the place of
+sacraments, and the cardinals drove about Rome with their
+mistresses."
+
+"The Pope, too," said Rodney.
+
+"Everything was for the best when the pilgrim monk turned in shame
+and horror from the awakening; the kingdom of the earth was
+cursed. We certainly owe the last four hundred years of
+Christianity to Luther."
+
+"I wonder if that is so," said Rodney.
+
+After a pause, Carmady continued, "Belief is declining, but those
+who disavow the divinity of Christ eagerly insist that they retain
+his morality--the cowardly morality of the weak who demand a
+redeemer to redeem them. The morality of the Ghetto prevails;
+Christians are children of the Ghetto."
+
+"It is given to men to choose between sacraments and statues,"
+said Rodney. "Beauty is a reality, morality is a myth, and Ireland
+has always struck me as a place for which God had intended to do
+something, but He changed his mind and that change of mind
+happened about a thousand years ago. Quite true that the Gael was
+hunted as if he were vermin for centuries, and had to think how to
+save his life. But there is no use thinking what the Gael might
+have done. It is quite certain he'll never do it now--the time has
+gone by; everything has been done and gloriously."
+
+And for a long while Rodney spoke of Italy.
+
+"I'll show you a city," he said, "no bigger than Rathmines, and in
+it Michael Angelo, Donatello, Del Sarto, and Da Vinci lived, and
+lived contemporaneously. Now what have these great pagans left the
+poor Catholic Celt to do? All that he was intended to do he did in
+the tenth century. Since then he has produced an incredible number
+of priests and policemen, some fine prize-fighters, and some
+clever lawyers; but nothing more serious. Ireland is too far
+north. Sculpture does not get farther north than Paris--oranges
+and sculpture! the orange zone and its long cigars, cigars eight
+inches long, a penny each, and lasting the whole day. They are
+lighted from a taper that is passed round in the cafes. The fruit
+that one can buy for three halfpence, enough for a meal! And the
+eating of the fruit by the edge of the canal--seeing beautiful
+things all the while. But, Harding, you sit there saying nothing.
+No, you're not going back to Ireland. Before you came in, Carmady,
+I was telling Harding that he was not acting fairly towards his
+biographer. The poor man will not be able to explain this Celtic
+episode satisfactorily. Nothing short of a Balzac could make it
+convincing."
+
+Rodney laughed loudly; the idea amused him, and he could imagine a
+man refraining from any excess that might disturb and perplex or
+confuse his biographer.
+
+"How did the Celtic idea come to you, Harding? Do you remember?"
+
+"How do ideas come to anyone?" said Harding. "A thought passes. A
+sudden feeling comes over you, and you're never the same again.
+Looking across a park with a view of the mountains in the
+distance, I perceived a pathetic beauty in the country itself that
+I had not perceived before; and a year afterwards I was driving
+about the Dublin mountains, and met two women on the road; there
+was something pathetic and wistful about them, something dear,
+something intimate, and I felt drawn towards them. I felt I should
+like to live among these people again. There is a proverb in Irish
+which says that no man ever wanders far from his grave sod. We are
+thrown out, and we circle a while in the air, and return to the
+feet of the thrower. But what astonished me is the interest that
+everybody takes in my departure. Everyone seems agreed that
+nothing could be more foolish, nothing more mad. But if I were to
+go to meet Asher at Marseilles, and cruise with him in the Greek
+Islands, and go on to Cairo, and spend the winter talking to
+wearisome society, everyone would consider my conduct most
+rational. You, my dear friend, Rodney, you tempt me with Italy and
+conversations about yellowing marbles; and you won't be angry with
+me when I tell you that all your interesting utterances about the
+Italian renaissance would not interest me half so much as what
+Paddy Durkin and Father Pat will say to me on the roadside."
+
+
+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Untilled Field
+by George Moore
+
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