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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/4034-h.zip b/4034-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..67256f1 --- /dev/null +++ b/4034-h.zip diff --git a/4034-h/4034-h.htm b/4034-h/4034-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..23f7ce4 --- /dev/null +++ b/4034-h/4034-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15374 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Untilled Field, by George Moore +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Untilled Field, by George Moore + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Untilled Field + +Author: George Moore + +Posting Date: June 7, 2009 [EBook #4034] +Release Date: May, 2003 +First Posted: October 17, 2001 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNTILLED FIELD *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +THE UNTILLED FIELD +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +by +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +George Moore +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">IN THE CLAY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">SOME PARISHIONERS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">THE EXILE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">HOME SICKNESS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">A LETTER TO ROME</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">JULIA CAHILL'S CURSE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">A PLAYHOUSE IN THE WASTE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">THE WEDDING-GOWN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">THE CLERK'S QUEST</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">"ALMS-GIVING"</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">SO ON HE FARES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">THE WILD GOOSE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIII. </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap13">THE WAY BACK</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER I +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IN THE CLAY +</H3> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +He hastened his steps and he would have run if he had not been ashamed +to betray his fears to the char-woman. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"That doesn't matter," said Rodney. "My group is gone." +</P> + +<P> +"But that, sir, was only in the clay. May I be helping you to pick it +up, sir? It is not broken altogether perhaps." +</P> + +<P> +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! +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"If I had lived three hundred years ago," he said, "I should have been +one of Cellini's apprentices." +</P> + +<P> +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? +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"How late you work! Sometimes your light does not go out until twelve +o'clock at night." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't want a nude model for Our Blessed Lady. Do you?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +The charwoman had closed the door, and he did not hear Lucy until she +was in the studio. +</P> + +<P> +"I have come to tell you that I cannot sit again. But what has +happened?" +</P> + +<P> +Rodney got up, and she could see that his misfortune was greater than +her's. +</P> + +<P> +"Who has done this?" she said. "Your casts are all broken." +</P> + +<P> +"Who, indeed, has done this?" +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"The statue of the Virgin is a lump of clay. Oh, don't look at it. I am +out of my mind." +</P> + +<P> +She took two or three steps forward. +</P> + +<P> +"There it is," he said. "Don't speak about it, don't touch it." +</P> + +<P> +"Something may be left." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I suspect no one. It is very strange." +</P> + +<P> +"You were going to tell me something when you came in. You said you +could not sit to me again. Why is that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because they have found out everything at home, that I sat for you, +for the Virgin." +</P> + +<P> +"But they don't know that—" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Rodney and Lucy stood looking at each other, and she had spoken with +such conviction that he felt she might be right. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I am sure you are wronging Father Tom; he has his faults, but he would +not do such a thing as that." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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!" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now," she said, "I must go." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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? +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"It wasn't Father Tom. I knew it wasn't," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know who it was then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, my brothers, Pat and Taigdh." +</P> + +<P> +"Pat and Taigdh broke my statue! But what did they do that for? What +did I ever do to them?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But why did they break the statue?" said Rodney. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"My lay figure." +</P> + +<P> +"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.'" +</P> + +<P> +"They must have heard the priest saying that he did not want the +statue." +</P> + +<P> +"Very likely they did, but I am sure the priest never said that he +wanted the statue broken." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I shall not see you again,... and you said I was a good model." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER II +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SOME PARISHIONERS +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"The greatest saints," he said, "have been kind, and have found excuses +for the sins of others." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"They may just leave you, they may just go to America." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you think that it is our condemnation of sin that is driving the +people to America." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But—" +</P> + +<P> +Father Tom's anger prevented him from finding an adequate argument. +Father Stafford pushed the tobacco bowl towards his nephew. +</P> + +<P> +"You're not smoking, Tom." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"The sexes mix freely everywhere in western Europe; only in Ireland and +Turkey is there any attempt made to separate them." +</P> + +<P> +Later in the evening Father Tom insisted that the measure of +responsibility was always the same. +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +"You cannot deny, uncle John, that free will and predestination—" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Tom, I really must go to bed. It is after midnight." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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? +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Sorra sign," said Ned. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"From the beginning she did not like living at home," said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't care about living at home," said Ned. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"She and mother never stop quarrelling about Pat Connex." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"That's it," said Ned. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you see he comes up and plays the melodion on Saturday night," +said Ned, "and she can't stop him from doing that." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you think," said the priest, "that Pat will marry your sister?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think she wants to marry him." +</P> + +<P> +"If she doesn't want to marry him, what's all this talk about?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And who may your reverence be thinking of?" +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But if you tell her that Pat Connex will be at the lecture will she +come?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, your reverence, if she believes me." +</P> + +<P> +"Then do as I bid you," said the priest; "you can tell her that Pat +Connex will be there." +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry your dinner is not ready, father, but it won't be long now. +I'll cut the bacon." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"We've just come in for a minute," said Mary. "Ned said that perhaps +you'd be coming with us." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be tired, go on blowing," he said. "You are the laziest child I +have seen this long while." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"You must be very much interested in poultry, ma'am, to come out on +such a night as this." +</P> + +<P> +The lady stood shaking her waterproof. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, then, Lizzie, run to your mother and get the lady a chair." +</P> + +<P> +And when the child came back with the chair, and the lady was seated by +the fire, he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, a little—but—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, that doesn't matter," said the priest. "I'm sure the book you have +read is full of instruction." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +The young woman again protested, but the priest said:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"But couldn't some one dance or sing," said the young lady. +</P> + +<P> +"Dancing and singing!" said the priest. "No!" +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"Now will you stand over there near the harmonium. Whom shall I +announce?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You must," she said, "set your eggs in January." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Biddy, you must know all about this, and I insist on your telling +us. We are here to learn." +</P> + +<P> +Biddy did not answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Then what were you smiling at?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wasn't smiling, your reverence." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; I saw you smiling. Is it because you think there isn't a brooding +hin in January?" +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Only that it can't be done." said the priest. "Well, you ought to +know, Biddy." +</P> + +<P> +The villagers were laughing. +</P> + +<P> +"That will do," said the priest. "I don't mind your having a bit of +amusement, but you're here to learn." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +From one of the back rows a voice was heard:— +</P> + +<P> +"What about the pump, your reverence?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, indeed, you may ask," said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +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? +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"Father Stafford," he said abruptly, "will be very glad to hear of your +marriage, Kate Kavanagh." +</P> + +<P> +"My marriage," said Kate .... "I don't think I shall ever be married." +</P> + +<P> +"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:— +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think, your reverence, anyone would have me." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd like to be married well enough," said Kate. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think a girl should make her own marriage, your reverence." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"I hear your reverence." +</P> + +<P> +"And if you hear me, what have you got to say to that?" +</P> + +<P> +"He's free to go after the girl he chooses, your reverence," said Kate. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you hear what I'm saying to you?" said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I hear," said Pat. +</P> + +<P> +"And aren't you going?" said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"If you weren't a priest," said Pat, "the devil a bit of you would put +me out of the door." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure I never meant it. I like Peter." +</P> + +<P> +"You acted out of recklessness without knowing what you were doing." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +When Kate gave him her hand there was a mist in his eyes, and he stood +trembling before her. +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"They'd have the cassock off your back, your reverence, if they could +get it." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"No, your reverence, I did not hear any more than that there were +cracks in the walls." +</P> + +<P> +"But you have brought me this money to have the cracks mended?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"A subscription from Miss M'Hale—L10. A subscription from Miss M'Hale." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"If I could have the whole window to myself, I would give you fifty +pounds, your reverence." +</P> + +<P> +The priest had no idea she had saved as much money as that. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But I've got no money, my good woman, to build the church." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"Does your reverence mean for the window?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, Biddy, I was thinking of the church itself." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"But there was no wedding," said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But Michael Dunne would not dare to serve supper to people who were +not married," said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Never mind the food," said the priest, "tell me what happened." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Never mind the drink," said the priest, "what then?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"That is always the end of their dancing and drinking," said the +priest. "And what happened then, what happened? After that they went +home?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, your reverence, they went home." +</P> + +<P> +"Mary Byrne went home with her own people, I suppose, and Ned went back +to his home." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know, your reverence, what they did." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what else did Kate Kavanagh tell you?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, they were just coming out of the cabin," said Biddy. "She passed +them on the road." +</P> + +<P> +"Out of whose cabin?" said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +He questioned the old woman, but she grew less and less explicit. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose they forgot your reverence didn't marry them." +</P> + +<P> +"Forgot!" said the priest. "A sin has been committed, and through my +fault." +</P> + +<P> +"They will come to your reverence to-morrow when they are feeling a +little better." +</P> + +<P> +The priest did not answer, and Biddy said:— +</P> + +<P> +"Am I to take away my money, or will your reverence keep it for the +stained glass window." +</P> + +<P> +"The church is tumbling down, and before it is built up you want me to +put up statues." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd like a window as well or better." +</P> + +<P> +"I've got other things to think of now." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, my God, give me strength to conquer anger." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +He walked to his uncle's with great swift steps, hardly seeing his +parishioners as he passed them on the road. +</P> + +<P> +"Is Father Stafford in?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, your reverence." +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle John, I have come to consult you." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But have you refused to marry anyone because they couldn't pay you +your dues?" +</P> + +<P> +"Listen, the church is falling." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle John, I did not come here to be laughed at." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not laughing at you, my dear Tom; but really you know very little +about this matter." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"But," said Father John, "they intended to be married; the intention +was there." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"That's true," said Father John. "But how can I help you? What am I to +do?" +</P> + +<P> +"Are you feeling well enough for a walk this morning? Could you come up +to Kilmore?" +</P> + +<P> +"But it is two miles—I really—" +</P> + +<P> +"The walk will do you good. If you do this for me, Uncle John—" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Tom, I am, as you say, not feeling very well this morning, +but—" +</P> + +<P> +He looked at his nephew, and seeing that he was suffering, he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"I know what these scruples of conscience are; they are worse than +physical suffering." +</P> + +<P> +But before he decided to go with his nephew to seek the sinners out, he +could not help reading him a little lecture. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Pleasure," said Father Tom. "Drinking and dancing, hugging and kissing +each other about the lanes." +</P> + +<P> +"You said dancing—now, I can see no harm in it." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And what about ourselves?" +</P> + +<P> +"We are different. We have put this interest aside. I have never +regretted it, and you have not regretted it either." +</P> + +<P> +"Celibacy has never been a trouble to me." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Can one ever do this?" said Father Tom. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you see what a difficulty your narrow-mindedness has brought you +into." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"Here it is. You don't want your umbrella. There's no sign of rain." +</P> + +<P> +"No," said his uncle, "but it will be very hot presently. My dear Tom, +I can't walk fast." +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry, I didn't know I was walking fast." +</P> + +<P> +"You are walking at the rate of four miles an hour at the least." +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry, I will walk slower." +</P> + +<P> +At the cross rods inquiry was made, and the priests were told that the +cabin Ned Kavanagh had taken was the last one. +</P> + +<P> +"That's just another half-mile," remarked Father John. +</P> + +<P> +"If we don't hasten we shall be late." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I am quite sure. Ned Kavanagh brought Mary back to his cabin. There +can be no doubt." +</P> + +<P> +"Even so," said Father John. "He may have thought he was married." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"He may have thought he was married. Moreover, he intended to be +married, and if through forgetfulness—" +</P> + +<P> +"Forgetfulness!" cried Father Maguire. "A pretty large measure of +forgetfulness!" +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't say that a mortal sin has been committed; a venial one +.... If he intended to be married—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, my dear uncle, we shall be late, we shall be late!" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I heard your reverence wouldn't marry them," the woman said. +</P> + +<P> +"I am going to bring them down to the church at once." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Father Maguire strove to hypnotize his parish priest. +</P> + +<P> +"Uncle John, you are called upon to make this effort. I cannot speak to +these people as I should like to." +</P> + +<P> +"If you spoke to them as you would like to, you would only make matters +worse," said Father John. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +At Michael Dunne's, the priests learned that the wedding party had been +there, and Father Stafford called for a lemonade. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Tom, I would do it if I could, but I am completely exhausted." +</P> + +<P> +At that moment sounds of voices were heard. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"The priests are after us," she said. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Tom, don't lose your head, be quiet with them." +</P> + +<P> +"Will you speak to them, or shall I?" said Father Tom. +</P> + +<P> +In the excitement of the moment he forgot his own imperfections and +desired to admonish them. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"We were on our way to your reverence now," said Mary. "I mean to his +reverence." +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said Father Tom, "you are certainly taking your time over it, +lying here half asleep under the trees." +</P> + +<P> +"We hadn't the money," said Mary, "it wasn't our fault." +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't I say I'd marry you for nothing?" +</P> + +<P> +"But sure, your reverence, that's only a way of speaking." +</P> + +<P> +"There's no use lingering here," said Father Tom. "Ned, you took the +pledge the day before yesterday, and yesterday you were tipsy." +</P> + +<P> +"I may have had a drop of drink in me, your reverence. Pat Connex +passed me the mug of porter and I forgot myself." +</P> + +<P> +"And once," said the priest, "you tasted the porter you thought you +could go on taking it." +</P> + +<P> +Ned did not answer, and the priests whispered together. +</P> + +<P> +"We are half way now," said Father Tom, "we can get there before twelve +o'clock." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think I'm equal to it," said Father John. "I really don't +think—" +</P> + +<P> +The sounds of wheels were heard, and a peasant driving a donkey cart +came up the road. +</P> + +<P> +"You see it is all up-hill," said Father John. "See how the road +ascends. I never could manage it." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"Now walk on in front of us, and step out as quickly as you can." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H4> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor boy," she thought, "his heart is so set upon her that he has no +ears for any word against her." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I came round, Annie, to tell you they're married." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, come in, Mary," she said, "if you have the time." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Them that are the wildest before marriage are often the best after, +and I think it will be like that with Kate." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope she'll make my boy a good wife." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope so, too," said Annie, and the women sat over the fire thinking +it out. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't catch your meaning, Mary." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"She did have her tongue on him. People are telling all ends of +stories." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Patsy Rogan is an ignorant man," said Annie, "there are many like him +even here." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, sure there will be always some like him. Don't we like to believe +the priest can do all things." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Annie did not answer, and, thinking to convince her, Mary said:— +</P> + +<P> +"You wouldn't like to see a corpse right over your window." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Something will happen to you for the cruel words you have spoken to me +this day." +</P> + +<P> +"Mary, you came to ask me to your son's wedding, and I had to tell +you—" +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. M'Shane got up and went out and Annie followed her to the gate. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +She searched for the key, and all the while they were telling her how +they had met Pat at Michael Dunne's. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Peter, you'll say something nice." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Pat, you must make a speech, too," said Kate. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going home. I bid you all good-night; here finish this wedding as +you like." +</P> + +<P> +And before anyone could stop him he had run out of the house. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Peter went out of the door, and was away some time; but he came back +without Pat. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +He drank a sup out of it, but seemed to forget everything, and the jug +fell out of his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Never mind the pieces, Peter," his mother said. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +He looked round the kitchen, and seeing that Kate was not there, he +said:— +</P> + +<P> +"She's in the other room, I think; mother, you'll be wantin' to go to +bed." +</P> + +<P> +And Peter got on his feet and stumbled against the wall, and his mother +had to help him towards the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it drunk I am, mother? Will you open the door for me?" +</P> + +<P> +But Mrs. M'Shane could not open the door, and she said:— +</P> + +<P> +"I think she's put a bit of stick in it." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +And then Peter was sore afraid that he would not get sight of his wife +that night, and he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"Won't she acquie-esh-sh?" +</P> + +<P> +And Kate said:— +</P> + +<P> +"No, I won't." +</P> + +<P> +And then he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"We were married in church-to-day, you acquie-eshed." +</P> + +<P> +And she said:— +</P> + +<P> +"I'll not open the door to you. You're drunk, Peter, and not fit to +enter a decent woman's room." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, I'll not open the door to-night," she said. "I'm tired and want to +go to sleep." +</P> + +<P> +And when he said he would break open the door, she said:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter," said his mother, "don't trouble her to-night. There has been +too much dancing and drinking." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a hard thing ... shut out of his wife's room." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter, don't vex her to-night. Don't hammer her door any more." +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't she acquie-esh? Mother, you have always been agin me. Didn't +she acquie-esh?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Peter, why do you say I'm agin you?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter, you must go to sleep." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, go to sleep. ... I want to go to sleep, but she won't open the +door." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter, never mind her." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going, mother," she called up to the loft. +</P> + +<P> +"Wait a minute, Kate," said Mrs. M'Shane, and she was half way down the +ladder when Kate said:— +</P> + +<P> +"I can't wait, I'm going." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going to America, Pat." +</P> + +<P> +"You were married yesterday." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"There's not another girl like you in the village. We're a dead and +alive lot. You stood up to the priest." +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't stand up to him enough. You're waiting for someone. Who are +you waiting for?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't like to tell you, Kate." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Everything's mother's." +</P> + +<P> +"That's true, Pat, and you'll give a message for me. Tell my +mother-in-law that I've gone." +</P> + +<P> +"She'll be asking me questions and I'll be sore set for an answer." +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him steadily, but she left him without speaking, and he +stood thinking. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"My poor boy will feel it sorely." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, he said nothing about that, and it was he who brought the message." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +He went out to the backyard, and his mother heard him crying till it +was time for him to go back to work. +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +V +</H4> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +She began at once:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"What's this you're telling me?" +</P> + +<P> +"If your reverence will listen to me—" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm always listening to you, Biddy M'Hale. Go on with your story." +</P> + +<P> +It was a long time before he fully understood what had happened, but at +last all the facts seemed clear, and he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"I'm expecting Pat Connex." +</P> + +<P> +Then his thoughts turned to the poor husband weeping in the backyard, +and he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"I made up this marriage so that she might not go away with Pat Connex." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, we've been saved that," said Biddy. +</P> + +<P> +"Ned Kavanagh's marriage was bad enough, but this is worse. It is no +marriage at all." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, your reverence, you musn't be taking it to heart. If the marriage +did not turn out right it was the drink." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, the drink—the drink," said the priest, and he declared that the +brewer and the distiller were the ruin of Ireland. +</P> + +<P> +"That's true for you; at the same time we musn't forget that they have +put up many a fine church." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"There's no fear of that, your reverence; a church never fell down on +anyone." +</P> + +<P> +"Even so, if it falls down when nobody's in it where are the people to +hear Mass?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, won't they be going down to hear Mass at Father Stafford's?" +</P> + +<P> +"If you don't wish to give anything say so." +</P> + +<P> +"Your reverence, amn't I—?" +</P> + +<P> +"We don't want to hear about that window." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have, your reverence. She passed me on the road this morning." +</P> + +<P> +"And you weren't thinking you might stop her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Stop her," said Pat. "Who could stop Kate from doing anything she +wanted to do?" +</P> + +<P> +"And now your mother writes to me, Pat Connex, to ask if I will get +Lennon's daughter for you." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Biddy M'Hale, don't you be going." But Biddy pretended not to +hear him. +</P> + +<P> +"Will I be running after her," said Pat, "and bringing her back?" +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think she said, your reverence, she was going to send you ten +pounds." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Hardly as much as that," said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"In those days we used to go blackberrying with the boys. We used to +run all over the hills." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Pat Connex, we will go to Mrs. M'Shane. I shall want to hear her +story." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well," said the priest, and he drove past her cabin without +speaking to her. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"She seems to be going in for Buff Orpingtons," he said to himself. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a fine thing to see you again, and your reverence is looking +well. I hope you've been lucky in America?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Your reverence is very good to me, and God is very good." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"He has a gentleman with him." +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't it the architect he has with him? Don't you know that it is I +who am putting up the window?" +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"What were they saying to you, Biddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"They were saying, your reverence, that America is a great place." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I know that very well, your reverence; but, you see, God has given us +the house." +</P> + +<P> +"God's House consists of little more than walls and a roof." +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed it does, your reverence; and amn't I saving up all my money for +the window?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"But haven't we got our wives and little ones, and haven't we to think +of them?" said a workman. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, one can live on very little when one is doing the work of God," +said Biddy. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +The priest turned upon her angrily and asked her what she meant by +interfering between him and his workmen. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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? +</P> + +<P> +"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?'" +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"The devil a bit of use going against the priest, and the indulgences +will do us no harm." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"It would be better for you to finish what you are doing; the Holy +Virgin will be more thankful to you." +</P> + +<P> +"Aye, maybe she would," he said, and he continued his work mechanically. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm all right, your reverence, and it won't occur again." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +And Biddy began to advocate a sale of scapulars. +</P> + +<P> +"A sale of scapulars will not finish my church. You're all a miserly +lot here, you want everything done for you." +</P> + +<P> +"Weren't you telling me, your reverence, that a pious lady in Dublin—" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Sure they don't ask any questions in America, they just give their +money." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't I offer your reverence a sovereign once since I gave you the +five pounds?" +</P> + +<P> +"You don't seem to understand, Biddy, that you can't put up your window +until the plastering is finished." +</P> + +<P> +"I think I understand that well enough, but the church will be +finished." +</P> + +<P> +"How will it be finished? When will it be finished?" +</P> + +<P> +She did not answer, and nothing was heard in the still church but her +irritating little cough. +</P> + +<P> +"You're very obstinate. Well, tell me where you would like to have your +window." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I can see you've been thinking a good deal about this window," the +priest said. +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't quite understand." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"How's that?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you pass her house on the way to the station." +</P> + +<P> +The German took his leave abruptly, and when he was half-way down the +hill he asked some children to direct him. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +The German said that that was the woman he wanted, and the eldest child +said:— +</P> + +<P> +"You will see her feeding her chickens, and you must call to her over +the hedge." +</P> + +<P> +And he did as he was bidden. +</P> + +<P> +"Madam ... the priest has sent me to show you some designs for a +stained glass window." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I have always thought there's no colour like blue. I'd like the Virgin +to wear a blue cloak." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"He is coming to take me in His arms!" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Biddy, I know you are a very pious woman, but I cannot allow you +to interrupt the Mass." +</P> + +<P> +"If the Lord comes to me am I not to receive Him, your reverence?" +</P> + +<P> +"In the first place I object to your dress; you are not properly +dressed." +</P> + +<P> +She wore a bright blue cloak, she seemed to wear hardly anything else, +and tresses of dirty hair hung over her shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"The Lord has not said anything to me about my dress, your reverence, +and He put His gold crown on my head to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"Biddy, is all this true?" +</P> + +<P> +"As true as you're standing there." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"True to me, your reverence? I don't rightly understand." +</P> + +<P> +"I want to know if you think Our Lord put a gold crown on your head +to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"To be sure He did, your reverence." +</P> + +<P> +"If He did, where is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"There is no one in the parish who would rob you." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +And she fell on her knees and clung to his cassock. +</P> + +<P> +"And you saw the crown, Biddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"I had it on my head, your reverence." +</P> + +<P> +"And you heard the saints singing?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't say I don't believe you, Biddy, but you may be deceived." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Your honour will be well rewarded if you will come to my window. Now +why should I tell you a lie, your reverence?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Biddy, if you don't go away at once I will not allow you inside the +church to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +The young man looked at the priest, surprised at his sternness, and the +priest said:— +</P> + +<P> +"She has become a great trial to us at Kilmore. Come aside and I will +tell you about her." +</P> + +<P> +And when the priest had told the young man about the window the young +man asked if Biddy would have to be sent away. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And what has become of the chickens?" +</P> + +<P> +"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!" +</P> + +<P> +The old woman came back as a dog comes to its master, joyful, and with +brightening eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell us what you saw last night." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"We'll go to see your window presently." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"No doubt, no doubt. But she's a great trial to us at Mass .... The +Mass must not be interrupted." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose even miracles are inconvenient at times, Father Maguire. Be +patient with her, let her enjoy her happiness." +</P> + +<P> +And the two men stood looking at her, trying vainly to imagine what her +happiness might be. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER III +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE EXILE +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H4> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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?" +</P> + +<P> +"I did, and three pounds five." +</P> + +<P> +"We might have a drink out of that." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you hear that, Peter Phelan?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"It was bad for me when I listened to you and James. If I hadn't I +might have been in Maynooth now." +</P> + +<P> +"Now, didn't you come home talking of the polis?" +</P> + +<P> +"Wasn't that after?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +The bullocks had stopped to graze, and Peter's indecisions threw Pat +Phelan fairly out of his humour. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H4> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You said, Father Tom, if I worked hard I should be able to read +Quintillian in six months." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I daresay all you say is right, Peter; but you see he's your brother." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"And you are sure, Catherine, that James is not going to be your +husband?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said, "quite sure." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H4> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I met Catherine on the road, and I could do no less than walk as far +as her door with her." +</P> + +<P> +"You could do no less than that, Peter," said James. +</P> + +<P> +"And what do you mean by that, James?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"She would have had me!" +</P> + +<P> +"And now don't you think you had better run after her, Peter, and ask +her if she'll have you?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I did not mean that, Peter; but if she won't have me, you had better +try if you can get her." +</P> + +<P> +And suddenly Peter felt a resolve come into his heart, and his manner +grew exultant. +</P> + +<P> +"I've seen Father Tom, and he said I can pass the examination. I'm +going to be a priest." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't believe it, Peter." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"What makes you so late, Peter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, James, I didn't want to meet Catherine on the road." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +And then the three sat round the fire, and Pat Phelan began to talk +family history. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"And you will tell her," Peter said, getting up, "that I have gone." +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't the heart for telling her such a thing. She will be finding +it out soon enough." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"He will be a fine man standing on an altar," James said, "and perhaps +he will be a bishop some day." +</P> + +<P> +"And you'll see her when you're done reaping, and you won't forget what +Peter told you," said Pat Phelan. +</P> + +<P> +And, after reaping, James put on his coat and walked up the hillside, +where he thought he would find Catherine. +</P> + +<P> +"I hear Peter has left you," she said, as he opened the gate to let the +cows through. +</P> + +<P> +"He came last night to bid us good-bye." +</P> + +<P> +And they followed the cows under the tall hedges. +</P> + +<P> +"I shall be reaping to-morrow," he said. "I will see you at the same +time." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"She won't have me," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"A man can always get a girl if he tries long enough," his father said, +hoping to encourage him. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +At last he said, "How is that?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know. I don't know, James. But you mustn't talk to me about +marriage again." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"The last news we had of him was about a month ago, and he said he +hoped to be admitted into the minor orders." +</P> + +<P> +And a few days afterwards he heard that Catherine had decided to go +into a convent. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"His mind is away. I don't think he'll do any good in this country," +his father said. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter!" said James. And he jumped up from the fire to welcome his +brother. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You see, I did not know myself until yesterday. It was only yesterday +that—" +</P> + +<P> +"So you are not going to be a priest? We are glad to hear that, Peter." +</P> + +<P> +"How is that?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Peter, you have come back none too soon." +</P> + +<P> +"And how is that? What have you been doing since I went away? You all +wanted to hear about Maynooth." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course we did, my boy. Tell him, James." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh! it is nothing particular," said James. "It is only this, Peter—I +am going to America." +</P> + +<P> +"And who will work the farm?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Peter, we were thinking that you might work it yourself." +</P> + +<P> +"I work the farm! Going to America, James! But what about Catherine?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +There was a faint tremble in his voice, and Peter saw how heart-sick +his brother was. +</P> + +<P> +"I will do my best, James." +</P> + +<P> +"I knew you would." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I will," said Peter; and he sat down by the fire. +</P> + +<P> +And his father said:— +</P> + +<P> +"You are not smoking, Peter." +</P> + +<P> +"No," he said; "I've given up smoking." +</P> + +<P> +"Will you drink something?" said James. "We have got a drain of whiskey +in the house." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +It was not the cocoa he liked, but he said he would be able to manage. +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H4> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"My stomach wouldn't retain it. I require very little, but that little +must be the best." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, Peter, you must try again." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +"You won't feel it so much when you are accustomed to it," said James. +</P> + +<P> +Anything seemed to him better than a day's ploughing: even getting up +at three in the morning to go to a fair. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"A good wife is the only thing for Peter," said Pat. +</P> + +<P> +And they went on thinking. +</P> + +<P> +"A husband would be better for her," said Pat Phelan, "than a convent." +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot say I agree with you there. Think of all the good them nuns +are doing." +</P> + +<P> +"She isn't a nun yet," said Pat Phelan. +</P> + +<P> +And the men smoked on a while, and they ruminated as they smoked. +</P> + +<P> +"It would be better, James, that Peter got her than that she should +stay in a convent." +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't say that," said James. +</P> + +<P> +"You see," said his father, "she did not go into the convent because +she had a calling, but because she was crossed in love." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"If she were to marry Peter I should be able to go to America, and that +is the only thing for me." +</P> + +<P> +"That would be poor consolation for you, James." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"You are a good son, James." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll have him out of his bed," said James, "and he'll tell us before +this fire if he will or won't." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a serious thing you are doing, James, to get a girl out of a +convent, I am thinking." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter will be able to tell us if it is a sin that we'd be doing." +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And now, Peter," said his father, "tell us for sure if you will have +the girl?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Peter, I knew you would not say no to me; I can't bear this any +longer." +</P> + +<P> +"And now," said Peter, "let me go back to bed. I am catching my death." +</P> + +<P> +And he ran back to his room, and left his brother and father talking by +the fire. +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +V +</H4> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +The priest heard the story over the little wall, and he was sorry for +the old man. +</P> + +<P> +It took him a long time to tell the story, and when he was finished the +priest said:— +</P> + +<P> +"But where are you going, Pat?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Well it wasn't yourself that thought of doing such a thing as that, +Pat Phelan." +</P> + +<P> +But at every word the priest said Pat Phelan's face grew more stubborn, +and at last he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"She's right—they're all there now. Why should anyone stop here?" the +old man said. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"But," said Pat, "you're not going to let Catherine take vows without +hearing me." +</P> + +<P> +"If it is about Sister Catherine's vows—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it is about them I've come, and I must see the Reverend Mother." +</P> + +<P> +The lay-sister said Sister Catherine was going to be clothed at the end +of the week. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, that is just the reason I've come here." +</P> + +<P> +On that the lay-sister led him into the parlour, and went in search of +the Reverend Mother. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You have come to speak to me about Sister Catherine?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, my lady." +</P> + +<P> +"And what have you got to tell me about her?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"But really, Mr. Phelan, I have got a great deal of business to attend +to." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +"That is impossible. Catherine is in retreat." +</P> + +<P> +"So the lay-sister told me; but I thought—" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You see, it all rests with Sister Catherine herself." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I know you are busy, dear mother, but what I have come to tell you +won't take very long." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then, tell it to me, my child." +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +"And," said the Reverend Mother, "you feel that you are not certain of +your vocation." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +Catherine's eyes brightened, and speaking like one illuminated by some +inward light, she said:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +She recovered herself very soon, and the Reverend Mother took her hand +and said:— +</P> + +<P> +"Well, my dear child, I shall not stand in your way." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +A quiet glow came into the postulant's eyes, and she seemed engulfed in +some deep joy. +</P> + +<P> +"How did he know that I cared for him?" the girl said, half to herself, +half to the nun. +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose his father or his brother must have told him," the nun +answered. +</P> + +<P> +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?" +</P> + +<P> +"The saints, of course, have had visions. We believe in the visions of +the saints." +</P> + +<P> +"But after all, mother, there are many duties besides religious duties." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose, Catherine, you feel it to be your duty to look after this +young man?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +And then Catherine again seemed to be engulfed in some deep joy, out of +which she roused herself with difficulty. +</P> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +VI +</H4> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +"Why did you not come earlier?" she cried. "All my happiness will be +spoilt if I don't see James." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Peter," she said, "we shall have time to talk presently. I want to +speak to James now." +</P> + +<P> +And they walked up to the platform, leaving Peter to talk to his father. +</P> + +<P> +"Paddy Maguire is outside," Pat said; "I asked him to stand at the +mare's head." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +And Catherine said:— +</P> + +<P> +"I shall be able to make something out of Peter." +</P> + +<P> +His emotion almost overcame him, and Catherine looked aside so that she +should not see his tears. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I think," he said, "it is time to be getting home." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HOME SICKNESS +</H3> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd like to see Ireland again." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"There's Mike Scully." +</P> + +<P> +Mike had forgotten Bryden even more completely than Bryden had +forgotten him, and many aunts and uncles were mentioned before he began +to understand. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Now won't you be taking a sup of milk? You'll be wanting a drink after +travelling," said Mrs. Scully. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe it is sitting down you would like to be." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think anyone except myself has a five pound note to his name." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, not much. This has been a bad season. The potatoes failed; they +were watery—there is no diet in them." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You're getting your health again," she said. "You'll soon be leaving +us." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm in no hurry." +</P> + +<P> +"You're grand people over there; I hear a man is paid four dollars a +day for his work." +</P> + +<P> +"And how much," said James, "has he to pay for his food and for his +clothes?" +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"I have been looking for a frog to put upon my pike line." +</P> + +<P> +The frog jumped right and left, and nearly escaped in some bushes, but +he caught it and returned with it in his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"It is just the kind of frog a pike will like," he said. "Look at its +great white belly and its bright yellow back." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I think," said Margaret, "I must be looking after my cows; it's time I +got them home." +</P> + +<P> +"Won't you come down to the lake while I set my line?" +</P> + +<P> +She thought for a moment and said:— +</P> + +<P> +"No, I'll see you from here." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +They had not met very often when she said, "James, you had better not +come here so often calling to me." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you wish me to come?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you afraid the priest would speak against us from the altar?" +</P> + +<P> +"He has spoken against keeping company, but it is not so much what the +priest says, for there is no harm in talking." +</P> + +<P> +"But if you are going to be married there is no harm in walking out +together." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, not so much, but marriages are made differently in these parts; +there is not much courting here." +</P> + +<P> +And next day it was known in the village that James was going to marry +Margaret Dirken. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +One evening, as they were dancing, a knock came to the door, and the +piper stopped playing, and the dancers whispered:— +</P> + +<P> +"Some one has told on us; it is the priest." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"If that is intended for me, sir, I will go back to-morrow. Margaret +can follow." +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't the dancing, it's the drinking I'm opposed to," said the +priest, turning to Bryden. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, no one has drunk too much, sir," said Bryden. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +He caught sight of Margaret, and he called to her to come through the +stile. +</P> + +<P> +"I have just had a letter from America." +</P> + +<P> +"About the money?" she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, about the money. But I shall have to go over there." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean, James, you will have to go at once?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"I must hasten or I shall miss the train." +</P> + +<P> +"But," she said, "you are not going now—you are not going to-day?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, this morning. It is seven miles. I shall have to hurry not to +miss the train." +</P> + +<P> +And then she asked him if he would ever come back. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he said, "I am coming back." +</P> + +<P> +"If you are coming back, James, why not let me go with you?" +</P> + +<P> +"You could not walk fast enough. We should miss the train." +</P> + +<P> +"One moment, James. Don't make me suffer; tell me the truth. You are +not coming back. Your clothes—where shall I send them?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER V +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A LETTER TO ROME +</H3> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"This is bad news," said the priest, and he laid down the newspaper. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"To America!" said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"The inspector is here, and there are people waiting for me." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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.'" +</P> + +<P> +And they walked through the bog, James talking to the priest all the +way, for it was seldom he had anyone to talk to. +</P> + +<P> +"Now I must not take you any further from your digging." +</P> + +<P> +"Sure there's time enough," said James, "amn't I there all day." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll go and see Mike Mulhare myself," said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +"Long life to your reverence." +</P> + +<P> +"And I will try to get you the price of the pig." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah,'tis your reverence that's good to us." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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? +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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!" +</P> + +<P> +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? +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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... . +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I must have a clear copy of it before I begin the Latin translation." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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!" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Meehan, this is indeed a pleasant surprise." +</P> + +<P> +"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!" +</P> + +<P> +Father James's face grew red, and he took the manuscript out of his +friend's hand. +</P> + +<P> +"No, you mustn't look at that." +</P> + +<P> +And then the temptation to ask him to overlook certain passages made +him change his mind. +</P> + +<P> +"I was never much of a Latin scholar." +</P> + +<P> +"And you want me to overlook your Latin for you. But why are you +writing Latin?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And what are you writing to the Pope about?" +</P> + +<P> +"You see Ireland is going to become a Protestant country." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it?" said Father Meehan, and he listened a little while. Then, +interrupting his friend, he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +Father Michael talked eagerly, and Father MacTurnan sat listening. At +last Father Meehan saw that his arguments were producing no effect, and +he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"You don't agree with me." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Take your papers away, burn them!" +</P> + +<P> +Then, thinking his words were harsh, he laid his hand on his friend's +shoulder and said:— +</P> + +<P> +"My dear MacTurnan, I beg of you not to send this letter." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"We are educated men, and should live in better houses." +</P> + +<P> +"The greatest saints lived in deserts." +</P> + +<P> +And so the argument went on until the time came to say good-bye, and +then Father James said:— +</P> + +<P> +"I shall be glad if you will give me a lift on your car. I want to go +to the post-office." +</P> + +<P> +"To post your letter?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank God," he said, "it was only a dream—only a dream." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Only a dream, only a dream," he said. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, your reverence, the Government do not wish to engage upon any +work that will benefit any special class. These are my instructions." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +The inspector seemed a little doubtful, but the priest assured him that +the futility of the road would satisfy English ministers. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Some cardinal was preparing an answer—an answer might be even in the +post. Rome might not think his letter worthy of an answer. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"A good seven," said the inspector. "You're not going to walk it, your +reverence?" +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You seem to have walked a long way, Father MacTurnan." +</P> + +<P> +"About fifteen miles. I shall be all right presently. I suppose his +Grace does not want to see me at once." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, that's just it. His Grace sent me to say he would see you at +once. He expected you earlier." +</P> + +<P> +"I started the moment I received his Grace's letter. I suppose his +Grace wishes to see me regarding my letter to Rome." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe your Grace is looking for my letter to Rome?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said his Grace, "do you see it?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's under your Grace's hand, those blue papers." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, yes," and his Grace leaned back in his arm-chair, leaving Father +MacTurnan standing. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"What other reason could there be?" +</P> + +<P> +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—" +</P> + +<P> +"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—'" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad," said the Bishop, and he spoke slowly and emphatically, +"that this letter was prompted by such impersonal motives." +</P> + +<P> +"Surely, your Grace, His Holiness did not suspect—" +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop murmured an euphonious Italian name, and Father MacTurnan +understood that he was speaking of one of the Pope's secretaries. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +The Bishop coughed, and pretended to look for some paper which he had +mislaid. +</P> + +<P> +"This was one of the many points that I discussed with Father Michael +Meehan." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, so you consulted Father Meehan," the Bishop said, looking up. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Father Meehan," said his Grace, "is a great friend of yours. Yet +nothing he could say could shake your resolution to write to Rome?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing," said Father MacTurnan. "The call I received was too distinct +and too clear for me to hesitate." +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me about this call." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +The priest talked on until he was interrupted by Father Moran. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But, your Grace, if I don't start now, I shall not get home until +nightfall." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Father MacTurnan and the Bishop were talking together when the car came +to take Father MacTurnan home, and the Bishop said:— +</P> + +<P> +"Father MacTurnan, you have borne the loneliness of your parish a long +while." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Father MacTurnan grew very red.... "I had forgotten it. The relief +works—" +</P> + +<P> +"It's not too late. Here's five pounds, and this will buy him a pig." +</P> + +<P> +"It will indeed," said the priest, "it will buy him two!" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +JULIA CAHILL'S CURSE +</H3> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Only music can express their yearning, and they have written it +themselves in their folk tunes." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"The road over there is the mearing." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure they did. Arn't we all going to America." +</P> + +<P> +"Then it was not the landlord?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, it's the landlord who'd have them back if he could." +</P> + +<P> +"And the priest? How does he get his dues?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +I told him we hoped to establish new looms in the country, and that +Father O'Hara had promised to help us. +</P> + +<P> +"Father O'Hara is a great man," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, don't you think that with the revival of industries the people +might be induced to stay at home?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sorra stay," said he. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, your honour, there's many that think there's a curse on the +parish." +</P> + +<P> +"A curse! And who put the curse on the parish?" +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't that the bell ringing for Mass, your honour?" +</P> + +<P> +And listening I could head a doleful pealing in the grey sky. +</P> + +<P> +"Does Father Madden know of this curse?" +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed he does; none better." +</P> + +<P> +"And does he believe in it?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"It is impossible for me to listen to you here. You had better come +round with me to my house." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I see," said Father Madden, "you are imbued with all the new ideas." +</P> + +<P> +"But," I said, "you don't wish the country to disappear." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +He took a pot of tea from the hob, and said:— +</P> + +<P> +"Now let me pour you out a cup of tea, and you shall tell me about the +looms." +</P> + +<P> +"But," I said, "Father Madden, you don't believe much in the future of +Ireland, you don't take very kindly to new ideas." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he said, "there are people who think I am a reactionist because +I put down the ball-alley." +</P> + +<P> +"The ball-alley!" +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"And I hunted them home." +</P> + +<P> +I asked him why, knowing well the reason, and he said:— +</P> + +<P> +"Young people should not loiter along the roads. I don't want bastards +in my parish." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"The idealism of the Irish people does not go into sex, it goes into +religion." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"That is not certain." +</P> + +<P> +Later on I asked him if the people still believed in fairies. He said +that traces of such beliefs survived among the mountain folk. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"There used to be courting," he said, "but now it is not the custom of +the country any longer." +</P> + +<P> +"How do you make up your marriages?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But do none of you ever want to walk out with a young girl?" I said. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," I said, "I saw her. If any one is a saint, that woman seems to +be one." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"A curse! But you are joking." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And you believe that all this happens on account of Julia's curse?" +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"A young one, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"How did she get the power?" +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"But who saw her in the mountains? She would never walk so far in one +evening." +</P> + +<P> +"A shepherd saw her, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"But he may have been mistaken." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Now, tell me about Julia Cahill; what did she do?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But you said something about a curse." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"He has sent away Life," I said to myself, "and now they are following +Life. It is Life they are seeking." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But all this is twenty years ago. You will not know her. A woman +changes a good deal in twenty years." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +When, I said, will a ray from the antique sun break forth and light up +this country again? +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A PLAYHOUSE IN THE WASTE +</H3> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"All this parish, then," I said, "is Father MacTurnan's." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you often come this way?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And how does he help them?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Where do those roads lead to?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nowhere. The road stops in the middle of the bog when the money is +out." +</P> + +<P> +"But," I said, "surely it would be better if the money were spent upon +permanent improvements, on drainage, for instance." +</P> + +<P> +The boy did not answer; he called to his horse, and I had to press him +for an answer. +</P> + +<P> +"There's no fall, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"And the bog is too big," I added, in hope of encouraging conversation. +</P> + +<P> +"Faith it is, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"But we are not very far from the sea, are we?" +</P> + +<P> +"About a couple of miles." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then," I said, "couldn't a harbour be made?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"So there is no hope," I said, "for home industries, weaving, +lace-making." +</P> + +<P> +"I won't say that." +</P> + +<P> +"But has it been tried?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"A playhouse," I said. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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:— +</P> + +<P> +"And was the play performed?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And couldn't Father MacTurnan get the money to build it up?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure he might have got the money, but where would be the use when +there was no luck in it." +</P> + +<P> +"And who were to act the play?" +</P> + +<P> +"The girls and boys in the parish, and the prettiest girl in all the +parish was to play Good Deeds." +</P> + +<P> +"So it was a miracle play," I said. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you see that man there, sir? That's the priest coming out of James +Burke's cabin." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope," said the priest, "that you're not wet; we have had some +showers here." +</P> + +<P> +"We were caught in a shower coming out of Rathowen, but nothing to +signify." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"It will be a pity," the priest said. +</P> + +<P> +"A sort of natural euthanasia," I said. "A wish to forget themselves." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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! +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"There must be a fine view from the hill-top, and no doubt you often go +there to read your breviary." +</P> + +<P> +"During the building of the playhouse I often used to be up here, and +during the rehearsals I was here every day." +</P> + +<P> +I noticed that the tone of his voice never altered. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought once," said the priest, "that if the play were a great +success a line of flat-bottomed steamers might be built." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"Come," I said, "into the playhouse. Let me see how you built it." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"It would not cost many pounds to repair the damage," I said. "And +having gone so far, you should give the play a chance." +</P> + +<P> +I was anxious to hear if he had discovered any aptitude for acting +among the girls and the boys who lived in the cabins. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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.'" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"Once Pleasure hovered over your parish, but the bird did not alight! +Let me start a subscription for you in Dublin!" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think," said the priest, "that it would be possible—" +</P> + +<P> +"Not for me to get fifty pounds?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he said, "you might get the money, but I don't think we could +ever get up a performance of the play." +</P> + +<P> +"And why not?" I said. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And does it no longer seem to you sad that such a thing should happen?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You have given them hope," he said. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you knit every evening?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have got into the way of knitting lately; it passes the time." +</P> + +<P> +"But do you never read?" I asked, and looked towards the book-shelves. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you like knitting better than reading?" I asked, feeling ashamed of +my curiosity. +</P> + +<P> +"I have constantly to attend sick-calls, and if one is absorbed in a +book one experiences a certain reluctance in putting it aside." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Sometimes one is apt to think them inconsiderate." +</P> + +<P> +"The two volumes of miracle plays!" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But," I said, "you do not think that God sent the storm because He did +not wish a play to be performed." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +"But, did she murder the child?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sorra wan of me knows. She sent for the priest when she was dying, and +told him what she had done." +</P> + +<P> +"But the priest would not reveal what he heard in the confession?" I +said. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +The driver told his story like one saying his prayers, and he seemed to +have forgotten that he had a listener. +</P> + +<P> +"And the ghost hasn't been seen again?" I said. +</P> + +<P> +"No, not that I know of." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't like your story," I said. "I like the story about Julia Cahill +better." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"It must have been a great shock to the priest." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"It was altogether a very queer idea, this playhouse." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +"There is no doubt," I said to myself, "that this car-driver is the +legitimate descendant of the ancient bards." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE WEDDING-GOWN +</H3> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Something may have happened to her, mother. I daren't go." +</P> + +<P> +And when old Margaret came into the kitchen towards evening she +surprised everyone by her question:— +</P> + +<P> +"Why is Molly crying?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +But seeing the old woman was about to speak Alec stopped his wife. +</P> + +<P> +"Let us hear what she has to say," he whispered. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"In my gown you will be just like what I was when the bells were +ringing." +</P> + +<P> +She took the gown out of its box herself, and the petticoat and the +stockings and the shoes; there was everything there. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"Look at the buckles. They will fit her very well; her feet are the +same size as mine were." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I must begin to dress myself; I must not keep him waiting." +</P> + +<P> +The moonlight lay still upon her knees, but little by little the moon +moved up the sky, leaving her in the shadow. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"She is very old." +</P> + +<P> +"But she is not much older than she was when you left her." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, if you must go." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Auntie, are you asleep? Have the others gone to bed?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said, "she is like me. I shall be like that some day if I +live long enough." +</P> + +<P> +And then she knocked at the door of the room where her parents were +sleeping. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE CLERK'S QUEST +</H3> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Come a long way, governor?" said one of two rough fellows. +</P> + +<P> +"I am going a long way," replied Dempsey; "I am going north—very far +north." +</P> + +<P> +"And what may yer be going north for, if I may make bold to ask?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am going to the lady I love, and I am taking her beautiful presents +of jewellery." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER X +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"ALMS-GIVING" +</H3> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Thankee, sir. Can you tell, sir, what time it is?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Now where, in what lonely room does he sit making up his accounts? but, +not wishing to seem inquisitorial, I turned the conversation. +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose you know some of the passers-by." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +There was a faint warmth in the sky, and I heard my heart speaking to +me quite distinctly, and it said:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +Then he told me it was smallpox that destroyed his eyes, and he was +only eighteen at the time. +</P> + +<P> +"You must have suffered very much when they told you your sight was +going?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir. I had the hump for six weeks." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"It doubled me up, that it did. I sat with my head in my hands for six +weeks." +</P> + +<P> +"And after that?" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't think any more about it—what was the good?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but it must be difficult not to think, sitting here all alone." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you do in the evenings?" +</P> + +<P> +"I turn a hay-cutting machine in a stable." +</P> + +<P> +"And you're quite contented?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think, sir, a happier man than I passes through this gate-way +once a month." +</P> + +<P> +He told me his little boy came to fetch him in the evening. +</P> + +<P> +"You're married?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir, and I've got four children. They're going away for their +holidays next week." +</P> + +<P> +"Where are they going?" +</P> + +<P> +"To the sea. It will do them good; a blow on the beach will do them a +power of good." +</P> + +<P> +"And when they come back they will tell you about it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"And do you ever go away for a holiday?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And this year are you going with the policeman?" +</P> + +<P> +"I hope so, a friend of mine gave me half-a-crown towards it." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll give you the rest." +</P> + +<P> +"Thankee, sir." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SO ON HE FARES +</H3> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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? +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, what ails you to be throwing yourself into the water in that way?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," he said, "from a long way off, the Shannon." +</P> + +<P> +"The Shannon!" said the bargeman. "Why, that is more than seventy miles +away. How did you come up here?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +He lay awake maturing his little plan, seeing the greyness pass away +and the sky fill up with pink and fleecy clouds. +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"There is only one lock more between this and our last stopping-place. +Keep a look-out for your mother's cottage." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +Three years afterwards she died, and Ulick had to leave the cottage. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +They went on a few miles further, and the same thing happened again. At +last he said, "Now I am sure it is there." +</P> + +<P> +And the bargeman called to the man who was driving the horse and +stopped him, and Ulick jumped from the boat to the bank. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Why did you say that?" said Ulick, "is your mother telling you not to +go down to the canal?" +</P> + +<P> +"Look at the frog! he's going to jump into the water," said the little +boy. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you a bargeman? Do you steer the barge or do you drive the horse?" +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +The boy turned away his head and nodded it. +</P> + +<P> +"Does she beat you if she catches you here?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, mother never beats me." +</P> + +<P> +"Is she kind to you?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Now," said Ulick, "tell me your name." +</P> + +<P> +"My name is Ulick." +</P> + +<P> +"Ulick! And what's your other name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ulick Burke." +</P> + +<P> +"Ulick Burke!" said the big Ulick. "Well, my name is the same. And I +used to live at Hill Cottage too." +</P> + +<P> +The boy did not answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Whom do you live with?" +</P> + +<P> +"I live with mother." +</P> + +<P> +"And what's her name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Burke is her name," said the boy. +</P> + +<P> +"But her front name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Catherine." +</P> + +<P> +"And where's your father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, father's a soldier; he's away." +</P> + +<P> +"But my father was a soldier too, and I used to live in that cottage." +</P> + +<P> +"And where have you been ever since?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," he said, "I've been a sailor. I think I will go to the cottage +with you." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"Now who is this?" she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, mother, he jumped from the boat to the bank, and he will tell you, +mother, that I was not near the bank." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, it's you! Why we thought you were drowned." +</P> + +<P> +"I was picked up by a bargeman." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, come into the house and tell us what you've been doing." +</P> + +<P> +"I've been seafaring," he said, taking a chair. "But what about this +Ulick?" +</P> + +<P> +"He's your brother, that's all." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"And father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Your father is away." +</P> + +<P> +"So," he said, "this little boy is my brother. I should like to see +father. When is he coming back?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," she said, "he won't be back for another three years. He enlisted +again." +</P> + +<P> +"Mother," said Ulick, "you don't seem very glad to see me." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall never forget the evening we spent when you threw yourself into +the canal. You were a wicked child." +</P> + +<P> +"And why did you think I was drowned?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, your cap was picked up in the bulrushes." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, was it all right?" the steersman said. "Did you find the house? +How were they at home?" +</P> + +<P> +"They're all right at home," he said; "but father is still away. I am +going back. Can you take me?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE WILD GOOSE +</H3> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I believe, Mr. Cronin, it was Father Egan who taught your daughter +Latin?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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?" +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I think we shall be able to catch him," said Ned, "if he is in the +stream and if I could get another net." +</P> + +<P> +"The gardener will give you one." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you going to answer me, Ellen?" and he took her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Ned, are you a Catholic?" she said, turning suddenly. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I should like you better if you were a good Catholic." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"I could like you better, Ned, if you were a Catholic.... I think I +could." +</P> + +<P> +"What has my being a good Catholic got to do with your love of me?" +</P> + +<P> +And he watched the small and somewhat severe profile looking across the +old grey wall into the flat grey sky. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"No, it doesn't, Ellen, only I am content with the reality. I can love +you without wings." +</P> + +<P> +He watched for the look of annoyance in her face that he knew his words +would provoke, but her face was turned away. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I understand very well, Ellen; I knew something was going to happen to +me in Ireland." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Let us go into the arbour," he said. "I have never been into the +arbour of clipped limes with you." +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you want to go into the arbour?" +</P> + +<P> +"I want to kiss you.... The gardener can see us now; a moment ago he +was behind the Jerusalem artichokes." +</P> + +<P> +"I hadn't noticed the gardener; I hadn't thought about him." +</P> + +<P> +She had persuaded herself before she went into the arbour, and coming +out of the arbour she said:— +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think father will raise any objection." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ned, you take a strange pleasure in making life seem wicked." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Father will be wondering what has become of us." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And what will you do?" she said, turning suddenly and looking at him +with fervid eyes. "Will you wait here for me?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Mrs. Grattan, I'll tell you some news—I think I am going to +marry Miss Cronin." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't of that I am thinking," said Ned, "but of her red hair." +</P> + +<P> +"And you wouldn't believe me when I said that she was the prettiest +girl in the country. Now you will see for yourself." +</P> + +<P> +Ned hadn't finished his tea when there was a knock at the door. +</P> + +<P> +"And how do you do, Miss Ellen?" said Mrs. Grattan, and Ellen guessed +from her manner that Ned had told her. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"Father says you are to come back to dinner." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"We were getting on very well," Ned said, "until the English came. This +was the last thing we did and after this no more." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, shall we buy this table?" +</P> + +<P> +And while the price and the marquetry were discussed she remembered +suddenly that a most experienced electioneering agent was coming to +dinner. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"There are plenty of evenings before us, and I hope you won't be tired +of spending them with me." +</P> + +<P> +He said he never wished for better company, and they strolled on +through the show-rooms. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"How bright the moon is, we can find them by the light of the moon." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +He himself was despondent, whereas Ellen was enthusiastic. Her +knowledge of Irish politics enabled her to see that Ned's chance had +come. +</P> + +<P> +"If you succeed in America, you'll come back the first man in Ireland." +</P> + +<P> +"Even so," said Ned, "it would be more natural for you to be sorry that +I am going." +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot be sorry and glad at the same time." +</P> + +<P> +"You will be lonely." +</P> + +<P> +"Very likely; but, Ned, I shall not be looking very well for the next +two months." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean on account of the baby; the next few months will be a trying +time for you; I should be with you." +</P> + +<P> +They continued to walk round and round their apple-tree and Ellen did +not answer for a long while. +</P> + +<P> +"I want you to go to America. I don't care that you should see me +losing my figure." +</P> + +<P> +"We have spent many pleasant hours under this apple-tree." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it has been a dear tree," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Ned, it may be a girl." +</P> + +<P> +"Then it will be like you, dear." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You've seen nothing more beautiful in America, have you, Ned?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"We got an excellent nurse, Ned, and the boy is doing very well." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But what does Father Brennan know about it more than anyone of us?" +</P> + +<P> +"The sanction of the Church, Ned—" +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +"But, Ned, there must be a code of morality, and these men devote their +lives to thinking out one for us." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, Ned, why this outbreak? You knew I was a Catholic when you +married me." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall I go up-stairs to see the baby, or will you bring him down?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll bring him down." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"And now, Ned, forget the priest and admire your boy." +</P> + +<P> +"He seems a beautiful boy, so healthy and sleepy." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I called him after you, Ned. It was Father Stafford who baptised him." +</P> + +<P> +"So he has been baptised!" +</P> + +<P> +"He was not three days old when he was baptised." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. He could not have gone to heaven if he had not been +baptised." +</P> + +<P> +"Ned, I don't think it kind of you to say these things to me. You never +used to say them." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +She liked clerical gossip; the church was finished, and how Biddy heard +the saints singing in the window made a fine tale. +</P> + +<P> +"So now we have a local saint." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and miracles!" +</P> + +<P> +"But do you believe in miracles?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know. I shouldn't like to say. One is not obliged to believe +in them." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure you would enjoy believing in Biddy." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Ned, how aggressive you are, and the very day you come back." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," he said, "if the newspaper reflects the mind of the people +there is no hope." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"The clergy," he said, "are swallowing up the country," and he looked +for some means whereby he might save the Gael. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"What is the matter, dear? I hope you are not disappointed with the +meeting?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, the meeting was well enough. There were a great number of people +present and my speech was well received." +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad of that," she said, "but what is the matter, Ned?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Well," she said, "if it isn't it will be different from your other +speeches." +</P> + +<P> +"How is that?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I am really," he said, "trying to save them from themselves. I am only +pleading for the harmless and the necessary laity." +</P> + +<P> +Ellen did not answer him for a long while. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't spoken about politics much lately, Ellen, because I thought +you had lost interest in them." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But I sometimes come to see you in your room, Ellen." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I think, Ellen, you are very unreasonable, and you are generally so +reasonable." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, don't let us argue any more," she said. "We shall never agree, +I'm afraid." +</P> + +<P> +Ned remembered that he once used to say to her, "Ellen, we are agreed +in everything." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"I think I like the hollyhocks better than any flowers, and the +sunflowers are coming out," he said. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I've kept him out of bed and thought you might like to see him." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he said, "go fetch the baby and I will shake the boughs, and it +will amuse him to run after the apples." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"My poor little woman, I hope I have not been cross with you this +evening." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Ned, do you still love me?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +Ellen feared money as much as her father had loved it. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"I only want to speak to you for a few minutes." +</P> + +<P> +"I am just going into church." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't I say a word to you before you go in?" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"I shall be hearing confessions after Mass." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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? +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"When did he tell you that?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And you discovered from his papers that his agitation was directed +against religion?" +</P> + +<P> +Ellen nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot think of anything more unfortunate," said the priest. +</P> + +<P> +Father Brennan was a little fat man with small eyes and a punctilious +deferential manner, and his voice was slightly falsetto. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Ned and I never talk politics; we used to, but that is a long time +ago." +</P> + +<P> +"He will only ruin himself. But I think you said you came to consult me +about something." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You must not only withdraw your money," he said, "but you must use +your influence to dissuade him." +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +"You need not say that I told you to do so." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But your marriage was a love marriage?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but that is a long time ago. It is four years ago." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think your husband will separate himself from you, but even so +I think—" +</P> + +<P> +"You will give me absolution?" +</P> + +<P> +She said this a little defiantly, and the priest wondered, and she left +the confessional perplexed and a little ashamed and very much terrified. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +She looked out the trains for him, and after he had found the papers he +wanted they went into the garden. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +She did not answer for a long time and then she said:— +</P> + +<P> +"But I don't see how we are to avoid discussing them, for it is my +money that supports the agitation." +</P> + +<P> +"I never thought of that. So it is. Do you wish to withdraw it?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," he said, "I shall be able to get on without it. Now, good-bye." +</P> + +<P> +"May I go to the station with you?" +</P> + +<P> +"If you like, only let us talk of something else. Everyone's conscience +is his own law and you must act accordingly." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But, Ned—" +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +Her admission that Father Brennan had taken down books and put on his +spectacles delighted him. +</P> + +<P> +"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.'" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +At last she got up. "I am going to bed, Ned." +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't it very early?" +</P> + +<P> +"There is no use my stopping here. You don't want to talk to me; you'll +go on playing till midnight." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"I sought Father Brennan's advice under the seal of confession, that +was all. You don't think that—" +</P> + +<P> +"There are plenty of indirect ways in which he will be able to make use +of the information he has got from you." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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?" +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"But, Ned, you could not live with anyone, at least not always. I think +you would sooner not live with anyone." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I believe in you. Come to Dublin with me; come to the meeting. +I'd like you to hear my speech." +</P> + +<P> +"I would like to hear you speak, Ned; but I don't think I can go to the +meeting." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"He is speaking very well, from his point of view," said Ned to himself. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And the Red Indian will die with the scalp at his girdle." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"That was because I met you, Ellen." +</P> + +<P> +"I have heard you praise Ireland as being the most beautiful and +sympathetic country in the world." +</P> + +<P> +"It is true that I love these people, and I wish I could become one of +them." +</P> + +<P> +"You would become one of them, and yet you would tear them to pieces +because they are not what you want them to be." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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.'" +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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.... +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +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:— +</P> + +<H4> +THE WILD GOOSE. +</H4> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +[musical excerpt] +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Ned," she said at last, "I think you had better go away. I can see +you're wearing out your heart here." +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you think I should go? What put that idea into your head?" +</P> + +<P> +"I can see you are not happy." +</P> + +<P> +"But you said that the wheel would turn, and that what was lowest would +come to the top." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +He told her that he had seen wild geese on the hill. +</P> + +<P> +"And it was from you I heard about the wild geese. You told me the +history of Ireland, sitting on a Druid stone?" +</P> + +<P> +"You want to go, Ned? And the desire to go is as strong in you as in +the wild geese." +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe; but I shall come back, Ellen." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think you will, Ned? How can you if you go to fight for the +Boers?" +</P> + +<P> +"There's nothing for me to do here. I want new life. It was you who +said that I should go." +</P> + +<P> +"For five years you have been devoted to Ireland, and now you and +Ireland are separated like two ships." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, like two ships. Ireland is still going Rome-ward, and Rome is not +my way." +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +"And now what, Ellen? Go on!" +</P> + +<P> +"It seemed to me that we were like two ships." +</P> + +<P> +"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:— +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"How is that?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And is it possible that you aren't angry with me, Ellen, for going?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"You are very wise, Ellen. But why did you read that manuscript?" +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose because God wished me to." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE WAY BACK +</H3> + +<P> +It was a pleasure to meet, even when they had nothing to say, and the +two men had stopped to talk. +</P> + +<P> +"Still in London, Rodney." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose one should think of one's biographer." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I may never see Italy. Go on talking. I like to hear you talk about +Italy." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Of one thing I'm sure," said Harding. "I must get out of London. I +can't bear its ugliness any longer." +</P> + +<P> +The two men crossed Piccadilly, and Harding told Rodney Asher's reason +for leaving London. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But the Green Park is beautiful, and these evening distances!" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Lucy Delaney? Where?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"How did she get to London? and I didn't know that you knew her." +</P> + +<P> +"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!" +</P> + +<P> +"But how did you know her name?" +</P> + +<P> +"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.'" +</P> + +<P> +"What did you sit for?" +</P> + +<P> +"For a statue of the Blessed Virgin, and a priest told on me." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you're Lucy Delaney, and the sculptor you sat for is John Rodney, +one of my intimate friends." +</P> + +<P> +"What an extraordinary coincidence," said Rodney. "I never thought that +Lucy would stay in Ireland. Go on with your story." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"One can't think of two things at the same time. If I had met her in +Paris it would have been different." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Like a pot of jam left carefully under cover... That will be all right +till to-morrow," said Rodney. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"But one couldn't leave her to the mercy of the street." +</P> + +<P> +"Quite so; but I'm speaking now of what was in the back of my mind." +</P> + +<P> +"The pot of jam carefully covered up," said Rodney, laughing. +</P> + +<P> +"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. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I didn't know that you were a painter," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm thinner than that." +</P> + +<P> +"You're not thin." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry you missed seeing something very beautiful." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"You couldn't get her an engagement," said Rodney, "I should have +thought she was suited to the stage." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"One may indeed," said Rodney, laughing, "one may argue, but the law +that is over us." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And you took her there and heard Evelyn Innes sing. And what did Lucy +think? A very pretty experiment in experimental psychology." +</P> + +<P> +"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.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Go on," said Rodney, "what happened after that?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Had she told?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see," said Rodney, "that there was anything against you." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I know them," said Rodney. +</P> + +<P> +"And the room—" +</P> + +<P> +"I know it," said Rodney. +</P> + +<P> +"The horse-hair chairs full of holes." +</P> + +<P> +"I know the rails," said Rodney, "they catch you about here, across the +thighs." +</P> + +<P> +"The table in the middle of the room; the smell of the petroleum lamp +and the great chair—" +</P> + +<P> +"I know," said Rodney, "the Buddah seated! An enormous head! The +smoking-cap and the tassel hanging out of it!" +</P> + +<P> +"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!" +</P> + +<P> +"He is eighteen." +</P> + +<P> +"The long clay pipe and the fat hands with the nails bitten." +</P> + +<P> +"I see you have been observing him," said Rodney. +</P> + +<P> +"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!" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"How characteristic the room seemed to me," said Harding. "The piano +against the wall near the window." +</P> + +<P> +"I know," said Rodney. "Lucy used to sit there playing. She plays +beautifully." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, she plays very well." +</P> + +<P> +"Go on," said Rodney, "what happened?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know the mother, the thin woman with a pretty figure and the faded +hair and the features like Lucy's." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"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—" +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"'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." +</P> + +<P> +"So Lucy is going to marry a mathematical instrument maker in Chicago?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you kiss her?" +</P> + +<P> +"We spent the evening together and I was sorry for her." +</P> + +<P> +"But you don't know for certain that she married Wainscott." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Wainscott wrote me a letter," and after some searching in his +pockets Harding found the letter. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="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. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"'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. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"'Lucy would write to you herself if she were not tired, having had to +look after many things. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"'I am, dear sir, +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"'Very sincerely yours, +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"'JAMES WAINSCOTT.'" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Lucy wanted life," said Rodney, "and she will find her adventure +sooner or later. Poor Lucy!" +</P> + +<P> +"Lucy is the stuff the great women are made of and will make a noise in +the world yet." +</P> + +<P> +"It is well she has gone; for it is many years since there was honour +in Ireland for a Grania." +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe you'll meet her in Paris and will do another statue from her." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"No one supposes that Rubens did not employ a model for his descent +from the Cross," said Rodney. +</P> + +<P> +"A man is different, that's what the priests would say." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I can see these two obtuse priests. I can hear them. I should like to +write the scene," said Harding. +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"You have come in time for a cup of tea, Carmady. You know Rodney?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, indeed." +</P> + +<P> +"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?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yesterday. I'm going to South Africa. There's fighting going on there, +and it is a brand new country." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Is Harding going back to Ireland?" said Carmady. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Rodney. "You tried to snuff out the Catholic candle, but +Harding hopes to trim it." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm tired of talking about Ireland. I've talked enough." +</P> + +<P> +"This is the last time, Carmady, you'll be called to talk about +Ireland. We'd like to hear you." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't believe," said Harding, "in the possibility of a Celtic +renaissance—that with the revival of the languages?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"Dead beyond hope of resurrection," said Rodney. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't say that; a wave of paganism may arise, and only a pagan +revival can save Ireland." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, the beautiful pagan world!" said Rodney; "morality is but a dream, +an academic discussion, but beauty is a reality." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"And who were they?" said Rodney. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"The Pope, too," said Rodney. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder if that is so," said Rodney. +</P> + +<P> +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." +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +And for a long while Rodney spoke of Italy. +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<P> +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. +</P> + +<P> +"How did the Celtic idea come to you, Harding? Do you remember?" +</P> + +<P> +"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." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Untilled Field, by George Moore + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNTILLED FIELD *** + +***** This file should be named 4034-h.htm or 4034-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/3/4034/ + +Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Untilled Field + +Author: George Moore + +Posting Date: June 7, 2009 [EBook #4034] +Release Date: May, 2003 +First Posted: October 17, 2001 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNTILLED FIELD *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + + +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 EBook of The Untilled Field, by George Moore + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNTILLED FIELD *** + +***** This file should be named 4034.txt or 4034.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/3/4034/ + +Produced by Charles Franks, Robert Rowe, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. 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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 + diff --git a/old/tullf10.zip b/old/tullf10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad398c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tullf10.zip |