1, S. ??- ? THE SQUIREEN BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE AWKWARD SQUADS BY THRASNA RIVER RING O' RUSHES THE CHARMER THE BARRYS IRISH PASTORALS THE SQUIREEN BY SHAN F. BULLOCK METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON 1903 Edinburgh : Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE THE SQUIREEN CHAPTER I IF you climb Rhamus Hill, mount the castle wall and set your face towards the setting sun, on your right will be Emo and the long glitter of Lough Erne, behind will lie Thrasna river and the wilderness of Bilboa ; on your left Lackan lough will gleam darkly among the hills, Armoy and its boglands stretch away towards my Lord the mountain, and the pastures of Gorteen spread out below your feet even unto the distant whiteness of the Ferry road and the rude borders of Drumhill townland. Should the day be cloudy and in summer- time, the wind south-west and moist, the sky high and grey, your eyes will have happy sight of a characteristic Ulster prospect. The scene will be fair, wide-spreading and varied, at once heartsome and subdued : mountains blue and 377311 2 THE SQUIREEN misty, valleys long and shallow, hills low, rounded, and cut fantastically by ditch and hedgerow into little fields, the great tracts of bogland lying flat and sullen beneath the sun. Trees will abound, white cottages peep forth here and there, roads and lanes crawl in and out. You will have the flash of water, the gloom of heather, the quick vividness of lush meadow -land and wide -spreading pasture. There will be cattle upon the hills, men and women in the valleys, a fisher lonely upon the lake, a clanking cart upon the road. Shadows will flit along the mountain and trip across the hedges. Bilboa will be clothed in the sombre- ness of rush and whin. Far back the roofs of Bunn will gleam and darken. By Thrasna river the valley will be one medley of trees, hedges, haycocks, green cropland and brown heather-patches, a hand's-width of river and a gleam of whitewash. Out below the horizon my Lord will drowse in the dimness and the Lake wind lazily for the sea. A great peace will fill the land, a softness as of sleep; you will dream and brood and admire ; at last find the hedges running together, the hills crowding their crests, and the scene come narrowing in, THE SQUIREEN 3 till of all the broad countryside but the land of Gorteen, lying there before you, has room in your eyes. Now Bilboa, Armoy, and Drumhill are big and bare, and these regions are Catholic ; but Gorteen is small and fruitful, and this is Protestant. In many ways, Gorteen that land of wisdom differs wholly from its neighbours, and with them has no sympathy. Enter its confines, by way of these, where and when you will, and at once you have signs of change. You seem to have stepped into a new country. Hedges become trim, lanes and fields orderly, houses neat, offices clean, crops flourishing. You have gardens and lawns, flowers in the windows and curtains behind them, knockers upon the painted doors and steps before them. In the fields are ploughs and harrows, mowing- machines upon the meadows, flocks and herds amid the pastures. Orchards stand every- where, with beehives ranged in the shade and linen bleaching in the sun. You meet fewer stragglers and no beggar-men. Pigs keep their styes ; goats and donkeys are missed from the wayside. The carts are painted, the cars clean and jaunty. An air of prosperity is 4 THE SQUIREEN abroad, of industry and rude comfort, of inde- pendence also and a more rigid rule of life. The country seems blessed of God, slavery and terror banished from its confines. Even the hills look free ; you stand and gaze within the borders of a new country ; nor can you fail to see that you are in the midst of a new race. Altogether different are these good folk these men you meet, these women you see from the unfortunates who dwell without. They are better clothed and better fed, bolder of eye and bearing ; bigger, harder, coarser, tighter of lip, stronger in hand and body ; more prosaic also, narrower in mind, and less variously gifted. The men are sturdy, stern and broad of feature ; the women big in the bone, and not renowned for comeliness. Or- dinarily they wear tweeds and leggings, linsey bodices and quilted petticoats ; on Sundays you find them stepping to church or preach- ing in stuffs and broadcloths. They eat plen- tifully of eggs and bacon, tea and stirabout, potatoes, butter and white bread. Among them drunkenness is uncommon, immorality ill-known. As hagglers in fair or market, poachers and litigants, their fame is great. THE SQUIREEN 5 They speak a slow and oily dialect, part Irish and part Scotch ; have some gifts of humour and a talent for religion and politics. Sons of freedom, they call themselves, stern upholders of Protestantism and sworn foes of Pope and Popery. In every garden Orange lilies flourish ; a Bible lies on every parlour table. For Queen and Country, Self and pelf, God and the Church : these are watchwords in Gorteen. Also they are hospitable there, kind and warm-hearted : and a more strenuous race does not cumber the earth. Descendants they are, and not far removed, of Puritan and Covenanter : a hardy, dogmatic, prideful stock. If you enter Gorteen by way of the Bunn road, you come soon to Lackan bridge and, just beyond it, strike a narrow roadway which runs obliquely uphill away from Armoy. Following this you pass the old Chapel gates (the Chapel itself is gone now, thatch and all), have sight as you go of a few homesteads, and a glimpse across the bog of the wilds of Drumhill ; then dip into a hollow, bend sharply round past a wayside drinking-pool, and find yourself, all suddenly, looking down a slope straight into the heart of Gorteen. And just 6 THE SQUIREEN at your elbow, on the right as you stand, a gap in the hedge makes room for the gate- posts and avenue of Hillside House. The gateposts are battered now, the gate rotted and gone. Weeds infest the avenue, the hedges stand gaunt and wild, only stumps remain of the stately firs that once moaned in the winds ; the fields on either hand are rush-grown, the garden a tangle, the orchard a wilderness. The offices are dilapidated, thistles flourish in the haggard, grass covers the yard. In the stable where once stood Martin's hunter pigs wallow and grow fat, fowls roost in the empty barn ; and now in all the rooms and passages of Hillside once so cleanly and garnished, in the days whilst Martin's mother ruled there tattered bar- barians do riot. The windows are broken, doors battered, walls and roof cracked and moss-grown ; the steps by the hall door are gone, the flower-beds before it and the creeper on the walls and the painted fence that bordered the lawn, all are vanished with the years. Ruin and desolation have made Hillside their own, and of its former glory remains now but traditions and memories. So do men wither THE SQUIREEN 7 from the earth and their fair works decay, leaving ruin and tombstones to mark their place. One March evening, in the old days of prosperity, a man sat by a table in the little parlour that faced Hillside lawn. The blind was drawn, a peat fire burned softly in the grate, candles stood on the table and dimly lighted the room. There was a carpet on the floor, with sheep-skins and mats among the haircloth chairs ; old-fashioned ornaments in glass and earthenware stood upon the mantel ; ancient sporting-prints in heavy walnut frames hung upon the walls ; in the corners were whips, sticks, guns, fishing-rods, a small safe, a cupboard of old china, a case of books tattered novels, a dictionary, a peerage list, treatises on horses, dogs, and farm manage- ment. The ceiling was low and smoked. A faded paper covered the walls. On the table lay a newspaper, a pair of spurs, account-books, a file of bills, and an open ledger. It was over the ledger that the man sat, shoulders bent and elbows squared. Before him stood an empty tumbler ; his lips drew at a dead pipe ; his brow was knitted, his face 8 THE SQUIREEN flushed. At times he shifted his feet noisily, or flung back in his chair and sat staring at the fire ; again, as his eyes roved the ledger or fell upon the total of a bill, he muttered sul- lenly or swore aloud. At last with a bang he closed the ledger, leant towards a candle, and relit his pipe; then rose, and crossing to the hearth stood straddled on a sheepskin with his back to the fire. And as he stood he blew clouds of smoke at the ceiling, and smiled sardonically at thought. ( Ay, J said he at times ; ' ay, indeed. A pretty pickle, sure enough Oh, you 're in for it, Martin, my boy/ said he in a while ; then clasped hands behind him, and went striding the room. A tall man, of some thirty-five years, was Martin Hynes this owner of Hillside and the debts thereof with an upright figure, strong neck, fine shoulders and masterful hands. His face was large and square, features strong, eyes deep-set and bold, chin full, ears large, com- plexion tanned and clear. His waving black hair was streaked with grey, his moustache was long and curled. He wore coarse tweeds, leggings, and heavy boots ; in his scarf was a horse-shoe pin, from his watch- THE SQUIREEN 9 chain hung a heavy gold seal. A big hand- some man he was, healthy and powerful. Far back in the dim years, Martin's fore- bears had been planters, pioneers, fighters. One grandfather had been a schoolmaster, the other a land-steward ; one grandmother had been Scotch, the other English ; his father had been a bailiff, had acquired Hillside and died a magistrate ; his mother was Irish-born of English parents and had spent her earlier years in the service of Lord Louth. In the man Hynes, therefore, was a confusion of strains. Part of him was Scotch, part Eng- lish ; the rest and most of him Ulster must claim as her own. His kind was scarce in the North, unique in Gorteen. He had the look somewhat of a country gentleman, somewhat of a sporting farmer. Locally he was known as the Squire ; really he was an Ulster form of Squireen. He owned a personality, a tempera- ment. There was some good in him, and some bad ; a great deal that was neutral and ran, as circumstances demanded, to this side or that of his character. As a friend he was faithful, as an enemy unscrupulous. He could bluster, or fight ; bully, or persuade. No man io THE SQUIREEN might better him at a bargain. He was fond of pleasure and the sweets of laziness, was good-humoured and good-hearted when he chose, now hard as a stone and now tender as a child. Men stared at him in fairs ; women worshipped him. Far and wide he was known ; in Gorteen he was something of a figure, admired as a man and a sportsman, respected for his own sake and the sake of his parents. Sometimes in passing him, high up in the world on gig or hunter, a peasant would pull at his forelock, or a woman curtsy in the dust At Church he paraded himself. When he rode to hounds, or assisted at local func- tions, no aristocrat there lorded it over the Squire. A few laughed at him ; wiseacres at sight of his extravagances looked towards the future and shook their heads : the many just took him as he appeared, and at his own valuing. Since his father's death, some years before, he had ruled in Hillside, living there with his old mother and a couple of servants, enjoying life and wasting his patrimony, slip- ping on towards the inevitable day of reckoning, not thinking and not much caring. But he was thinking now ; maybe was beginning to care. THE SQUIREEN n Up and down the room he went, hands clasped and head bowed ; presently stayed by the fire again, and fell to communing with himself. * No, 1 said he, as if to his inner man ; ' it 's no good. There 's no way out of it. I 'm snared, I 'm snared. Fool ? I'm an almighty fool ! Think of where I am, with only Jane Fallen between me an'- He flung back his head and laughed mirthlessly. 'Jane Fallen/ he said, his lip curling; 'only Jane Fallen ! ' Again he laughed ; then stood pondering a while. ' But what else can I do ? ' he went on, spreading a hand to himself. ' In God's name, what else can I do ? I must have money or or ' He paused. ' Or lose all lose all.' Again he paused ; then broke out aloud : * I'll not lose it. I '11 sell my soul first ! It's mine yet, every sod and stick of it: an' mine it'll be to the last. . . .' He paused once more, turning swiftly towards the door. 1 Whisht ! ' he said softly. ' She mustn't know. It would kill her. Poor old mother! ' Cross- ing to the door he tried its handle ; fell again to his pacing ; stopped, and facing the window, spoke as to some one beyond it. ' It 's no use, 12 THE SQUIREEN Kate/ said he in a mournful whisper ; * it 's no use, girl. I can't help it. I 'm down. You 'd wait, I know but I want money. It's not you I want now it 's money, money. I 'm sellin' you an' sellin' myself. This very night I 'm goin' to do it. To-morrow you '11 know ; an' I '11 see you no more. See you no more . . . see you no more . . . see you no more.' Over and over he repeated the phrase ; then, mastered by sudden impulse, turned quickly and pulled out his watch. * I will see you!' he cried, his face kindling. 'It's your due, an' I will see you. Let them wait.' Hurriedly he took up the ledger, the account- books and bills, and locked them in the safe ; then blew out the candles, and made for the door. Taking hat and staff from a rack in the hall, he opened an inner door and entered the kitchen. There it was all light and comfort, a big fire blazing, the tins shining on the walls and the crockery on the dresser, the tiled floor swept, tables and chairs scrubbed white, ceiling heavy with hams and dried fish, shelves laden with canisters and medicine-bottles. A dog lay stretched upon the hearth, a cat curled r THE SQUIREEN 13 upon the flour-box. In a corner George the servant-boy sat smoking and greasing his boots ; at a table Mary the maid was busy ironing. Hearing Martin's foot the dog rose and came to heel, and the servants looked round ; but without heeding, Martin crossed towards the yard, turned through a narrow doorway, and closed the door behind him. He was now in a little room that looked upon the yard. There were shelves at one end carrying milk -crocks and delf, loaves and grocery, saucepans and tins. A set of harness hung on the wall, and a new saddle and bridle. A table, spread with a clean cloth, stood by the window ; near the door a small fire burnt, and before it in a wicker chair Martin's mother sat knitting. A shawl was round her shoulders ; she wore a black dress, a lace cap, and felt slippers. She was tall and thin, old and wrinkled, with white hair, placid features, delicate hands. A distinguished old lady she looked, dignified and serene, her mouth firm, chin strong, the lines of experience and patience clear on her face. As Martin entered she looked up, smiled, and went on knitting. * Well, mother/ Martin took his place i 4 THE SQUIREEN before her, elbow on the mantel-shelf and feet crossed. ' Still busy ? ' * Yes, Martin/ She turned her needles and started a new row ; then glanced over her spectacles at Martin's hat and staff. * You 're going out ? ' * I am.' Martin stood upright, fumbled with his hat and dropped the end of his staff sharply upon the tiles. * I 'm goin' across the fields for an hour or so ; I '11 be back I '11 not be long/ His mother smiled and nodded ; she was used to his going across the fields. He crossed to a shelf and drank deeply from a bowl of milk; came back and stood by the door. He had a doubtful look, an air of con- straint ; seemed almost possessed of shame. ' You '11 not be sittin* up ? ' he said. ' There 's no need/ 1 Oh no, Martin/ She knitted a few stitches, her needles clicking through the silence. ' You 11 be wanting supper, I suppose ? ' * To be sure to be sure I wilL Why, I '11 only be a while ; just across the fields I 'm goin' for an hour or so/ Martin paused, turned to the door, and opened it a little. * Well, good night, in case I don't see you THE SQUIREEN 15 again.' He closed the door, came back, and stood by her chair. * There's nothing the matter, mother ? ' he asked. * Is there, now ? ' 4 The matter?' His mother looked up, searching his face with steady eyes. ' Why, what could be the matter ? ' she asked, her placid old voice just ruffled with surprise. Martin looked at the fire. 'Ah, I thought maybe there was,' he said. ' You seemed hardly yourself, somehow.' He backed towards the door, but his mother stretched a hand and laid it on his arm. 4 Martin,' she said, her eyes steady on his face, ' are you sure it is not yourself ? Tell me, my son.' ' What, mother ? ' 1 What 's the matter with you, Martin ? ' Her voice was low, but big with meaning. ' Tell me, my son.' 1 With me ? ' He laughed uneasily, his face flushing deep. ' Me ? Well, that 's a question ! Why, I never was better in my life. Look at me,' he said, drawing himself to full stature, and flinging back his shoulders. ' Look at me.' 16 THE SQUIREEN But his mother shook her head. 'It's not that, Martin.' She touched her forehead. ' It 's here,' she went on. ' Tell me, is there anything on your mind ? ' He dropped his eyes ; appeared to consider a moment; looked up again. ' No, mother; there's nothing.' ' You 're sure quite sure ? ' * Certain sure.' ' And I can't help you at all ? ' Martin stood considering, seriously now and swiftly. Should he tell her everything ; con- fide in her and ask counsel ? She was wise ; she might understand and forgive, might help and advise. She had a little money in her own right ; she must have some suspicion of the condition of things : maybe after all it were wiser ? No. She would not understand, could never forgive. He looked her in the face. * No, mother; there's nothing to help.' * You 're sure, Martin quite sure ? ' ' Certain sure/ ' Ah, well ! ' She turned away, sighed, and took up her knitting. ' Ah, well ! ' she sighed. Martin turned for the door, came back, bent THE SQUIREEN 17 low and took her hand. * See here, mother,' he said ; ' you mustn't be worrying like this. I say you mustn't. Woman dear, have wit ! Why, I 'd tell you you know I 'd tell you if anything was wrong. Now, see here, just put away that knitting, an* get a book, an' go soon to your bed. You will, now ? You '11 promise me ? ' * Yes, Martin.' She folded her knitting and fixed the ball of wool upon the needles. * Yes, Martin,' she said again ; then took off her spectacles and put them in the case. ' That's right. Good night to you, mother.' 'Good night, Martin.' B CHAPTER II HAVING bid his mother good night, Martin went out through the kitchen doorway, across the yard and down the avenue; at Hillside gate turned up towards Armoy, went past the Chapel, and along a lane that issued soon upon the Bunn road ; there turned again and went straight for the wilds of Drumhill. The night was dark and dull. Great clouds hung low over the sleeping fields. Here and there the hills loomed dimly and the valleys lay silent. The peace of darkness was upon the earth, with only a dog breaking it, or the roll of a distant drum, or the voice of the wind, or the quick fall of Martin's feet upon the road. The early hour notwithstanding, no one seemed abroad. A light burned in Ned Noble's cottage, a window in the Priest's house cast a glimmer among the firs, out upon the hills other lights shone feebly ; but for this IS THE SQUIREEN 19 or that Martin had no heed, nor for aught save the wide road before him. With bowed head he went striding along, walking gloomily with thought. His mind was troubled, con- science awake ; even his nerves were uneasy. He banged his staff upon the road, kept mut- tering to himself; saw his mother's face at his feet, heard her voice in the darkness. He knew that she knew ; told himself that he had done ill. Had he confided in her all might have been well ; the clouds might have light- ened, and he might even then be walking gaily, with no shade of indignity before him, and no dogs of regret at his heels. But he had not told her ; therefore was he walking gloomily, cursed with thought. If only he had been wise ; if only he could see a way ; if only Ah, why trouble ? The thing was done. Maybe he had done ill ; perhaps, after all, he had done well : anyhow, let come what might and let worrying go to the winds. Nothing mattered, nothing now. Quickening his stride, therefore, and bidding thought defiance with an empty sound of whistling, Martin swung his staff and hurried along ; went down the Priest's brae, on past 20 THE SQUIREEN the drear waste of bogland and the flats of Leemore, then uphill again, and coming to the schoolhouse which stands within sight of Drumhill cross-roads, turned through the gate- way and along the pathway which ends at the pillars of the school porch. On either hand large square windows looked upon the road, and these were dark ; but right between the pillars was a smaller window, and this showed bright with a shadow flung upon it through a narrow buff blind. Treading softly, Martin mounted the porch step, listened a minute beside the window ; then tapped upon the glass, whistled twice, and seeing the shadow move, turned to the left and waited at the school door waited till footsteps sounded within, a bolt shot back, the door opened, and the figure of a woman carrying a lighted candle stood before him. < Well, Kate ? ' 'Ah, Martin, it's you.' And with that Martin stepped from the porch, took the woman in his arms, and kissed her. The two stood a minute by the door ; then Martin closed it and following Kate across the THE SQUIREEN 21 schoolroom sat down beside her within the rostrum. A narrow place it was, dingy and worn, with a sloping desk in front and the wall behind ; but wide and good enough for any pair of lovers. Kate sat on the right, Martin on the left, between and fronting them stood the candle, flickering in the gloom, working strange freaks of light and shade upon their faces, flinging their shadows big upon the wall, creating night and day among the pictured continents of the maps, making monsters of the animals that hung silent above the fireplace, leaving the high ceiling and the tiled floor and the deep rows of empty desks to brood un- cannily, like mere ghosts of themselves, out in the gloom. But upon the rostrum all was brightness, even upon the inkstains there, and the pens and pencils that lay strewn, and Martin's hat, and Kate's folded hands. Just bent a little forward she sat, her arms resting upon the desk, head turned towards Martin, and her eyes upon his face. A small, firmly- knit woman she was, of some thirty years, with dark hair and a trusting face. Her brow was wide and high, her eyes kindly and wise ; she looked worn a little and faded, and her mouth 22 THE SQUIREEN kept those lines of repression which come surely to all giving patient years in the service of youth. They spoke together of certain personal matters, not eagerly, but in the sober fashion becoming folk no longer young; gave a thought to Martin's mother and one to Kate's, spoke of the school and its doings, of Hillside and its affairs, exchanged a word of comment or news regarding their friends and neighbours ; then fell silent for a while, then looked at each other, then sat studying the candle in search of a word. Kate seemed thoughtful, Martin embarrassed. A shadow of constraint lay between them. Kate fell to toying with a pen, Martin sat fumbling his hat-brim ; at last, the word being yet tardy, and the silence growing painful, Kate laughed softly and turned. * Well, we're a pretty pair,' said she, in that full clear voice of hers ; ' sitting here like children in disgrace. Why, we couldn't have less to say if we were married.' Martin laughed noisily. ' Ay,' said he ; ' faith, you 're right, Kate. Like the man in the story, we're grand hands at holdin' our tongues/ He bent over the desk and cocked his head. ' Well, I 'm listeninV THE SQUIREEN 23 ' Are you, now? An' sure so am I.' They leant together for a minute, each waiting for the other ; then of a sudden Martin set his back against the wall, thrust hands in pockets and sighed. * Ah/ said he, ' I 'm in no humour for sport none at all. I dunno, in Heaven's name, what 's come to me. Some- how I 'm fair miserable.' Kate turned ; shaded her eyes with a hand, and sat looking at Martin's face. ' Are you, Martin ? ' she said. ' I am. All the evenin' I 've been like this.' His brow had fallen ; he pushed out his chin, and frowned at the candle. ' Ah, I wish to glory this evenin' was over.' 1 Do you, Martin ? ' Kate turned a little more, and bent a hand around her eyes. ' Do you, Martin ? ' she said. 'Yes, I do. It's the worst evenin' I ever had.' Martin paused. 'God only knows what 's comin' of it.' Kate kept silence. She knew Martin and his humours. Long years of experience had taught her when to speak and when to wait. Something was coming, she knew ; something ominous that even in coming chilled her heart. 24 THE SQUIREEN Only orice before, in all the years of their friend- ship, had she seen Martin in like humour ; and then trouble had come. Trouble was coming that night ; she knew it, divined it, had ex- pected it maybe in her heart. For people had hinted of late, and rumour cackled ; neither had she ever been quite certain. Who was she that Martin should care for her ? what was she to requite his favour ? Only a poor body of a schoolmistress she was: whilst he he was Martin. Ah, surely trouble was coming. Only she must be patient, and brave as she might. * I oughtn't to have come to see you at all,' Martin went on, in a while. ' I wasn't comin', only somethin' made me. I meant to get it over first ; but I couldn't, somehow. 'Twas your due. ... I had to come.' Something coming? Why, it was already here ! Kate turned towards the candle again. * Yes, Martin,' said she. * 'Twas your due, an' I had to come.' Sud- denly Martin jerked forward and clutched Kate's arm. * Look here, Kate,' said he, ' I can't help it, an' you'll have to forgive me. I 'm bewildered. I 'm beset on all sides. I 'm head over ears in debt. There 's a mortgage THE SQUIREEN 25 on the land. I must have money. God knows, I Ve been to blame. There 's no foolishness I haven't done. An' now I 'm payin' for it ; ay, payin' deep an* heavy. . . . But no matter about me. Devil serve me right! It 's you, Kate ; it 's you. Ah, I 'm a blackguard ! ' He sank back against the wall. 'There's bad in me black bad.' Still Kate kept silence. It had come, she felt ; come surely. Leaning her elbows upon the desk, she rested face in hands, and so sat looking blankly out into the gloom. ' There 's black bad in me.' Martin growled out the words; then sprang to his feet and began pacing before the rostrum, hands in pockets and his eyes down. ' But what could I do ? ' he asked, not for the only time that evening. ' I 'm tied hand an' foot. Every way I 've looked, an' there 's only one chance for me. I must have money. They 're shoutin' for it, the whole pack. Ah, the devil have them! . . . There's that Jew of a Hicks that swears he '11 sell me out. There 's that reptile of a huckster below in Derryvad theatenin' the law. Here 's Smith of Bunn that we Ve dealt with for years, sendin' me a lawyer's letter. 26 THE SQUIREEN May sorrow have him ! ' cried Martin ; and passed from creditor to creditor, cursing and vilifying as he went. All of them he named, and the amounts he owed them, and the penalties they threatened ; then stopped before the rostrum, looked at Kate across the candle and stretched an arm. ' There now,' said he, his voice loud, his tone that of one whose offences are triumphantly justified by the greatness of his affliction ; * there 's where I am, an' there 's the kind I 've got to deal with ! Mercy ? They Ve none ! Friendship ? They 'd cut me throat ! They 'd ruin me without winkin' ; they'd be glad if they saw Hillside in the courts to-morrow, an' myself in the street. . . . But they '11 not ! I '11 be quits wi' them yet the thievin' pack o' sweeps ! Ah, if I only had them under my feet/ shouted Martin, and stamped on the floor ; * I J d grind them to powder!' He fell to pacing the tiles again. < An' I will,' he said : ' be the Lord, I will ! ' Kate had been listening quietly, hearing Martin and understanding him ; yet waiting patiently for the real thing he had yet to say. All this saying was strange enough in its way, and revealed worse than she had ever sus- THE SQUIREEN 27 pected ; but most of it was only talk, the rest mere excuse ; and much as she pitied Martin and sympathised with him, yet was she human enough to pity her lingering self still more. Therefore, as Martin fell to his manly pacing again, she leant back, folded her hands and spoke. ' And what are you going to do ? ' she said. Martin halted. ' Do ? ' he repeated. ' What am I goin' to do ? ' He walked a step ; stopped and faced round. ' I 'm goin' to get money,' he said, with the abruptness of one coming to the test. ' I know.' Kate's voice was quiet, but clear and steady. ' And how are you going to get it? 1 ' 1 'm I 'm ' Martin hesitated ; looked away ; charged at the words. * I 'm goin' to marry it.' 'Ah!' Kate shivered a little; looked down. * I I expected that/ she went on, her voice, in spite of herself, changed greatly. 4 1 knew it was that.' She paused, with the candlelight flickering on her face and Martin's eyes hard upon it. ' An' who might it be ? ' she asked at last. 28 THE SQUIREEN A moment of dead silence came. Kate sat quiet, hands folded and her face lowered, the candlelight glancing in her hair. She was pale and her lips were drawn ; but Martin, towering above her in his strength and man- hood, had sight only of her placid brow. He looked at her a while, then with the blind rush of one facing the inevitable, made hurried answer. 'It's Jane Fallen, ' he said, the words coming defiantly, as in the very face of shame. 'Jane Fallon?' Slowly Kate repeated the name, divulging it, you might think, to her wondering self. ' Jane Fallon ! . . . I know. Ah, poor Jane,' she went on ; then looked up swiftly, a smile creeping on her face. ' So that 's your choice ? ' Martin fell back a step. ' That 's it,' he said. ' And it 's all settled, I suppose ? ' 'It'll soon be. I'm goin' to settle all to- night. They 're waitin' for me now.' Martin looked at his watch. ' Yes ; they 're waitin' for me now.' ' And you called to tell me on your way ? ' Kate's voice was edged with scorn. ' I did. I had to. I thought it no more than your due.' THE SQUIREEN 29 1 1 'm thankful to you.' Kate rose and took up the candle. ' I 'm very thankful to you,' she said, stepping from the rostrum towards the door ; 'and I '11 not be keeping you.' But Martin took her by an arm. 'Wait, Kate. Listen to me, now. Woman dear, don't be goin' like that.' ' There 's nothing to wait for. I 'm only keeping you.' Kate made as if to go. ' I 've work to do/ 1 Ah, but Kate ! ' Martin's voice came soft and pleading. ' One word, now. God knows, I 'm ashamed of myself. Listen to me. As God 's my judge, I 'd marry you to-morrow if I could only see my way. But ' ' Ah, quit, quit ! ' Kate stamped her foot and pulled away. ' Let me go, I say ! ' 1 No. No. Listen to me. You must hear me. It's God's truth I'm sayin', Kate. You 're the only woman I ever cared a straw for. I like you now better than ever. If I was only free, I tell you I 'd marry ' c Ah, quit, quit ! ' ' I tell you I would. I swear to you I would. But how can I ? See the plight I 'm in. What could I do for you ? What could 30 THE SQUIREEN you do for me, or with me ? ' Martin was facing Kate now, a hand on each shoulder, the candle burning between them. ' You 'd never have a minute's peace. I 'd worry the life in you. You'd come to rue the day you ever saw me. Ah, I know it. You 're better as you are, Kate ; far better. Ah, I 'm I 'm ' Martin's voice grew hard, his face darkened. * Ah, what about me ? What am I but a fool ? What matters it to any one how soon the divil has me ? ' Kate looked up. 'But you'd marry Jane Fallon?' Martin nodded. ' Ay,' he said with a laugh. ' I 'd marry Jane/ ' An' she doesn't care ? ' ' I dunno. Maybe she does ; most likely she doesn't.' ' An' you don't care ? ' ' Not a straw. . . . But she has money.' Kate stood looking at the candle. ' Money ? ' she said. ' Money ! Ah, poor Jane ! ' 'Ay, poor Jane. Dear knows, I pity her.' Martin stood silent for a breath. ' But why should I pity her ? Sure she '11 be well enough. Won't she be the envy of half the THE SQUIREEN 31 countryside ? ' He flung back his head and laughed a hollow noise of mirth. 'Dear Heavens, to think of it! Jane Fallon Jane Fallon ! ' Then Kate looked up again. 'Are you done with me ? ' she asked. ' It 's getting late. I Ve work to do ; and I 'm only keeping you.' ' Then keep me,' said Martin. ' Let them wait/ He pressed his hands his masterful hands upon Kate's shoulders and gently swayed her to and fro. ' Kate,' he said, 'look at me. It's the last time.' His voice was soft as milk. * Dear knows, I never thought it was goin' to end like this. Look at me, Kate.' 4 Ah, quit. For God's sake, quit an' go ! ' * Ah, but, Kate. Listen to me, woman. Only this word. Tell me, d' you forgive me ? * Kate was trembling and full of tears. ' Ah, quit/ she cried again. ' For God's sake, go ! ' ' Ah, but, Kate. Sure you '11 tell me that. . . . Then listen, woman. D' you understand me ? ' Still Martin's voice was suave and pleading; still he kept pressing upon Kate's shoulders and swaying her to and fro. ' Listen to me,' he repeated. ' D' you understand me ? ' 32 THE SQUIREEN And with that Kate stepped back from his hands and faced him boldly. ' Understand you ? ' she said, clearly and steadily, her eyes bright and scornful. 'I under- stand you as if I read your heart. I know you now to the very depths. Go,' she cried, pointing to the door ; ' go to your Jane an' her money. D' you think I care ? D' you think I want you ? Who am I to keep you a minute? What's my forgiveness to you? No,' cried Kate, and stepped quickly from Martin's hands; 1 don't lay another finger on me. I 'm quit of you, an' I scorn the sight of you.' She turned for the door, going swiftly with the candle flaring before her and Martin hurrying behind. 'Kate. Listen to me, now. Just a word, Kate. For God's sake, listen to me. . . .' Kate opened the door; stood back by the wall and waited silently. ' But, Kate. Just a word/ There was no answer. Martin turned in the doorway. 'So you won't listen to me, an' won't answer. This is how you let me go ! ' He crossed the threshold with a laugh. 'Very well, then. Just as you please. Good night to you.' THE SQUIREEN 33 The door closed ; the bolts went back ; swiftly Kate crossed to the rostrum, blew out the candle, and sinking upon the seat flung her arms across the desk, laid her face upon them and sobbed. 'Ah,' she cried, 'God help me! God help me ! ' CHAPTER III MARTIN went down the path, and pulled the gate behind him ; turned to the right, mounted the ditch, and stood looking across the hedge towards the school. Through the great square window he saw the light dwindle, then remain steady for an instant, then vanish suddenly into darkness. ' She 's in the passage,' said he, and turning his eyes upon the little window waited for Kate's shadow to appear upon the narrow buff blind. But no shadow came ; still did the light burn beyond the pillars and the windows on either side keep black ; so Martin stepped back upon the road and faced downhill towards home. 'She's gone to the kitchen,' said he; 'gone to tell the mother. Lord, the talk there '11 be ! ' He laughed and quickened his stride. ' Poor Kate/ he said; 'she took it ill. Never did I see her in such a way. Her eyes were like hot coals ; I thought she 'd hit me. . . . Poor THE SQUIREEN 35 Kate! Dear knows, I pity her. But it had to be ; and surely she paid me back. Well, maybe it 's for the best. Anyway, it 's over at last; all over and done. . . . An' now for business/ Right at foot of the Priest's brae, Martin left the broad road and turned straight into Gorteen along a narrow track. Soft and rough underfoot it was now, with deep ruts marking the way and stunted hedges on either hand ; soon the fields fell behind and the sheltering hills, hedges dwindled into willow clumps, ditches ran into turf banks, and the track ran nakedly through wastes of dreary bogland. Dreary indeed it was out there, and black as death. No light shone upon it; no sound, save the distant murmur of an outer world and the rude bluster of driving wind, broke its stillness. Above the sky hung dour; below the earth lay grim, barren and unpopulous, cold and sodden, a great wilderness lying flat within the circling hills. Nothing moved there, nor thing nor shadow, and the wind swept it from edge to edge with a wailing hiss among the heather and a moan around the looming peat-clumps. Right across it, 3 6 THE SQUIREEN from highway unto highway, like some passage of the dead leading from life to life, stretched the weary track, wide drains on either hand and sullen bogholes among the heather, the edges of it broken and treacherous, its face trampled deep with wheel and hoof. In broad day you being a stranger trod warily, at night went groping from plight to plight, cowering in the silence, keeping watch on your very life. But for your hill-born native, darkness has no mystery, wild places no terror; and even so it was with Martin Hynes that night, going lonely on his way. He feared nothing. The ills and delights of imagination seldom troubled him. Had some form sprung quick from the gloom before him he would have gripped his staff and gone boldly on. For him the bog was only a place of turf banks, the track across it no more than a short cut from road to road ; therefore, swinging his staff, cursing the wind and thinking betimes of what lay before him, sturdily he plodded along ; on till the fields and hedges were with him again, and his feet safe on the firm high-road. He was now in the heart of Gorteen, about two furlongs distant from Hillside gates upon THE SQUIREEN 37 the Chapel road ; thence, bearing quick to the left, he skirted the bog, passed the Lough- head, and just beyond the turning that makes for Derryvad shore, came to a house that stood back from the roadway in the shadow of poplars. Seen by daylight, the house was long, low, and whitewashed, with a green doorway, brass knob and knocker (signmarks of respectability, these, in Gorteen), white window-sashes, green sill - boxes, and sandstone step ; house - leek upon the eaves, rose-trees on the wall, two short chimney-stacks peeping above the thatch. At the back was a yard and outhouses ; beyond the poplars lay a haggard and kitchen garden ; in the front were flower-beds with a box- edged path leading between them out to the trim whitethorn hedge and painted wicket. Everything was clean there, tidy and decent. Respectability stared at you through the curtained window-panes, prosperity clothed the surrounding fields. In summer-time orange lilies flared Protes- tant defiance upon any tattered children of the hills who turned to fling a curse across the hedge ; of winter evenings drum and fife 3 8 THE SQUIREEN vented loyal discords from the garden in despite of Pope and Popery. Next to Hill- side itself this was perhaps the snuggest homestead in Gorteen ; and here dwelt pride- fully that man of means and wisdom, Red Hugh Fallon. Passing through the gateway and along the path, Martin knocked loudly ; then stepped back and, with his eyes fast upon the lighted parlour window, stood beating a leg with his staff. At once a door slammed within, a sound of voices arose, and the tread of feet upon the flagged hall ; a bolt jarred back, the door opened, and a girl bearing a candle stood beyond the threshold. Raising the candle head-high and thereby revealing a sharp face set in unruly brown hair the girl peered into the darkness. 1 Is that you, Martin ? ' ' It is, Hannah/ Martin stepped into the hall. ' An how 's yourself? ' 4 Ah, the best/ The girl: closed the door. ' You '11 be late ? ' 1 Ay.' Martin hung his hat upon a peg and stood his stick in a corner. ' I couldn't help myself. But I 'm time enough.' THE SQUIREEN 39 'Ah, plenty indeed.' Hannah nodded to- wards the end of the passage. ' They 're all above all 'cept herself.' 'I know.' Martin turned. 'An* where 's herself then ? ' 1 There.' With her thumb Hannah indicated the kitchen and all beyond it ; then without further speech stepped along the hall and, Martin following, went into the parlour. The room was small, lighted by a hanging lamp and warmed by a peat fire. The ceiling was low and smoked ; the floor uneven and bare ; upon the walls, themselves covered with a pink-and-brown paper, were some faded prints in tarnished frames. In the furthest corner stood a narrow cupboard giving sight of painted china through its glass front ; be- side it hung a Dutch clock, and from it to- wards the fireplace ran blue-and-white curtains that hid the mysteries of a high wall-bed. A whip, a gun, some sticks and umbrellas, a horse standard and a broken spinning-wheel, stood near the fireplace. On the mantelpiece were ornaments in china and moulded glass ; above it hung a flaming oleograph of the great and good King William, some family portraits in 40 THE SQUIREEN gilded frames, a sampler set in a border of fir-cones, an Orange lodge certificate on this side, a grocer's almanac on that. In the window recess were geraniums in pots. A horse-cloth couch faced the fire. Here and there were painted chairs. Adown the room ran a mahogany table, decked with gilt-edged books, a waxen ornament below a glass case, a clasped Bible ; and around it, in formidable array, the Fallon party sat ready for business. ' Good evenin',' said they, as Martin entered, and shufHed their feet. ' Good evenin' all,' answered Martin ; then pulled up a chair and sat down. At the top of the table, his face towards the window and his back to the bed, sat Hugh Fallon ; a sturdy, red-whiskered, square-faced man, with beetling brow, keen eyes, wide mouth, and hard lips. 'Good evenin',' said he to Martin, then snapped his lips and sat looking at the Bible. On Hugh's right, with the china cupboard behind her and head beneath the weights of the clattering clock, was Maria his wife, her hands folded in her lap, a three-cornered shawl about her shoulders, a high black cap luring the eye from her long THE SQUIREEN 41 yellow face. 'Good evenin',' said she to Martin, then wiped her lips with a hand and sat looking at Hugh. Beside Maria, and between the couch and table, sat a round- shouldered, sleek-haired man, one hand sup- porting an elbow, the other pulling at his long black whiskers. His name was Samuel Mires, his nickname Sam the Hump ; he, having greeted Martin, just turned his genteel head and sat fixing Hannah his sweetheart (now in a chair beside him) with a knowing eye. Facing these and fronting the fire, that man of bluster, Fallon's brother-in-law, Big Ned Noble, had a side of the table to his own self. 'Good evenin', Squire,' said he with the rest; then, as Martin pulled forward his chair, stretched out a big hand and added : ' Proud to see ye, Martin me son ; glad an' proud to see ye.' Martin unbuttoned his coat, fingered his scarf-pin, rested an elbow on the table, thrust a hand into his watch-pocket, and leant back in his chair. He was Martin the Squire now ; not the Martin that Kate had seen, or his mother, but nearer his ordinary self, cool, keen, confident, strong. ' I 'm sorry to be 42 THE SQUIREEN late,' he said, addressing the company, 'but business kept me. I hurried my best.' * We know that, Martin,' answered Ned Noble, speaking for his party. ' Time enough, me boy. Sure it's a long night till morninV Martin nodded a reply. For a moment the clock wagged above a silent company ; then Martin shifted in his chair and looked at Red Hugh. 'Well,' said he, * there's no good waitin', I suppose?' Hugh's eyes moved slowly from the Bible and met Martin's. ' No,' he said, 'there isn't.' He looked round at Maria his wife, glanced at the empty chair that stood between Ned and the half-open door, leant over the table and cleared his throat. ' Well,' he began ; but already was the word with Ned Noble. ' Aisy,' said Ned, a big hand rising in pro- test; ' aisy now. Mebbe it's 0#-regular, an' mebbe't isn't ; but on me left here sits Himself; may I ax where 's Herself?' Himself (so called) twisted impatiently by the table ; the father of Herself looked again at his wife; it was Herself 's sister who spoke. 'You won't see her this night,' said Hannah, breaking the spell of Sam Mire's gaze. ' Horses THE SQUIREEN 43 wouldn't drag her here. I dunno where she is. I did me best wi' her, an' 'twas all no use.' 1 I know,' answered Ned, with a puckering of his wise brow and a wag of the head. ' Well, no matter, anyway. I suppose it 's all right, but Now aisy, I tell ye,' added Ned, and raised his hand against the impatient Martin ; 'just one minit, I ax ye. It struck me, seein' be chance the Book there afore me, an' knowin' what we 're all together for, that mebbe some one ' and Ned looked slyly at Red Hugh, sitting dour at the head of the table ' some one 'd wish to start proceedin's wi' a mouthful o' prayer. It might do no harm, thinks I ; mebbe it 'd do us good. What d' ye think yourselves now ? ' asked Ned, his eyes roving the company. In her corner Mrs. Fallon sat impassive beneath the clock ; beside her Sam Mires plucked thoughtfully at his whiskers ; Hannah scowled black at Ned, and tried to kick him beneath the table; with eyes fast upon the Bible Red Hugh sat bending his brow and communing with himself. Was the occasion fitting ? thought Hugh. Was this the time and place to exercise his great gift of prayer 44 THE SQUIREEN in asking Divine counsel and indulgence? Man was feeble, his deliberations ... And with that Martin Hynes broke in upon the silence. ' Here,' cried he abruptly, with a thump upon the table, ' enough o' this foolery. We want no prayin' to settle what 's to be done here. Let that wait till Sunday. It's busi- ness now/ Hard and decisive was Martin's voice ; his eyes glittered, a flush spread upon his face. Scowling black at the protesting Ned, he flung forward in his chair and bent over the table. c Hugh Fallen,' said he, ' you 're slow to start, so I '11 take the lead. You know what I 'm here for ; you know what you're there for. It's not bleather we want now, it 's business. Well, you know me an' the kind of me. You went to school wi' my father ; you knew him all his days ; you followed his funeral, an' you know what he left to me when he died. There 's no need to go over all that, an' there 's less need to tell you about myself. You know all about me. You know me for a good Protestant an' a man o' my word ; an' Hillside above there speaks for itself.' THE SQUIREEN 45 All the company were now bending towards Martin, their eyes keen on his face. Red Hugh leant forward with his head resting on a hand ; Mrs. Fallen's hands were clasped upon the table ; Sam the love-lorn sat humped and solemn ; Hannah, with her elbows sprawling before her, sat rapt in admiration of Hynes; Big Ned lolled back towards the fire, the lines of his wise brow glistening with heat, his arms folded majestic- ally on his breast. And facing them all, with Red Hugh filling his eyes, sat Hynes, rapping out sharp words with a boastful air of contempt. ' Well,' Martin went on, in his arrogant way, ' I 've paid my attentions to your daughter Jane off an' on this while back ; an' I 'm willin' to marry her. She 's willin' too, I 'm thinkin' : but all that 's neither here nor there. It's about somethin' else we've got to talk now. Fallon, you know as well as I do what's before her. You know what she '11 be an' what she '11 get. She '11 have me, an' she'll have Hillside yonder an' all that's in it. Maybe she'll not be the worst off in the Barony, nor the second worst ; but that 's 46 THE SQUIREEN not for me to say. She can act the lady if she likes, and be her own mistress if it 's her wish. There's horses, an' traps, an' a share of good furniture ; an' for food and raiment she'll need nothin'. She'll ' With a gesture of impatience Martin sat upright and broke from the word. ' Enough o' that,' he cried, flinging out a hand. ' You all know Queen Anne's dead. Come, Fallon, have I said enough ? ' With a quick shuffling of feet and creaking of chairs, the company turned towards Red Hugh and fixed him with expectant eyes ; greedy, you might think, for the noise of battle. But Hugh sat stolidly beyond the table, looking at his great hairy hands, and considering with himself; sat impassive and silent whilst the clock wagged a minute, then raised his eyes slowly and met Martin's across the table. ' Plenty,' answered he with studied delibera- tion ; and added in the next breath ' so far as it goes.' He paused at that, clenched a fist upon the table, and looking at it went on. ' All you Ve said I was willin' to hear, but I knew it all before ye said it. I know all about THE SQUIREEN 47 ye, as far as I can see ; but there 's a thing or two I don't know,' said Hugh, still weighing each word and looking steadily now at Martin, 'an' I'd like to have your word on them.' Hugh's voice quickened, his eyes narrowed. ' What 's this I hear about the mortgage that Bob Hicks over there has on Hillside? ' The breath of coming battle quickened in the room. Mrs. Fallon's fingers darted at her lips ; Hannah drew a breath stridently and turned eager eyes upon Hynes ; Mires shot forth his head like a watching fox ; Big Ned smote the table with heavy hand and said, 1 Right, Fallen, right ' ; but Martin clutched quick at the table and bent towards Red Hugh. 1 Who told you that, Fallen ? ' he questioned, in rising wrath. ' Tell me the scoundrel's name.' 'If I did,' answered Hugh, * I 'd have to name a whole townland.' ' It 's lies ! ' shouted Hynes ; ' damned lies an' ye know it, Fallen. Who said it ? ' he asked again, nor so much as heard the * Aisy, aisy now,' that came pleadingly from Ned the peacemaker. 48 THE SQUIREEN ' Every one says it.' 'It's lies!' shouted Hynes with the fierce protestation of a liar. ' There f s no mortgage. It 's lies, I say ! ' Again came the unavailing plea of the peacemaker. Hannah voiced her belief in Martin and fell to scowling at her father. Mrs. Fallon sat looking nervously from face to face, a hand plucking at her husband's sleeve. But Hugh sat stolid as an ox within his high-backed chair, nor heeded any but Martin and his words. < Well, that's as may be,' he said. 'It's one word against another. If ye say it 's lies, well then I believe ye.' ' I 'm thankful to you/ sneered Martin. 'You're welcome,' answered Hugh with a nod ; then paused, and continued : ' But there 's more yet that people '11 be sayin'. What's this I hear about your debts ? ' ' Debts ? What debts ? ' 'Aw, debts to one an' another about the country a trifle to Smith of Bunn . . .' ' Lies,' said Martin. ' Twenty pounds or so to Graham of the shop below in Derryvad . . .' THE SQUIREEN 49 ' Another lie ! ' ' A matter of twenty more on interest to Hughes of Lismahee . . .' 'Dangedlies!' * Another trifle here an' another there to people in different parts . . .' * It's lies, I say/ shouted Hynes ; 'all lies. I owe nothin'.' Pausing abruptly, he half rose and leant towards Hugh. 'Tell me, Fallon : d' you believe these things o' me ? ' ' I believe nothin'.' Hugh's eyes were in- scrutable. ' I tell ye only what I hear/ Martin's hand crashed down on the table. 'Answer me straight, Fallon: d'you believe these things o' me ? ' ' I believe nothin'.' ' Answer me, dang you ! D' you believe the rascals that have been slanderin' me, or d' you believe me ? ' Hugh hesitated in replying, and with that Hynes stood upright, kicked back his chair and turned towards the door. 'It's just as ye please, mister/ said he, with a careless wave of the hand. ' Believe me an' I '11 take your apology, believe them an' out I go.' Red Hugh gave way. Debts or no debts, D 50 THE SQUIREEN mortgage or no mortgage, he had no desire to close the door on Hynes. He was a man of mark and standing, a likely friend and neighbour, a True Blue, a branch of the right stock. He had faults, to be sure ; he was proud, quick-tempered, reckless, had been doubtful in his ways of late and no friend to Hillside ; neither, in Hugh's opinion, was his manner that night altogether satisfying, nor his fierce pose of denial entirely above suspicion. Those debts existed, Hugh was assured; of his true motives in choosing Jane, Hugh had shrewd conjecture. For all that, he was no man to let slip merely for sake of a trifle. Enough were effected if the extravagance of his hopes was now somewhat tempered by sobering doubts of his claims. He honoured the house with his presence, would honour it still more with his alliance. Hannah worshipped him, Maria knelt at his feet ; the countryside rang in his praise. Faults and all, he made for Jane a chance and a match far better than she might hope. No ; he was not to be lost. 'Sit down in your chair, Martin Hynes,' said Hugh ; and at sound of the words how Maria sighed relief, and Hannah breathed satisfac- THE SQUIREEN 51 tion, and Big Ned thumped approval in the face of Mires the genteel ; ' an' make yourself easy. I take your word, an' I make my apology. Sit down, Martin, sit down.' And wearing the smile of a victor, dubious though victory might be, Martin lowered sword and obeyed. So far very good ; and now, this preliminary skirmish well over, came the real ranging for battle, the advancing by Hynes in swift bold- ness of attack, the manoeuvring of Fallen for position of defence. No time was wasted. Affairs were in hand. 'What,' asked Hynes, ' was the sum and kind of the fortune which Fallon was ready to convey as the marriage- portion of Jane his daughter? ' A hush fell in the parlour. Big Ned thrust his hands into pockets, wrinkled his wise brow, and fixed his eyes on the family Bible. Mrs. Fallon coughed nervously behind a hand, then wiped her lips and, by way of Mires and his sleek head, exchanged knowing looks with the expectant Hannah. Martin caught his thumbs in his waistcoat-pockets, tilted back his chair, and fell to balancing precariously between the table and window. Hugh looked 52 THE SQUIREEN thoughtfully at the portrait of King William, sought a minute's inspiration within the fire, then glanced round the company, blinked shrewdly, flung back his shoulders and began. At first words came slowly and with due deliberation of thought and manner ; but, once warmed to work and his tongue loosened, Hugh flung off reserve and spoke boldly. He was glad to have sight of Martin there beyond the table and was proud of his company. He wished him long life, much prosperity, and his portion of happiness in this mortal world. He was well aware of Martin's gifts and virtues ; he would be glad to welcome him as one of the family ; he hoped that everything might be amicably settled and have the bless- ing of the Almighty. Still, he was anxious to make things clear, to explain himself, to remove misapprehension. It passed current in Gorteen, and elsewhere no doubt, that he, Hugh Fallen, was a man of means and substance, and that, consequently, his daughters upon marriage would bring with them large fortunes in money and considerable portions in the shape of household and personal effects. So people fancied and spoke, not knowing what they said, THE SQUIREEN 53 and so, doubtless, Martin himself had heard and believed. Well, all this maybe was meant kindly and did small harm, but busybodies seldom got in sight of the truth. They made mountains of molehills and plucked figs of thistles. Eyes had they and saw not, and hearing did not understand. ' Far be it from me,' said Hugh, bobbing oratorically towards the company, ' to forbid idle tongues, but truth remained when all was said. Now what are the facts ? ' asked Hugh, pushing forth a hand and lying back in his chair. 'What are the facts, I say ? ' Quick at heel of the words came Martin's answer, sudden and fierce as a squall from the hills. 'Dang your facts,' said Martin, both voice and manner big with arrogant contempt, 'an' dang your talk, Hugh Fallen! D'you think I'm a fool? D'you think I don't see what you're drivin' at? If you can't belittle me, you '11 belittle yourself ; there 's your game in a word. Come, I 'm sick of your bleather ! It 's business we want, not talk ; an' what I 'm wishful to hear is not your excuses but what you'll give with the girl.' Here was plain speaking indeed ; like bolts 54 THE SQUIREEN from above the words hurtled amid the com- pany, bringing sudden dismay. The women sat breathless ; Mires made wondering eyes ; hardly might Ned Noble give voice to his feelings. * Young man, young man,' cried Ned, 'that's a foolish way to talk. You'll gain nothin' be goin' to work like that ! Aisy now, aisy.' 'Ah, stop that bull's roar of yours,' stormed Martin. ' Come, Fallen ; I 'm waitinV Fallon had flushed crimson ; his jaw was set, his eyes glowed ; and when, presently, words came to him again his voice rang hard. He was obliged to Hynes for his interruption ; he thanked him for his plain talk. Not often before had he been insulted in his own house ; but let all that go. He would take the young man at his word, and would say at once what Jane his daughter would have as fortune. Item, her grey pony. Item, her brindled cow and calf. Item, sundry hens and chickens of her own. Item, a wooden bedstead and fit- tings. Item, a mahogany chest of drawers . . .' 1 Take all that afterwards,' said Hynes. 1 What 's the money ? ' ' I '11 take it when I like,' answered Fallon THE SQUIREEN 55 in wrath, shouting down the voice of Big Ned the peacemaker. ' You '11 do what I say/ persisted Hynes. ' What 's the money ? ' And hammering the table Fallon made answer, ' Fifty pound in notes ' ; then glared defiance and lay back in his chair. Fifty pounds ? No wonder Maria and Hannah exchanged wondering looks ; no wonder Big Ned found speech wither on his tongue ; no wonder Mires fell to dalliance with his whiskers and shrewd pondering of the prospect that now lay before himself. Fifty pounds ! Why, rumour and their own know- ledge had set Jane's fortune at not less than three times that sum ; why, Hannah herself, thought Mires, had never warmed imagination with prospect of less than twice just that. Fifty pounds ? No wonder Hynes stared blankly at Fallon ; then flung back his head and laughed. Fifty pounds and Jane Fallon ? Oh, powers above ! 'Fifty pounds/ cried he at last; 'is that what you say ? Fifty pounds ! Ah, quit your nonsense, Hugh Fallon. Man, you 're a fool at a joke. D J you hear what he says ? ' asked 5 6 THE SQUIREEN Hynes of Maria. ' D' you hear him, Hannah ? An* you, Mires, beyond there ? An' you, Ned Noble ? D' you hear, I say ? ' 'Yes, I hear/ answered Ned with a nod, and speaking, for once, the mind of his party. * It's your own fault, young man ; an' serve ye right, say I. Fight your own battle, me son an* divil send ye wisdom ! ' So Fallen and Hynes crossed swords again, and made grim strife ; Hynes attacking strongly and with more discretion than he had hitherto used, Fallon showing bold defence and retiring stubbornly, step by step, till at last his terms of treaty were roundly declared at one hundred pounds. That sum was still far short of Jane's real fortune ; but Hugh was roused to anger and obstinacy, was determined that Martin should pay well for his folly, and fight now for his every pound. Come on, said Hugh within his defences; I'm coming, cried Martin, andi sprang for the fray. And the tide of battle swelled. It was a mighty affair, the greatest maybe that has ever raged on the trampled fields of Gorteen. To this day men speak of it, emo- tion kindling in their eyes. Red Hugh was THE SQUIREEN , 57 wonderful, Martin a prodigy of skill and daring. All his arts of tongue and brain, of persuasion and argument and force, Hynes employed ; and against them did Fallon array all his strength, nor scorned the good services of his supports of the reluctant Maria, the treacherous Hannah, the crafty Sam, the voluble Ned striving heroically for terms of peace. Sometimes the din was great. Now the strife grew hot, now cold and deadly. Just as do men in a fair-green over the price of a horse, so did the combatants wrangle : wrangled fiercely for half an hour, then flagged somewhat; at last, under Ned's astute handling, came near an issue. 'Come, boys,' cried Ned; 'enough talk! Listen to me, my sons. Now whisht, Martin, for just a minute. I '11 settle it all in the wink of an eye. Here 's the whole thing as plain as a pikestaff. Hynes here says he'll take a hundred an' fifty no less ; Fallon there says he '11 give a hundred an' thirty no more. Come! Be men, an' give me your hands.' Sprawling across the table, Ned seized a hand of either. 'Split the differ, say I, an' make it a hundred an' forty. Is it a bargain ? Now 58 THE SQUIREEN then ; no drawin' back ; clinch, I tell ye, like men ! Clinch, I say clinch ! ' ' It 's a hundred an' thirty,' said Fallon. ' Well, curse you for a heart o' stone ! Come/ cried Hynes with an oath, his words precisely those that a hundred times he had used in fair and market, ' here ; s my last word : make it guineas an' I take the heifer.' ' Pounds ! ' answered Fallon. 1 Guineas ! ' shouted Hynes, rising from his chair. ' It 's my last word : guineas or nothin'.' Just a minute Red Hugh sat silent, with all the voices of his party making clamour in his ear ; then plucked his hand from Noble, pushed back his chair, and rose. ' It 's guineas, then,' said he ; and with the words joy sprang into life amid the company. Hannah's face shone out in triumph ; Maria strove with motherly tears ; Big Ned cried out Hurroo, and smote Sam Mires a friendly thwack. Martin stood swaying on heel and toe and taking congratu- lation with a smile. Red Hugh turned his back upon the fire ; spread his coat-tails and grimly stood watching and considering. Then pipes came out, a bottle was set upon the table ; THE SQUIREEN 59 Big Ned took glass in hand, faced round towards Martin, and asked for silence. * Squire, me son/ boomed he ; ' I 'm proud And just then, in that moment of Ned's glory, the door was pushed wider and into the room came Jane Fallen. Very pale and calm, her eyes shining steadily, her head erect and hands clenched, Jane moved among the silent company, noticing no one and saying no word ; came to the table, leant a hand upon it and turned towards the fire. ' I 'm thankful to ye all,' said she, her voice going clear through the hush, ' for all you 've done for me ' 1 Why, not at all, woman,' blundered Ned Noble ; ' sure, not at all. Arrah, what is there to thank us for ? * 1 I thank ye all,' continued Jane, and silenced Ned with a glance, * for the good opinion ye have of me, an' I thank ye for the way you Ve bought an' sold me this night. Ye meant well, I know ; it 's the custom of the country, I know still, I thank ye one and all. 1 The silence broke around Jane as, pausing a moment, she took a quick breath and plucked 60 THE SQUIREEN nervously at her neck-band. Hynes and Fallen stood narrowly eyeing her. Again Ned Noble offered suave counsel. Hannah snatched at Jane's sleeve and whispered in her ear. * Don't be a fool, Jane/ said Maria, her mother, commanding more than advising. * Ah, I know I 'm a fool,' answered Jane, the words coming plaintively ; ' no one need ever tell that to me. I was a fool to listen ; I was a fool to come here : but I had to come, an' I must speak. As I said, I 'm thankful to ye all for your good opinion of me ; for all that I 'm worth more 'n a houseful o' guineas, an' if you, father an' mother, don't know that then I 'm proud to tell it to ye. Money 's not my price no an' it's you, Martin Hynes, should know it. Your heifer ? Your heifer \ ' Hynes stepped forward. 'Come, Jane,' said he persuasively ; * you 're hard upon me. The word meant nothing. It slipped from me. I 'm sorry for it. Come, Jane ; forgive and forget.' ' Forgive an' forget ? Ah, yes, indeed ! Thank God, I know ye in time.' 'Ah, but, Jane!' Hynes came nearer; his words fell softer. ' Listen to me, now. Can't THE SQUIREEN 61 you understand? I swear to you I meant nothin'. I didn't hear myself say the word/ * But ye meant it ; ye meant it. An' there 's more than that. Didn't I hear ah, God forgive me, didn't I hear ! ' * It 's nothin', Jane, I tell you. Woman alive, it's only the custom . . .' 1 It 's the money ye want, not me. Thank God, I know ye in time ! ' Hynes fell back, convicted and silenced ; but Fallen strode from the fire and seized Jane by a shoulder. ' Hold your fool's tongue/ ordered he, ' an' remember who ye are. Your whims and your impudence, indeed ! Come, sit ye down an' give heed to your betters ; for you '11 marry whoever I wish ye to marry.' ' I '11 never marry him never never ! ' ' Silence, I say ! ' And Jane obeyed. CHAPTER IV IT was late that night when Martin reached home. He rested badly, lying awake for long with jarring thoughts for company, tossing uneasily between dreams, starting up more than once to stare wide into darkness ; woke heavily at last in the broad light of morning, dressed hurriedly and hastened down into the kitchen. There all was bustle and life, the fire blazing high beneath the crook, the air heavy with the odours of cooking and peat smoke. Through the open doorway came sounds of the farmyard, the cackle of fowls, lowing of cattle, bleating of calves, the tramp and jingle of horses, the clatter of cans, the shouts of men in the fields ; came also a shine of early sunshine and the shrewd breath of young morning. By the hearth Mary was busy with pot and beetle ; near the window George the man-servant sat mending harness ; at the long white table, in cap and apron, her sleeves rolled up and skirt tucked high, the THE SQUIREEN 63 Mother stood kneading cakes on a wooden tray. At sound of Martin's step she looked round and bade him good morning. He nodded, answered gruffly, and putting on his cap strode into the yard. The air refreshed him somewhat, as stand- ing on the doorstep he stretched up his arms and yawned at the sky ; then hands under coat-tails and blinking at the sunlight, he crossed towards the outhouses for his morning rounds. Everything was in order and every one busy ; but the Master was in a bad humour that day and so nothing was right. He would find fault with an angel, said one to another, and slunk from his path. The byre was like a dunghill, said he, the horses half-groomed, the pigs not thriving. Half the haggard was scattered in the yard, more food was wasted in the boiling-house than would feed a troop. He kicked the dogs, swore at the herd, bullied the maid, and killed a marauding chicken with a stone ; had a horse saddled at last, and mounting dashed out through the fields. * An' God send ye don't break your neck,' said Tom the herd at sight of him ; ' for the divil 's in your track this day.' 64 THE SQUIREEN Half-an-hour's gallop cleansed his blood ; and when, in a while, all things being to his mind in the yard and the men gone fieldwards, he stamped into breakfast, his humour had brightened. Flinging his cap upon the dresser shelf, he turned into the pantry, and in the high-backed chair that once had been his father's, took his place at the head of the little table. A cheerful blaze flickered upon the walls. Hot cakes, fried eggs and bacon, whole- meal bread, butter in pats, oatmeal porridge, new milk and steaming tea in a brown pot, crowded the bleached-white cloth. A dog lay upon the hearth, the cat was curled upon a chair. By Martin's plate was yesterday's news- paper, by his mother's a Bible and a book of family prayer : with clasped hands and bowed head she said grace, then in her precise, old- fashioned way turned to the duties of the table. For a while Martin ate heartily and in silence ; then, hunger well allayed, leant back in his chair and cup in hand faced towards the fire. Before him the Mother sat sipping her tea and watching his face. 1 Well,' said he in a minute, ' 1 've settled things at last.' Pausing he reached up his cup THE SQUIREEN 65 and met his mother's eyes. * Ay, I 've settled things.' 'Yes, Martin?' His mother filled the cup and passed it back. 'I've I've ' Martin paused; went on quickly. * I 'm goin' to be married.' His mother's eyebrows twitched and her lips tightened ; but she made no sign of surprise. The news had come abruptly and was hardly welcome ; but it had been long expected. Her day was past. Martin was no longer young. Those goings across the fields had occasioned thought. Rumour and gossip had reached her ears. No more than the inevitable had come. Slowly she put down her cup, steadily raised the teapot. ' Yes, Martin,' she said. ' 'Twas only last night I made up my mind. It's been comin' though this good while. I I ' Again Martin paused in some con- fusion. ' You want somebody with you, mother. It's it's not fair for you to be doin' what you do, an' lookin' after everything, at your time of life. You want some one don't you now ? ' A smile glimmered in his mother's eyes. Yes, she wanted somebody. Her day was E 66 THE SQUIREEN past. She nodded. * Yes, Martin ; perhaps I do.' 1 All the work there is to do here baking, cooking, tidying up an' only you an' the girl to do it ! Sure it 's not fair. Sure you ought to be doin' nothing in the world now but just restin' yourself. Ought you now ? ' asked Martin, turning in his chair. The smile faded in his mother's eyes. Surely the words were true. The days of her work and reign were past. Another must take her place. All that was left for her now was just a while of rest, of calm preparation in this world for the mercies of the next. ' Yes, Martin,' she answered ; nor added a word. ' So I went last night and arranged matters settled the fortune, an' the day, an' all the rest. Oh, everything's settled, everything. It might be better, it might be worse but ah, it 's good enough ! ' Martin sat leaning forward, his back rounded and hands stretched to the fire, his face clouded and somewhat sullen. His mother had dis- appointed him ; he expected sympathy and got coldness, congratulation and found silence. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and faced THE SQUIREEN 67 round with his back to the fire. ' Have you nothing to say to me at all ? ' he asked, harshly and irritably. His mother looked up at him. ' What can I say ? What is there to say ? ' ' Couldn't you say you were glad, or sorry, or tell me what you think ? ' ' I I am glad, Martin. Why should I be sorry ? ' ' Couldn't you ask me what arrangements I 'd made ? ' Martin continued. ' Or or who she is ? ' ' Who she is? 1 Shrewdly his mother read his face, suspicion sudden in her eyes. ' Why _ w hy ? ' 'It's not Kate Trant,' said Martin. 'I'm off there.' He paused, waiting for his mother to speak ; then, no word coming, he went on. * It's Jane Fallon,'he said bluntly ; and leaning against the mantelpiece stood looking at the dog. His mother said nothing; so in a while he flung into his chair again and kicked at the blazing peat. ' Oh, I know what you 're think- in',' he broke out, his voice hard and bitter ; 4 right well I know for all your silence. You 're wonderin' at my choice, an' callin' me a fool, 68 THE SQUIREEN an' blamin' me about Kate Trant.' Martin turned and waved a hand. ' You needn't be botherin' your head,' he cried ; ' for it 's all the same. I am a fool but it's Jane Fallen for all that.' He stopped there, touched the dog with his foot and rose. ' Come, Tim,' he said, making for the door, ' you '11 say no less to me than another.' But already his mother had risen. She stopped him, with a hand upon his arm. * Martin/ she pleaded, ' don't go like that. You mustn't be angry with me, or mistake me. My son, of course I 'm glad ; but surely you understand. It 's a surprise, Martin ; it 's a surprise. And then you know I 've no one but you ; and it 's not easy to lose you/ Her voice quavered a little. ' You understand, Martin don't you ? ' Martin's face brightened. * To be sure, mother ; to be sure I do.' He laughed and laid a hand upon her shoulder. ' But, woman alive, you '11 not be losing me ! Why, I '11 be here just the same. There '11 be no difference at all, except for Jane, and she sure, she's like a child in her ways.' Again he laughed, his masterful hand gently shaking her to and THE SQUIREEN 69 fro. ' So cheer up,' he said ; ' brighten up now an' wish me well/ * I do, Martin. From my heart I wish you well.' She pulled down his face and kissed it. ' Good luck to you, my son, and God bless you/ ' Amen, mother,' said Martin, and went. But she sat quiet for a while ; then read in the Bible ; then went upstairs, and came down in cloak and bonnet, and set out through the sunshine. Dog at heel and gun on shoulder, Martin crossed the yard and took to the fields. The sun was now high and shining wide over the waking earth, filling the great space between mountain and mountain with much light and freshness, stirring hope in the hearts of men, striking life into herb and hedgerow, warming the blood in Martin, as boldly he strode the acres of Hillside, and bringing to him some sense of the good in life. The world seemed to open out before him, big and pleasant, with sunshine full in it, just then, and the clouds suddenly gone ; his own little portion of it lying there around him, very bright and kindly. There they spread, those acres of Hillside, not bur- dened now with mortgage or debt, not wasting 70 THE SQUIREEN slowly, it might appear, from fatness or crying out upon neglect, but free and smiling, good and prosperous his own. After all, things had not been so bad ; after all, there was hope in the world. That money, little though it was, would do much ; with management and some sacrifice more could be achieved ; he would work harder, thought Martin, striding boldly through the sunshine, give less time to pleasure, stand a free man, please God, before long. The worst was over. Kate knew oh, poor Kate! Jane and her money were his. He had told the mother. Trouble was behind, hope and the world in front ; Hill- side was his, the day was glorious : then a fig for worry, thought Martin, and broke into song as he went. He made the circuit of the hills, took stock of the horses and cattle with eyes keen for the chances of profit and loss, made survey of those fields ready for crop and those destined for meadow, took a turn through the rushes in hope of a shot, spent an idle hour with the men, exchanging news and story, giving counsel and opinion, in the Five-acre field ; then shouldered gun again and took his way THE SQUIREEN 71 across the flats that lay between Hillside and the farm of Hugh Fallon. In high spirits he went, and full of comely strength ; his thoughts roving generously and going out sometimes, not unkindly, towards that little pale-faced Jane whose betrothed he was. Coming presently to Fallen's house, he turned through a side gate, went along a lane, across the yard, and dog at heel strode into the kitchen. A great fire burned upon the hearth ; flitches of bacon, salted hams, bladders, bunches of herbs and smoked bream, hung from the soot-browned joists; a long painted dresser faced the fire ; an inner door (which, as Martin entered, was pulled close) gave access, beyond the tiled floor, to the hall ; by the window stood a deal table, and at it, in linsey bodice, quilted petticoat and long white apron, Jane Fallon was ironing linen. 'Ha! The top of the morning to you, Jane ! ' Martin stood his gun by the dresser, ordered the dog to the hearth, sat himself on a corner of the table and folded his arms. ' Busy as usual, I see.' Jane had not greeted him with a word; now she put her iron on its stand and looked up at 72 THE SQUIREEN him. 'Ay, I'm busy as usual,' she said, then folded a fresh garment and bent again to work. 'You're always busy, Jane. Never did I know your like in the world. Why, woman dear, you're killing yourself! You're as pale as death. Come, now, drop that iron for a minute an' give us a word.' Jane's lips closed firmly; to and fro her hand moved steadily ; no word or look did she give Martin. 'Come, Jane, I bid you.' No answer came. ' D'you hear me, Jane?' Still the iron rose and fell. 'Then, dang me, you'll have to speak ! ' Dropping from the table, Martin came towards her with arms outstretched and would have seized her. But Jane drew back, iron still in her hand, and faced him boldly. 'Keep away,' she said; 'keep away from me. I don't want ye.' ' Don't you, faith. Then I want you ! ' Martin came nearer, his hands still out, his face almost eager. 'Come, Jane, enough foolishness.' He caught her by an arm and bent towards her, but quickly she twisted away. THE SQUIREEN 73 'Keep back, I say!' Her voice was sharp and imperative. ' I don't want ye/ 1 Ah, but, Jane. Listen now ' * I '11 not listen. Ye can't tempt me.' Stoop- ing, Jane laid her iron on the hearth, then faced Martin again. * D' ye think I forget ? ' she asked, her voice finding bitterness. * D' ye know me so little as to think one night 'd change me? . . . Your heifer! "Give me so much," ye said, "an' I'll take the heifer." That 's what ye think of me that ! ' Martin's hands fell; he drew back a step and stood looking, not quite scornfully, at Jane. 'Well, well,' said he, 'was there ever such a puzzle in God's world as a woman ? Tell her a thing till you 're tired, an' the next minute it's just as if you hadn't spoke.' His voice rose suddenly. ' Ah, quit your foolish- ness, Jane Fallon ! D' you imagine I must be always explainin' myself? For the last time, I tell you the word meant nothin 1 an' I 'm sorry for it.' 'I say it did!' Jane's eyes flashed; her voice was shrill and tense. 'I say, no matter what the word meant, ye bargained for me as if I'd been what ye said. It's not me ye 74 THE SQUIREEN want, it's my money. . . . An' ye lied last night, Martin Hynes ; hard an' sinfully ye lied. I knew it by your voice. I see it now in your face. Ye are in debt an' you'd use me to pay it. I know it, I know it ! ' Almost trium- phantly Jane cried her knowledge; then, in a moment, her voice changed and she went on plaintively. ' Ah, the disappointment the bitter disappointment ! I was a fool. I trusted ye. I believed your words. I thought ye wanted me for myself. An' now . . .' A sob choked back the words. Now was Martin's chance ; for a woman in tears is at your knowing man's feet. Softly he drew nearer, softly spoke. 'Ah, whisht, Jane, whisht now. God knows, I do care for yourself. Why, you know it ! Look at me an' see, look at my face an' see. Jane. Ah, is it scorn me for sake of a word you 'd do ? Jane ! ' He took her in his arms, and for a moment she stood wavering. He was such a strong, handsome man ; his ways were so masterful, his voice so soft and pleading. Maybe she had misjudged him ; maybe he did care for herself alone ? No ! Quickly she found THE SQUIREEN 75 strength and drew from him. 'No, no,' she cried again ; 4 don't tempt me ! Never, never ! Ye may go. Never in this world will I marry ye.' ' But, Jane. Woman, dear, would you break my heart ? ' ' Break your heart ! Ah, words come easy to ye/ said Jane ; then drew herself erect and spoke out : ' Martin Hynes, this is my last word to ye. Ye may carry your soft words to some one else, for I don't believe them ; an', God helping me, your wife I '11 never be. Till last night I did care for ye an' believe in ye : now I don't care a straw for ye ; the face o' ye is hateful to me, an' the false words o' ye. I know ye now thank God, I know ye in time ! Ye may go, I say ; for never in life will ye tempt me': and stooping for her iron Jane turned again to work. A little way out from the hearth, with his back towards the passage door ajar now and moving slightly Martin stood eyeing Jane, a hand in either waistcoat -pocket, his legs spraddled, and a frown on his face. Here was a pretty business, he thought ; here a pretty position for one of his kind to find ;6 THE SQUIREEN he, Martin Hynes, owner of Hillside and equal of any in three townlands. Angrily his eyes fell upon Jane, searching out her defects. He saw her narrow lean figure, somewhat sharp about the shoulders, a little clumsy about the waist ; saw her sleek black hair drawn tight into a long coarse net, her pale face with its high brow, pointed nose and chin, her toil-worn hands and bony wrists, her heavy boots, her peasant's dress. She looked worn, old, delicate. Hardly an attraction could he find in her. With a score of women he could name Kate Trant among them she compared to their advantage. Her gentle speech and ways were boorish just then, her simplicity of mind and character mere foolish- ness ; she seemed ignorant, plebeian. And she flouted him ! He had a mind to take her at her word. Only only she had money. Yes, defects and all, Jane was worth her money. Again he drew near to her. ' Look here, Jane, don't be foolish. You 're saying what you don't mean. Heaven above, you'd think I was a thief! Suppose I was sharp, didn't your father make me? Come now ? ' THE SQUIREEN 77 Jane did not answer. ' I ask your pardon. I ask you to forgive and forget. Come, won't that satisfy you ? ' Jane kept silent, her lips tight and quivering. ' I 'm ready to do anything you ask, or say anything. Look at me, Jane, an' answer me.' But Jane would not look or answer ; and at that Martin turned with an oath, took up his gun, called the dog from the hearth, and strode for the door. * As you like, my lady,' shouted he ; ' as you like. Stay there an' sulk till you 're tired, for I 'm sick o' you, by God!' The door banged and Jane was alone alone in the storm that broke swift upon her through that inner door. In hot anger Martin crossed the yard, and through a gateway took to a footpath that ran through the fields on towards Drumhill. The day had waxed brighter ; spring was breathing in the air ; on every side the earth was stirring in the sunshine; but in Martin's heart was now only blackness, in his eyes blind wrath. Tramping heavily, he strode along, storming within himself. The insolence of the woman, 78 THE SQUIREEN her whims and folly ! Who was she to dare such impudence ? Who was he Martin Hynes of Hillside to lower himself to her ? Let her go. He had been a fool, and this was his punishment. Well rid he was of the jade. All the money in Gorteen would not make her price. Oh, he 'd make her rue the day, he 'd show her the kind he was, stormed Martin; then went through a gap and came to the field in which Red Hugh was working. In his homespun trousers and leggings, mole- skin waistcoat and peaked cap, his arms bare to the elbows, his shirt open upon his chest, Hugh bent over his spade, wielding it with that slow dogged strength, that grim determina- tion to dominate the clay, to force it into fruit- fulness, which in all his works and ways was manifest. He allowed no chances of failure. Every spadeful fell artfully in its own place, every clod was humoured. He knew exactly what to do, and did it with the diligence of a slave. His own master and servant he was. Neither himself nor any who wrought for him did he spare. He lived to work, and the world in his eyes was a stern place of toil. No eye had he for the paltry externals, what fools called THE SQUIREEN 79 the beauties, of nature. For him the sun shone, the rain fell, the earth quickened, in due service of spade and plough. No heed might he spare for the ways of his neighbours ; his own narrow affairs sufficed for him, and so preoccupied was he, that glorious morning, with these that the sound of Martin's voice gave him first news of his coming. 'A pretty way to be treated ! ' Martin strode up, stood his gun between his feet, and flung out an arm. ' To flout me, an' gibe at me, an' sulk when I spoke ! I 'm done with her. I 'm sick of her.' Slowly Hugh drew himself upright, rested his arms on his spade-head, and calmly met Martin's eyes. ' I bid ye good mornin', young man/ said he, * even if you 're not civil enough to bid it to me. What 's all this about, may I ask ? ' * Dang your civility,' answered Martin; 'a lot o' that there's to spare these parts. If you'd teach some to that daughter o' yours above, maybe she 'd know her place in the world. I 'm sick of her.' 1 1 know.' Hugh nodded gravely. ' It'll be Jane that 's riled ye ? ' So THE SQUIREEN 1 Ay, it 's Jane. She 's she 's Ah, I 've no words for her ! ' * I know.' Again Hugh nodded. 'An' what might she be doin' ? ' * I came to her like a lamb. I gave her every duty. I apologised like a beggar-man. I asked her to forgive an' forget. I bore with her till I wonder at myself. An' what does she do ? ' Martin's arm swung out. * Scorns me tells me she hates me says she '11 never marry me sulks before me in silence. She she she does that ! ' ' I see.' Hugh set a foot upon the ridge, leant an elbow upon his knee, looked thought- fully at his boot. 'Well?' ' Just as if the compliment was on her side,' spluttered Martin. ' Just as if she was the only woman in the world, or the only woman with ' 'Money,' said Hugh quietly. ' Ah, dang the money ! ' shouted Martin. ' Would all the money in the bank excuse her ? D' ye think it 's her money I care about ? ' * Naw. Maybe ye don't. Still, it 's worth considerinV THE SQUIREEN 81 'It's worth nothin'. Dang her money, I say!' Red Hugh drew himself upright, slowly as an ox in rising, and pointed a finger at Martin. 'Look here, young man,' said he, 'take my advice and don't be a hypocrite as well as a fool. You 're angry now an' words are light in ye : well, say no more till your blood 's cool/ * Angry ? An' wouldn't an angel be angry ? Whew! Be the Lord,' shouted Martin, thump- ing his gun upon the clay, 4 she 's maddened me.' Hugh turned and spat upon the ground. 1 Ah,' said he, ' I 'm weary hearin' ye. You an* your tantrums ! Have ye learned no wit in all the years that you 've lived ? Man, you 're a fool ! Ach, quit wi' ye,' shouted Hugh in face of Martin's protest, ' an' listen to sense ! What if she does rile ye, an' try her whims on ye ? Will that break a bone in ye? Isn't it only her woman's way, just the way of her breed? Lord pity ye if that 's all the management you've got. Why didn't ye let her have her fling, an' then take her in your arms 4 But I did,' cried Martin. 'I gave her every chance. I humoured her to the last word/ F 82 THE SQUIREEN 'Ay, I know.' Fallen smiled sardonically. ' An' then ye pleased her by tearin' away like a mad bull. Tut. You 're a fool, I say/ Again he levelled a finger at Martin. ' Listen to me, young man ; if ye want Jane an' her money you 've only got to take them. If ye don't want them, then' he shrugged his shoulders 'you're wastin' me time, an' I'll wish ye good mornin'.' Hugh spat on his hands, drove his spade into the clay, and fell to work. Leaning upon his gun, Martin stood watching him and considering with himself. Anger had now died in him, its place held by shrewder passions. Perhaps Hugh was right ; maybe he had been foolish. Jane was peculiar, liked humouring, was only a woman. If he wanted her and her money he had only to take them. After all, she was no worse now than she had been last night. He mustn't be blind, mustn't throw away chances. * You think that, Fallon?' he asked. ' You think it 's only her way ? ' ' I think nothin' ; I 'm sure of it/ * But suppose she 's in earnest ? Suppose she keeps to her word ? ' ' Suppose ! ' Hugh shot upright. ' What THE SQUIREEN 83 supposin' is there? Amn't I her father? Doesn't she know her duty? . . . Leave her to me, young man,' said Fallon, waving a hand and stooping to work. ' Go your ways an' leave her to me.' So Martin shouldered his gun and went his ways, striding now in full sunshine across the basking fields. His heart was light again, his world big with promise. He forgave Jane, even spared her now and then a generous thought. To any that he met his greeting was hearty. Across the hedges he shouted saluta- tion to the men of Gorteen. Nearing Hillside he saw a figure in cloak and bonnet turn through the gateway ; hurried on to offer kind ser- vices and overtook his mother in the avenue. * Why, mother ; it 's you ? Think of this now. Out in your regimentals your lee lone, an' me to overtake you ! Where in glory have you been ? ' * Ah, Martin, my son.' The Mother looked up at him ; her face was pale and weary, and she breathed heavily, as slowly she plodded along leaning on a stick. * I 'm I 'm glad to see you.' 1 But where have you been ? Why didn't 84 THE SQUIREEN you get George to drive you ? Who have you been to see ? ' ' Oh, nowhere in particular, Martin. I I wanted a walk. It 's such a beautiful morning.' * But you have been somewhere. I know it.' Martin stopped and turned the Mother towards him. ' Look here, you Ve been to Leemore to see Kate ? ' Feebly she stood before him, asking pardon with her eyes. ' Yes, Martin,' she said, ' I Ve been to see Kate.' ' I knew it. An' you 'd hide it from me ! What business had you to go? What right have you to go interferin' ? ' Martin's hand was rough on her arm, his voice was hard. ' What did you go for ? What did you say ? ' ' I had no business to go, Martin but I said nothing. I saw Kate but I said nothing.' The words were true. Moved by pity she had gone to see Kate, with a woman's tact had given her sympathy without meddling a word. In the little room beyond the pillars she had sat with Kate a while, had exchanged civilities with Kate's mother in the kitchen, had smiled on the children as she passed through the school ; at the gate had taken Kate's hand and THE SQUIREEN 85 looked at her as she said good-bye. The look was enough. Kate understood, and was grateful. But Martin might never understand ; for him women were always women and facts facts. ' I don't believe you,' he said bluntly. * You have been interferin'. Now see here, mother. You mean well, I know ; but, like a good woman, leave my affairs alone an' keep your schemin' for things nearer home. You under- stand?' 'Yes, Martin.' ' An' you '11 not go to Leemore again. You understand that ? ' 'Yes, Martin.' 'That's right.' He took his mother's arm and walked on. ' And now we '11 see about dinner.' CHAPTER V LEANING on his spade, a hand gripping his chin, his eyebrows knitted above his knowing eyes, Red Hugh watched Martin go boldly across the fields ; then, with a smothered growl, turned and bent to work. ' Ay,' he said aloud, and spoke scornfully as to one on the clay beneath him, ' you an' your gun an' your dog ! Playin' the gentleman when ye ought to be payin' your debts, airin' your impudence in the face of your betters ! Serve ye right, me play-boy, if Jane didn't take ye. Dang her money, ye say ah, ye hypocrite ! Still . . .' Driving hard at his spade, Hugh gave himself to the silent labour of thought, there grim and solitary amid the glory of the fields. In a while he looked at the sun, scraped the clay from his boots, wiped his forehead with the lining of his cap, and tramped home to dinner. The table was set in the kitchen : THE SQUIREEN 87 knives and forks scattered upon the bare boards, a great dish of potatoes in the middle, plates and a dish of fried bacon at the end facing Hugh's chair. Without word or cere- mony he flung his cap on the dresser, sat down, asked a blessing, served, and began to eat. Maria his wife threw off \ivc praskeen and took the chair facing Hugh ; Hannah came in from the dairy with a noggin of milk and took her place on Hugh's left ; Jane came through the passage doorway, her skirt still tucked high, her arms bare to the elbows, and sat her- self on Hugh's right. No greeting passed from one to another, no useless words of gossip or comment marred the business of eating ; all ate heartily and somewhat noisily without any affectation of refinement. Maria's face was sullen, Hannah's flushed ; at intervals the eyes of these two met, parted slowly and rested on Jane. Hugh wrought diligently over his plate, with jerking elbows and bent head. Jane might have been alone with herself, so reserved she was, such little notice she gave to anything save the food before her. Presently Maria drank deep from the noggin, passed it to Hannah, and looked at 88 THE SQUIREEN Hugh. ' Martin came this mornm',' said she, then glanced at Jane. ' Maybe ye seen him ? ' Hugh reached his fork for a potato and fell to peeling it. ' I did,' growled he. 'Ha!' Maria waited a minute. 'Well?' Maria paused again, her eyes, like Hannah's, quick on Hugh's face. ' Didn't he say any- thin' ? ' Hugh reached for another potato. * He did.' Again silence fell. Impatiently Hannah and her mother sat hungering for news. Quietly Jane possessed herself. Stolidly Hugh bent over his plate. ' But what did he say ? ' cried Hannah at last. ' What did he do ? ' ' Leave that to me,' answered Hugh. 'You '11 know in good time.' ' To you ! ' Hannah bent forward, her eyes glowing, knife and fork upright in her hands. * An' isn't it our business as much as yours ? Have we no right to a word ? ' Hugh looked up. 'Maybe you've had it,' said he, with a lift of his eyebrows. 'Had it? How? Is it to her beyond there ? ' asked Hannah, levelling her knife at Jane. ' Is it to her, ye mean ? ' THE SQUIREEN 89 'Maybe.' 'An' you'd take her part!' Like a flash Hannah turned and spoke. * You 'd let Mar- tin go ? You 'd let a fool like that ' again Hannah's knife flashed towards Jane 'dis- grace us all ? J Hugh's hand went up. ' Enough o' that ; enough, I say ! ' 'But it's not enough,' cried Hannah. 'I tell ye she 's a fool. I tell ye it 's a sin. She 's mad ! Ye don't know, father ; ye can't know what she said and did.' ' Enough,' shouted Hugh. 'Be quiet, jade ! ' ' I '11 not be quiet. I will speak.' Hugh rose, big and threatening, and pointed towards the door. 'Go from my sight,' he ordered ; and without a word Hannah rose and went. Dinner was now over. Silently Maria crossed to the fire and stirred it beneath the kettle ; silently Jane tied on her apron and began clearing the table. Hugh pulled a stool to the hearth and, leaning towards the blaze, sat pondering, whilst Maria prepared his cus- tomary bowl of tea. It was his one indulgence of the flesh ; gravely he took it, permitting 90 THE SQUIREEN to-day no jesting allusions to his weakness, nodded his thanks, drank the tea slowly in long satisfying gulps ; then set down the bowl, leant against the chimney -jamb, and crossing his legs began to smoke. Soon his head fell for- ward, his lips ceased to move ; noisily he slept. When he awoke, Jane had gone and only Maria was in the kitchen, her hands deep in a basin of potatoes and meal for the fowls. He rose, yawned heavily and stretched his limbs ; crossed to the dresser for his cap and made for the door. Maria set her basin on the table and followed him. ' Hugh,' she said, ' you 're not goin' to take Jane's part ? You '11 not let Martin go ? ' He stepped into the yard, stopped, and stood looking at the sky. ' It 's all right, Maria,' he said. ' Leave it to me.' 'But you'll not, Hugh?' Maria faced him and clutched his waistcoat. 'Tell me you'll not. She 's mad. I Ve talked till I 'm hoarse at her, an* she 's like a stone. You '11 make her, Hugh ; say you will.' ' Leave it to me, Maria.' ' But, Hugh, dear ! Listen to me. Tell me . .' THE SQUIREEN 91 ' Leave her to me, Maria. I '11 manage her.' Slowly and heavily Hugh trudged along the path, his hands clasped behind him and his eyes roving the fields ; came to his spade, standing there like a sentinel of the clay, loosened his shirt and resumed work. The sun fell hot on his back, bringing sweat upon his brow, warming his neck and face to the colour of brick dust. Around him on hill and field all was life and movement, sweetest freshness of springtime and richest bounty : cattle grazing, horses tramping master- fully, men working and shouting, women flaunt- ing their coloured kerchiefs in the sunlight ; birds piped in the fragrant hedges or flitted across the ridges, crows went wheeling and clamouring in the sky ; the world spun merrily amid the golden hours, but of it or of anything that blessed it Hugh had no heed, save of the dull earth he would conquer and hard thought within him that sweetened toil. He thought of Martin and his affairs, with growing favour ; of Jane and her rebellion, with increasing sternness ; of his own mundane concerns, with satisfaction. Martin Hynes must be humoured, 92 THE SQUIREEN that seemed clear ; Jane must be subdued, that was certain ; Hugh Fallen was Hugh Fallen oh, nothing surer in the world. Leave Jane to him ; leave everything to him. About four o'clock Hannah came along the field carrying tea in a can and hot potato-cake in a basket. Without speaking she set down can and basket, turned defiantly and walked away. Hugh gave her the length of a ridge, then put a hand round his mouth and shouted, ' Come back.' Hannah walked on. ' D' you hear me, jade ! ' Hannah turned and slowly came back. 'Stand there,' said Hugh, nodding at a spot on the grass. In silence Hannah obeyed ; in sullen silence, the while Hugh sat munching by his spade, she stood before him, looking fixedly across the field, a finger on her lips, a hand clenched by her side. If only Sam were here, she thought ; if only she dared say what was in her mind ! But Sam did not come, and she dared not speak : and in a while Hugh finished. ' Now go home/ said he, rising and turning to his spade ; ' an' mind your manners for the future, I advise ye. Ye hear me, miss ? ' THE SQUIREEN 93 1 Yes, father.' Meekly Hannah answered and went. The sun sank, the shadows lengthened, slowly life died from the fields ; but Hugh laboured on unweariedly, nor gave thought rest. Sometimes his lips moved, or he stood idle a moment looking at his spade, or he laughed grimly as he spat on his hands ; and now he spoke a sentence aloud a sentence of the parental homily he was preparing, or a text from the Scriptures bearing upon the rights of parents and the duties of children. ' You 'd defy me,' he said, just as though Hannah or Jane stood before him ; ' you 'd tell me what you 'd be wishful to do. . . . Silence, jade ! ' And Jane, you might fancy, cowered before him. The sun fell behind the mountain, peace gathered upon the fields with the pensive twilight; through the mists of evening Hugh trudged slowly homewards, spade on shoulder, and an arm swinging : the day's work over at last. Another sun had set, another night come. Spring was here, work was forward. Let God be thanked. Leaving his spade in the turf-house, Hugh 94 THE SQUIREEN made a round of the yard ; looked into the dairy, so fresh and cool beneath the thatch, with its glazed pans and shining tins, its half- filled butter-firkin and oaken churn on the cemented floor ; bedded and fed the horse ; carried hay in a rope from the haggard, and spread it before the store-fed cattle and the cows that Jane and Hannah were milking ; glanced into the sty at the sleeping pigs, took the ladder from the barn door and locked it within the car-house, then wiped his boots with a wisp of straw and went in. The kitchen was warm and full of cheerful light, heavy with the odours of peat and boiled green-stuff. The porridge pot bubbled above the fire, the kettle sang on the hearth ; on the table were bowls and mugs, a noggin of butter- milk and iron spoons. Maria was knitting in a corner. Sam Mires, otherwise Sam the Hump, sat hunched upon a stool, caressing his whiskers and smoking a meerschaum pipe. With his back to the chimney-jamb and his legs crossed, Ned Noble sat at his ease, giving wisdom voice through clouds of smoke. 'Ah, me bould Hugh,' boomed Ned, 'so it 's yourself at last. Well, well, now, the THE SQUIREEN 95 industrious man ye are ! Up wi' the lark, in wi' the moon sure it 's wonderful ye stand it so well.' ' Good evening/ said Sam in his genteel way across his shoulder. Without speaking, Maria rose and began preparing supper. 'Good evenin' all, 1 answered Hugh; then pulled off his waistcoat and hung it with his cap upon the wall, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, filled a tin basin with water from a can, and began washing his hands. His back was to the company ; he answered Ned's questions curtly and welcomed his platitudes with grunts and splashings ; when, in a while, he turned to the supper-table he took his place silently and in silence ate. Sometimes he nodded a response to Ned's roar, sometimes glanced sideways from his dish and took scornful heed of Sam's delicate toying with spoon and bowl ; as Jane and Hannah took their places he gave them each shrewd survey and requited his wife's watchfulness with a meaning stare. 1 Leave them to me,' said Hugh's eyes ; ' leave everything to me.' And Maria was content. But Jane looked determined, and Hannah sat 96 THE SQUIREEN sullen in face of the languishing Sam. Sam was there now; but what availed Sam? In his own house Red Hugh was master. Big Ned clattered his spoon into the bowl, spread his hands on his waistcoat and sighed profoundly. 'Well, thanks be,' said Ned, 'for good victuals an' a place to put them. Sure the man was a hero that invented eatin'. He was so. Give me a pot o' stirabout an' what milk '11 cool it, an' I envy no king his throne.' He looked at Jane. ' Come, Jane, me girl, give your elbow freedom. Sure you 're only pickin' over there, like a sparrow at a corn- stack. Tut, woman, you '11 have to fatten up for what 's afore ye ! Marryin 's no child's play for man or woman. Ah, be the Lord, but it 's Martin Hynes '11 put life in ye when he gets ye beyond in Hillside ! ' Jane bent flushing over her plate; Hugh sat glowering across at Ned ; Sam Mires grinned his widest at the unresponsive Hannah. ' Troth, an' it 's the fine lady you '11 be then/ Ned kept on, smitten with the charm of his subtle humour, * all in your silks an' satins by your own hearthstone. Sure, you '11 not know THE SQUIREEN 97 us at all ; an' as for plain stirabout, you '11 be callin' it pigs' meat. Ay, will ye. It'll be tay in bed, an' your breakfast in the parlour, an' roast beef from Bunn to tempt your appetite at dinner-time. Aw, to be sure, indeed. Mrs. Martin Hynes, if you please, wi' a ring on her finger an' a horse an' trap to take herself to church ! Sure, it '11 be great entirely, so it will. An' there'll be poor me an' your mother here, an' Hugh himself over there, an' Hannah too as plain Mrs. Mires, all standin' in our tatters, touchin' our hats an' curtsyin' to her ladyship.' Ned guffawed at the ceiling ; Sam Mires writhed merrily in his chair ; Hannah (melted at last) tittered and flushed, and said, ' Quit wi' ye, Ned'; Jane sat patiently enduring, very pale, and her lips set ; but Red Hugh kicked back his chair and rose. 'Enough o' this foolery,' he said sternly. ' Come, Jane ; bring a light to the little room/ And leaving Ned speechless, Hugh strode off. Jane rose from the table, lighted a candle, and followed her father through the hall up into the parlour ; there she lit the hanging lamp, quenched the candle, and folding her 98 THE SQUIREEN hands, stood waiting. In his chair beside the wall-bed Hugh was seated, hands in his pockets, and his legs outstretched. He looked at Jane. ' Don't be heedin' them/ he said, almost softly. 'It's their ignorance.' He paused a breath ; still with that unusual note of sym- pathy in his voice, went on, ' What 's this I hear about your treatment of Martin ? Eh ? ' Jane was not prepared for kindness. She stood gazing at Hugh. * What what treat- ment, father ? ' ' All this about refusin' to marry him ; about your ways wi' him this mornin', an' your send- in' him to the rightabout. Is that true ?' 'It it is, father.' Jane stood like a child before its master, halting and diffident. ' An' what possessed ye to do such a thing ? Were ye mad or what ? ' Jane did not answer. She stood looking at the big Bible, pale and quiet. 1 Answer me, Jane. What possessed ye, I say ? ' 'I I dunno, father.' 'Ye don't know? H'm. Well, no matter about that now. You Ve changed your mind by this, I 'm thinkin' ? ' THE SQUIREEN 99 Still Jane stood wordless, her hands folded, the lamplight soft on her face. ' Come. Answer me. You 're wiser now than ye were this mornin' ? ' Jane drew a long breath. Steadily she looked at Hugh. ' No no, father.' 'No! You 're still thinkin' like that ? You're still full o' your whims and nonsense ? ' ' I am, father. I ' Jane paused ; then boldly declared herself : ' I '11 never marry him.' Hugh bent towards the table, leant an elbow upon it, and pointed a finger. * Now, look here, Jane,' said he, both voice and manner heavy with warning, ' I have no wish to be hard wi' ye. In a way I 'm sorry for ye ; but I '11 have no foolishness. You 're welcome to your whims an' humours ; but so long as you 're my daughter you '11 obey my word. Ye understand that ? ' < I '11 I 'H_ I do, father.' 'Very well, then. It's as well ye do, for it '11 save ye trouble. Now just do what I ask ye, me girl, an' save more words by gettin' rid of your nonsense there as ye stand. Ye hear me ? ' ioo THE SQUIREEN 'I I ' Again Jane declared herself: ' I '11 never marry him.' 'But that's just what ye will do.' With a thump of his fist Hugh broke forth. * I say ye will marry him. I say you '11 marry who- ever I bid ye to marry. Who are you, miss, to dare put yourself against me ? You an' your foolishness, an' your rebellion ! You to stand there defyin' me ! What d' you know of what 's good for ye ? Is it for this I reared ye, and slaved for ye all these years ? Be silent, miss ! ' stormed Hugh ; then, in his masterful way, and in much the same words that lately he had flung at his spade, went on. He was master of that house. He would have no waywardness there, or foolishness, or rebellion. He had pitied Jane, had striven to show her kindness ; now he was driven to wrath and plain speaking. Let her hear and beware. Let her put away folly and submit. Let her understand that so long as she dwelt under that roof she must show respect to him, and give the obedience that she owed. And for herself, let her guard against the sin involved in the breach of that commandment delivered to Moses on the Mount : Honour thy father THE SQUIREEN 101 and thy mother . . . ; and let her lay to heart that other command of the apostle : Children, obey your parents in all things. ' Ye hear me?' said Hugh, leaning flushed over the table. ' Ye hear an' understand ? ' Jane stood a minute with her eyes on the Bible ; then stepped nearer Hugh and looked at him, and dropped her hands. 'Father,' she said, 'always have I obeyed ye, an' honoured ye in all things ; always have I been thankful to ye for all your goodness to me. I 'm thankful to ye now, an' I 'm wishful to obey ye, but how can I ? ' 'Ye must!' stormed Hugh. 'I'll make ye.' Jane raised a hand. ' Hear me out/ she asked; 'it's little I have to say. How can I obey ye, father, when ye command me to do what's wrong? It is wrong I know it is ye know in your own heart it is. What happiness could there be ? D' ye think ? ' ' I think nothin',' cried Hugh. ' I say.' Jane came a step nearer, again raised a pleading hand. ' Listen to me/ she asked. ' It 's only a word. You 've quoted texts to me ; don't ye mind that other passage in the Scrip- 102 THE SQUIREEN tures : And they twain shall be one flesh . . . D' ye think we could ever be one flesh ? ' Hugh rose swiftly. * Enough o 1 this/ he shouted. ' I mind nothin', an' I think nothin'. I ask ye this : are ye goin' to obey me ? ' 'Ah, don't, don't,' begged Jane. ' How can I ? Listen to me, father/ With clasped hands she drew near to Hugh. ' Always to this day have we agreed together wi'out ever a hard word. I Ve worked for ye night an' day ; I Ve strove to do me best. I want to obey ye. I want to honour ye but Ah, can't ye see ? ' 'I see just this,' said Hugh, 'that you'll obey me or leave this house. Not another word not one ! ' He towered big and imper- ative over Jane, pointing towards the door. ' Go your ways an' purify your rebellious heart. Five weeks hence ye marry Martin Hynes, or you 're no daughter o' mine. Go your ways.' That was plain speaking ; what might Jane, a poor weak woman striving to do right, with- out friend or place of refuge, dare answer to it ? In sooth, nothing. Words were vain, pleas of no avail ; all she might do was keep THE SQUIREEN 103 silent and endure, praying that strength to bear might be given her, hoping that all might be well in the end. She turned away without speaking, and with Hugh following her went back to the kitchen ; there found her knitting, took a stool by the hearth, bent her head and worked in silence. All round her was life and cheerfulness : Hannah talking softly with Mires in a corner, her mother reading in a newspaper below the lamp, Big Ned roar- ing wisdom by the chimney-jamb, her father, relieved now of rod and toga, holding contest on high matters of State with Ned across the hearthstone : but Jane's thoughts were turned inwards, working dolefully with herself. When Ned made merry in her service, she looked up and smiled ; if her mother spoke, or her father, she answered dutifully ; sometimes when Hannah broke into laughter, and Mires rocked on his stool, she looked towards them and checked a sigh. Ah, it was well to be young and happy. What was in store ? she asked herself. Could she endure? If she had patience, and asked help in prayer, maybe something might happen, all come right in the end. Ah, if she could believe in Martin, only 104 THE SQUIREEN think of him as she had once thought ! But he had changed, everything had changed ; she seemed alone in a pitiless world. ' God be with me,' prayed Jane ; ' God help and strengthen me ! ' And so, long and fer- vently, she prayed that night by her bedside in her room beneath the thatch. CHAPTER VI SO Jane endured patiently, and her life was hard. Time brought no consolation, the sweet spring days no happiness. She watched lonely with the stars, and went solitary amid the sunshine. Through long hours of the night she lay sleepless, longing and hoping, praying for help and strength, striving for patience and rest ; down the long days she passed miserably, shrinking from companion- ship, scorning her impotent self, seeking relief from torturing thought in the weary monotony of toil. She worked incessantly. She never complained, seldom spoke. She forgot to smile or sing. Her appetite failed, her step grew listless. Life seemed dark, hope almost hopeless. Ah, that some light might shine, some way come plain ! But no light shone upon the way ; no sign came in answer to her prayers. Only her own instincts blind impulses of nature, monitions 105 io6 THE SQUIREEN of conscience, subtle workings of tradition and training guided her and upheld. None gave her counsel or sympathy, none understood : all were against her. She could only pray and endure. Her life was hard. Her father troubled her little, and for that mercy she was grateful. There were no more scenes between them ; and though he gave her no word of sympathy, no smallest sign of allegiance, his manner towards her was not less than kindly. He had spoken, but once for all ; let obedience be given and his hand was light. Sometimes at table he checked Hannah's waspish tongue, sometimes silenced Maria with a word, or Mires with a look, or Ned the ponderous with an oath ; now and then gave Jane a quiet look that stirred her heart. But these services came seldom, and all the day, whilst Hugh was afield, Hannah and Maria had Jane at their mercy ; and did not spare her. For her good, and their own, they spoke ; duty and inclination going hand in hand. Hannah a worthy girl in many ways, and by nature not unkindly was an adept, as Sam Mires knew well, in the art of sly allusion, of THE SQUIREEN 107 talking at a victim ; Maria, her mother, could wield her tongue with the stinging directness of a whip-lash. Both had gifts of speech, both were keen to sight opportunity : both beheld in Jane the choicest opportunity, the worthiest receiver of good gifts. Some people never knew when the sun shone, said Hannah. God help the poor woman that lived to see children disgrace them / came pat from Maria. Sure it was well indeed for beggars to go choosing, particularly when there was only one choice, quoth Hannah with a laugh. Ah, God forgive her for bringing a fool into the world ! cried Maria, and snapped tight her lips. Maybe the son of a Duke with a gilt coach and six white horses would suit some people, hinted Hannah in a voice like honey. Might Martin leave her to marry a beggar-man / cried Maria in a flare of wrath. Faith, and it was the blooming bride some one would make, said Hannah with a titter, herself and her rosebud of a face. Had she no sense ? cried Maria twenty times in a day. Had she no gratitude ? Was she a fool? Did she know what was before her ? Had she never a word in her head ? ' Put down that work an' listen to me, ye ungrateful fool ! ' io8 THE SQUIREEN shrilled Maria across the kitchen, or through the sunshine. And Jane listened. Neighbours also came thronging in, good- hearted souls from the Gorteen hills, laden with good wishes for herself, and little presents that smelt of peat smoke, and soft words of congratulation. Every day the knocker clat- tered on the green door, and Jane was sum- moned to the parlour, there to sit patiently with folded hands whilst Mrs. Hicks in poke bonnet and shawl, or Miss Phillips in jacket and hat, drew forth her gift and spread it on the table, asking Jane's acceptance of it in kindly words that she hated to hear. ' It 's only a trifle, Miss Fallon,' would be the phrase, * but God knows we 're proud to give it. An' we wish ye well, an' long life in Hill- side ; an' may ye never see sorrow all your days/ And Jane would tremble where she sat, and murmur due thanks, whilst Hannah and Maria raised hands and joined in artful chorus of admiration. Sure it was lovely ; sure it's Jane was the lucky girl ; ah, now that was the finest present of all they 'd seen. A thousand times they thanked Miss Phillips, a thousand times Jane was obliged. . . . 'Only THE SQUIREEN 109 ye mustn't be heedin' her,' would be Hannah's parting word at the door ; * sure she 's flus- tered wi' all that 's before her. Good-bye now, Miss Phillips, an' thank ye kindly again ; an' we '11 look for ye at the church.' Every night, too, some one stamped the mud from his boots upon the step, and entered the kitchen, a * God save ye kindly ' on his lips, and a wedding-gift in his hand. Maybe it would be Long William from the Lough-head bringing two dozen of eggs for Herself; or Jack of the Hollow with some of the red cow's butter; or Henry Marvin of Lackan carrying a live goose below his arm ; or John the cooper, with a wee stool for Miss Jane, 'an' might she have a hearth to sit by in Hillside till she was a hundred.' And there they would sit smok- ing and droning ; and there would be Ned Noble booming through the smoke, there Mires whispering sweetly to Hannah in the corner, there Hugh considering, and Maria watching, and Jane between them bending meekly over her work. * Ah, bedad, an' it 's Herself is the lucky girl/ ' Sure ye might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw when I heard the news.' ' Man, but it 's a great match no THE SQUIREEN entirely ... an' when did ye say, ma'am, was the happy day ? ' * Three weeks come Wednesday, please God, 1 would be Maria's answer ; and Jane would wince at the words. Three weeks come Wednesday ? Ah, no, no ! Also one morning Martin's mother came feebly through the garden between the rounded flower-beds, leaning heavily on her stick and with a packet in her hand, knocked at the green door and was led by the radiant Hannah up into the parlour. Here was an occasion ! And how was Mrs. Hynes now? How all in Hill- side? How Martin himself? They hadn't seen him this day or two, but sure he must be busy. Wouldn't Mrs. Hynes take off her bonnet? Ah, now, just to show she was at home ! Well, then, she 'd have a glass of port wine to refresh her after that long walk. Jane would be here in a minute, her mother was coming at once, let Mrs. Hynes take that easy- chair and make herself quite at home. So Hannah chattered whilst the Mother smiled and sipped ; soon Maria came beaming and bubbling, and Jane with her so pale and hesitant : and all was gay in the little parlour. THE SQUIREEN in Ah, delighted Maria was to see Mrs. Hynes, proud to see her so well and vigorous. And how was all at Hillside ; and how was Martin himself? Why, a great honour he was doing them all ; ah, a powerful surprise he had given them ; sure it was Jane had the luck of a lady. They were delighted. Might the Almighty bless the match. It was great, cried Maria ; it was great, echoed Hannah ; it was great, cried both in endless chorus. But Jane sat meek and silent, having nothing real to say, and the Mother sat observant, thinking more than she said. Perhaps she understood ; maybe she read deep in Jane's eyes. There was trouble there and fear, something that shrank from the light and cowered painfully in face of all this empty parade of laudation. What was her trouble ? Why was she not happy ? Had she also found out Martin ? She rose and crossed to Jane. ' My dear,' she said, * I hope you '11 be very happy with Martin, and happy with me. He has been a good son, and I know he 11 be a good husband. I '11 welcome you when you come very heartily and all your joys will be mine.' She laid her packet of old lace on Jane's lap, kissed her ii2 THE SQUIREEN and turned away. ' Good-bye, my dear, and God bless you ! ' Also Martin himself came dutifully almost every day, and, like Hugh, acted prudently. He made no professions of love, exacted rione ; never spoke to Jane of what was coming, or referred to what was past ; took things as they were cheerfully (he having left all to Hugh and all being the best that could be), made the most of the sunshine and the best of him- self. He was merry with Hannah, pleasant with Maria, cracked joke for joke with Big Ned, bowed his proud head in deference to the authoritative Hugh. Sometimes, of a morning, he would come with gun and dog to sit a while in the kitchen watching Jane at work ; in the afternoons, too, would tramp in for a cup of tea and a word of gossip ; at night also, now and then, would settle himself com- fortably in a chair by the hearth, light his pipe and make gay discourse. He seemed happy, in those days, full of the spring. His face shone, his laugh rang through Gorteen. Ah, Martin was the boy, said one to another ; the bright clever fellow. The sight of him did one's heart good. Who told better stories ? THE SQUIREEN 113 Who met you with such hearty speech and ways? Why, to see him, one might imagine him matched with my Lady, worth her weight in gold ! It was wonderful, ay and strange too, for wasn't Herself only poor Jane Fallen after all ? Jane Fallen, going about like a ghost, they said, with never a word for herself and not two for Martin ! What ailed her in life ? Was she sick ; or was the word true one heard about Martin not being to her mind ? Ah, nonsense ! Martin Hynes, that might pick the best in the land? Martin of Hillside; their own Squire; big handsome Martin? Ah, he was the boy of boys ! Sure Jane had the luck of a Queen. See Himself there on his horse, there with his gun, there with his legs crossed before the fire. Every one liked him. Hannah knelt at his feet. Maria gave him all the affection of her withered heart. Red Hugh spared him some admiration and a shade of deference. Big Ned roared his praises from hill to hill. Sam Mires forgot Hannah, and neglected his whiskers as he sat beholding. Even Jane shone pleasantly, sometimes, in the light of his presence. He was such a fine man, so big and handsome, so hearty when he H ii 4 THE SQUIREEN chose, so strong and masterful. It was hard to think ill of him, hard not to believe in him. If he were only true, always just as he then was sunshine on his face, merriment in his eye, frankness in his voice. Was he true? Was this the real Martin, the Martin of the old days? Had he forgotten himself that night and spoken only with his breath ? Did he truly care? Was it herself he came to see, or ? Ah, she remembered. Make it guineas and 1 7/ take the heifer. Not herself he wanted, but her money; not to please her he came and shone, but to humour her for the sake of the guineas. He was false. He cared nothing. All this was only show. Never would she marry him. She would go out among the strangers. She would die first. She would . . . Ah, what could she do ? Speaking were of no avail; nobody understood her, all were against her ; she shrank from strange ways and places. Surely God would help her. Surely a way would come plain in the end. 'God guide me,' Jane would cry within herself, bending pale over her work and shutting out THE SQUIREEN 115 the light from her heart. And Martin would turn and see, would understand and turn darkly away, would rise soon and go. Then would Maria fume, Hannah gibe, Hugh pro- claim silence ; Jane herself glide silently away at last to her bedside beneath the thatch. And one night, he being reckless then and weary of Jane, Martin strode over the turf-bog to Leemore, hesitated a while in sight of the pillars and the darkened blind beyond them, then went boldly and took his old place by the fireside in the schoolhouse kitchen. Kate's mother welcomed him, but Kate, busy at a table with roll and ledger, gave him small heed ; so in a while he rose, was dismissed by Kate with a curt good night, and came no more. The days went, quick and sure, spring full in them, the nights glorious between ; and quicker and nearer that day of days, so antici- pated of all save Jane (and maybe one other), drew nigh. At the Fallens' all was bustle and excitement, in Gorteen commotion from end to end. Meekly Jane sat in the straight-backed pew, shrinking into herself as from the gaze of a countryside's eyes upon her, and heard read the banns between one Martin Hynes, n6 THE SQUIREEN bachelor, and another, Jane Fallen, spinster^ both of this parish ; meekly was led between those long lines of faces, ranged there among the tombstones, and heard her name go buzzing stealthily from porch to gate. She was taken to Bunn town, there to be shouted at, and shaken by the hand, and stared at by all the world upon the sidewalks ; to stand patiently whilst the draper flattered and spread his wares, whilst Hannah chose and Maria criticised, whilst this one measured and that one fitted, and all joined in soft harmony of congratulation. Sure the grand match it was. Sure every one worshipped the Squire. Why, all the town had Herself on its tongue every minute of the day. Ah, lovely she 'd look in that grey dress and bonnet with a white veil to her toes ; ah, like an old glove that jacket fitted her and showed off her figure like something from Paris. 'God bless ye, Miss Jane!' cried the women from the doorways. ' Ah, more power to ye, me girl ! ' roared the men upon the side- walks. ' May Heaven look kindly upon ye, me sweet young woman, an' may the Lord send your childer may be magistrates ! ' whined the beggars in the gutter. There were excursions THE SQUIREEN 117 to Lismahee, weary drives to the emporiums of Glann and Clogheen, long hours of trudging from street to street, of haggling at counter after counter. Some days seemed without beginning, so early the car went jolting through the mists ; some endless, so tardily the hours went and the car lumbered home beneath the stars. But they went, those days, somehow, some way, and nearer came the appointed time. Gorteen was agog; in the Fallons' a whirl of preparation. No time now for thought or worry ; none to give heed to that simpleton of a Jane. The house was scrubbed and ordered. From sunrise to sunset Hugh went busily, whitewashing the walls, painting the doors and flower-boxes, trimming the hedges, bending over the walks and flower-beds. Maria baked and cooked, cleaned and arranged. Hannah plucked and trussed, sugared hams, watched cakes, piled coals about the ovens, starched and ironed ; went radiantly of evenings to carry word to the fortunates who were bidden to the feast. Cutlery and linen were hired, chairs and tables borrowed from neighbours ; wine and spirits came from Glann, beef and bags of n8 THE SQUIREEN biscuits and white bread. The rector sent a sugared cake ; chickens came from Hillside ; Hugh killed a sheep and hung it in the dairy. There was plenty of everything ; all was ready ; two days before the time the tables were spread in the parlour, decked and garnished. Gorteen was eager; in the Fallons' excite- ment flared. Hannah flew on wings ; Maria shrilled adown the hours ; Hugh tramped light as a ploughboy. Only another day, only a handful of hours ; just an hour or two more, said Jane within herself, going meekly through the flurry, preparing for the sacrifice. No one heeded her. She was prepared, everything was ready : now she might do her liking as best she liked. Let her mope and sigh ; let her sit by the fire, pale and worn ; let her spend lonely hours in the fields or nights by her bedside ; she might pray her hardest, look her most piteous : all was ready and she was prepared. To-morrow Martin would come for his bride, and the bells ring, and her fate be sealed ; to-morrow Jane be Jane no more. . . . To-morrow ? The last night ? Ah, no ! THE SQUIREEN 119 Surely something must happen, some way come plain even now in the end. God was good. God would hear her. She would go. She would speak. . . . ' Ah, God help me,' cried Jane, that night, in piteous entreaty ; ' God help me to do what is right ! I 'm weak and foolish, hard and rebellious. If I have sinned, Lord forgive me my sins and show me that which is right.' She flung herself down, there in her room beneath the thatch with the candlelight dim in it and the stars looking through the window, there in sight of her dress hanging upon the wall and her bonnet and veil lying ready upon the chair ; flung herself across the bed with outstretched arms. * Help me, Lord,' she cried ; 'direct me, O God most high ! ' So that last night went ; and the great day came. Very early all were astir in the Fallons' ; as Gorteen awoke it yawned at the ceiling, and looking towards the windows, said : * This is the Squire's weddin'-day. Happy is the bride that the sun shines on/ It was indeed a glorious morning. The sun sprang bright from the mists ; the fields spread glittering upon the 120 THE SQUIREEN hills. Birds piped in the hedges. Life ran joyfully upon the earth. Away out across the wilds of Drumhill and back to the rampart of my Lord the mountain, this way towards smil- ing Emo, and that towards the valleys of Armoy, and down towards the wooded shores of Derryvad, beauty and freshness lay soft beneath the morning. The air was full and good. No cloud was in the sky. Slowly the smoke rose above the roofs and melted away. By nine o'clock relations began to gather in the parlour, guests in yard and garden, and neighbours by the gateway in the road. Big Ned Noble came soonest of all, swaggering in a new suit and creaking boots, shouting his respects and offering kind services everywhere. On the first car came Eliza, Ned's wife, flounced and ribboned, sleek and radiant ; young Ned driving gallantly from the dicky, young Nobles sitting stiff in Sunday best upon the cushions. Cousins and uncles drove in from Armoy, aunts and uncles from the lough- side, cousins and kinsfolk from beyond the ferry, all bedecked and beaming, voluble and hearty, their hearts on their sleeves, their eyes kindling at sight of the tables. Such greetings THE SQUIREEN 121 and palaver, such handshaking and soothering, such airing of smoke-scented finery, fluttering of ribbons, tossing of wrinkled coat-tails ! * Sure it's an odious fine gathering entirely/ said those by the roadside. ' Sure, it 's Our- selves are the best of the best/ thought the groups in the garden. ' Here's to Us all an' good luck to Themselves ! ' shouted Big Ned in the parlour ; and the glasses flashed. All was life and bustle, laughter, excite- ment. Here went Hugh in his spring-sides and broadcloth, playing the host like my Lord. Here went Maria in her wrinkled satin, smirk- ing and smiling, flurrying and sighing, one eye on the company and one on the tables. In and out, up and down, flew that whirlwind of a Hannah, now chattering in the parlour, or tittering in the hall, or straightening a ribbon before the glass ; now stepping softly to Jane's door to listen a while ; now giving Sam the lovelorn, so spick in his braided coat, white tie and lavender gloves, a tender word behind her hand. Thus did time go and the hour of sacrifice come near. The carriage from Bunn had just whirled up 122 THE SQUIREEN to the gate, some one upon the road had passed word that Himself was starting from Hillside ; when downstairs Hannah came flying with news of Jane. 'She's gone she's gone!' Excitedly Hannah rushed into the parlour waving uplifted hands. ' I can't find her. She 's not in her room. Ah, has nobody seen her?' Jane gone? A sudden hush fell upon the parlour ; then quick a growing storm. ' It's true it's true!' cried Hannah wildly. ' She 's not there. She hasn't put on a stitch. Everything's just as it was last night. Ah, where is she ? Lord above, where 's Jane ? ' Hannah's voice shrilled through the parlour, pierced to the garden, and woke agitation there. Faces came to the window, feet clattered in the hall ; voices rose in the kitchen, hubbub in the yard. * Go an' see ! ' cried Hannah. * If ye don't believe me, go an' see for yourselves.' Parlour and hall rushed to the stairs ; with a burst Jane's room was taken by storm. There stood the bed in a corner, the varnished trunk by the window. There was Jane's Bible lying open upon the table, her dress hanging on a nail, her jacket folded upon a chair, her THE SQUIREEN 123 bonnet and veil, her shoes, her gloves ; there was everything but Jane herself. Where was she ? In Heaven's name, what had come to her ? Back swept hall and parlour ; loud rose the sound of clamour upon the stairs, swelled into kitchen and parlour, broke upon yard and garden. 'She's gone she's gone,' shrilled Hannah. ' I know it. She 's run away. She 's drowned herself. She said she'd never marry him. There's been death in her face these weeks and weeks. Find her find her ! Ah, God above, don't stand there gapin', but go an' find her!' Out ran Hannah ; out rushed hall and parlour, spread through the yard and swarmed upon the fields. Shouts arose, and cries. Maria ran as one distracted, Ned Noble like a man pursued. Hugh flung off his coat, seized a pole and led the way towards the turf-bog. Mires went hunting along the ditches ; aimlessly men and women coursed the fields. Dread blotted out the sunshine, fear panted in the face of spring. 'Jane, Jane,' was the cry. 'Jane Fallon Jane Fallon ! ' ' Ah, Jane, dear, where are you ? ' cried i2 4 THE SQUIREEN Hannah in despair ; then, by chance, turned through the haggard into the little garden plot and there found Jane bending low over a ridge. A spade was in her hand. She was dressed in workaday garb, an old cap upon her head, her skirt tucked about her waist. Her face was pale and set ; her eyes were fast upon the clay ; her lips moved as she wrought : alone with thought and self she bent, a toil-worn figure of patience, there amid the sunshine. Had she found a way? Had strength come at last ? Hannah skirled high, plucked up her muslin skirts, ran, and took Jane by the arm. * What 's this? what's this? In God's name, what's possessed ye ? Are ye mad, are ye mad ? Come in with me. Ah, ye eternal fool, come in!' Jane tightened her lips; bent lower above her spade. Hannah shook her. 'They'll all be here in a minute. You '11 be the talk of the world. You '11 disgrace us, you '11 disgrace us. Think of it ! Never again can we raise our heads in Gorteen.' She seized Jane. 'Come with THE SQUIREEN 125 me. Ah, ye miserable fool! Come, I say, come.' 'I '11 never come.' Jane shook herself free, turned, and faced Hannah boldly. 'Tell them I '11 never come.' 'But ye must.' Hannah fell to pleading. ' Ah, Jane dear, Jane dear ! Think of what you 're doin'. Think of mother an' father an' Martin . . .' * Tell him that, God helpin' me, I '11 never marry him.' 'But ye must, ye must. It's too late now. Ah,' cried Hannah, raising her hands and turning to the groups that came hurrying near, ' she 's mad, she 's mad ! Look at her. Look at Martin's bride! ' Jane stooped and laid her spade in a furrow, then folded hands and bravely stood waiting. The groups ran in and formed a ring about her, protesting, pleading, imploring; at last came Hugh, broke through the ring, and gripped Jane's arm. ' What 's all this ? What foolery are ye up to now? Answer,' thundered Hugh, 'answer me!' ' I '11 not go. I '11 never marry him.' 126 THE SQUIREEN Hugh stretched an arm towards the house. 1 Go in an' dress yourself. March. Be ready inside fifteen minutes.' 1 No, father.' 'Do as I bid ye.' ' No, father.' ' D' ye want me to raise a scene ? Haven't ye disgraced yourself enough ? D' ye dare to defy me? Me! Quick ; in wi' ye.' 1 No, father wi' God's help, no ! ' Hugh flared into fury. With both hands he seized Jane and began pulling her towards the house ; and with that the ring parted again and Martin strode in, all glorious in his wedding array. Stepping forward he took Hugh by the arm. ' What 's all this ? Stand back, Fallen. Let her go, I say.' Hugh stood aside, and there was Martin, so big and glorious, face to face with his bride. 'What's this, Jane? Why are you not ready for me ? Did you forget, or am I come too soon?' He took Jane's hands and drew her towards him. * Come,' said he, 1 it's time to go. Come, Jane, my girl.' Jane shook her head and moaned ; quivering, she tried to draw away. THE SQUIREEN 127 'Come, Jane.' Masterfully Martin's hands gripped and claimed. ' Come with me.' Then Jane raised her eyes, a sob in her throat, and her lips prayerless ; lifted her eyes, and at sight of Hynes, his manhood and glory, she lost strength and she gave herself to him. CHAPTER VII ALL was well, then, at last ; good humour restored, diversion sure. The sun was shining again, spring triumphant in the world. Laughing and chattering, the groups tramped back to hall and parlour ; comforted them- selves with something warm, and made ready to start. The cars clattered out and took their places between the hedges. Hall and parlour, yard and kitchen, trooped forth and filled the cars. Here stood the carriage by the gateway, the horses beribboned and sleepy, Tom Logan airing his buttons upon the box ; there was Martin's gig ; there the crowd of gaping rustics. All was ready. All the world stood waiting. Let the bride appear. A sound of feet upon the stairs, a sudden hush of expectancy in the roadway, a pause in the hall ; then the figure of Jane by the threshold, and her coming, slowly and steadily, with Hannah beside her, and Maria weeping 128 THE SQUIREEN 129 behind and Martin and Mires following after, down the pathway, along through the sun- shine. She has flowers in her hand, a spray in her hair ; all about her hangs the long white veil, in and out go the satin shoes beneath her dress of silver-grey. Her face is pale, her eyes fixed upon the path ; but her step is firm, her look steadfast. She has no doubts now. For weal or woe the die is cast. Blessed, thrice blessed, is the bride that the sun shines upon. The crowd parts and hustles back by the gateway. Bravely, and meeting the fire of good wishes with a smile, Jane takes her place in the carriage, with Hannah beside her, and the weeping Maria on the further seat. Mires closes the door, climbs into Martin's gig, and gives the word to start. Crack go the whips ; the roadway shouts good luck and safe return ; off goes the long procession between the green- flecked hedges. Long life, Miss Jane. God be with you, our gallant Squire. Happy be the couple that the sun shines upon. At Hillside gate is a little party : Mary the servant in her Sunday dress, George the boy in holiday tweeds, a labourer or two grinning their broadest, the Widow also in cloak and I 130 THE SQUIREEN bonnet standing feeble by the wall. As the carriage passes hats and hands are waved, and the Widow nods and smiles ; as Martin passes, high and glorious up there in his gig, a cheer rises in his honour, and his mother sends him greeting through her tears. Welcome back, sir; welcome back. Oh, happy may you be, my own boy Martin ! There are kindly groups here and there on the roadside. From the fields now and then comes a lusty cheer. Children skirl in the gateways, women flutter aprons in the door- ways. Here an ancient sits sunning by a hedge and mumbling as from the graveside ; there a crone stands doubled in hood and cloak by a gap, her tongue wagging grave comment. Ah, well to be young and merry ; good not to know what God in His wisdom has in store. Make haste to the wedding. Hurry on through the blessed sunshine. By the cross-roads a little crowd has gathered boys and girls from Armoy and Lackan, wild men with red beards and fierce- eyed women from the bogs of Gort, the post- man from Bunn in his donkey-cart, Mrs. Brady from the shop beyond, the Nolans of Leemore THE SQUIREEN 131 on their way to Bunn with turf and lining the roadside like some tattered company of scare- crows, give knowing heed to all this parade of grandeur that winds up the brae. A carriage, indeed. A veil and flowers, no less. Gloves and a high hat on Himself; gloves and cigar with his Highness, Sam the Hump; ribbons and fallals fluttering on all the relations. Ah, by the powers, but it 's great entirely ! Ah, by all that's high, if this isn't wonderful to the world ! Jane Fallen in her carriage ! Martin the Squire behind his high-stepper ! And who's paying the Piper, now ? Would it be Martin ? Would it be Red Hugh? And, listen now : is it money or beauty that the Squire 's marrying ? Outside Ned Noble's, a cluster of True Blues discourse a quickstep on fife and drum and wake enthusiasm along the procession. By his gate Father Tom stands portly, and blesses the company with word and smile. There are well-wishers on the Priest's brae ; a flag droops across the hedge in front of Lunny's cottage ; a cart filled with boisterous turf- cutters stands in the mouth of Gorteen bog ; in the flats that stretch below Leemore hill men cheer in the furrows or drop their spades i 3 2 THE SQUIREEN and run to the hedges. Uphill goes the long procession, the horses panting as they wind, the drivers bent forward towards the shafts ; and there on top stands Kate Trant by the school gateway, in the midst of her bright-eyed flock. The children shout and clamour ; but Kate stands silent among them, hands clasped behind her, face set and pale, her lips tight. She had dreamt once of a happening like this ; had seen herself in veil and bonnet seated happily in a carriage, with her Martin big and glorious in his gig and the cars winding far behind. Now she dreams no more. Another sits in the carriage and wears her veil. There goes Martin, hers no longer, whirling past with a laugh and a flourish, leaving her lonely on the roadside, going out of her dreams for ever. There go the cars. . . . Let them go. What matters it all ? Maybe fate is kind. Perhaps flowers might spring even by the roadside. Might she be happy. Might he never regret. Come, children, come. On along the broad road, stretching away like a grey river between shining banks of green ; past Cussy's shop and Dunn's forge standing back from the crossways, past wide THE SQUIREEN 133 tracts of bogland thick with merry turf-cutters, fields new from the spade, hills crouching above the valleys, cottages gleaming among the poplars : on towards the long bare moun- tain, through the wilds of Drumhill, so barren of all save beauty this morning, goes the pro- cession, hastening gaily to the wedding. Some sing, the women chatter and laugh, the men shout greetings across the hedges or jests from car to car. Red Hugh is hearty, Martin buoyant ; in the carriage Jane sits looking through the window, thinking her own thoughts and nodding response sometimes to Maria's prosing or Hannah's twittering. No need to advise, none to fear. The past is buried. For weal or woe she has made the great step, set her feet upon the long path from which there is no turning. She must not falter. Come what may she must do her duty. Till death, and beyond death, she belongs now, body and soul, to another. Might God be with her; might His hand bless and direct. There are stragglers by the church gate, loiterers among the tombstones right and left of the path, inquisitive groups in the big square porch ; as the party goes up along the aisle 134 THE SQUIREEN there is commotion in the pews and a sound of eager whispering. Why, she is not in white, and her veil is only gauze. Satin shoes, no less, and flowers in her hair. Sure she 's flus- tered, the body ; and her thirty if she 's a day. Now the bit of a thing she is, hardly as high as the Squire's elbow. Ah, but doesn't Him- self look grand in his long coat and gloves. The fine man he is ; the fine man ! Sure it 's the world's wonder to think of him choosing her. And, for pity's sake, look at Hannah, linked with Sam the Hump, and her blushing as if 'twas herself was a-marrying ! Look at Sam's tie look, look