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 <zWthe lavender gloves, 
 and the shiny shoes. Cast your eye on Maria's 
 ould satin that was her grandmother's; and 
 sure it's a pure sight that Hugh looks in his 
 wrinkled broadcloth. Ah, now, now. Dear, 
 oh dear. . . . Whisht ; here 's his Riverence. 
 
 A hush falls among the pews. Feet clatter 
 along the aisle, seats creak, prayer-books rustle. 
 The harmonium makes joyful sound ; Wilson 
 the clerk wipes his spectacles and coughs 
 behind his hand. Side by side Jane and 
 Martin take their places before the altar 
 rail ; and, ' in the sight of God and in the 
 
THE SQUIREEN 135 
 
 face of this congregation,' the time-worn rite 
 begins. 
 
 '/ require and charge you both,' go the 
 searching words ; slowly and impressively 
 come the solemn questions : 
 
 ' Wilt thou have this woman ? . . . Wilt 
 thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her 
 in sickness and in health ; and, forsaking all 
 other, keep thee only unto her ? 
 
 1 Wilt thou have this man ? . . . Wilt thou 
 obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep 
 him in sickness and in health . . . so long as 
 ye both shall live ? ' 
 
 Wilt thou? ' I will,' answers Martin, boldly 
 as to a listening world. 
 
 Wilt thou ? * I will,' answers Jane, timidly 
 as to her trembling self, yet with the certainty 
 of all her heart ; then gives her hand to Martin, 
 takes his ring upon her finger, kneels by him 
 and implores the blessing of the Eternal. 
 Might they be as Isaac and Rebecca. 
 Might these joined hands never be put 
 asunder. Might the Lord with His favour 
 look upon them. ' O Lord, save Thy hand- 
 maid,' prays Jane, there by Martin's side, her 
 head bowed low and the sunshine soft upon 
 
136 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 it through the chancel window. ' I am weak, 
 make me strong. Help me to keep my vow, 
 to be good and brave. Give me patience,' 
 pleads Jane, bowed down as before the Throne; 
 then rises and like a child receives the words 
 of admonishment. She is calm now and pos- 
 sessed, filled with strength and content. The 
 vigil is past ; the vow made. Her hands are 
 folded, her eyes raised ; upon her face is a 
 strange light, not of the sunshine, not even 
 of happiness, but a sweet radiation from with- 
 in. Often in the earlier untroubled days, you 
 might have seen that serenity on Jane's face ; 
 as she sat teaching in the Sabbath-school, 
 as she listened to the Word in some dingy 
 parlour, as she went singing about her work ; 
 now it is shining again with a new and purer 
 light, clear there for all who have eyes to see. 
 The Rector sees as he stands admonishing. 
 One here and there in the pews and a few 
 among the tombstones a woman who knows, 
 a man who remembers, a maiden who believes 
 catch the light and stand rapt in reverie, 
 as slowly Jane goes down the aisle and out 
 into the sunshine, out into the world with her 
 hand in Martin's arm. Maria sees through 
 
THE SQUIREEN 137 
 
 a mist of tears, Hannah through wreathing 
 smiles. Even Hugh is not blind this morning ; 
 and Martin, seated now by Jane on the way 
 towards home, looks upon her wonderingly. 
 
 1 Why, Jane,' he says, a vibrant note sound- 
 ing in his voice, ' you 're changed, my girl. 
 You look what is it ? Why, you 're ten 
 years younger inside an hour.' 
 
 'Am I, Martin?' Jane smiles and turns. 
 1 What, ten years ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, every day of them. Look at me, 
 Jane ; keep on looking. Never heed the 
 fields and hedges now. Tell me tell me, 
 Jane ; are you happy ? ' 
 
 ' Happy ? ' Jane sighs a little. ' Ah, yes 
 I 'm happy.' 
 
 ' But why do you sigh, Jane ? Look at 
 me look at me. Aren't you content ? ' 
 
 ' I am, Martin ; indeed I am.' 
 
 ' You 're sure ? ' 
 
 ' I 'm sure, Martin.' 
 
 'And listen, Jane. You forgive me, don't 
 you ? You forget all that foolishness ? ' 
 
 ' All 's gone, Martin all 's gone.' 
 
 'Thank God for that!' Martin sits silent 
 a while, his eyes on the flying hedges ; then 
 
138 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 turns again. 'And we'll be happy together, 
 Jane the two of us won't we ? ' 
 
 1 Please God we will, Martin.' 
 
 ' No, but say we will ; say you 're sure we 
 will.' 
 
 1 Please God ' Jane hesitates ; turns and 
 lays her hand on Martin's. * Oh, I 'm sure 
 we will I 'm certain sure.' 
 
 'That's right.' Again Martin sits ponder- 
 ing ; again looks round. ' I '11 do my best, 
 Jane. God knows I 'm not worthy of you. 
 I 'm full of faults. I treated you ' 
 
 ' All that 's past, Martin/ 
 
 ' 1 '11 do my best, Jane.' 
 
 ' Best can do no more, Martin.' 
 
 1 And you '11 help me, Jane ? ' 
 
 'Oh, help!' Jane's voice quavers and 
 breaks. ' Martin, dear, I '11 always be with 
 you always always.' And her hand rests 
 fast in his. 
 
 Homeward goes the wedding-party home- 
 ward to feast and revelry, on and speedily past 
 hill and hedgerow. The sun rises high ; away 
 and away stretch the crowding fields back to- 
 wards bog and mountain. The cars straggle 
 far along the road, this one racing that, passing 
 
THE SQUIREEN 139 
 
 and repassing, whirling and rattling, all striving 
 vainly in chase of the bride. Up hill and 
 down dale they go, whips cracking, drivers 
 shouting, hooves pounding, natives skirling by 
 hedge and furrow. In Moran's hollow a rope 
 is stretched from ditch to ditch, and the cars 
 draw nearer as Martin pays toll. At Leemore 
 bog the turf-cutters stop the horses and clamour 
 for sixpences and a scramble. Before the 
 school a line of children stands across the 
 road, leaping in the dust and holding caps 
 and aprons for gifts of pennies ; the mistress 
 not now among them, but peering forth sad- 
 eyed maybe beyond the pillars. There is 
 another rope across the Priest's brae ; another 
 clamouring party in fantastic tatters by the 
 cross-roads. From Hillside gateway comes 
 a shower of rice and a lucky shoe, and by it 
 Martin's mother stands arrayed, given back 
 from the Long-ago, you might fancy, a relic of 
 withered times in her flowing black silk, netted 
 lace shawl, gold brooch and widow's cap. The 
 carriage stops, Martin helps her into his place 
 and mounts beside Tim Logan. The cars 
 close up, the hedges fly past. There is the 
 Lough-head, there the pastures of Gorteen, 
 
140 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 there the neighbours waiting ; there the gate- 
 way at last and the green door beyond the 
 narrow path. Home once more. Welcome 
 back, Mrs. Martin. Hurrah for our own 
 Squire boy. Hurrah for ourselves and every- 
 body. Blessed be the couple that the sun 
 has shone upon. 
 
 And now for diversion. ' Sure as a gun 
 me ribs are rattlinV said one to another, and 
 plucking at slack waistbands tramped in to 
 their places. Feet shuffled, chairs creaked ; 
 knives and forks stood ready for play. Never 
 before in Gorteen was seen such a gathering ; 
 so big, so distinguished and ready. To this 
 day folk keep green their memory of Jane 
 Fallon's wedding-party, with eyes turned back- 
 ward through long years upon piled plates, and 
 groaning tables, and eager faces above them. 
 Maria found fame that day, Hugh a glory 
 unfading. It was great. The parlour was 
 crowded to the door, so that hardly might the 
 bride have breathing-space in the cupboard 
 corner, or a man stretch a leg without kicking 
 a neighbour, or Sam Mires reach a hand to 
 his whiskers, or the carvers have elbow-room ; 
 and so great a company faced Big Ned at the 
 
THE SQUIREEN 141 
 
 kitchen-table that, in a while, two couples 
 carried their plates and ate by the hearth. 
 
 ' Still the closer the warmer,' said Susan 
 to John. 'An' the tighter the safer,' answered 
 John with a grin. 
 
 1 The more the merrier,' said Red Hugh, 
 striving hard with a turkey. 'An' the fewer 
 the quicker,' quoth Black Tom of the mill. 
 
 ' Plenty to give, an' plenty to have,' shouted 
 Big Ned, slashing deep at a ham ; 'an 1 thank 
 Heaven, childer, ye have a man at the 
 weapons.' 
 
 No time was wasted, little ceremony ob- 
 served. Hunger needed no sauce that day, 
 man or maiden no bidding. Quick and heavy 
 the plates went out ; quick and sure came 
 back ready for more. 
 
 'Dear knows, I'm keener than ever,' said 
 James of the shop (a creditor of Martin's, be 
 it said), and passed for a third helping; 'just a 
 trifle o' beef, Martin, me boy, an' don't spare 
 the fat.' 
 
 1 Ah, now, but that chicken 's great,' sighed 
 Tom's Mary in the corner ; then loosened her 
 waistband and passed for turkey. 
 
 'Well, bad manners to me for a glutton,' 
 
142 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 was the word with Red Robin (himself from 
 the hungry Loughside beyond) ; ' but, dang 
 me, ma'am, if I haven't a longin' for some o' 
 that pie o' yours ! ' 
 
 Like heroes Hugh and Martin wrought at 
 the dishes, like a Trojan Ned handled his 
 weapons in the kitchen ; hot and hearty the 
 guests sat packed around the tables, striving 
 like troopers. None minded his neighbour, 
 none gave heed to anything save the work 
 before him or the task that was coming. It 
 was a revel, a riot of appetite. Only seldom 
 in a lifetime did such chances come : now a 
 chance was here, my sons was here was 
 here. The clatter of knife and fork, the 
 pop of cork and jingle of glass, the sound 
 of good humour, the sigh of content, uprose 
 harmoniously, swelled out through door and 
 window, and set hungry eyes gleaming beyond 
 the hedge. 
 
 4 How 'sail with ye above there?' shouted 
 Big Ned from the kitchen. ' Ah, the best in 
 life/ answered Red Robin ; ' lashin's for every- 
 body, an' all strivin'.' 
 
 * Good man, Ned,' called James of the shop ; 
 'if ye want help mind I'm with ye/ * I 'm 
 
THE SQUIREEN 143 
 
 obliged to ye, James,' was Ned's retort, quick 
 as the kick of a mule ; ' but it 's every rogue to 
 his own counter this day/ And the rafters 
 rang. 
 
 Indeed it was a merry time. Humour 
 rolled from chair to chair, wit flashed along the 
 tables. 
 
 ' Good health to your Ladyship, there below 
 the wag o' the wall,' said one and another, 
 raising glass to Jane. 
 
 ' Long life to your big self,' was the word to 
 Martin ; * an' may your next spree be a 
 christenin'.' 
 
 ' Good luck and long life,' was Hugh's greet- 
 ing to the Widow, sitting patient there in her 
 silk and lace. * Ma'am, I wish ye well/ 
 
 'Here's to yourself, Sam, me boy,' cried 
 Long John, raising high a bumper; 'an' may 
 Hannah, at your elbow, trim your whiskers 
 before the corn is straw.' 
 
 * Hugh, me hero,' spake Tom of the mill, 
 his face shining like a peony, ' I 'm lookin' your 
 way. Fill up and drink to ourselves, an' 
 Maria that owns ye ; an' may fifty years see ye 
 straight in your boots.' 
 
 1 To the glorious, pious, and "mortial 'memory ',' 
 
i 4 4 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 shouted Red Robin in a fervour, wheeling in 
 his chair, and raising a hand towards King 
 William seated high on his charger above the 
 mantel. ' Long may ye reign, me boy ! ' And 
 from parlour to kitchen rolled loud the True 
 Blue chorus : ' Here 's to King Billy and 
 croppies lie down ! ' 
 
 The knives clattered down, decanters passed; 
 then a hush fell upon the room as, from his 
 place between Jane and Hannah, Sam Mires 
 rose to give a toast. * Good man, Sam/ spake 
 Red Robin for the parlour ; ' Give it tongue, 
 Sam,' spoke Big Ned for the kitchen, gathered 
 now by the doorway and outside the open 
 window : and Samuel plucked at a whisker, 
 thrust a hand into his flowered waistcoat, 
 coughed politely, and began. 
 
 He did well. Soft words fell from his 
 tongue like leaves from a bough, compliments 
 flowed like wine ; he was suave and subtle, 
 humorous and witty, fluent as milk, polished 
 as a new button. The men sat applauding, 
 the women smirking and blushing. Jane 
 was overwhelmed, Martin crowned in glory. 
 Maria's old satin became a robe of poplin, 
 Hugh's wrinkled broadcloth clad the limbs 
 
THE SQUIREEN 145 
 
 of a coming magistrate. To hear Samuel one 
 might fancy all the beauty and virtue, the 
 worth and intellect, of Ireland gathered within 
 sound of his voice. He made parish history 
 that day ; still within the bounds of Gorteen 
 his words do live ; and just here one phrase of 
 his that afterwards became a byword in the 
 land must be given immortality. 
 
 He had crowned the company, had come 
 down to earth from the realms of fancy ; at 
 last had turned from folly, and was smiling 
 upon Jane. Could mortal man, asked Samuel, 
 spreading wide his hands, find words large 
 enough, or good, or worthy, to fit her merits ? 
 She was a saint. Goodness and purity sat 
 upon her head. The whole world you might 
 search nor find another her equal, so simple 
 and sweet, so meek and patient, so completely 
 good. ' When I saw her this morning,' quoth 
 Samuel, speaking now with all conviction, 
 ' walking up the aisle before me in her white 
 veil ; when I saw her kneeling before the altar ; 
 when I saw her step out into the sunshine beam- 
 ing upon her husband's arm then I thought 
 of that little flower which not long ago we 
 saw in the fields, I thought of a snowdrop. . . . 
 
146 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 A snowdrop? Is there need to follow 
 Samuel one word further on his happy way ? 
 Surely he has done passing well, and can now 
 glide back into the shadows, leaving us with 
 Jane. A snowdrop? Cannot you see Jane 
 now quite clearly, sitting there beneath the 
 clock, blushing and shrinking, her eyes lowered 
 or raised a moment to glance towards Martin, 
 her head bowed and that light again upon her 
 face ? Can you not see her in veil and gown, 
 flowers in her hand, a spray in her hair; or 
 seated by Martin's side whirling through the 
 sunshine, or going with him towards Hill- 
 side in the shades of evening and crossing 
 the threshold of her new home ? Can you 
 not see her now as really she was, and not 
 in that her wedding-day only but in all her 
 days? 
 
 A snowdrop ? You have but to picture one 
 and you image Jane's life, to look at one and 
 see her face. And, hereafter, should you care 
 to think of her as Snowdrop Jane, and to call 
 her that, you will be giving her the name 
 which, through the good services of Sam 
 Mires (and for those may Hannah always treat 
 him kindly), clung to her in Gorteen and 
 
THE SQUIREEN 147 
 
 around Gorteen, onwards from her wedding- 
 day through life. Snowdrop Jane. Jane the 
 Snowdrop. So people used to call her, and 
 still do call ; speaking soberly and ever 
 kindly. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE honeymoon was spent at Hillside. 
 Some day, when affairs were settled, 
 when work had lightened and the days grown 
 long, Martin was to take Jane out into the 
 world for a week in Dublin, or a fortnight 
 at the seaside ; but just now such delights 
 must lie in wait. Not indeed that Jane cared, 
 or Martin, not that home was the worst place 
 in the world or fuller happiness to be found 
 away from it ; not that anything mattered, for 
 hardly had Martin bidden Jane welcome to 
 her new home and his mother kissed her in 
 the hall, when the heavens opened and there 
 was great rain. All those glad spring days 
 were blotted out behind mist and gloom. 
 Through long days it poured unweariedly, so 
 that the mountain was hidden away and the 
 sky, nor had the nights any stars within them. 
 Through a whole week Jane never crossed the 
 threshold ; not even on Sunday to church or 
 
 148 
 
THE SQUIREEN 149 
 
 preaching, where friends sat eager for sight 
 of her blushes and longing for sight of her 
 new dress. Hannah and Maria came to see 
 her through murk and mud ; Hugh stamped 
 in with a streaming hat ; Martin drove off 
 gaily of mornings, this way towards Bunn or 
 that towards Lismahee in search of creditors, 
 and came home soaked : it was just as though 
 the deluge had come between the new life and 
 the old, cut them apart and imprisoned Jane 
 within the pleasant bounds of home. The 
 world was pushed back. Old times and things 
 seemed far away. Everywhere and always 
 were the new delightful things of her new life. 
 They were indeed delightful and good, 
 these new things ; the change from old to new 
 was wonderful. Yesterday she had been a 
 slave, to-day she was free ; there stood Jane 
 Fallen, a toil-worn nobody, here sat Jane 
 Hynes, mistress of Hillside, wife of Martin. 
 Then was hard, comfortless, cheerless ; now 
 was warm, pleasant, easy, almost too good to 
 endure. She was very happy. From morning 
 to night her face shone. Rising she prayed 
 God that to-day might be as yesterday ; lying 
 down she thanked God for His bounty and 
 
150 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 prayed that to-morrow might be as to-day. 
 Everything was so new and strange. Martin 
 was kindness and love itself; his mother a 
 lesson in goodness. How pleasant to hear 
 Mary call her Mistress, to see James come 
 shambling to do her bidding, to sit at head of 
 the table pouring tea into real china, to take 
 lessons from the Mother in the art of house- 
 wifery, to go softly from room to room, all 
 wonder and admiration, to stand on her own 
 hearth, sit by her own work-basket, to receive 
 Maria in her own parlour and show Hannah 
 her own wardrobe, to be Jane Hynes, Martin's 
 wife, mistress of Hillside. She felt glad as a 
 child in the midst of new toys, proud as a 
 child stepping decked in a new dress. Every- 
 thing was so fresh and delightful ; every one 
 so very good. The change was great. In a 
 day she had found another world. Back there, 
 beyond the rain, was Jane Fallen, toiling in 
 quilted petticoat and linsey bodice, eating 
 silently by a bare table, knitting soberly by an 
 untidy hearth, resting in a little room below 
 the thatch ; here, shut in from cold and wet, 
 was Jane Hynes, moving from room to room 
 in a flowing dress, rings on her finger, a brooch 
 
THE SQUIREEN 151 
 
 at her throat, sitting by well-spread tables with 
 Martin laughing before her and the Mother 
 smiling at her side, resting when she liked, 
 doing what she would, listening to the soft fall 
 of the rain at last as she lay in a great room 
 that looked upon the lawn. Had she ever 
 lived till now? Had youth come back to her 
 within a single day? Was she the same 
 woman, the Jane that had wept so much, 
 prayed so earnestly for deliverance ? Ah, she 
 had been headstrong and sinful. God knew 
 best. Life was just beginning. Away before 
 her stretched long years of happiness, long full 
 years, bright summers, cosy winters, Martin 
 and she going blessedly through them, together 
 always and hand in hand. . . . 
 
 Ah, that it might be so, thought Jane, her 
 old self reasserting itself as she sat one night 
 by the parlour fire, with Martin reading near 
 the lamp and the Mother knitting in a corner ; 
 that God might grant it to be always so. Even 
 if trouble came, even if days fell dark, might 
 they still keep constant upon the long path. 
 All was pleasant going now, sunshine upon 
 it everywhere ; but maybe rough places were 
 in front, stones and pits and thorns. She must 
 
152 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 guard against pride of heart ; she must be wise 
 and sober-minded, must train herself and help 
 Martin. All the glories of the world were as 
 nothing if darkness lay within. Always she 
 must pray for strength and guidance, must 
 watch and pray. Yes ; she must kneel and 
 humble herself, thought Jane ; and silently sat 
 reading the fire, hands folded upon her lap. 
 Her lips moved. Her face was grave and set. 
 The Mother glanced at her from time to time ; 
 rose presently, said good night and went. 
 Martin put down his newspaper, looked steadily 
 at Jane's face for a minute ; then leant forward. 
 
 ' Jane.' 
 
 She raised her eyes, smiling as she spoke. 
 ' Yes, Martin.' 
 
 ' What 's the matter ? ' 
 
 'Matter? Nothing. Why d' you ask, 
 Martin ? ' 
 
 'You're so solemn. You look like you 
 used to when . . . What 's troublin' you now, 
 Jane ? ' 
 
 Her face fell grave again. She paused for 
 a breath. ' Nothing, Martin ; nothing at all. 
 I was only ' 
 
 < What, Jane ? ' 
 
THE SQUIREEN 153 
 
 1 Only thinkin' that maybe I was too happy 
 that everything is too good that maybe I 
 was gettin' too proud and was forgettin' to ' 
 
 'Yes?' Martin leant forward. 'Forgettin' 
 what, Jane?' 
 
 ' To say my prayers, Martin.' 
 
 He turned his eyes upon the fire ; sat mute 
 awhile ; then rose and faced the lamp, with his 
 hands clasped behind him. ' I know.' He 
 looked down upon Jane. * What can prayers 
 do ? ' he asked, not mockingly but inquir- 
 ingly. 
 
 'Do?' Jane raised her face. ' Oh, every- 
 thing, Martin ; everything. Without them we 
 can do nothing. If we forget them we forget 
 God ; if we forget God we are lost.' 
 
 ' Hm.' Martin poised on heel and toe. 
 'Well,' he said at last, 'maybe so; maybe 
 so. Anyway, they can do no harm. Only ' 
 He paused. 
 
 Jane looked at him, quick and eagerly. 
 ' Only what, Martin ? ' she asked, dread lurking 
 in her voice. ' Surely ye know ; surely ye 
 know ! ' 
 
 ' I like the other face best, Jane,' said Martin, 
 smiling down upon her. 
 
154 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 * The other face ?' Jane was puzzled. 'What 
 face, Martin ? ' 
 
 ' Why, the face I 've seen this last fortnight, 
 not the one you're wearin' now.' 
 
 'Ah!' Now Jane understood. She looked 
 up, smiling also. ' Ah, yes, Martin ; I know, 
 I know. But it 's just to keep that face that 
 I must pray and pray. I want to keep it. I 
 want to be happy always. I want you to be 
 always as you are, an' myself always as I am, 
 an' everything just as it is. An' I will I 
 will only God must help me.' 
 
 'Yes . . . yes/ Martin nodded at the 
 lamp. ' An* can I do nothing? ' he asked. 
 
 ' Oh, everything, Martin with God's help.' 
 
 ' Yes . . . yes. . . . Well, maybe so. All I 
 know is that I like the other face best. Keep 
 that, and I 'm satisfied.' He swung round 
 upon the hearth, big and strong and radiant. 
 ' Come, Jane ; where is it ? Let 's see it, girl. 
 Don't let the rain have everything its own way 
 to-night. Look up, Jane look up.' 
 
 And Jane showed him the old face. 
 
 Nevertheless, for long enough that night, 
 her prayers went up through the rain in sup- 
 plication and thanks. 
 
 
THE SQUIREEN 155 
 
 Then the rain ceased, the sun shone again 
 and called men to toil. No time now for 
 dallying by table or fireside ; no excuse now 
 for heavy heads and lazy bones ; the land was 
 calling ; sun and wind, long days and mellow 
 nights, claimed all endeavour ; work must 
 march. The country sprang into life, radiant 
 and beautiful, new-born of rain and the quicken- 
 ing spring. Spades flashed in the valleys ; 
 men and women bent among the furrows ; 
 the shouts of the turf-cutters rose among the 
 heather. In Gorteen was day-long bustle of 
 fierce striving ; in the wilds without, on bleak 
 Drumhill and barren Armoy, much patient 
 toiling with adversity ; in Hillside a stir of 
 work that gave promise of good things. 
 
 Now that creditors were satisfied, the land 
 free and himself quit of ignoble cares, Martin 
 seemed changed into a new man. He loitered 
 less and worked more, thought more and 
 laughed less. Only seldom now did he go 
 a-pleasuring ; in fairs he was all business, in 
 markets not often seen. From his hunter he 
 parted willingly. He tightened his hand and 
 closed his pocket. A score of plans for making 
 money he made and tried. Often might you 
 
iS6 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 see him and Hugh Fallen making wise survey 
 of flocks and fields. Early and late he was 
 out, working sometimes, ordering and planning 
 always. Hardly now could Jane tempt him to 
 sit through a meal, or wait to read prayers of 
 a morning, or give her a quiet hour of talk at 
 night when the Mother had gone and the house 
 was quiet. He had no time for dallying. 
 Spring was going, summer just here ; when 
 winter came he would sit all day. * Wait, 
 Jane,' he said, turning for his hat; 'just wait 
 till the throng is over. Then we '11 have sprees 
 off to Dublin for a week, or away to Kyle 
 for a fortnight. . . . Good-bye till dinner-time, 
 girl ; good-bye.' 
 
 So Martin toiled and planned ; and Jane 
 turned face her new face that Martin had 
 scarce time to see upon her own affairs. She 
 was quite content, fully happy. She liked to 
 see Martin busy, was glad to hear the Mother's 
 word of wonder at the change upon him ; for 
 herself wished no better than present happen- 
 ings sweet outside happenings of summer- 
 time most of all. Fondly she loved her home, 
 so clean and ordered, so full of light and 
 cheerfulness ; easy to spend whole days and 
 
THE SQUIREEN 157 
 
 weeks of rain just there : impossible to see 
 sunlight full in the world and not long to have 
 share in it. Low ceilings and carpeted floors, 
 dim corners and lurking shadows, flowers 
 peeping through netted curtains, books, 
 pictures ; these were well and good : but 
 give her always, as better and more satisfy- 
 ing, broad fields and long green hedges, sun- 
 shine and blue sky, the wind sobbing in the 
 trees, birds to hear, a garden to weed. In the 
 house she was content, without it was happy ; 
 so all her life it had been with her, and so 
 even now it was. Her instincts were pastoral 
 rather than domestic, and these, through time 
 and circumstance, so established within her, 
 that no striving on her part, even had she 
 wished to strive, was likely to effect much 
 change. Perhaps time might tell, as usually it 
 does tell ; but, Jane being Jane, and her years 
 being many, small prospect was there of time 
 working wonders upon her. 
 
 All of which, before many days, the Mother 
 discovered and knew ; some of which, one day 
 or another, Martin the Squire was sure to 
 discern. 
 
 Of those long spring days, therefore, and 
 
158 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 longer days that followed of heartsome summer- 
 time, Jane spent no greater part within dull 
 walls than merest duty demanded. Often 
 before the sun had scattered the mists, some- 
 times even before Martin had shaken off sleep 
 and stepped out yawning, she was up and 
 out, feeding the poultry, working in dairy or 
 garden, tramping through the dew-wet fields, 
 skirt tucked high, an old straw hat on her 
 head, to find and drive home the cows. Occa- 
 sionally, when the humour served or help was 
 scarce, she took noggin and stool into the 
 byre and helped with the milking ; always 
 she tested the cream, gave heed to the churn- 
 ing, and made the butter with her own hands. 
 It was she who collected the eggs, oiled 
 and laid them in rows on the pantry shelf. 
 Her chuck-chuck, rising shrill within the yard, 
 brought the fowls flying to breakfast with out- 
 stretched necks ; her wheet-wheet set the ducks 
 croaking upon the drinking-pool and drew 
 them waddling to her skirts in long procession. 
 Sometimes she measured oats for the horses, 
 or carried milk to the calves, or mixed white 
 drinks for the cows, or raided the carrot pit on 
 behalf of Neddy. If a beast fell sick, Jane 
 
THE SQUIREEN 159 
 
 tended it night and day, as tender of voice and 
 hand as a mother of children. She sowed peas 
 and beans in the garden, hoed and dug, watered 
 and sprayed, trained plum-trees upon the wall, 
 set scarecrows among the ridges. If Mary 
 was slow at the washtub, the Mistress came 
 helping. If James was wanted in the fields, 
 the Mistress took whip and reins and followed 
 Robin behind the churn-shaft, singing happily 
 as she trudged. No drudgery came amiss. 
 She only laughed when the Mother, in her 
 gentle way of admonishing, suggested that 
 maybe washing and churning made unworthy 
 occupation for the mistress of Hillside. What 
 might the neighbours think? What respect 
 could Mary have for a mistress who wore 
 coarse aprons and worked in the yard ? What 
 would Martin say, when he came to see ; 
 Martin who was so particular, who liked to 
 see white hands and dainty shoes, who wished 
 his wife to be better than another ? 
 
 ' You know, dear, men notice these things. 
 Even if they are rough and untidy in them- 
 selves, yet they like their wives to look fresh 
 and dainty. Not that you are doing wrong, 
 Jane of course not, dear, and you mustn't 
 
160 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 think me unkind . . . but maybe it were wise 
 just to think over what I say.' 
 
 And Jane would look very grave, would 
 take off hat and coarse apron and go bustling 
 through the rooms ; would watch the sunlight 
 through door and windows for maybe a whole 
 long day, then would creep out for an hour, 
 for two hours mayhap, for every hour at last 
 that she could steal. Those beautiful days, 
 with sun and wind quick in them, the sky so 
 blue above, the earth so pleasant beneath, how 
 could she resist them ? They called her, drew 
 her irresistibly. The cool shadows of the 
 trees, the long stretch out and away of brood- 
 ing fields, the hills crowding back towards the 
 long dim mountain, the walled lane where ferns 
 clung between moss-grown stones, the banks 
 where wild strawberries peeped below the white- 
 thorn, the valley one blaze of dandelion and 
 purpling heather, the deep black pools among 
 the willow clumps in which one's face lay deep, 
 the lake shining like a burnished mirror within 
 its marge of bulrushes, gnats whirring, butter- 
 flies flitting, birds singing, carts clanking, dogs 
 barking, the smell of fresh earth, of luscious 
 meadowsweet, of fragrant hay: could she let the 
 
THE SQUIREEN 161 
 
 days go by and miss all these ? She could not. 
 See and feel them she must, if not always, then 
 often and long as she might. They were part of 
 her life. She loved them and never knew why. 
 Every fine day, then (and happily the season 
 was good that year), saw Jane blessing some 
 part of it with sight of her face. Near eleven 
 o'clock you might find her crossing the fields, 
 carrying lunch to Martin and James in a 
 varnished basket ; nearing twelve and dinner- 
 time you saw her hurrying back, ferns or 
 flowers in the basket, her apron filled with 
 stones for the rockery or nettletops for the 
 chickens, clay on her boots, hands scratched, 
 hat awry. Between four o'clock and five you 
 saw her setting forth again, fresh now and 
 gay in beribboned hat and flowered cotton 
 dress, in this hand a great basket, in that 
 a shining can ; saw her wend across hill and 
 hollow, along lane and pathway, come to corn- 
 field or meadow, seat herself by a hedge and 
 there serve tea and brown bread and butter to 
 a sprawling ring of workers. There would be 
 a while of silence, then a while of chatter and 
 laughter ; then a sound of toil once more, of 
 scythe or reaper, of jingling traces, of whip 
 L 
 
162 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 and shout, that rose and continued till night 
 had come. You saw Martin go big and lusty 
 across the stubble ; saw Jane bending over a 
 swathe, or swinging a rake, or stooking sheaves, 
 or carrying armfuls of crackling hay, or twist- 
 ing ropes, or turning to watch Martin as he 
 toiled. This was what Jane enjoyed, this made 
 fitting close to any glorious day. How good 
 to have the sunshine beating hot, the air so 
 pure and large, so full of the softness and 
 fragrance of summer ; to see the bounty of 
 yellow corn, the clean sweep of gathered 
 meadow, the bronzed workers hurrying and 
 striving ; to feel glad and contented oneself, 
 the world so hopeful, life so joyous, her Martin 
 out there so commanding. 
 
 Her Martin ? He was such a fine man. She 
 rejoiced in his strength, in his comely vigour. 
 He towered as a giant among the rest, sun- 
 burnt and masterful. No one dared to thwart 
 him. His word was law. Even in anger, 
 when James was clumsy or a horse stubborn, 
 his shout moved her blood. To see him raise 
 an arm in quick command, to see him leaning 
 upon a rake, pondering and planning, to see 
 his great brown arms, his swelling muscles, his 
 
THE SQUIREEN 163 
 
 swinging stride, to hear him shout and laugh, 
 to have just a word from him as they stood 
 among the swathes ; such hearing and seeing 
 worked admiration in Jane, full and generous. 
 Her Martin? So fortunate she was. See him 
 now . . . and now ! What if he gave her no 
 more than a word, seldom glanced at her face ? 
 What if he sat silent through a meal some- 
 times, or dropped asleep of evenings in his 
 chair? What if they rode sometimes from 
 Drumhill to Armoy, or walked to preaching 
 from Hillside to Leemore, and never exchanged 
 a word ? Words were not necessary, nor 
 looks. His mind was busy with plans and 
 affairs. He was weary at night, in haste at 
 table. Just now work was everything, long 
 constant work in face of the sun. She must 
 be wise. She must be content to stand and 
 admire, to wait patiently in full surety of her 
 own happiness and of Martin's love. Soon, 
 in a month or more, work would be over and 
 Martin with her always; soon, in an hour or 
 less, the day would be done, and together they 
 would go slowly across the fields, on through 
 the sweet peace and shadows of evening 
 towards home. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN the autumn, when harvest was done, 
 Martin kept his promise and took Jane 
 for a holiday. It was to Kyle they went, out 
 into the wilds of Donegal, where the Erne 
 finishes its course at the Atlantic coast. The 
 days were fine, with no more than the booming 
 winds to mar their peace ; the little village, 
 struggling white and aimlessly along the high 
 bare cliff, was full of wholesomeness ; the air 
 was like wine for potency, the sea like crystal 
 for purity : you had but to eat and sleep, and, 
 for the rest, sit placidly on rock or beach 
 drawing health into your blood. All day long 
 the waves rolled in and tumbled upon the 
 sand, or crashed against the cliffs ; all through 
 the night, the long fresh night, their sound 
 came up, muffled like funeral drums, and filled 
 the darkness with moaning a sound like 
 thunder everlastingly. 
 
 Standing by the doorway, her face to the 
 
 164 
 
THE SQUIREEN 165 
 
 stars that looked upon the empty street, or 
 kneeling by her bedside, Jane used to catch 
 that sound and be filled with a peace that 
 passeth understanding. Even so she had felt 
 on old Sabbath evenings in autumn-time, when 
 the light had faded beyond the windows and 
 gloom spread among the pews, and the 
 Rector's voice came softly through the hush 
 giving benediction. 
 
 It was the first real holiday of her life, the 
 first break almost in the horizon that bounded 
 home, her first sight of the sea ; and Jane was 
 all delight. She might have been a child, so 
 thorough was she in enjoying, so artless in her 
 expression of pleasure. Everything was new, 
 beautiful, wonderful ; nothing could be better 
 in any world. Such air and freshness, such a 
 sky, such cliffs and rocks and sand ; such a sea ! 
 There was only one word for it all the great 
 word of Gorteen : it was powerful. 
 
 ' I could sit here for ever,' she would say, 
 the place being the bare south cliff, or the 
 height that overlooks the Stook, or no more 
 than the long slope of stunted grass that curves 
 above the beach. 'It's great it's wonder- 
 ful it 's powerful. Ah, that big wide sea ! ' 
 
166 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 ' Ay,' Martin would say, resting on his elbow 
 and looking seawards through a cloud of 
 tobacco smoke. 'Ay, 'tis.' 
 
 ' Never did I think 'twas like this. I used 
 to hear mother tell about it ; an' Sam Mires 
 came here for a week one time ; an' I Ve seen 
 pictures of it an' read about it ... but 
 sure Ah, what can words do, or pictures? 
 Look, Martin, at the white waves comin' in ; 
 an' listen to the roar of them the lions' 
 roar/ 
 
 4 Ay. Yes, indeed/ 
 
 * Think of the size of it, Martin away an' 
 away, out an' away, beyond an' beyond, for 
 thousands an' thousands of miles. Think of 
 thousands of miles like that, all flat an' blue, 
 with only a wee ship here an' there upon it, an' 
 no land for days an' days. Ah, the loneliness 
 there must be. I 'd die of fear to be away out 
 there. Thousands of miles of blue flat sea ! 
 . . . Martin, have ye thought that away 
 beyond is America over the other side ? ' 
 
 ' Why, to be sure. America ? Ah, wouldn't 
 I like to be there this minute. Think of the 
 yards in Chicago I ' 
 
 * Ah, yes/ Jane would pause, trying to 
 
THE SQUIREEN 167 
 
 think as Martin thought ; then would shake 
 her head, gather up her knees, and rest chin in 
 hands. ' But, Martin dear, what 's the land to 
 the sea ? The land 's so small. Sure we know 
 all about it ; it 's only fields, an' hills an' 
 houses. But the sea ah, it 's unknowable. 
 * * He gathereth the waters of the sea together as 
 an heap ; he layeth up the depth in storehouses." 
 " They that go down to the sea in ships, that do 
 business in great waters. These see the works 
 of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep." Ah, 
 yes. Often have I read and heard the words ; 
 but never have I understood them till now. 
 Aren't they great, Martin ? ' 
 
 'Ay. I suppose they are. Sailors, sure 
 enough, must see curious things.' 
 
 ' " As the waters cover the sea. . . . That do 
 business in great waters. These see the works 
 of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep." Ah, 
 so they do. Martin, we know nothinV Again 
 Jane would pause and sit shaking her head ; 
 again would break into murmurs of delight : 
 ' Ah, it 's great it 's powerful it 's just lovely. 
 I could sit here for ever an' ever. Couldn't 
 you, Martin ? ' said Jane one evening, just as 
 the sun was sinking, red and far, into the sea. 
 
i68 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 ' Hm . . . maybe so. It's not bad in its 
 way. Only Martin sat upright, and puff- 
 ing at his pipe looked right and left at the 
 placid groups that sprawled along the cliffs. 
 
 ' Only what, Martin ? ' 
 
 'Ah, I dunno. It's dull here at times. 
 The people are dead an' alive. There's 
 nothin' doin'. Waves and rocks are good 
 enough in their way ; but ' 
 
 Martin stopped at the word. He felt more 
 than he cared to say, more perhaps than he 
 dared to think. Kyle was good, but might be 
 better. He wanted a band, gardens and seats 
 and fireworks, yachts and steamboats. He 
 would like to see well-dressed women, and 
 men who were worth noticing ; men some- 
 thing like himself. He was tired of this lazy, 
 monotonous existence. He wanted a change, 
 wanted a companion now and then. Not that 
 he was discontented, or tired of Jane and her 
 simple chatter. No, indeed. He liked to hear 
 her, was pleased to see her so happy ; only- 
 Only what? we may ask with Jane. Well, 
 maybe he was used to her. 
 
 'Ah,' said he, with a laugh, ' I dunno what 
 I want. If one gets a star one longs for the 
 
THE SQUIREEN 169 
 
 moon. I 'm only romancin'. Come, Jane girl, 
 it 's strikin' cold ; an' I 'm as hungry as five 
 troopers. Come away home.' 
 
 So Jane had her holiday ; then, quite content 
 and full of glad memories, came back to Hill- 
 side and fell quick into her old ways. There 
 was still much sunshine in the days, still great 
 bounty in the fields. Autumn was a melan- 
 choly season, and always perhaps now more 
 than ever woke thoughts in Jane of mortal 
 death ; but even as life ebbed within it so life 
 was the richer for gift of its sweetness. Leaves 
 fell and flowers withered, sap sank and the 
 earth drowsed towards sleep ; yet how beauti- 
 fully the leaves died and lay, and how tardy 
 the fields were in sleeping. A whole month 
 there was of mists and fading. The sheaves 
 and the hay came home to haggard. Heavily 
 the carts went clanking towards the turf-house, 
 piled high with sun-dried peat. Stacks were 
 thatched, fields cleared, machines housed, the 
 barns made ready for threshing-time. Honey 
 was gathered from the hives, strained and 
 potted. Apples came in from the orchard, 
 were sorted and stowed away. There came a 
 few hot glorious days ; then a while of wind 
 
1 70 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 and bitter rain ; then a touch of frost upon the 
 lawn : and autumn had gone. 
 
 So the trees and hedges were stripped ; 
 winter closed around Hillside and shut Jane in. 
 Now might she venture only across the yard 
 or into the haggard ; her journeyings abroad 
 took her no further than to church on Sundays, 
 or to Bunn once in a while on market-days, or 
 down the slope to sip tea with Hannah and 
 her mother by the kitchen hearth. Little 
 chance now was there for touch of the sun 
 and breath of the open air. The fields were 
 swamps, the lanes and roads long wastes of 
 mud ; cold winds swept up from the lake, 
 bitter rains came down from Bunn and lashed 
 the windows. Just for an hour, sometimes, the 
 sun peeped across the stable roof as it plodded 
 from hill to hill ; then sank, and it was long 
 night again in the world. 
 
 Still no use in repining. Spring would come 
 some/iay ; meanwhile, let hands be busy. Now 
 was the time for Jane to fashion herself into 
 worthy mistress of Hillside. All that the 
 Mother knew she must learn. She must watch 
 and copy ; ask and take heed. Impossible 
 ever to equal the Mother to catch those 
 
THE SQUIREEN 171 
 
 dainty old-fashioned ways, to master all those 
 subtleties of housewifery yet maybe it were 
 possible to approach her. Already she had 
 learnt much ; oh, very much. She took more 
 pride in her appearance ; her efforts at table 
 no longer made the Mother frown and Martin 
 laugh ; she knew how to dust and polish, 
 sweep and order ; as a cook her success could 
 never be great, but one day it might be fair. 
 Patience, whispered Jane to herself ; and 
 patiently, her face always placid, her voice 
 unruffled, went striving dutifully towards per- 
 fection through wintry days. 
 
 They held their own pleasures, those short 
 days of winter ; always between them were 
 the long quiet evenings. Then, work being 
 over, all without safe for the night and the 
 doors closed, Jane used to carry her knitting 
 into the parlour and settle herself before the 
 great peat fire. On that side was the Mother, 
 deep in a haircloth chair ; here sat Martin, 
 legs outstretched, his mind bent on a news- 
 paper; behind, the lamp burnt softly, candles 
 flickered on the mantel, the room was warm 
 and cheerful. Sometimes Martin read the 
 news and made comment upon it, drawing 
 
172 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 sighs from the women and pitying exclama- 
 tion, murmurs of assent when wickedness was 
 punished, doleful shakings of the head at 
 doings of men and parties whose views were 
 not as the Squire's. Again, when Martin had 
 gone asleep (he had a gift of sleep), or had 
 not come home (sometimes business kept him 
 from home), the Mother wiped her spectacles, 
 drew near the lamp and read the news ; and 
 thence always came discussions, simple and 
 very harmless, on the ways of Society, the 
 doings at Court, the mysteries of Fashion. 
 For the Mother, in her youth, had been nurse 
 with the Louths, and had travelled and seen. 
 She knew London, Paris, Rome ; had seen 
 the Queen and many famous people ; could 
 trace the pedigree of Lords and Ladies, and 
 recall the wonders of Parks and Palaces. 
 She was full of memories. A chance word 
 would transport her ; and thereafter, for hours 
 mayhap, Jane and she Martin also at times 
 would sit rapt in sight of bygone things 
 and times : of London in the Fifties and 
 Paris in the days of its prime, of Coronation 
 day, of gorgeous marriages and great funerals 
 and glittering banquets, of the Louths as 
 
THE SQUIREEN 173 
 
 children, of beautiful women, soldiers, singers 
 she had heard and seen. Also she remem- 
 bered the great Irish famine and spoke often 
 of that ; nor did she fail in memories of Hill- 
 side, and of her dead husband, and of Martin 
 as a child. 'Such a pretty boy you were, 
 Martin, with your roses and curls. Ah, but 
 children change ! ' And there would be 
 laughter round the hearth. 
 
 Then, too, when Martin was away, the 
 mother would sing an old-time ballad or a 
 quaint old psalm to a quavering old melody ; 
 or, whilst Martin slept, would read in the 
 Bible and speak with Jane concerning their 
 souls. Very earnestly they would speak, their 
 heads bent and faces solemn ; peace in their 
 hearts and full assurance. They had no 
 doubts. The faith they held was pure and 
 simple, real and satisfying. God the Father 
 was always in their midst. God ruled his 
 earth in uprightness ; reigned above in 
 majesty. So surely as men sinned, so surely 
 they were punished here and hereafter ; but 
 the meek inherited the earth and passed to 
 life eternal. To be good and humble, to 
 seek righteousness, to live as children of a 
 
174 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 Heavenly Father : such were the plain duties 
 to which they were called. There was only one 
 Book and every word in it was divine ; only 
 one way, narrow and straight, that led up- 
 wards. Ah, they were vile sinners : but God 
 was gracious and might grant them pardon. 
 They must strive and pray. Only a little 
 while longer remained to her of mortal life, 
 said the Mother, bending over her withered 
 hands ; constantly now must she turn eyes 
 upon the Eternal, watching and praying 
 always. Life was but a span and no man 
 knew the hour of calling, said Jane, her face 
 bent and solemn ; how fearful a thing for the 
 call to come and find them unprepared ! Was 
 she ready ? Was her light burning ? If God 
 called now was she fit to meet Him ? Was 
 it sure that when death parted Martin from 
 her they would meet again in glory ? Ah, she 
 feared. She had grown careless of late, proud 
 and forgetful. And Martin ? Was he ready ? 
 Ah, she feared much. He was heedless ; given 
 to questioning and mockery, fond of putting 
 things aside with a laugh and a time enough. 
 Time enough ? Who knew ? Just now he 
 was big and strong, said Jane, and glanced at 
 
THE SQUIREEN 175 
 
 Martin as he slept, or looked at his empty 
 chair and thought of him outside somewhere 
 in the night ; but what was strength in face 
 of death ? Suppose the call came to-night ? 
 Suppose, on his way home . . . Ah, she 
 dared not think of it. And Jane's lips would 
 move silently as she sat ; for a while she 
 would ponder sadly in her heart ; then would 
 go and at her bedside pray long for Martin, 
 and herself, and every one for Martin most 
 of all. 
 
 Also there were nights when Red Hugh 
 and Martin held long discourse across the 
 hearth, when Big Ned filled the parlour with 
 empty bellowing, or Sam Mires sat pulling his 
 whiskers in genteel silence whilst Hannah 
 chattered and Maria talked scandal ; nights 
 when Martin entertained his friends and Jane 
 heard the flip of cards as she lay in the dark- 
 ness ; nights when the Mother went early and 
 left Jane and Martin alone before the fire. 
 
 They spoke not often then, and seldom 
 intimately. What was there to be said that 
 had not been said before ? Jane had her 
 knitting and her thoughts, Martin had his 
 newspapers and his thoughts. What Jane 
 
176 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 was thinking, Martin either thought he knew 
 or hardly cared to know ; what Martin was 
 thinking, Jane might wish to know but might 
 not care to ask. They knew each other so 
 well. Soon it would be a year since their 
 wedding-day. They were old married people. 
 Words were unnecessary. If Jane looked 
 towards the window and said that the night 
 was wild, did not Martin know that already ? 
 If Martin yawned wearily and said he was 
 getting sleepy, had not Jane known that this 
 hour? Why chatter idly like lovers under 
 the moon ? What had happened to-day that 
 had not happened yesterday, that was worth 
 a word ? Why should Martin discuss affairs 
 with Jane, or worry her with money matters ? 
 Men had their own view of things, women 
 their own little outlook. Discussion led to 
 argument ; argument with a woman meant 
 personalities and disagreement. Even the 
 Mother could not consider a point without 
 bringing in herself; even Jane could not take 
 a fall in silence or keep back tears when 
 words were hard. Enough that Martin was 
 satisfied, that Jane seemed content. She had 
 a good home, everything she might desire ; 
 
THE SQUIREEN 177 
 
 what more in the world, Martin may have 
 thought in some odd minute of easeful silence, 
 what more could woman want? Mistress of 
 Hillside, wife of Squire Martin : she was one 
 in ten thousand. 
 
 But one night Jane put down her knitting, 
 looked at the fire ; then turned her face. 
 
 * Martin.' 
 
 'Well? . . . Yes, Jane.' 
 
 1 Are ye tired of me ? ' 
 
 ' Tired of you ? ' Martin sat staring, a frown 
 on his brow. The question was so blunt, 
 searched so deeply. ' Tired of you ? Good 
 Lord! What on earth have I been doing 
 now ? ' 
 
 ' You 're so silent, Martin. We sit an' sit 
 an' ye never speak.' 
 
 1 Hm. ... So that's it.' Martin leant for- 
 ward in his chair. ' Tell me, Jane : what is 
 there to say ? You know all about me. You 
 know all that 's happened the day, an' yester- 
 day, an' the day before. What is there to say, 
 now ? ' 
 
 ' I know, Martin.' Jane sat looking at the 
 fire ; then looked round smiling. ' Ye used to 
 have plenty to say,' she said. 
 
i;8 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 c Did I ? When ? You mean before we 
 were married ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Martin and afterwards/ 
 
 ' Hm. I know. And you'd like me to talk 
 like that now ? ' 
 
 ' A little, Martin/ 
 
 ' Hm.' Martin considered a moment. 'You'd 
 like me to flatter you, an' whisper about nothin', 
 an* be like Sam Mires with Hannah ? ' 
 
 * No, no.' Jane smiled. ' Oh no.' 
 'Then what?' 
 
 * Just to tell me something, to let me know 
 what you 're thinkin' an' doin' just something.' 
 
 ' An' don't I, Jane?' 
 
 ' Not much. You Oh, I 'm not com- 
 plaining. Don't think it. Only ' Jane 
 paused. ' I feel sometimes, Martin, as if I 
 wasn't your wife at all.' 
 
 ' Hm. Just because I don't speak at times?' 
 
 ' No, no. But we seem different ; like 
 strangers. I want to speak, an' can't. When 
 your mother goes, I feel as if I ought to 
 go too, as if ye didn't want me. I I 
 Jane paused; looked at her hands. 'Ah, I 
 can't explain myself. I 'm only stumblin'.' She 
 looked up. ' Martin, ye do want me ? ' 
 
THE SQUIREEN 179 
 
 ' Want you ? Why to be sure. God bless 
 me, don't you know I do ? Woman dear, what's 
 come to you ? Just because I don't sit chatterin' 
 like a jackdaw, an' talkin' nonsense ! Ah, have 
 wit, have wit. We 're not children. We 're 
 sensible people with work to do. Would you 
 have me worryin' your life out wi' all the little 
 trials I 've got to bear ? Would you be worryin' 
 me with all the little troubles that come to 
 yourself? Ah, not at all. I 'm tired at times. 
 I have things to think about. I don't want 
 to be bothered. I know you're content an' 
 happy. I 'm satisfied an' content. Isn't that 
 enough, Jane?' 
 
 4 Ah, yes. . . . Ye are satisfied, Martin? 1 
 
 'Why to be sure. Great king, haven't I 
 said I am ? ' 
 
 ' An' ye never wish ye hadn't married me ? ' 
 
 ' Wish ? Wish that ? Good Lord ! ' Martin 
 leant towards Jane, his eyes hard upon her 
 face. 'Tell me,' said he; 'have I ever, by 
 word or deed, given you cause to ask such a 
 question ? ' 
 
 ' No, Martin ; never.' 
 
 ' Then why do you ask it ? ' 
 
 Jane hesitated. She sighed ; looked at her 
 
i8o THE SQUIREEN 
 
 hands and shook her head. * I dunno, Martin ; 
 I dunno. Maybe it's because I get lonely 
 sometimes. Maybe it 's because I 'm because 
 I 'm not good enough/ 
 
 ' Ah, quit,' cried Martin. ' Quit this non- 
 sense, for God's sake ! Good enough ? Wait 
 till I complain wait till I complain.' 
 
 Then Jane turned in her chair and met 
 Martin's eyes, her own bright with wistfulness. 
 ' I 'm foolish,' she said. ' But tell me one thing, 
 Martin just one. Suppose anything was to 
 happen soon or late suppose I was to die, 
 would ye be sorry ? Would ye miss me ? ' 
 
 It was a question that women often ask ; a 
 question that men often answer glibly with soft 
 words of evasion. Maybe had Martin searched 
 his heart he had answered differently ; but he 
 did not search, only sprang to his feet and 
 faced Jane before the fire. 'You're mad,' he 
 cried, spreading a hand towards her. ' You 've 
 no right to talk like this. You're doing 
 yourself harm. Die ? Why should you die 
 more than another? I forbid such talk. . . .' 
 
 ' But won't ye answer me, Martin ? Ye 
 would be sorry ah, tell it to me ! ' 
 
 I'll I'll' Then Martin stopped, 
 
THE SQUIREEN 181 
 
 mastered by that strange light in Jane's eyes ; 
 leant and placed his hands on her shoulders. 
 * I would be sorry, Jane/ he said. ' God knows 
 I would. You believe me ? ' 
 
 A moment Jane sat in silence, looking upon 
 Martin's face. 
 
 * I do, Martin/ she said. ' I do/ 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 IN the spring a child was born to Jane ; 
 and there was joy in Hillside. A son 
 and heir ? A little Squire ? A grandson at 
 last ? No wonder Martin was jubilant, and 
 the Mother rapturous, and Jane filled with 
 sweet content. 
 
 All through the young spring days Jane 
 lay, frail and helpless, yet strong with a great 
 strength. A wondrous light shone in her face. 
 Her tongue found a new language. A new 
 world, wide and deep as eternity, opened out 
 before her and was filled to the edge with 
 bounty. Her own child, hers and Martin's, 
 nestling beside her, so soft and perfect ! The 
 great love that possessed her, the joy unutter- 
 able, the peace that passed all knowledge! 
 Ah, life was sweet. God was good. 
 
 The days passed as in a dream that dawned 
 to waking and sank to sleep, the sunshine 
 falling in them or soft beating of rain. The 
 
 182 
 
THE SQUIREEN 183 
 
 sounds of the world came in of birds singing, 
 cattle lowing, cocks crowing, the voices of 
 men and children, the distant rumble of carts 
 upon the road and its fragrance of spring- 
 time. Pleasant even to hear the closing of a 
 door, the clatter of tins in the kitchen, the 
 clink of cup and saucer in the parlour ; the 
 careful step of one mounting the stairs, the 
 soft rustle of the Mother's dress, or the croon- 
 ing of her voice as she bent over the child 
 before the fire. Good to feel strength return- 
 ing with each waking from long sleep, to lie 
 dreaming of the future and all that lay within 
 it, to watch the light grow and twilight deepen, 
 to see women come with presents for the child 
 and sure bounty of praise, to hear Hannah's 
 laugh and Maria's chattering and the Mother's 
 sapient counselling ; to hearken for Martin's 
 coming and to see him enter, so big and radiant. 
 Two or three times a day he used to come 
 for a minute's talk ; of an evening would sit 
 sometimes for hours. He was always welcome, 
 his big hearty self. The pride of fatherhood 
 sat well upon him. * Well an' how 's yourself 
 this mornin', Jane, girl ? ' he would say, stand- 
 ing at the bed-foot with his arms resting on the 
 
1 84 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 rail. ' Feelin' stronger are you ? That 's the 
 way. An' how J s the big son ? ' he would 
 ask, stepping lightly round and peering down. 
 ' Faith, he 's growin' like a mushroom. Top 
 o' the mornin' to you, young man; an' may 
 you stand six feet outside your shoes some 
 day. He's like you, Jane; he is so. Here, 
 give him to me,' he would say, when evening 
 had come, and he sat by the fireside; 'give 
 him over to me, mother. Lord, the weight he 
 is ! Ho, my boy, there 's the makings of a 
 man in that wee body of yours. Look at me, 
 sir ; look at your big ugly father. Why, he 's 
 pounds heavier since last night, Jane ; by my 
 soul he is the fat wee glutton. Laugh, my 
 hero, you an' your solemn countenance. Come 
 now ; just one smile before you leave me. . . . 
 Ah, not one ; no more than if yourself was a 
 robed bishop an' me only a clodhopper starin' 
 at you from a pew. What ! It 's cry you 'd 
 do ? Away wi' you, then, for an ungrateful 
 scoundrel. I 'm ashamed of you. I disown 
 you. . . . But listen to me, Jane. What are 
 we goin' to make of him ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, time enough to think o' that yet, 
 Martin/ 
 
THE SQUIREEN 185 
 
 ' Time enough, you say ? Pooh, woman ; 
 don't be foolish. Come now, haven't you 
 made a plan or two yourself, lyin' there all the 
 day ? Confess now/ 
 
 * Well, maybe so. But what 's the use ? 
 He's in God's hand, Martin.' 
 
 ' Ay, he is ; he is. ... Still, no harm in 
 plannin'. I keep thinkin' of him all the day. 
 He '11 have good schoolin', an' trainin'. I '11 
 teach him to ride and shoot. He'll learn a 
 trade of some kind to fit him for the 
 world. . . .' 
 
 1 Don't, Martin. I wish ye wouldn't. Wait, 
 Martin ; wait.' 
 
 'But why? Heavens above, woman, what 
 harm in talkin' ? It won't alter things. . . . 
 Very well, then,' Martin would say, as Jane's 
 hand slipped out and pleadingly rested on his 
 arm. * I '11 say no more. But have you 
 settled on a name yet ? No. Well, let 's 
 settle now, then.' 
 
 And for long enough Jane and the Mother 
 and Martin would ponder the question of what 
 name this wonder of a child should bear in its 
 passage through the world. 
 
 They gave it the name of Martin as it lay 
 
i86 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 one Sabbath morning in the Rector's arms, clad 
 in the long white robe which had been 
 Martin's own. Red Hugh, Sam Mires, and 
 Hannah stood as sponsors, all very grave and 
 weighted with some sense of responsibility. 
 Jane prayed long on its behalf; Martin stood 
 proud beside the door ; a whole congregation 
 received it into the fold. There was hand- 
 shaking, after service, and noise of congratu- 
 lation among the tombs ; much feasting also 
 in Hillside, when the cars had returned and 
 the company gathered expectantly in the 
 parlour. All whom we know were there, and 
 many more whose fame does not concern us 
 friends of the Fallons, friends of Martin, 
 distant relatives who came from afar and 
 whose faces were not often seen in Hillside. 
 There was plenty to eat and drink. Big Ned 
 carved, and jested, and blundered. Red Hugh 
 sat important in wrinkled broadcloth, striving- 
 hard to keep his knife from rising ; Maria 
 prideful in faded satin, watchful and conde- 
 scending, genteel and precise. Sam Mires 
 was suave as a bishop, ready of hand and 
 word, quick in sight of an empty plate. None 
 merrier there than Hannah ; heartier than 
 
THE SQUIREEN 187 
 
 Martin ; happier than Jane, mother now and 
 wife and mistress of Hillside in one. Jests 
 were flung from chair to chair, laughter swelled 
 along the table. Toasts went round, healths 
 and good wishes passed ; long life and pro- 
 sperity was the word for young Martin, 
 honoured well and noisily. 
 
 Then, all being satisfied, the men trooped 
 out to yard and field, leaving the women 
 to their gossip. Dresses and bonnets were 
 discussed, the latest fashions in Bunn town, 
 and the latest news in Gorteen. Memories 
 were exchanged, old days and ways recalled. 
 Here two sat bobbing solemn heads over 
 dusty happenings ; there a group was in con- 
 clave round Jane and the child. Upstairs 
 Hannah and a friend whispered sweet confid- 
 ences ; by the kitchen hearth Maria joined the 
 Mother in secret council on family affairs. In 
 the yard couples droned politics and markets 
 by the garden wall, or took the sunshine on the 
 orchard ditch ; or Martin led a party through 
 the fields, or Sam Mires weighed coat-tails in 
 the haggard and discussed the sermon with a 
 neighbour, or one crept into the hayloft and 
 happily slept. At five o'clock there was tea in 
 
i88 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 the parlour ; at six whisky for the men, and 
 hymns, led by Miss Hynes of Bunn seminary, 
 for the women ; at eight high supper in the 
 parlour ; at nine a chapter and prayer by Red 
 Hugh ; at ten Good-night and God bless you 
 at the gate : and the day was done. 
 
 A memorable day, surely, in slow-moving, 
 commonplace Gorteen ; yet soon to be for- 
 gotten or remembered only with a shudder, 
 standing there as ironic background of rosy 
 colouring behind the gloom of that other day, 
 so quick and fateful, when once more cars 
 stood in Hillside avenue, and port was drunk 
 solemnly in the parlour, and there was wailing 
 upstairs, and black-coated figures went out and 
 drove away and laid the child to rest in the 
 shadows of Drumhill churchyard. No feasting 
 then and sound of merriment; only lamenta- 
 tions and woe. Such terror of suddenness ; 
 such calamity of change. Yesterday fond 
 hopes and good wishes, to-day swift sickness 
 and eyes meeting in dread above the Mother's 
 knee ; now death and a last good-bye. All in 
 a week or two ; all in a day, it might seem, 
 with that other piteous day standing out 
 behind so close and horrible. 
 
THE SQUIREEN 189 
 
 The blow was hard. Its pitiless falling 
 killed sunshine in the sky and spread gloom 
 over Hillside. What a mockery seemed^those 
 blithesome days, that spring whose wakening 
 meant death. Dead ? Buried away for ever- 
 more? Ah, heartless shining of life-giving 
 sun! 
 
 The Mother was stricken, face to face once 
 more with the grim destroyer. Often before 
 had she faced it, wondering as she wept ; now, 
 even in sight of the ultimate end, she could 
 not understand. Why why why? Had 
 she been taken it were well ; but the child, 
 the little child. It seemed cruel strange. 
 Martin also bent under the blow, grieving 
 long and rebelliously ; but he might always 
 carry sorrow into the fields and bury it there, 
 whilst Jane and the Mother were shut in with 
 grief, shut away from any forgetting with relic 
 and memory. 
 
 Jane was inconsolable. For days she hardly 
 spoke, through many nights she did not sleep ; 
 when tears came at last it seemed that she 
 must weep for life. Could she ever smile 
 again, ever sing or pray ? Ah, no, no. Could 
 she forget some day, some day ? Never for 
 
i 9 o THE SQUIREEN 
 
 a single hour. Always now her heart must 
 be heavy, her life only a weariness of mere 
 existence. 
 
 At first she was dazed. Her child gone, 
 dead and gone away ? Surely not. It was all 
 some horrible dream, something that was sent 
 and would pass away. For hours she would 
 sit with folded hands, or lie staring with blind 
 eyes. She went silently from room to room, 
 moving as might a ghost, her face like ashes 
 and cold as stone. Sometimes she would 
 leave her work or rise suddenly from table, 
 and would creep upstairs. Maybe maybe 
 maybe he was there. . . . But never did she 
 find him. 
 
 Then, it being quite sure, her heart found 
 bitterness and revolt. What had she done to 
 deserve such punishment ? Why had any 
 happiness come if thus it were to be snatched 
 away ? Why had life flickered for a moment, 
 a moment of light and sleep, only to be 
 stamped into darkness? Just a while of sun- 
 shine, a glimpse and a breath ; then utter 
 blackness. . . . 
 
 Had God done this inscrutable, pitiless 
 thing ; God the kind and merciful, the Shep- 
 
THE SQUIREEN 191 
 
 herd of little children? Even if punishment 
 must fall, suffering come, why should her 
 child be chosen ? There were others Great 
 God, there were others ! 
 
 Had God done it? Had He given, and 
 then repented of His gift ? Had He intrusted 
 a soul to her charge ; then finding her un- 
 worthy, taken it again to Himself? Perhaps 
 so. She had been so proud, filled big with 
 selfish joy. She had worshipped the child, 
 planned out its future, seen it pass adown the 
 glorious years. Not Martin only, but she 
 also had dreamt vain dreams. And now she 
 was punished. Her pride was broken, her 
 heart pierced. 
 
 Ah, she was wicked and rebellious. God 
 knew best. His hand might seem heavy, but 
 it ruled in justice. ' God forgive me ; God 
 make me worthy to meet my child again,' 
 prayed Jane, as she went toiling through the 
 day or knelt lonely in the night : but often in 
 her prayers she had sight of a mound in 
 shadow of the yews. 
 
 Time marched on, working inevitable change. 
 Day followed day, from spring on to summer- 
 time ; one by one the nights glided out, crowd- 
 
192 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 ing back the past. The Mother ceased won- 
 dering ; Martin found laughter again ; Jane 
 dried her eyes and sought consolation in toil. 
 Work went on as ever ; neighbours called 
 and went ; at night the Fallons came, or a 
 friend to supper ; Sundays brought rest and 
 time for thought ; there was buying and sell- 
 ing, eating and drinking, worry, drudgery; 
 everything seemed just as of old and as it 
 should be yet somehow was not. Ah no, 
 thought Jane ; nothing was nearly the same. 
 
 At meal-time now, the three sat silent often, 
 with something between them that would not 
 go. Even if they talked of this and that, or 
 laughed occasionally, it was never certain that 
 Jane would not stop of a sudden, grow pale 
 and let a tear run down her cheek. In the 
 evenings, after work, the hours went silently, 
 Martin being weary and Jane having only a 
 single thought that lay too deep for words. 
 On Sabbaths as they drove to church, high 
 in the narrow gig, why should not Martin 
 keep eyes upon the fields when Jane's were 
 fixed before her, straining down the long road 
 that ended at a little mound. During service, 
 or at night whilst the preacher discoursed, was 
 
THE SQUIREEN 193 
 
 it wonder that Martin pondered, or fell asleep, 
 or looked at Kate Trant and reflected on the 
 ways of women, with Jane sitting cold beside 
 him, never turning her head (as once she had 
 done) or whispering a word as far from him 
 as though seas rolled between ? What for 
 Jane were fields ancl hills ; what mattered it 
 now whether rain or sunshine filled the world ; 
 what were friends or self now that blackness 
 lay within ? Everything had changed, thought 
 Jane; everything everywhere. Try as she 
 might, pray as she would, her heart kept 
 heavy. Even though God were just and her 
 child gone back to Him : always remained that 
 lonely mound. 
 
 Sometimes she trudged across the hills with 
 Martin's lunch or the basket and can at tea- 
 time ; but she went listlessly, stayed only a 
 little time, seldom dragged a rake or carried 
 a sheaf, always trudged back alone with her 
 eyes on the path. Occasionally she walked 
 down the avenue and stood a minute at the 
 gate ; once or twice crossed the lawn, came 
 to the turf banks and sat miserable among the 
 heather, seeing and hearing nothing. All de- 
 light in life seemed dead, all interest shrunken 
 
 N 
 
i 9 4 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 to the limits of mere existence. It mattered 
 nothing whether she ate from delf or china, 
 in parlour or kitchen ; whether she walked or 
 rode, slept or woke. Nothing mattered now. 
 All pride in her person had gone. One bonnet 
 was just as good as another ; this dress as 
 that. Be it they were clean, why trouble if 
 her hands were coarse, her face pinched, her 
 hair in disorder? These were only trifles. 
 She drudged constantly. Martin would find 
 her mixing food for the pigs, arms bare, skirt 
 tucked high, a coarse apron before her. He 
 saw her at the wash-tub, the ironing-board, 
 in the byre milking, in the dairy scrubbing; 
 always ^pale and silent, bedraggled often and 
 soiled. She came to meals in her working 
 garb, wore the dress of an evening that she 
 had worn all day. If he spoke she answered 
 wearily; when he laughed she sighed. And 
 he, for all that he pitied her and in a fashion 
 understood, grew tired of her ways in time ; 
 then impatient ; at last resentful. Grieving 
 was natural, he thought ; sighing and tears 
 only to be expected. But there were limits. 
 Men had rights. Women had duties. 
 
 One morning, the time for lunch having 
 
THE SQUIREEN 195 
 
 gone past empty, he strode in from the fields. 
 The kitchen was in disorder. Pots and pans 
 strewed the floor. The hearth was full of 
 ashes, the fire low upon it. On a chair sat 
 the Mother, shelling peas into a colander. 
 
 'Where's Jane? ' 
 
 ' 1 don't know, Martin/ 
 
 ' Hm. This is a pretty pig-crow for a man 
 to put foot in. How is it nothing's been sent 
 to me ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, Martin. I thought ' 
 
 * Ay, ye thought ! There 's a power o' 
 thinkin' done in this house, nowadays, it seems 
 to me. Less thinkin' and more doin' 'd serve 
 the purpose better, I imagine. Be the Lord, 
 I might starve for all the attention I get. 
 Bah I 'm sick of it.' 
 
 Martin turned for the door ; but the Mother 
 caught his arm. 
 
 * Wait, Martin ; wait. You mustn't be angry, 
 my son. Remember what's happened.' 
 
 1 1 do remember. But there 's a time for 
 all things. Suppose I humoured my feelin's 
 and sat sighin' all day behind a hedge a fine 
 lot o' sympathy I 'd get.' 
 
 ' Ah, but women are different, Martin. Jane 
 
196 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 is very different. She can't help herself: in- 
 deed she can't. She tries, but ' 
 
 ' She doesn't/ snapped Martin ; then strode 
 forth and found Jane working in the garden. 
 The sunshine fell broad upon her, full and 
 gloriously, as leaning on a spade she bent 
 low between the ridges and the weeds that 
 sprang upon them. Her bodice was open 
 at the neck, her skirt bunched up ; she wore 
 an old straw hat and heavy boots. Just such 
 another figure she made as the figure whose 
 hands Martin had taken, one morning in 
 spring, and claimed for his own. But that 
 was long ago. 
 
 4 How is it nothing 's been sent to me?' 
 
 Jane stood upright, a weed in this hand the 
 spade in that, and looked at Martin. His 
 abrupt coming and abrupter speech had 
 startled her. She had been deep in her one 
 thought. 'Ah, I forgot,' she said, with a 
 passing flush. ' I meant to go ; but I forgot.' 
 
 ' Ah, you forgot. You 're good at forgettin'. 
 No ; you needn't mind now/ said Martin, as 
 Jane turned towards the house. ' If I can 
 wait this long, I can wait till dinner-time. 
 What are you doin' out here ? ' 
 
THE SQUIREEN 197 
 
 Jane did not answer ; only sighed and stood 
 looking on the ground. 
 
 'A fine pickle there's in there.' Martin 
 flung a hand towards the house. His voice 
 came angry. ' A fine thing, at this hour o' 
 the day, for a man to go pickin' his steps 
 through his own kitchen. A pretty business 
 to find one's mother slavin' in her old age, 
 an' you out here amusin' yourself. What 
 d' you mean by it?' said Martin, loud and 
 wrathfully. 
 
 Jane stood silent, her face blanching in the 
 sunshine. 
 
 ' Answer me. What d' you mean by it ? ' 
 
 * I I don't know, Martin. I 'm sorry. I 
 can't help it.' 
 
 ' But you can help it. I won't have it. I Ve 
 had patience long enough. I know how you 're 
 feelin', I know ' Martin's voice softened ; 
 he came nearer. ' Look here, Jane. I don't 
 want to be unreasonable. But just ask your- 
 self if you think you 're doin' right. Are you, 
 now? ' 
 
 Jane tried to speak, but words failed her. 
 She sighed and fell to scraping the clay with 
 her boot. Martin went on. 
 
198 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 ' D' you think it 's right to let things go on as 
 they are ? The house neglected ; everything 
 higgledy-piggledy; yourself look at the 
 figure you are,' cried Martin. 'Just like any 
 beggar-woman ! Is that how I 'm wishful to 
 see you, I ask? Is this the kind o' work 
 this an' all the other work you 've been 
 partial to o' late that I 'd wish you to do ? 
 Drudgin' an' sloppin', trailin' from one tub 
 to another ; is that fit occupation for wife 
 o' mine? Look at your hands. Look at 
 your hair. Look at the whole rig o' you. 
 Look at you standin' there, an' never 
 answerin' me a word. Ah,' cried Martin, 
 turning away, * I 'm weary of it heart 
 weary/ 
 
 Then Jane spoke. ' Martin,' she said. 
 ' Martin/ 
 
 4 Well?' 
 
 ' 1 can't help it, Martin. 'Deed an' word, I 
 can't. I do try. I strive to be as I used to be 
 but I can't. Everything is changed. I have 
 no heart. Always and ever I keep thinkin' the 
 one thing always and ever/ 
 
 ' An' have I no thoughts ? ' Martin swung 
 round. ' Have I no feelin's ? * 
 
THE SQUIREEN 199 
 
 ' Ah, yes. I know I know . . . Give me 
 time, Martin. Bear with me for a while. 
 I'll be better. It'll all go. Give me time, 
 Martin/ 
 
 1 1 '11 give you everything. I '11 bear any- 
 thing. Only,' cried Martin, spreading wide 
 his hands, ' for God's sake be different to 
 me. I ask little. Show me a different 
 face sometimes ; give me a laugh and 
 a word now and then ; stop your moilin' 
 an' drudgin'. Think what you will . . . 
 only don't forget who I am, an' what you 
 are, an' what 's expected of you. You hear 
 me, Jane?' 
 
 * I do, Martin.' 
 
 1 An you '11 heed ? ' 
 ' I will, Martin.' 
 
 * That 's right. An' now, like a good woman, 
 put down that spade an' go and make yourself 
 respectable. And let this be the last time I '11 
 have to speak to you.' 
 
 Jane crossed through the sunshine, going 
 slowly and heavily, stood the spade against the 
 garden wall, and went out through the gate- 
 way into the yard. Martin watched her go, 
 hands clasped behind him and a frown on his 
 
200 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 brow. She looked much the same as one 
 morning in spring-time she had looked, in those 
 old days, so far away now, of her lesser trouble. 
 Then Martin had taken her in his arms. Now 
 he did not. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 JANE took heed. There was disorder in 
 the kitchen no more. The luncheon- 
 basket went to the fields without fail. 
 She ceased drudging in yard and garden. 
 When the rougher work of the house was done 
 she made herself respectable, as Martin had 
 bidden, summoned cheerfulness to her face and 
 bore herself bravely. At table she kept down 
 her thought, talked a little, and sometimes 
 laughed. In the evenings she knitted, or read 
 in the Bible, or sat with the Mother in the porch 
 till twilight had gone; occasionally stood by 
 Martin as he leant over the lawn gate smoking 
 and pondering, at intervals went down the 
 slope and sat awhile with Hannah and Maria 
 by the old hearthstone, once or twice, in 
 those long calm evenings of high summer-time, 
 slipped through the fields, seated herself on a 
 bank, and nursed her thought in peace 
 beneath the stars. On Thursdays she drove 
 
202 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 into Bunn town, sold the butter and eggs and 
 did the marketing; now and again went out 
 into the world and came to Clogheen or Glann 
 and spent the day there, wandering through 
 the stalls, looking at the shops, watching Martin 
 sell a horse, having dinner with him in grandeur 
 at the hotel. On pavement or roadway, in 
 parlour or kitchen, she talked pleasantly with 
 friend and neighbour, bearing herself meekly 
 always, yet not without a certain air of sad 
 dignity in her black dress with its deep folds 
 of crape. Regularly each Sunday she went 
 to church, training herself in time to walk from 
 porch to gate without flinching. In July she 
 went to an Orange celebration near Clogheen, 
 endured drum and fife, fervour and sun- 
 shine, through a weary day ; sat pridefully 
 upon the platform whilst Martin declaimed, 
 sipped ginger wine in the Lodge at night 
 whilst True Blues thundered. In August 
 she saw Martin judging at the local show, 
 heard him shout at Glann races, joined in the 
 applause which marked his speech at a parish 
 soiree. Many envied her lot, these seeing 
 only with their eyes. Indeed she seemed 
 happy in her quiet way, contented and recon- 
 
THE SQUIREEN 203 
 
 ciled. Time had passed on, so you might have 
 thought had you seen her go placidly through 
 the days, bearing away trouble and leaving her 
 as she had been before trouble came ; a little 
 graver maybe, a new line on her brow, fresh 
 grey in her hair the paltriest changes. Neigh- 
 bours meeting her on the sidewalks and friends 
 looking at her across the parlour table, said 
 she looked bravely, thank God, and was nearly 
 herself again, and was the fortunate woman 
 anyway, she with everything she needed in the 
 world at her elbow and a whole Squire facing 
 her beyond the cups : but the Mother, always 
 near and rich in sympathy, saw better than 
 these. She knew what had come and gone 
 with that handful of months. None came near 
 the real Jane who stopped at the surface, 
 neither Martin nor another. Outwardly she 
 might not have changed greatly ; inwardly she 
 had changed much. Her face might be glad, 
 her heart was not. She never sang now ; her 
 smiles were only show ; her prayers, the 
 Mother guessed, had lost in certainty. The 
 hand of sorrow was relaxing, but still it gripped 
 her close and selfishly. She was hardened 
 something. Her old childish simplicity of mind 
 
204 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 and character, of manner also, seemed lost 
 or hid. Hardly anything interested her now, 
 and few things mattered ; few certainly in this 
 mortal world. She only adorned her body 
 that Martin might see Martin whose eyes 
 were keen on the body and its paltry showing 
 only went abroad because Martin maybe 
 wished it. Alone and selfishly yes, selfishly 
 she lived in her little world of sorrowful 
 memory, hardly peering upon the world with- 
 out. Impossible to be with her day after day, 
 to sit with her evening by evening, and not 
 see all this. She, the Mother, saw it clearly ; 
 Martin also, in a dim unthinking way, he being 
 concerned mostly with the outward manifesta- 
 tions, the things which reached himself, saw 
 what he might not discern. There sat Jane, 
 silent and morose, worn and old : changed 
 surely, changed to him. The Mother knew it 
 instinctively ; saw it in his manner and looks, in 
 the way he sat silent at table, the fling he gave 
 to his chair in rising and his quick stride from 
 the room, in his way of avoiding Jane and of 
 scorning her with his eyes, in his growing habit 
 of seeking diversion across the hills. Were not 
 these plain signs of change, of gradual insidious 
 
THE SQUIREEN 205 
 
 change, working so that only those who had 
 eyes could see? It used not to be so. It 
 ought not to be so now. It was not what the 
 Mother had hoped ; yet, somehow, was only 
 what she had expected. Martin was hard to 
 please, was changeable, had strange lack of sym- 
 pathy ; cared more for a look than a thought, 
 the whiteness of a hand than the pure- 
 ness of a heart ; was a man, with a man's full 
 capacity for tiring of a plaything, neglecting 
 it, flinging it away when novelty and gloss had 
 gone. Men were all the same. Not blindly 
 had she lived her life, not idly pondered this 
 big masterful Martin all these years. Even 
 she had not always pleased ; the woman that 
 should satisfy him entirely was not born. 
 Somewhere, perhaps, was one who might have 
 held and kept Kate Trant, maybe, or another 
 but simple, plain- faced Jane . . . 
 
 Ah, it was not Jane's fault. She did her 
 best. Sooner or later must have come weary 
 change. That miserable happening which 
 had worked such havoc in Jane's heart had 
 but hastened the inevitable. The Mother 
 knew why Martin had married ; knew how 
 Jane had doubted. He had mastered and 
 
2o6 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 claimed her ; she had yielded. But in yield- 
 ing she had given herself wholly ; and wholly 
 even now she was his. Only Martin was 
 tiring ; and Jane was in the clouds of her 
 little world, not seeing and perhaps not much 
 caring ; and Martin would go on tiring 
 and wandering farther into old paths, and 
 Jane some day would awake and see plain 
 truth. 
 
 Would that day of awaking come too late ? 
 Ah, no, no. For Martin's sake, this boy of 
 her heart, for Jane's sake, this woman whom 
 she loved so well, that day must not come 
 too late. Something, the Mother said, must 
 be done. She must give Jane help and 
 comfort, lead her back to her old self; and 
 Martin she must also lead, God helping her, 
 back to the old bright ways. 
 
 So, God helping her, the Mother set herself 
 between Martin and Jane, and strove to bring 
 them nearer ; even if not quite near, yet 
 nearer. Her wisest and most tactful she 
 did, with all patience. This withered hand 
 and that she reached out, trying to bring them 
 close. She schemed and contrived, suggested 
 and arranged. At table she chattered gaily, 
 
THE SQUIREEN 207 
 
 smoothing Martin's frowns and drawing his 
 eyes to herself; helping Jane to look and do 
 her best, luring her real self up into broad 
 sunshine, that Martin perchance might see. 
 When days were fair she left them together ; 
 when gloomy kept near. She sent Jane into 
 the fields, suggested that she should drive to 
 meet Martin at the station, or bear him com- 
 pany in some of his expeditions abroad ; 
 endeavoured to keep Martin at home of 
 evenings, tempting him with pipe and news- 
 paper, hearty supper and easy-chair. She 
 spared no pains to make Jane efficient in 
 affairs, none to keep all smooth in Martin's 
 path. Now and then would a subtle hint, a 
 suggestive word, be dropped in Martin's ear ; 
 always was the Mother at Jane's side, brim- 
 ming with sympathy and wisest counsel. 
 
 * They 're all the same, my dear ; the nearest 
 way to their heart is through their mouths, 
 the next nearest is through their eyes. . . . 
 Now suppose we give Martin a hot cake for 
 his tea and a couple of fresh eggs ? And 
 suppose you run upstairs and put on your blue 
 apron, and slip on your rings, and get out your 
 gold brooch ? ' 
 
208 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 'Ah, but, mother! Why it's only three 
 months since ' 
 
 ' My dear, Martin likes it.' 
 
 Again : 
 
 ' Jane, did I hear Martin say he was driving 
 in to Bunn this evening ? ' 
 
 ' I I think so, mother.' 
 
 * You think ? My dear child, you shouldn't 
 think. It's your duty to know. You should 
 take an interest in Martin's doings. Now, 
 when he comes into tea just say you 'd like to 
 go with him. He '11 be glad to have you, and 
 the drive will do you good, and . . . Yes, 
 Jane. Come, speak out. What is it you 're 
 thinking ? ' 
 
 ' 1 'm thinking, mother, that maybe Martin 
 mightn't want me to come. He ' 
 
 1 Yes, Jane?' 
 
 ' If he wanted me he 'd ask me.' 
 
 1 Ah, my dear, my dear ! It 's so foolish to 
 think like that, so very foolish. May not 
 Martin think it 's you who doesn't want to 
 go? . . .' 
 
 Again, maybe that same afternoon, the 
 Mother would slip upstairs and knock softly 
 at Jane's door. 
 
THE SQUIREEN 209 
 
 ' Jane. May I come in ? My dear, I 'm 
 so glad you're going. The change will do 
 you good. But, my child, my child ' and 
 the Mother's hands would rise slowly, her 
 worn ring, that symbol of her experience, 
 shining on her worn finger ' you must not 
 go in that dress. What would people think ? 
 What would Martin say ? Remember, Jane, 
 you must be a credit to him. He 's so par- 
 ticular ; and nothing displeases a man more 
 than to see his wife look shabby. Now, put 
 on everything of your best : your new black 
 dress and gloves, and your best bonnet and 
 shoes, and tie a ribbon round your throat, 
 and ' 
 
 ' A ribbon ? Ah but, mother, how can I ? ' 
 
 * My dear, you must not consider yourself 
 always. Martin would like it.' 
 
 Again, one evening, as they lingered in 
 the porch, sitting idly with folded hands and 
 watching the twilight deepen : 
 
 'Jane.' 
 
 * Yes, mother/ 
 
 ' Has Martin gone out ? ' 
 'I think Yes, mother.' 
 ' Where has he gone ? ' 
 o 
 
210 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 * I I dunno.' 
 
 'No? But why don't you know? It's 
 your duty to know. Didn't you ask him ?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 'Ah, my dear, my dear! It's so foolish. 
 . . . And do you never ask him ? ' 
 
 ' Not not always.' 
 
 ' And why not ? ' 
 
 ' I 'm ' Afraid was the word perhaps ; 
 but Jane did not say it, only shook her head 
 and sighed. ' Ah, I dunno.' 
 
 ' Then you must know, Jane. It 's your 
 duty. And you must try to keep Martin 
 always at home. Now suppose you invite a few 
 friends to spend an evening? We could have 
 some supper, and perhaps a game of cards ' 
 
 ' Cards, mother ! Ah, no, no not yet/ 
 
 ' My dear, you must consider Martin.' 
 
 Again, one evening as they sat beside the 
 lamp, bending over their work and listening 
 to the mournful beat of rain upon the panes : 
 
 ' My dear/ 
 
 Jane looked up from her thought. ' Yes, 
 mother.' 
 
 ' Do you always remember Martin in your 
 prayers ? ' 
 
THE SQUIREEN 211 
 
 ' Remember ? ' Jane dropped her hands. 
 ' Oh, always an' ever ; always an' ever. Surely 
 ye know that ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I know it, Jane. Only the thought 
 came to me. Never forget him.' 
 
 1 Ah, never in the world. How could I ? 
 How could I ? ' 
 
 'You might, Jane. Sometimes things 
 happen. I find myself wandering very often, 
 forgetting and wandering away. . . . Jane, 
 Martin needs our prayers. We must always 
 be thinking of him and asking God to help 
 him. He has so much to occupy his mind. 
 He comes home tired and wet dear heart, 
 the night it is and maybe forgets, or maybe 
 prays without thinking. But we must never 
 forget. . . . Do you think of him often 
 through the day ? ' 
 
 Jane hesitated a moment, raised her knitting 
 and bent her head. 'I do,' she answered. 
 ' Ah, surely I do.' 
 
 'And are they happy thoughts, Jane?' 
 
 Once more Jane hesitated. 'Ah, they are,' 
 she answered. 'I suppose they are as happy 
 as I can make them.' 
 
 As happy as she could make them ? Yes. 
 
2i2 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 The words were true. Her utmost the 
 Mother might strive, but no contriving in the 
 world, no power of sympathy, no doing of 
 wisdom, might lead shrinking thought out 
 into the full shine of happiness. Only time, 
 and the grace of the Lord, could work that 
 miracle. The Mother sighed, bent her eyes, 
 and again the sad beat of rain filled the 
 quiet of the room. 
 
 Still, the Mother persevered in her striving ; 
 and one night, as she sat alone in the parlour, 
 Martin came in and crossed to his chair. He 
 had been away at a fair ; he looked weary and 
 travel-stained, and a little flushed. Supper 
 was laid for him, but he refused to eat. He 
 answered the Mother's questions, asked a 
 few in turn, glanced at the newspaper, then 
 looked up. 
 
 ' Where 's Jane ? ' 
 
 ' Gone home, Martin.' 
 
 ' I know. How long has she been gone ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, an hour or two. She '11 be back soon.' 
 
 ' 1 know.' 
 
 Martin nodded, turned his newspaper and 
 went on reading. The Mother looked at him, 
 now and again, across her spectacles. A 
 
THE SQUIREEN 213 
 
 year ago he would have gone to meet Jane. 
 Presently she spoke. 
 
 * Is the night fine, Martin ? ' 
 'Middlin'. Why?' 
 
 * I 'm wondering if Jane will find it lone- 
 some on her way back.' 
 
 'Ah, the father will come with her, or 
 Hannah. Anyhow, she knows the way.' 
 
 The Mother sighed softly, worked silently 
 for a while ; spoke again and more boldly. 
 
 ' Martin, do you think Jane is happy ? ' 
 
 'Happy?' He lowered his newspaper. 
 4 Why shouldn't she be happy ? Why d' you 
 ask? ' 
 
 ' Oh, for no reason in particular, Martin, 
 except that she seems dull at times and not 
 what she used to be. Haven't you noticed 
 that yourself, Martin ? ' 
 
 * Ah, I Ve noticed lots of things lots of 
 them.' Martin smiled sardonically, in haste 
 went on : ' But no matter about that. We Ve 
 talkin' now about what you 've noticed. Come, 
 if you Ve anything to say, say it.' 
 
 The Mother hesitated. Would saying do 
 any good, just now, Martin's humour being 
 what it was and her own hardly cheerful? 
 
2i 4 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 She shook her head ; then, moved by a quick 
 impulse, lowered her hands and spoke : 
 
 * I think, Martin, that you give Jane little 
 consideration.' 
 
 ' I know. You mean because of what 's 
 happened ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, and because of other things/ 
 
 1 What things ? ' 
 
 'I think you're tired of her, Martin/ said 
 the Mother, her face flushing a little, her 
 hands working. ' I think you 're neglecting 
 her. I think you 're not trying to see what 's 
 really good in her, or to give her your 
 sympathy and affection.' Suddenly she leant 
 towards him, her voice softening and her 
 eyes. 'Ah, my son, forgive me. It's not my 
 business to speak. I don't want to hurt you. 
 But, Martin, Jane is a woman in ten thousand. 
 Her heart is pure gold. Her life-blood she 
 would give to serve you. She does try, 
 Martin, really she does. She can't help being 
 as she is. It's the first great trouble of her 
 life. Bear with her, my son, for a while, give 
 her a little time, try to be to her as you used 
 to be. She 's worth it, Martin ; oh, believe me, 
 she's worth it all.' 
 
THE SQUIREEN 215 
 
 Martin had been sitting deep in his chair, 
 legs crossed, his eyes hard on the Mother's 
 face ; now he flung the newspaper on the table, 
 unfolded his legs and leant forward. 
 
 1 Be the Lord,' said he, with a gibing laugh, 
 ' but this is great ! Faith, it 's home a man 
 must come to hear news. Tired of her? 
 Neglectin' her?' His voice rose swiftly to 
 harshness, his face blazed into anger. * Arrah, 
 what romancin' is this ? Who 's changed ? ' 
 Martin sprang to his feet, turned his back 
 towards the fireplace and flung out an arm. 
 'Answer me. Who's changed? Am I the 
 one that sits silent an' glum ? Is it me that 
 has as much affection in me as the chair 
 beyond? Is it me ?' All suddenly Martin 
 stopped. A cunning look flashed into his 
 eyes. He bent forward and eyed the Mother 
 askance. 4 Tell me/ he asked. ' Has Jane 
 put you up to this ? ' 
 
 ' What do you mean, Martin ? ' 
 ' Has she asked you to do this ? ' 
 ' Never never once. Ah, Martin, Martin, 
 how little you know her ! ' 
 
 ' Then it 's all your own fancyin' ? ' 
 ' All my own, every word my own.' 
 
2i6 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 'Then, look here, mother.' Martin stooped 
 and laid a hand on his mother's arm. ' Let 
 it just stay at that. Believe me you're at 
 your old game of worryin' about nothin', and 
 what 's worse, you 're interferin' where you 're 
 not wanted. You '11 forgive me sayin' it, but 
 I 'm not the only one has used plain talk this 
 evenin'. You may be right, you may be 
 wrong, either way it 's not your affair. If Jane 
 has anythin' to complain about, I 'm always 
 here to listen ; if I have a word to say, 
 she's there to hear it. But if it'll save you 
 worryin', I may tell you just this, so long as 
 Jane 's content, I am an' there's an end of it.' 
 He stood upright again and, hands clasped 
 behind his back, looked down from the height 
 of his arrogant masterfulness upon his old 
 mother, shrinking now in her low-backed 
 chair. ' You hear me ? ' 
 
 'Yes, Martin.' 
 
 ' An' you understand ? ' 
 
 'Yes, Martin.' 
 
 ' That 's right. An' now let 's talk about 
 somethin' sensible/ 
 
 So they talked of things sensible, and the 
 Mother, understanding perfectly, interfered 
 
THE SQUIREEN 217 
 
 openly no more. No doubt she had chosen 
 her occasion badly, most likely she had said 
 more than she had ever meant to say ; never- 
 theless she had acted for the best, and doubt- 
 less Martin was sorry within an hour that he 
 had treated her with such harshness. 
 
 He was more than sorry before very long. 
 For one day in early autumn-time the Mother 
 was called, and she lay down and died. Her 
 end was peaceful. Just as the hour struck, 
 she commended Jane and Martin to the care 
 of Him who knoweth and ordereth all things ; 
 then she blessed them, and with their hands 
 in hers sank confidently upon sleep. So went 
 out that gentle soul, and Jane and Martin 
 were left alone. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 r I ^HE Mother's going, timely though it 
 -L was, left a great void in the little world 
 of Hillside ; a void none the less real because 
 of the living presence that lingered in it, and 
 was almost palpable. She was gone ; but her 
 presence was there, full and constant, making 
 of the house, so empty else of all save gloom 
 and silence, a very temple of living memories. 
 There she sat, for all that her body had gone, 
 there beyond the table or here beside the 
 lamp, her head bowed over her busy hands, 
 face wrinkled placidly or bright with its ready 
 smile. Hush. Was that her foot sounding 
 upon the stair ; was that her voice rising 
 through the silence, soft and cheerfully ? 
 Surely did Martin go quietly into the parlour, 
 going as in the old days of marauding boy- 
 hood, he would find her in the wicker chair 
 and she would turn to smile him welcome ; or, 
 
 mayhap, she was working in the pantry, or 
 as 
 
THE SQUIREEN 219 
 
 standing by the bread-tray in the kitchen ? 
 It was strange. He knew she had gone ; yet 
 there he went stealthily from room to room, 
 expectant almost, searching, you might think, 
 for something he had lost. 
 
 Was she lost ? Had she really gone ? 
 asked Jane of herself, so lonely now with one 
 sorrow the more in her little world. Surely 
 not. Why her face was there . . . and there 
 . . . and there. She was gone upon a journey, 
 a little pilgrimage out into the world, from 
 which she must surely return. How think of 
 her as really dead, laid away, gone utterly ? 
 Dead ? Surely not. Yet what in life was 
 more certain ? Out there beyond the hills the 
 Mother lay at peace close by a narrow 
 mound in shadow of the yews and of her was 
 left only memories and a name. Ah, but life 
 was woeful, thought Jane, come once more 
 and so soon to clear vision of life's grim 
 tragedy ; ah, but death was terrible. Old and 
 young, death claimed all for its own in its own 
 strange time. . . . Yet if God called, even to 
 the young, was it not well ? Was it not well ? 
 
 So, for a while, dark clouds hung heavy 
 over Hillside, and beneath them all went 
 
220 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 wearily in a common bond of sorrow; then 
 lifted slowly and drifted away, time compelling 
 them and scattering. Martin ceased his wan- 
 dering from room to room, learned to forget, 
 grew careless again in his ways and often 
 uncertain. Day after day, this one narrower 
 than that as the path of the sun grew shorter, 
 Jane sought consolation in work ; night after 
 night, so long now and lonely, she sat by the 
 lamp, thinking and working, always thinking. 
 Indeed she had much food for thought ; 
 much opportunity to give thought play. She 
 had merely to look back across the months, to 
 catch sight of a little work-basket, to turn eyes 
 upon Martin sitting behind his newspaper or 
 glance at his empty chair ; only to look inwards 
 upon herself and thoughts came crowding. 
 How much had happened within a year ; what 
 changes come, hopes blighted. Think of last 
 winter, and think of this : as like as day was 
 like night. Ah, could but those old evenings 
 come back again ! She recalled them all ; 
 lived them one by one. She had but to shut 
 her eyes and there sat the Mother by the 
 table, a white shawl about her shoulders, a 
 lace cap on her hairj there sat Martin, reading 
 
THE SQUIREEN 221 
 
 or listening, feet outstretched and smoke rising 
 from his pipe ; there sat herself yes, her very 
 self knitting before the fire, so happy, so 
 content. See them go, those mellow evenings. 
 The faces, the faces . . . the softened light 
 . . . the voices rising . . . the coals falling in 
 the fender, the wind plucking at the shutter, 
 the rain splashing from the spout, a sound of 
 the Mother singing, of Martin laughing, of 
 needles clicking softly as they flashed. Such 
 pleasant evenings, such peace and happiness ; 
 all well in the world and the future all bright- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 And now ? Ah, the miles of difference ! 
 There was a lifetime between now and then, a 
 whole lifetime of miserable change. She felt 
 years older. When she closed eyes and looked 
 back upon herself, it was almost a stranger 
 she saw ; when she opened eyes and looked 
 out of herself, it was into a new world. 
 Nothing was the same ; nothing ever again 
 could be the same. Away back there, so far 
 back, were the old bright days ; there, down 
 there, lay those miserable months ; here and 
 now was the weary present. Ah, it was 
 dreary; and it was very lonely. The days 
 
222 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 went slowly, the nights were endless. It 
 seemed to be always raining. Few came to 
 see her. She had no heart to go visiting. 
 Work, work ; a little rest ; a long sleep ; a 
 new day ; another night : so ran life in this 
 wintry weather. Indeed it was very lonely. 
 So still the house was ; not a sound, not a 
 breath save her own, not a word spoken for 
 hours. . . . 
 
 Why did not Martin come? Why did he 
 go out so much ? Where did he go ? Did 
 business call him always ? Why did he sit 
 silent often, frown sometimes when she spoke 
 and answer gruffly ? Why did he come laugh- 
 ing up through the fields, cease laughing on 
 the threshold, and stride in without a word? 
 Why did he grumble so much over trifles, if 
 dinner was not ready to the minute, if the 
 kitchen was untidy or the parlour not swept ? 
 He used to be different. Was it his fault, or 
 hers, or was it because of the change in every- 
 thing ? Ah, she wished he would come home ; 
 she wished he could be his old self; she wished 
 wished wished. . . . 
 
 What was the use of wishing ? 
 
 The winter dragged slowly through ; and 
 
THE SQUIREEN 223 
 
 one evening in early spring came Hannah to 
 Hillside. She looked radiant; youth flush- 
 ing on her cheeks, happiness kindling in her 
 eyes. 'Jane,' she called; then tripped into 
 the parlour lightsome as a bird. ' Dear Jane/ 
 she said ; ' ah, Jane, my dear.' It was good to 
 see her face ; good to have sound of her merry 
 chattering. In a while she looked about the 
 room. ' Where 's Martin ? ' she asked. 
 
 He was at Bunn, Jane answered. 
 
 'Such a man!' Up went Hannah's hands. 
 ' He 's always somewhere. What does he do 
 with himself at all? Faith, if he belonged to 
 me, I 'd She broke off abruptly ; pulled 
 her chair nearer to Jane's, leant and whispered 
 something in her ear. 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' 
 
 'It's true, I tell ye.' Hannah's face was 
 crimson. 
 
 ' And when ? ' asked Jane, her own cheeks 
 flushing. 
 
 ' Three weeks. It was all settled last night 
 Only last night. There wasn't an angry word, 
 not one. All of a sudden it happened. There 
 wasn't time to send for you and Martin. 
 Hannah flung up her hands. ' Aw, Lord o' 
 
224 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 mercy, all there is to do. Dresses and skirts, 
 shoes and hats, orderin' and preparing cookin' 
 and bakin' ah, how are we to get through it 
 all ? . . . You '11 have to help us, Jane. You 
 will, won't ye ? It makes me think of your 
 own affair. Lord, the time that was ! Ye 
 mind it, don't ye ? ' 
 
 Jane nodded. She remembered well. 
 
 ' I 'm to be all in white, with a bonnet and 
 veil and buckled shoes. I '11 have flowers. 
 There '11 be a carriage. We 're goin' to ask 
 every one. Maybe we '11 go to Kyle for a week 
 or maybe to Dublin. . . . Think of it, Jane ! 
 Think of the way ye felt yourself.' 
 
 Jane smiled. She remembered how she 
 had felt herself. 
 
 ' Only ' Hannah looked archly at Jane, 
 laughed and shook her curls ' there '11 be no 
 capers wi' me when the mornin' comes. Him- 
 self 's not goin' to find me among the cabbage- 
 stalks. Heavens above, Jane, d' ye mind that 
 time ? D' ye mind the things I said to ye ? 
 Ye were mad.' 
 
 Jane smiled again. Yes ; she had been 
 mad. 
 
 4 Suppose he had taken ye at your word,' 
 
THE SQUIREEN 225 
 
 Hannah went on, irrepressible as a lark. 
 ' Why it 'd have been terrible. Think of what 
 you 'd have missed ! Everything, everything '; 
 and Hannah looked about the room. 
 
 What could Jane say ? Think of what she 
 would have missed, indeed. 
 
 ' But never heed that now,' cried Hannah. 
 ' All that 's past and gone, I 'm full o' myself 
 this minute. I could fly I could fly. The 
 heart's dancin' in me. Lord, the day it is! 
 I must talk I must, I must. Lord o' mercy, 
 all there is to do ! ' 
 
 Once again, then, was Gorteen agog. The 
 hearths buzzed with gossip. Sam Mires 
 walked a round-backed hero. Hannah's 
 name flew winged from door to door. The 
 Fallens' cottage stood as centre of a hill- 
 ringed universe. Every day some one knocked 
 at the green door, and was received in the 
 little parlour by Hannah and Maria; every 
 night some one came into the kitchen, wished 
 Miss Hannah well, and laid a homely present 
 at her feet. Once again a sound of congratu- 
 lation rose among the tombstones, of soft 
 flattery between the counters of Bunn town. 
 All Gorteen was alive with expectation ; in 
 
226 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 the Fallens' was constant bustle of pre- 
 paration. Jane's affair had been splendid ; 
 Hannah's promised to eclipse even that. Now 
 was no cloud of foolish uncertainty on the 
 horizon ; the whole sky was clear and sure. 
 No fear in life of Hannah spoiling sport, of 
 leading a dance across the fields on the bliss- 
 ful morning. She was willing and eager, 
 joyous as she flitted from room to room, and 
 from counter to counter, as any bird. It was a 
 pleasure to watch her ; she was so bright and 
 friendly, said one to another, that the heart 
 melted in sight of her face. Ah, God be with 
 her. Ah, might the angels guard her. The 
 lucky man was Sam Mires. A hundred times 
 a better wife she would make him than that 
 sighing creature of a Jane. Think of the 
 bride she made. Think of the doleful com- 
 pany she must be for himself the Squire. 
 Ah, now now. 
 
 Jane was not doleful during those three 
 weeks. Sometimes maybe she sat quiet 
 whilst Hannah chattered on the way back 
 from hearing the banns read, on the long road 
 to the emporiums of Glann and Clogheen 
 she thinking possibly of like journeys in days 
 
THE SQUIREEN 227 
 
 that were gone ; also, at times, when Hannah 
 sprang joyfully into the future, she may have 
 shook her head and sighed ; nor is it unlikely 
 that more than once she was moved, in the 
 full glare of Hannah's happiness, to look 
 thoughtfully back in quest of her old self, the 
 Jane of two years ago, the Jane who strove 
 and doubted so much, and in the end yielded 
 to Martin the Conqueror, her shining Martin, 
 beside whom this dulcet Mires was but a 
 pigmy : but these were only passing shadows 
 on a time of sunshine. In her quiet way she 
 enjoyed all that came, even those weary 
 journeys through mist and starlight, those 
 eternal preparations by hearth and table. It 
 brought diversion, made a welcome break in 
 the long monotony of things. Every day 
 brought something new ; beyond every even- 
 ing lay a full to-morrow. It was good to see 
 Hannah's face as she went flitting like a bee, 
 to hear Maria pour forth motherly counsel, to 
 see Red Hugh stepping clumsily among the 
 flower-beds, and Sam Mires coming softly, 
 like some hero in a story-book, through the 
 twilight ; good also to have Martin stride in of 
 an evening just as of old ; oh, just as of old 
 
228 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 make merry awhile with Hugh and Big Ned 
 by the kitchen hearth, then walk home beside 
 her beneath the stars. Just as of old ; oh, just 
 as of old ! 
 
 So time went ; and when at last the great 
 morning came Hannah's one morning in a 
 lifetime Jane adorned herself, not gaily but 
 with sober richness, entered by the green 
 doorway and played her modest part among 
 the festive company gathered in kitchen and 
 parlour; mounted the gig and was whirled 
 away to Drumhill ; knelt humbly by Martin in 
 the old dim church, and prayed from her heart 
 that the Almighty might lead Hannah in the 
 path of happiness ; just glanced between the 
 yews as she walked towards the gate, just 
 looked at Martin and saw themselves their 
 old selves and hand-in-hand go down the 
 long road between spring hedges, just 
 tightened her lips as they spun past Hillside, 
 and she saw the Mother standing there in her 
 flowered silk ; then went in between the flower- 
 beds, seated herself in the parlour, and made 
 merry with the rest. 
 
 Why, it was like living again that other day 
 in the spring of two years ago ; like, and yet 
 
THE SQUIREEN 229 
 
 unlike every one a little older, a face or two 
 missing, herself and Martin not now in the 
 seats of honour yet the same faces glowing 
 along the table, the same horny hands plying 
 eagerly, the same jokes, toasts, healths, the 
 same clatter and bustle, heartiness and good 
 humour. There is Big Ned booming in the 
 kitchen, there Long John mocking him ; now 
 Miss Hicks empties her plate into her lap, 
 and the parlour rings ; now Red Hugh lets slip 
 a chicken upon the floor, and the parlour 
 roars. . . . 
 
 Hush. Martin is on his feet. How well he 
 speaks ; how big and comely he is ; how much 
 like that other Martin. . . . 
 
 Hush. Sam Mires is rising to respond, a 
 hand toying with his flowing whiskers. How 
 Sam is oiled and curled ; how puny a man he 
 is compared with Martin the big and glorious ; 
 how softly he speaks, mincing and tripping, 
 saying just the same foolish things. . . . 
 
 What. Surely Sam will not refer to that 
 again, that matter of the Snowdrop ? Yes ; 
 there it comes, pat and sure. How foolish of 
 him. How cruel of all to raise their glasses 
 and shout her name. It makes her tremble 
 
2 3 o THE SQUIREEN 
 
 and shrink into herself. It brings back the 
 past so vividly. It is like living again that 
 other day in another spring. ' Snowdrop 
 Jane,' they cry. Ah, no, no. . . . 
 
 One afternoon, in the week following 
 Hannah's marriage, Jane put on an old rush 
 hat, went through the fields, and coming to a 
 hazel clump that stood in a hollow of the hills, 
 hid herself there from sight of the sun. It 
 was a placid hour in a day of spring weather. 
 Hardly a sound moved upon the hills. Only 
 the birds or a wandering butterfly stirred 
 among the tender leaves. In the moss beneath 
 the hedge that ran beyond the hazels, late 
 violets drooped among the primroses ; and 
 the whitethorn above them was patched with 
 bloom. Everywhere was spread a great peace, 
 fresh and beautiful ; everywhere but in Jane's 
 simple heart. She looked troubled. Her 
 eyes were pensive. Wearily she sat within 
 the shade, knees upgathered and hands 
 clasped around them, staring at thought. 
 
 She was thinking of the past, looking back 
 upon it in light of the present ; What had 
 been linked close with What was, and both 
 
THE SQUIREEN 231 
 
 lying vivid before her, there in the shade 
 where primrose and violet sprung. For days 
 she had been so thinking and seeing, each day 
 with greater clearness ; now her eyes were 
 wide. 
 
 She saw herself as two years ago she had 
 been ; saw Martin also as two years ago he 
 had been ; now here was Martin, here herself 
 both how changed. Then they had been 
 happy, joined blessedly together, Martin all 
 graciousness, herself all trust : now they stood 
 apart, some dread thing between them, Martin 
 silent and morose, herself silent and afraid. 
 Such a change ! 
 
 She had changed ; but not towards Martin, 
 or only in so far as he willed it. Still she 
 cared for him as of old ; still admired him, 
 still thought of him as the one man in the 
 world, the man whom she had vowed to serve 
 with her life till death. Altogether she was 
 his to do with as he willed. He had only to 
 hold up a finger and she was there at his feet. 
 Only he did not. Rather was it that he put 
 out his hands and pushed her away back 
 back not wanting her, not caring. 
 
 He did not want her now. She knew it. 
 
232 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 Every word, every look, proved it. He 
 avoided her, found pleasure everywhere but in 
 her company ; and if he cared at all gave no 
 sign of caring. His hands were out pushing 
 her away. 
 
 Once it had not been so. She remembered 
 that morning two years ago when he came 
 claiming ; remembered many mornings and 
 evenings before that time, and many since. 
 His words, looks, were living still ; himself as 
 he then was. ... Or was he himself now ? 
 Were all those promises and vows, those 
 pleadings, only seeming? Had he never 
 cared ? Had he married her just for miserable 
 money, caring for herself not a jot ? Had her 
 heart spoken true in that old time of doubt 
 and trouble ? Did she know now what she 
 had felt then, what, despite herself, she had 
 sometimes felt since : that guineas were her 
 value in his eyes ? ' Make it guineas,' he had 
 said. Ah, she remembered so well. 
 
 Yes ; she knew now ; God help her, she 
 knew only too well ! Why, it was plain as 
 day. Never had he felt for her a spark of 
 real affection. All had been false from the 
 first. A while he had endured her, a while 
 
THE SQUIREEN 233 
 
 had shown her a smiling face : now he was 
 himself at last, the real Martin. 
 
 Could it be true ? Oh, surely not. She 
 was but dreaming horribly, and would wake 
 again to happiness in a world all sunshine. 
 Martin could not act so, could not be so ? 
 Her Martin, her big glorious Martin! He 
 had only grown older and quieter ; was con- 
 cerned overmuch about worldly things ; was 
 grown maybe a little careless, was waiting 
 maybe till she was quite herself again. Maybe 
 so. Maybe so. ... 
 
 Ah, she knew he had much to bear. The 
 world was a hard taskmaster. Since the 
 Mother went she herself had given him much 
 cause for complaint. Somehow, the house 
 would look untidy, meals would be late ; 
 somehow, she could not always find pleasure 
 in her work. She had been negligent, selfish. 
 She had strayed from duty. Too often she 
 had knelt praying only with her lips, forgetting 
 to ask help from above, neglecting her duty to 
 God, to Martin and herself. She had gone 
 astray. She must do better ; must pray 
 without ceasing ; must turn a new face to 
 Martin. Yes ; she must do better. And 
 
234 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 maybe she . . . Maybe Martin . . . Maybe 
 . . . Maybe. . . . 
 
 Jane rose, went out into the sunshine, and 
 slowly passed through the fields towards home. 
 Her face was brighter now, her step not so 
 heavy. She found pleasure in sight of the 
 brooding fields, the snowy hedges, the sky so 
 blue in the great depth of it, the earth spread 
 so graciously beneath the sun. Maybe she 
 . . . Maybe Martin . . . Ah, maybe, 
 maybe. . . . 
 
 All the afternoon she worked eagerly, her 
 face bright with hope ; then, night having 
 come, stole out through the porch, along the 
 pathway, and joined Martin where he leant 
 upon the fence that bordered the lawn. He 
 turned at sound of her step, mumbled a word, 
 and went on smoking. 
 
 Jane rested her arms upon the rail and, 
 cheek in hand, looked out across the sleeping 
 fields. 
 
 ' Ah, the lovely night it is,' sighed she ; * so 
 quiet so quiet. Not a sound is there, nothing 
 but loneliness in the big empty world. All 
 the stars there are, millions an' millions ! An' 
 the lovely freshness there is in the air ; an' the 
 
THE SQUIREEN 235 
 
 smell of hawthorn ! Ah, it 's beautiful 
 beautiful/ 
 
 Martin said nothing. 
 
 ' It makes me think of Kyle ; only there's 
 no sea moanin' down there.' Jane nodded 
 towards the valley and the mists folded within 
 it. ' Doesn't it you, Martin ? ' 
 
 4 Ay, maybe it does.' 
 
 I It makes me think of the old days when we 
 used to stand by the gate, an* you were biddin' 
 me good-bye. There were nights then just 
 like this ay, just like this.' Jane turned. 
 * Ye mind them, Martin ? ' 
 
 ' Hm.' Martin blew a stream of smoke 
 towards the stars. 'Ay, maybe I do.' 
 
 ' Ah, they were lovely nights lovely 
 lovely! I wish . . .' Jane came nearer and 
 put her arm in Martin's. ' Ah, Martin, 
 couldn't we be now as we used to be then ? ' 
 She peered round pleadingly into his face. 
 ' Ah, Martin dear, why couldn't we ? ' 
 
 Martin turned slowly. In the dim light he 
 could just see Jane's face, upturned and pale, 
 beside him. He frowned a little ; then, with- 
 out speaking, moved a step away. 
 
 I 1 've been thinkin' about it, Martin, thinkin' 
 
236 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 all day long ; an' for days I Ve been livin' 
 those old times over again. I want them back 
 again ah, I want them back again ! ' Again 
 Jane drew close, her arm linked in Martin's, 
 her face near his. ' Listen, Martin. I know 
 I Ve been at fault ah, I know it well. I Ve 
 given ye every cause to complain. I Ve been 
 selfish. I Ve neglected my duty. I haven't 
 tried to please ye or to be what I ought to be. 
 . . . But I '11 alter, Martin. I '11 strive my 
 best. I '11 be as I used to be. See, Martin, 
 see ; I 'm altered now. . . .' 
 
 Martin drew away ; turned his back toward 
 the fence, and leaning his elbows upon it 
 looked askance at Jane, standing solitary now 
 beside the path. 
 
 ' What 's all this danged nonsense about ? ' 
 asked he, his voice like a breath of frost in 
 summer-time. 
 
 Jane stood silent, face down, arms hanging 
 limp. 
 
 * Can't a man come out for a quiet smoke 
 without bein' troubled like this?' His voice 
 was harsh ; suddenly it grew scornful. ' You 
 an' your used to be ! You an' your old times ! 
 As if wishin' could bring them back.' He 
 
THE SQUIREEN 237 
 
 laughed. 'Ah, yes, indeed. As if all the 
 wishin' and prayin' in life could bring them 
 back ! ' 
 
 Jane said nothing. Martin paused a minute ; 
 went on : 
 
 * An' what 's this I hear about complaints an' 
 selfishness, an' all the rest ? Who 's been 
 complainin' ? Have I ? ' He faced Jane. 
 1 Come. Have I ? ' 
 
 ' No, Martin/ 
 ' Who, then ? ' 
 
 * No one, Martin. I only 
 
 ' What ? Come. Speak out.' 
 
 ' I was thinkin', Martin, that maybe ye were 
 dissatisfied wi' me.' 
 
 * Ah, thinkin' ! Always thinkin'. Always 
 imaginin' things.' Then Martin's voice soft- 
 ened, and he stepped to Jane and laid a hand 
 upon her shoulder. ' Look here, Jane ; don't 
 be inventin' trouble for yourself, I advise you. 
 There 's plenty lyin' ready about the world 
 without doin' that. Stop thinkin', like a good 
 woman, an' learn sense. You won't find 
 Heaven on the hillsides, an' there's no carpet 
 spread for us on the stones.' He swayed Jane 
 to and fro just as he had swayed her so often 
 
238 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 before with his masterful hand. ' You hear 
 me?' 
 
 ' I I do, Martin.' 
 
 * An' don't be callin' yourself names, I ask 
 you. There 's plenty in the world ready to do 
 you that service. An' don't come worryin' me 
 any more with your romancin'. When I tell 
 you you're neglectin' your duty, or bein' 
 selfish, then '11 be time enough to fret.' Again 
 he swayed Jane to and fro. * You under- 
 stand?' 
 
 It was the old way of talking, of evading 
 the point. But now Jane was awake. 
 
 1 Ah, no, no,' she cried, spreading wide her 
 arms. ' It 's not that, it 's not that ! It 's the 
 change that's come over us. It's what's 
 come between us. Ye don't care for me now 
 as ye used to care. Your voice is different 
 and your looks. Nothin' 's the same, nothin' 
 at all. . . .' 
 
 Martin drew back, muttering as he went ; 
 but Jane followed quick, clutching at his arm. 
 
 * You 're tired of me,' she cried. 'You're 
 weary of me ! ' 
 
 Martin stopped, clenched tight his hands; 
 and answered recklessly : 
 
THE SQUIREEN 239 
 
 ' Well, God knows I am,' said he ; ' weary to 
 death.' 
 
 1 1 knew it.' Jane's hands dropped. Slowly 
 she turned and stood looking across the fields. 
 ' I knew it/ she repeated ; and again, ' I 
 knew it.' 
 
 She was giving Martin's words their widest 
 meaning, telling herself that not just then, but 
 always and in everything, he was weary of 
 her ; yet Martin made no protest. Why 
 indeed should he protest ? One way or the 
 other, broad meaning or narrow, it mattered 
 little. He rapped the ashes from his pipe 
 upon the rail ; thrust hands in pockets and 
 stood spraddled upon the path, carelessly 
 waiting. 
 
 'You've always been weary,' said Jane in 
 a while, not angrily but mournfully, as if to 
 herself. ' Ye never cared.' 
 
 ' Maybe so,' said Martin. 
 
 * Ye cared nothin' when ye married me. 
 Ye didn't want me : 'twas the money.' 
 
 1 Maybe so,' said Martin. 
 
 1 Ye never cared. An' now 
 
 A minute Jane stood silent, a finger on her 
 lips, her eyes fixed as if looking into the future ; 
 
2 4 o THE SQUIREEN 
 
 then, with a smothered cry, turned and went 
 back towards the house. But when she had 
 gone only a little way, Martin called to 
 her. 
 
 'Jane.' 
 
 Maybe she heard ; but she walked on. 
 
 'Jane.' 
 
 Still did that little black figure go slowly 
 along the path, not pausing or answering ; so 
 Martin ceased calling, turned, and walked 
 away. * Maybe it 's as well,' said he. ' Maybe 
 it is. 'Twas bound to come, I suppose. Still, 
 God knows I pity her. . . . Why couldn't she 
 be content ? Why couldn't she stop her 
 thinkin' and imaginin' ; just take life as it 
 comes, like another, an' be content ? She has 
 all she wants. She has . . . Ah, women are 
 not to be understood,' said Martin. ' They 're 
 unknowable/ 
 
 Leaving the pathway, he went down the 
 avenue, turned at the gates towards Armoy, 
 and idly went sauntering along. Sometimes 
 he stopped to look at the sky, or to strike a 
 match, or to ponder a thought with his face to 
 the dust. At Armoy crossway he lingered a 
 while ; then, aimlessly as ever, you might 
 
THE SQUIREEN 241 
 
 think, started again, and at a quicker pace 
 went uphill towards Leemore. On he went, 
 past Ned Noble's house and the Priest's cot- 
 tage, past the bog-pass and the misty flats, on 
 past the schoolhouse to Leemore crossway ; 
 and there turned for home. He met no one. 
 Not a sound stirred among the hills. Here 
 and there a candle shone in a distant cottage. 
 And as he passed the schoolhouse, both going 
 and coming, all that caught his eye in its great 
 square front was the narrow window with its 
 buff blind that gleamed beyond the pillars of 
 the porch. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 DURING that summer, Martin slackened 
 rein and made for the old free paths ; 
 slowly at first, then speedily, at last headlong. 
 Nothing daunted him, neither thought nor 
 memory, present cares nor future chances. 
 He broke vows and promises ; forgot the 
 Mother and his dead child. The sight of 
 Jane and her reproachful face only drove him 
 faster. The claims of Hillside weighed with 
 him no longer. Red Hugh and his counsels 
 he spurned with a laugh. All the bounty 
 of those hopeful summers only three at 
 the most he scattered to the winds, and 
 clattered on. 
 
 It was a wet season, full of mists and floods, 
 the hills sodden to the roots, the lowlands 
 dank and blighted. Men stood forlorn under 
 pitiless skies, waiting by stricken fields for 
 God to stay the rigour of His hand. Gorteen 
 murmured rebelliously ; Drumhill and Armoy 
 
 242 
 
THE SQUIREEN 243 
 
 sighed patiently ; round many a hearthstone 
 tongues wagged foreboding, and haggard eyes 
 peered through the smoke out upon the long 
 array of hungry months; only in Hillside, one 
 might say, was any show of heedlessness. 
 Why should the Squire care ? The more it 
 rained, the easier the fields in hunting-time. 
 
 When money was needed, Martin sold 
 cattle, or mortgaged a field. Soon all Jane's 
 fortune came back to him, and was scattered 
 again. On market-days he spent freely in the 
 public-houses and lunched at the hotel. Often 
 he entertained friends in the parlour ; Jane 
 sitting timid among them, or lying weary in 
 the darkness filled with the noise of revelry. 
 In August he spent a week in Dublin at the 
 horse show ; came back with new clothes, 
 whips, saddles, and a hunter. Hardly a day 
 saw him at home ; whole nights he gave to 
 diversion. He ceased working, ceased plan- 
 ning and striving ; left Hillside to the mercies 
 of the rain. Openly he never discredited 
 himself, never drank to excess or kept bad 
 company ; and whilst the many gave him 
 countenance, the few who saw clearly and 
 to the end dared nothing in the way of 
 
244 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 rebuke. At home and abroad he went his 
 own masterful way, spite of friend or foe. 
 
 One day in autumn-time, however, as he 
 watched the men gather in some wreck of 
 crop, Hugh Fallen, finding counsel useless, 
 faced him boldly and spoke his mind. He 
 was the talk of the countryside, said Hugh, 
 voice ringing defiantly, eyes flashing scorn. 
 Had he no thought, no respect for self or 
 name, no fear of God in his eyes ? Did he 
 not see what was coming ? Look at the 
 wasting fields ; see the crop, the cattle, the 
 home, that were his. Hunters and saddles 
 and gigs, himself standing there in breeches 
 and leggings, drinking and gambling, gadding 
 through fairs and swaggering to races ; was 
 it for this his father had laboured and his 
 mother striven ? Think of them lying in their 
 graves, shamed by the man they had pride 
 in ! Think of Jane, his wife, spending her 
 days in loneliness and neglect, disgraced 
 because of him ! ' Shame upon ye, Martin 
 Hynes,' cried Hugh, at last, pointing a rigid 
 finger ; ' an' may shame fall hard upon ye for 
 all your doin's. For yourself I care nothin'. 
 Go your ways. But for the sake of them 
 
THE SQUIREEN 245 
 
 that 's gone, an' for the sake of her that 's 
 married to ye, I tell ye that your ways are 
 hateful to me. Always I mistrusted ye ; 
 now now I scorn ye.' 
 
 Martin stepped forward, his hands clenched. 
 1 You reptile, 1 he said. ' You creepin' reptile ! ' 
 He raised an arm. ' By God, I 
 
 1 Keep God's name from your lips,' answered 
 Hugh ; ' an' keep your names an' your threats 
 for your breed.' 
 
 c Get from my fields/ shouted Martin ; 'get 
 from my sight before I have your blood ! An' 
 so long as you 've breath never tempt me wi' 
 sight o' your face.' 
 
 ' I take your word,' answered Hugh ; then 
 turned and went. And from that day he and 
 Martin passed each other by in black silence ; 
 nor did a Fallen enter Hillside doorway. 
 
 So Martin went his ways ; and Jane had 
 a burden the more to bear. She bore it 
 patiently, accepting it as she accepted all else 
 in life. What had to be had to be, she said, 
 and meekly submitted. Ever since that long 
 night of her realisation, and that longer day 
 following it of her temptation, when, wrestling 
 hard in the sunshine and peace of the fields, 
 
246 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 she had at last conquered herself and come 
 back to duty ; since then she had quit striving 
 and lived unexpectant. For a while, indeed, 
 during summer-time, she had tried to lure 
 Martin back with sight of the old face ; again, 
 when summer was declining and Martin's ways 
 grew bolder, patiently had tried to convert 
 Martin to righteousness ; and either time 
 had been repulsed, pushed roughly back and 
 scorned. It was hard ; still duty must be 
 done. Even if Martin were weary of her, 
 even if they were no more now than man and 
 woman living under the same roof; yet she 
 had vowed, and vows must be kept as in the 
 very sight of God. Who was she to rebel, or 
 complain ; what were her trials compared with 
 those of many in the world, ay, even in the 
 little world around her ? She had health and 
 a home ; could work and rest, watch and pray. 
 At its worst life had still its memories, its 
 pastures of the spirit. She remembered she 
 remembered. And withal no day was entirely 
 barren. Something was always happening. 
 Martin was not unkind. She liked to see him 
 gay, was hurt when he frowned ; had pride in 
 him as he drove off in the gig, or stood arrayed 
 
THE SQUIREEN 247 
 
 in the yard beside his horse. So big and 
 masterful he was. Even his anger thrilled 
 her pleasantly. She feared she dreaded : 
 yet never in her heart did she despair, or 
 neglect commending her Martin to the grace 
 of God. And always did religion sustain and 
 comfort her ; that beautiful religion, so abid- 
 ingly sure, the outward manifestation of which, 
 in her, was a grave serenity, the inward an 
 invincible patience. 
 
 Throughout the winter, in the intervals of 
 diversion, Martin saw much and thought much 
 of Kate Trant. Placed as they were, living 
 almost on neighbouring hills within the narrow 
 bounds of Gorteen, it was natural that he 
 should see much of her, and in a measure 
 think ; but not in just the way that now was 
 his. When he married Jane he put Kate 
 outside his life ; afterwards he allowed her to 
 intrude a little, then to wander at leisure ; now 
 she stayed constantly in a place almost empty 
 of Jane, a place dreary enough and strewn 
 with ashes of many kindlings. Without any 
 striving, against his wish maybe and certainly 
 against his nature, gradually, insidiously, the 
 change had come ; circumstances doing their 
 
248 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 part, time working subtly, memories helping, 
 the joys of possession fading within sight of 
 the desirable. Jane was always here eternally 
 here ; Kate always there unattainably there. 
 At church, in the rare mornings that found 
 him there, he glanced often at Kate as she 
 stood among the choir ; of Sabbath evenings 
 kept Jane company in Leemore only, you 
 might think, to have sight of Kate, singing 
 near the preacher or kneeling on the tiles. 
 Often, on the way to and from diversion, he 
 went round past the schoolhouse, just to look 
 across the hedge or to nod, as to some one 
 beyond it, at the narrow buff blind. Some- 
 times, on meeting her on Bunn pavement, 
 by the church gates he would stop and 
 speak an awkward word ; sometimes would 
 flush and hurry past as her eyes met his and 
 turned away. Once or twice, during the 
 winter, he visited the school, assuming high 
 interest in things educational ; once or twice, 
 took his old place by the kitchen hearth, and, 
 whilst Kate laboured in the porch room, 
 talked restlessly to her mother ; repeatedly 
 he made hurried journey beneath the stars, 
 from Hillside to Leemore cross ways, ponder- 
 
THE SQUIREEN 249 
 
 ing as he went and lingering a while by the 
 school gateway. Kate showed him no favour. 
 The nearer he came the more she seemed 
 unattainable. But what of that ? Like a 
 moth he went circling ; and the feebler burned 
 the flame, drawing back and back, the more 
 it lured. 
 
 In the spring an Orange meeting was held 
 in Leemore, and Martin spoke. Kate sat 
 before the rostrum, dressed in black with 
 red about her throat ; beside her two swains, 
 wearing sashes and rosettes, who were rivals 
 for her hand. During the earlier proceedings 
 the tea-drinking, the performance of the 
 local band, the Rector's address, the flights 
 of True Blue oratory Kate was all anima- 
 tion ; but at sight of Martin stepping upon 
 the rostrum, she fell dour and sat frigid as 
 a stone. Why did she change ? thought 
 Martin, his eyes quick upon her face. Why 
 did she sit just there ; she and those gaping 
 louts ? Afire with sudden jealousy, he spread 
 his arms and spoke as to her alone. But she 
 sat like a stone. 
 
 Again, at the July meeting, held that year 
 in Drumhill, Martin spoke; and again did 
 
2 5 o THE SQUIREEN 
 
 Kate, standing in the crowd that thronged 
 the hilltop, give him sober hearing, her lips 
 set, face cold and averted. Not once did 
 she raise her eyes, not once join in the 
 applause that swelled so generously. Why 
 was she there ? Why did she treat him so ? 
 He saw her alone, spoke as if she alone stood 
 upon the hilltop. She drew him, lured him ; 
 yet repulsed him utterly. Why ? Why ? 
 Aflame with passion, he left the platform 
 and sought her ; and found her at last in the 
 festive crowd that, to sound of drum and fife, 
 went streaming down the hill. Around her 
 tramped the stalwarts of Gorteen, above her 
 waved the True Blue banner ; beside her, 
 one on either hand, marched the faithful 
 swains, adorned and glorious. He caught 
 her arm. 
 
 ' Kate,' said he ; ' I say, Kate.' 
 
 She looked round, plucked away her arm ; 
 walked on. 
 
 ' Kate,' pleaded Martin. * One word just 
 one.' 
 
 The swains looked back, lurching and grin- 
 ning. 'Good man, Squire,' shouted they. 
 * More power, me son. Come under the 
 
THE SQUIREEN 251 
 
 flag, boy. Room there in front for the 
 Squire.' 
 
 One of them made room. Martin stepped 
 to Kate's side. Quickly she slipped away, 
 and left him beneath the flag. 
 
 It was worse than a blow. Flaring with 
 anger, Martin strode away, ready now for 
 any madness. 
 
 Through a month he restrained himself, 
 striving maybe for possession the while his 
 madness grew ; then, one August night of 
 darkness and rain, broke away, and went to 
 Leemore, there to make an end. Why he 
 went, or for what, he did not know ; and did 
 not care. Recklessly he went, blind, unthink- 
 ing, driven by his devil. 
 
 In the kitchen, Kate's mother sat by the 
 hearth, supping gruel from a bowl. As Martin 
 entered, she bade him welcome and rose to 
 fetch a chair. 
 
 ' I 'm not sittin',' he said abruptly. ' I want 
 to see Kate.' 
 
 'But you'll be wet, Martin. Sure you'll 
 rest a while ? ' 
 
 ' I 'm not sittin'. Tell Kate I 'm here/ said 
 Martin ; then turned, and strode along the 
 
252 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 passage into the schoolroom, and sat him in 
 the rostrum. 
 
 Around him lay heavy darkness, quickened 
 only by a glimmer of light that stole through 
 the passage doorway and died into gloom 
 among the desks. Beyond, the rain beat 
 upon the windows ; nearer, the wind soughed 
 in the chimney-place ; a shuffle of footsteps 
 crept along the passage, the light brightening 
 as they came, and stopped at the porch door ; 
 then came a murmur of voices, a sudden 
 silence, a quick stir of footsteps. Light 
 flashed into the darkness. The door closed. 
 Hastily Martin rose and stepped upon the 
 tiles. 
 
 1 Ah, Kate ; it 's you. I knew you 'd come.' 
 Without answering, or taking his hand, 
 Kate passed him by, set the candle upon 
 the rostrum and turned. She was dressed 
 in black, with linen collar and cuffs. Her 
 hair fell loosely about her high forehead. 
 Her lips were set ; her face was pale and 
 hard. Three years had aged her much ; the 
 lines about her mouth were deeper; there 
 was grey in her hair ; her eyes, once so deep 
 and kindly, were cold. She looked at Martin 
 
THE SQUIREEN 253 
 
 steadily, a hand upon the candlestick, the 
 other clenched by her side. 
 
 ' Well, ' she asked. ' What is it ? ' 
 
 Martin came nearer and gripped an edge 
 of the slope, swaying as he stood. He too 
 was pale, and his eyes shone. 
 
 1 Kate,' said he. ' I want to tell you. I 
 had to come.' He paused, giving Kate chance 
 to speak ; but she stood silent. ' I had to 
 come. Something drove me. I want 
 What did he want? He came a step nearer. 
 ' I want I want you to help me. You will 
 help me?' he said. 'Ah, say you will.' 
 
 Kate stepped into the rostrum and sat 
 down. A cane lay on the slope ; she lifted it 
 and laid it upon her lap, holding it by both 
 ends. Martin watched her for a minute ; then 
 slowly paced this way and that across the ring 
 of candle light ; then wheeled and faced her, 
 words hot on his tongue. 
 
 ' I 'm miserable,' he cried, flinging out his 
 arms. ' I 'm mad : but I can't help myself. 
 For weeks I 've been fightin' myself, tryin' to 
 keep away . . . an' it 's no use. I 'm driven. 
 You 're always drawin' me. The less I see 
 of you, the more I want to see you. The 
 
254 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 harder you are, the more I want you. Every 
 hour I 'm thinkin' of you. . . .' 
 
 Kate rose ; but Martin waved her down. 
 
 ' Listen/ he cried. * I bid you to listen.' 
 He stamped on the tiles. * Sit down ; sit 
 down an' hear me.' He bent across the 
 rostrum, strong and passionate ; and from him 
 Kate shrank back against the wall, the cane 
 raised as if to strike. Then Martin laughed 
 and drew away. 
 
 ' Have no fear,' he said, his voice sobering 
 quickly. ' Bad as I am, I 'm not come to that 
 yet. Even beyond ' ; and he nodded towards 
 Hillside ; ' I 'm no more than a dog that 
 barks.' He laughed again. * Ay, I 'm the 
 dog; and she's the cat. Oh, a pretty pair.' 
 He fell once more to pacing up and down, 
 from gloom to gloom across the ring of light, 
 face to the tiles and hands clasped behind 
 him ; his voice rising harsh and edged with 
 bitterness. ' There we are, ever and always, 
 tied by the neck like stray goats, one pullin' 
 this way, th' other that. When I lift my eyes 
 at the table there she is ; when I speak she 
 answers ; if I 'm silent she waits. Ay, she 
 waits always waits. Never a laugh in the 
 
THE SQUIREEN 255 
 
 house, never a pleasant word ; nothin' but 
 prayin' an' sighin' from mornin' to night, 
 nothin' but tight lips an' her face like chalk. 
 If I 'm angry she cowers ; if I 'm merry she 
 shivers ; I believe she 'd take a blow like a 
 present. . . .' 
 
 Of a sudden, Martin halted before the 
 rostrum and swung round. Kate sat leaning 
 forward, elbows on the slope and face between 
 her palms, the cane lying before her. 
 
 ' I 'm weary of her,' cried Martin, flinging up 
 his hands. * I 'm sick to death. If she 'd only 
 face me an' speak her mind, only show there 
 was blood in her, I'd understand: but this ever- 
 lastin' patience maddens me. It 's all pretence. 
 I know she hates me. I know she 's only 
 chokin' down her feelin's. I 'd swear half her 
 prayin 's only hypocrisy. Prayin' prayin' 
 prayin' ! What 's the good of that ? What 's 
 come of it all ; an' what 's likely to come ? Did 
 it keep the child from dyin' ? Did it keep the 
 old Mother ?' 
 
 Kate rose quickly. 
 
 ' Stop,' she cried. ' Oh, for God's sake, stop!' 
 
 Martin let fall his hands ; stooped a little, 
 and stood looking at Kate across the candle. 
 
256 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 1 Stop what ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' All this foolishness this madness. How 
 can you do it ? D' you think I want to know ? 
 It's nothing to me.' 
 
 'It's everything to you.' 
 
 4 It's nothing. You have no right no right. 
 I '11 hear no more/ 
 
 ' But you'll have to hear.' 
 
 ' I won't I won't,' cried Kate ; and tried to 
 go. But Martin hindered her ; then leant his 
 arms upon the rostrum, and bent across 
 them. 
 
 ' Look here, Kate,' said he. ' I 've said 
 more than I ought, an' I 'm sorry ; but I want 
 you to know that it's all been a mistake. 
 Three years ago I played the fool ; an' now 
 I 'm punished. You 've got your revenge, girl ; 
 you 've got your revenge.' 
 
 What could Kate say or do ? She wanted 
 to go and could not ; wanted to speak and 
 found words vain. Moaning helplessly, she 
 leant back against the wall, eyes closed, fingers 
 clutched upon the cane. Martin pushed his 
 arms forward and bent lower over them, his 
 eyes eager on Kate's face. 
 
 'Why did you listen to me that night? 
 
THE SQUIREEN 257 
 
 Why did you let me go ? If you 'd only 
 held up a finger, I 'd have stayed. But you 
 didn't. Why didn't you, Kate ? Didn't you 
 
 care? 
 
 Kate sat quiet and silent, like a bird before 
 its captor, without courage or way of escape. 
 
 1 Didn't you care, Kate ? Haven't you cared 
 since ? Haven't you been sorry ? Aren't you 
 sorry now ? ' 
 
 Slowly Hynes made question, his voice 
 suave, his eyes burning ; closer before him, in 
 helpless silence, her brow puckered slightly, 
 her lips twitching, and her fingers writhing 
 about the cane, Kate shrank against the 
 wall. 
 
 ' Ah, I know you cared. I know you were 
 sorry. Haven't I seen it in your face. . . . 
 Kate, 'twas all a mistake. We ought never 
 to have parted. You were the one woman for 
 me the one woman in the world. I knew it 
 then. I know it now. My God, I know it 
 well ! ' 
 
 Standing upright, Hynes turned and looked 
 into the gloom, tragically, as into the depths of 
 fate ; then, stamping his foot, turned again and 
 stooped over the rostrum. 
 R 
 
258 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 'An' now it's too late/ he said ; ' too late . . . 
 too late.' 
 
 His voice sank low ; his eyes gleamed 
 hungrily. 
 
 * Why are you so hard, Kate ? Why do you 
 turn from me ? What about the world ; what 
 about anything but ourselves ? . . . Kate. Let 
 me look at you. Ah, girl, girl ! ' 
 
 Then of a sudden blind passion mastered 
 him ; and he stretched his arms and cried : 
 
 1 1 can't do without you. Day an' night I 
 keep thinkin' of you. These months I have 
 longed for you. You draw me, an' draw me.' 
 Bending far over the rostrum, he spread his 
 arms. ' Kate, come to me. Ah, girl, girl ! 
 I '11 do anything. I '11 go anywhere. . . . Ah, 
 but you must. I 've got you now, an'. . . .' 
 
 Drunken with passion and shouting loud, he 
 rounded the rostrum and clutched at Kate's 
 arm ; and at that Kate struck him with the 
 cane, quick and hard, across the face. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 T)AFFLED and driven, Hynes tramped 
 -L) along the pathway, kicked viciously at 
 the gate as it swung before him ; stood a 
 minute on the road, then turned abruptly and 
 went striding towards Drumhill, straight on 
 between the dripping hedges. The weal upon 
 his face bit like fire. His blood was in a 
 surge. He saw red through the darkness. 
 Sometimes he stamped upon the stones; some- 
 times hung on his heel and shouted back. 
 1 1 '11 have you yet,' he shouted. ' Before God, 
 I '11 have you yet ! ' 
 
 After a while, his mood sobered ; shame 
 crept in and weakened the grip of anger upon 
 him ; soon he turned and set his face for 
 home. 
 
 The rain had ceased ; but the sky kept 
 heavy and black. Great clouds moved slowly 
 before a chill wind from the mountain ; the 
 hedges shivered and hissed ; right and left all 
 
 259 
 
26o THE SQUIREEN 
 
 the fields, and the hills, and the great wastes of 
 bogland, lay sullen in the darkness, and from 
 them came no sound, nor any glimmer of 
 light. Only Martin was abroad, lonely in the 
 world. 
 
 He passed the schoolhouse, blank now 
 beyond the hedge, went down the brae, along 
 the dismal flats ; and coming to the pass that 
 runs from road to road across Gorteen bog, 
 turned recklessly and hurried along it, striking 
 almost straight for home. 
 
 The track was deep in mud. His feet sank 
 and stumbled. Only instinct kept him from 
 the ditches that lurked darkly on either side. 
 Once he pitched headlong upon his face ; again 
 tripped over a stake, picked it up and hastened 
 on, cursing the path and himself and his uncer- 
 tain feet. Swinging the stake, he drove it 
 viciously at every stride, deep into the track 
 as into a living enemy. An obstinate rage 
 possessed him. In such a humour he would 
 have gone through fire. 
 
 Midway between the roads, a rough foot- 
 path, hardly to be followed in broad day, runs 
 from the track up towards Hillside ; and 
 reaching this, Martin jumped the ditch and 
 
THE SQUIREEN 261 
 
 took it. No matter that dangers lurked every- 
 where open bogholes, blind drains, grass- 
 covered swamps among the willows; no matter 
 that never before had he tried the path by 
 night : there it lay, be it thick with scorpions, 
 and there was he. 
 
 For a time all went well. In and out he 
 wound across the heather and along the turf 
 banks, jumping drains, breaking through 
 willow clumps ; sometimes on the path, some- 
 times groping for a way ; now missing danger 
 by a hand's-breadth, now, of a sudden and at 
 last, right in the midst of it with his feet deep 
 in a quivering scum of grass and peat that hid 
 great depth of mire. 
 
 He knew the place well (locally it was 
 known as the Cow-Trap, because of the cattle 
 it had caught) and in sober daytime would 
 have shunned it ; but now he was fey : with an 
 oath he plunged, straight for the bank beyond. 
 A step and his ankles were covered ; another 
 and he sank to the knees ; another and he was 
 deep to the waist, trapped fast. 
 
 At first he struggled hard, lashing and 
 swearing, rising, sinking, striving by brute 
 strength to force himself free ; then, finding 
 
262 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 strength vain and himself the deeper, fell 
 quiet, turned, and tried to retrace his steps. 
 Up a little, down again ; a foot forward, a foot 
 back ; up, up, now this limb, now that, hands 
 gripping the stake, arms outstretched ; down, 
 down, into the foulness and the cold, down till 
 he stood breast high. 
 
 He rested a while, bending forward and 
 peering through the darkness ; then, stretch- 
 ing out the stake, drove an end down and tried 
 to draw himself to it. Up, up, wriggling and 
 panting ; back and down with a rush as the 
 stake gave way. A score of times he tried, 
 this side and that ; a score of times he failed : 
 and now he stood deep to the arm-pits. 
 
 Cold and weakness gained slowly upon him. 
 His feet hung heavy as lead. Sudden dread 
 clutched his heart. * My God,' he cried, 'am 
 I to die here like a dog ! ' Wildly he plunged ; 
 rose ; sank ; flung his arms across the stake, 
 at last, and hung upon it, panting, stricken, 
 beaten. 
 
 'My God,' he shouted, lifting his eyes to 
 the pitiless sky ; * my God, my God ! . . . 
 Help. Help!' 
 
THE SQUIREEN 263 
 
 His voice rang out, waking one here and 
 there Jane this side, Red Hugh that to a 
 minute's drowsy hearing ; and echoed back 
 from the hills. Expectantly he waited, 
 hungering for a sound ; shouted and waited, 
 again and again. Surely some one would 
 hear? Surely God would not let him die 
 like that, trapped miserably like a dog ? 
 
 ' Help, help,' he shouted, waking Jane and 
 Red Hugh once more, his voice piteous with 
 fear. 'Help! Help!' 
 
 Cold and weak, he hung upon the stake, 
 straining ear and eye in the horrible emptiness 
 of the night. Was that a voice ? Was that 
 a light ? Had no one heard ? Where were 
 the Fallons ? Where was Jane ? 
 
 4 Jane,' he shouted, his voice so hoarse now 
 that not even Jane might hear. ' Oh, my 
 God, come to me ! . . . Jane. Jane ! ' 
 
 No answer came. Around him the dark- 
 ness hung impenetrable and silent as the 
 grave, he buried there amidst it, helpless and 
 shivering, hanging within a foot of horrible 
 death. His voice weakened to a whisper. A 
 surging as of the sea filled his ears. From time 
 
264 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 to time he struggled wildly, with a piteous 
 feebleness ; calling upon God to spare him, 
 fighting for dear life. Once the sound of 
 voices, coming he thought from Hillside, 
 woke hope in him. Again a hurry of foot- 
 steps, sounding he thought upon the road 
 behind, gave him new strength. But no one 
 came. Drowsiness fell upon him. His head 
 sank. 
 
 'Jane,' he whispered. ' Jane . . . Jane . . .' 
 The sky cleared. The darkness lightened. 
 He raised his eyes and saw the stars, looked 
 round and saw the hills ; heard dreamy sound 
 of voices, saw feeble glimmer of lights. He 
 tried to shout, tried to move. Again drowsi- 
 ness crept over him. Scenes of his boyhood 
 lived and passed. Jane stood before him, 
 bright and near ; visions of the Mother and 
 Kate Trant flitted and came. Muttering the 
 words of a prayer, simple words asking God 
 to make him a good obedient child, he 
 crossed his arms, laid his forehead upon 
 them, and in the whitening dawn of a new 
 day went asleep. 
 
 The stars went out. The sun rose 
 
 
THE SQUIREEN 265 
 
 gloriously. Here and there the seekers went 
 hurrying, closing in and in ; came rushing 
 together, at last, when a shout from Hugh 
 Fallon proclaimed that the Squire was 
 found. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 pulled him out; carried him home 
 JL and up to the front bedroom ; there put 
 him down, and saying, * God help ye both,' 
 left him with Jane. He was just alive. All 
 through that day and night he lay unconscious, 
 Jane watching this side the doctor that, some 
 one creeping up at intervals from the kitchen 
 to whisper a word ; then woke a minute and 
 sank quickly into the raging depths of fever 
 depths which all thought must surely hold 
 death. He was so weak, so fearfully racked ; 
 only God, they said, could save him. His 
 voice filled the house, reaching to those who 
 sat quiet in the kitchen and those who lingered 
 on the lawn. * God help him/ said they, 
 imagining all that agony of strife which they 
 could not see. 
 
 Jane watched continuously. All that he 
 passed through she saw ; all that he said she 
 heard, even what she strove not to hear. 
 
 266 
 
THE SQUIREEN 267 
 
 She was glad when he called her name, shout- 
 ing, * Jane, come to me. Jane. Jane.' * I 'm 
 here, Martin/ she would answer, and bend 
 over him, praying as she soothed, praying 
 whilst his voice changed suddenly and rambled 
 pitilessly. 'God hear me,' she pleaded, 'and 
 in Thy mercy spare him to me. Lord spare 
 him this once this once this once !*' 
 
 The weary days passed, and he did not die ; 
 the terrible hours of crisis ('the turn' folk 
 called it in their homely way) dragged past 
 and left him breathing ; slowly he climbed 
 back again, up out of the depths, back to 
 consciousness of self and of the real world. 
 But how changed he was. Could this be 
 Squire Martin, this feeble wasted creature, 
 with hollow eyes and long thin hands, and 
 hardly the strength of a kitten? Could he 
 ever be Martin again, big and strong, master- 
 ful, hearty ; ever find again the old glorious 
 life? It seemed not possible. Yet God 
 was good, said Jane ; and faithfully did her 
 part. 
 
 His progress was slow and not sure. Some- 
 times he seemed on the verge of relapse. He 
 lay like a sick child, helpless, apathetic, his 
 
268 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 bones burning. Often he awoke in terror, 
 hanging it might be across a stake. And 
 always, whatever the need, there was Jane 
 beside him, full of sooth and care. 
 
 He used to watch her as she moved softly 
 about the room, or sat reading by the candle, 
 or sleeping in a chair ; and wonder in a dim 
 way at her devotion. Why should she 
 trouble ? He was worth nothing ; could 
 never be worth anything. His day was done. 
 . . . Ah, she was very good to him. All this 
 kindness, this patience and gentle tending, 
 meant more than he was worth. Why was 
 she so good ? . . . Ah, if she only knew ! 
 Did she know? Had Kate whispered any- 
 thing ? Had he himself told ? Narrowly he 
 watched her ; but neither by word nor look 
 did she give any clue. Always she was Jane 
 just Jane. 
 
 One day he called her, and asked her to sit 
 by him. 
 
 'Jane,' said he, in a while, 'why do you 
 trouble ? What makes you so good to me ? ' 
 
 c Good to ye ? ' She repeated the words 
 softly ; then looked at him smiling. ' Why, 
 just because I must.' 
 
THE SQUIREEN 269 
 
 ' Is it because I 'm sick because I 'm use- 
 less ? ' 
 
 ' It 's because you 're Martin,' answered Jane. 
 
 He lay quiet for a minute, looking at the 
 window. 
 
 * But I Ve done nothin',' said he ; ' nothin' 
 but bad. I 'm not worth a finger on your 
 hand.' 
 
 1 You 're Martin,' said Jane again. 
 
 * Ay, what 's left of me. Maybe the bad 's 
 gone with all the rest.' He laughed ; then 
 shook his head. ' Naw, it's there still. What's 
 done is done. I deserve nothin' from you. 
 If you knew all, you'd hate me. . . .' 
 
 1 Never. Never in the world.' Jane laid a 
 hand on his. ' Martin, ye mustn't talk like 
 that.' 
 
 1 How can I help it ? I lie here thinkin' 
 an' thinkin' livin' through it all again. I 
 dream about it. I look at you an' hate myself. 
 Think of the way I treated you. . . .' 
 
 4 Martin, all that 's past.' Her hand pressed 
 his. * Don't be thinkin' of it.' 
 
 * Ah, but I must. If you were different 
 maybe I 'd think less. Everything that 's 
 bad I Ve been ; an' now you shame me.' 
 
270 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 ' Don't,' cried Jane. ' Ah, don't.' 
 
 1 If you knew everything,' he went on, 
 coming near confession. ' If you knew half 
 you'd leave me to die. . . .' 
 
 ' Whisht, Martin,' cried Jane. ' Ah, whisht. 
 I won't hear. D'ye think /'ve done nothin' ? 
 D' ye think my sins don't rise up against me ? ' 
 
 ' You? Your sins?' He looked at her; 
 then laughed at his thoughts and turned his 
 eyes. 'Ah, well,' he said, 'one gets sick an' 
 learns. . . . Maybe we 're quits. . . . Maybe 
 it's as well.' He turned again. ' But you 're 
 sure you like bein' good to me ? ' he asked. 
 * You 're sure, Jane ? ' 
 
 ' 1 'm certain sure. Ah, Martin dear, don't 
 ye know ? Why, every day ' Jane paused, 
 stopped by the thought that it was only 
 to herself she must say how near she was 
 sometimes to thanking God for the mercy of 
 Martin helpless in her hands. ' Every day,' 
 she said, ' I ask God to forgive me for bein' 
 so happy beside ye.' 
 
 ' You do, Jane ? An' you think He hears 
 you? ' 
 
 ' Think ? I 'm certain sure. Ah, God 's been 
 very good to me.' 
 
THE SQUIREEN 271 
 
 Thus they talked that day ; and once or 
 twice again, as the days went and Martin was 
 stronger, they talked after that fashion, their 
 words simple enough and on Martin's side a 
 little hollow hiding things, as it were, that 
 crouched from the light yet helping to bring 
 them closer than in their lives before. It 
 seemed a new Martin that lay there, strength- 
 ening with the days, placid, uncomplaining, 
 penitent, become like a little child ; it was a 
 newer Jane the old happier and sweeter 
 that sat beside him. As Martin had said, the 
 bad might have gone with the rest of him : 
 yet had it gone? ' Naw,' he had answered 
 himself. ' It 's there still.' With strength 
 came self. With time came weariness. On 
 occasion the old Adam stirred and strove. 
 
 4 Jane,' said he, one drear September after- 
 noon, wind and rain striving in it ; ' it 's no use. 
 I '11 never get better. Somethin' tells it to me. 
 I 'm broke for good.' He bared an arm to the 
 elbow. ' Look at it,' he said. ' A fine thing 
 that to be proud of.' 
 
 Jane covered the arm and gently put it down. 
 
 ' You '11 be proud of it in a month,' she said. 
 1 Twice as bad can be twice as good.' 
 
272 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 * Never never. I 'm a wreck. My bones 
 are like pulp. It 's no good,' he repeated ; ' no 
 mortal good.' 
 
 ' It's every good,' said Jane. ' Martin, it's 
 sinful to talk like that. It 's like fly in' in God's 
 face. Wait a while, an' trust in Him/ 
 
 ' I 've waited. I 'm weary. . . . Lord, listen 
 to that rain ! ' 
 
 ' It '11 go,' said Jane. * To-morrow the sun '11 
 be shininV 
 
 ' Ay, an' mockin' me. I hate the sunshine. 
 It it mocks me.' 
 
 Jane sighed, and sat quiet. In a while, 
 Martin turned to her. 
 
 ' Jane, when I 'm gone 
 
 1 Hush, Martin.' 
 
 * When I 'm gone, I say 
 
 'Ye mustn't, Martin.' Jane rose. * I won't 
 listen.' 
 
 He waved her down, with something of his 
 old masterfulness. 
 
 ' Listen to me,' he commanded. ' What 's 
 the good of bein' afraid. . . . Well, put it like 
 this, then : Suppose somethin' happened to me, 
 what would you do ? ' 
 
 Jane sat silent, looking at her hands. 
 
THE SQUIREEN 273 
 
 ' Answer me. What would you do ? ' 
 
 ' I 'd Ah, wait, wait Martin, dear, what's 
 the good ? ' 
 
 * Wait ? I 'm tired waitin'. . . . Ah, you 
 don't understand. If I rose the morrow, I 'd 
 rise a beggar. If I died the night, I 'd leave 
 you misery for a legacy. Listen to me,' said 
 Martin ; then, quickly and bluntly, made con- 
 fession. Hillside was encumbered. Creditors 
 stood thick around it. Years of toiling would 
 not see it free. ' What d' you think of that ? ' 
 said Martin, at last. ' There 's somethin' to lie 
 an' think about. There 's a prospect for me 
 or you ! ' 
 
 Jane said nothing. Perhaps she was not 
 surprised. 
 
 Martin lay thinking ; broke out again : 
 
 ' It's all my own fault. I 've been devilish. 
 I had every chance. No finer inheritance ever 
 came to man ; an' I wasted it wasted it- 
 wasted it. Listen to the rain pourin' on it ! ' 
 He lay listening, with Jane sitting patient 
 beside him ; looked round once more and put 
 out a hand. ' Jane,' he asked softly, ' what are 
 you goin' to do ? ' 
 
 ' I '11 help ye, Martin.' 
 s 
 
274 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 'If I die, what '11 you do?* 
 
 1 1 '11 work, Martin.' 
 
 ' You '11 not let the old place go ? ' 
 
 ' Not whilst there 's a hand on me, Martin.' 
 
 ' Thank God for that. . . . An' you could 
 forgive me ? Eh, Jane ? ' 
 
 'Ah, forgive! If ye died, Martin, it's not 
 forgiveness would bother me.' 
 
 The answer might be thought sufficient, and 
 for Martin it was in its way ; but there was 
 one thing more, a thing which of late had 
 stirred in him. 
 
 ' But how could you get on ? ' he asked. 
 ' Here all by yourself? No one to help ? ' 
 
 'Ah, I 'd manage,' answered Jane, brimming 
 full with tears. ' I 'd get used to it. An' at 
 the worst maybe why, maybe father 'd help 
 me.' 
 
 There it was ! For days he had been pic- 
 turing just that : Jane striving, Red Hugh 
 helping, till at last Hillside was his. The 
 Fallons in Hillside? Red Hugh master of 
 his fields ? The prospect maddened him. 
 
 ' You'll take no help from him' said Martin, 
 with slow decision; 'he'll put no foot here. 
 Sooner than that I 'd have the place under the 
 
THE SQUIREEN 275 
 
 hammer in a week. You understand me, 
 Jane ? He gives you no help/ 
 
 But Jane stretched out her arms. 
 
 4 Martin Martin,' she cried ; ' be generous. 
 It's hard on us all. They care for us more 
 than any one in the world. It's hard; it's 
 hard. He 's sorry, I know. Every day he 
 comes askin' for you, but he never crosses the 
 threshold. Forgive him, Martin. When he 
 comes in the mornin' let me bring him up, 
 an' let all be over between ye. Do, Martin ; 
 for my sake, do.' 
 
 4 1 '11 not see him,' answered Martin, his heart 
 set against Fallen. ' He said what no man 
 can forgive.' 
 
 * Ah, Martin as ye hope to be forgiven ! ' 
 
 4 That much will have to stand against me. 
 He'll put no foot in Hillside. You understand 
 me?' 
 
 4 Never, Martin ? ' 
 
 * Never. You understand my wishes ?' 
 4 I do.' 
 
 4 An' you promise to heed them ? ' 
 4 I do.' 
 
 Gradually strength came back to him ; slowly 
 from day to day he went finding fragments of 
 
276 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 his old self. He began to take interest in 
 outside things ; talked less of death and its 
 consequences, more of life and its chances ; 
 longed for the sun, and for hours sat propped 
 against pillows looking out upon the brooding 
 autumn fields. He planned and schemed 
 (just as of old) ; saw himself, a new man, go 
 triumphing through the years, freeing Hillside, 
 piling up riches, making a name. Everything 
 should be changed. No more foolishness. 
 No more shirking. He had found out himself; 
 had found Jane. 
 
 Late in September, he was able to sit by 
 the window for a while of sunshine ; or by the 
 fire of evenings, when the blinds were drawn. 
 People came and shouted greetings from the 
 lawn, he answering bravely ; came in at night, 
 even, stepping clumsily on tiptoe from the 
 door, just to shake his hand and wish him 
 well. ' 
 
 1 Ha, Squire, me son/ would be the word. 
 ' Glad to see ye on your pins again, so I am. 
 Good evenin' to yourself, ma'am ; an' I hope 
 I see ye well. An' how will it be with ye 
 now, Martin boy?' James or John would con- 
 tinue, head cocked inquiringly, hat on knee, 
 
THE SQUIREEN 277 
 
 elbows squared, himself sitting bolt, for good 
 manners' sake, on the edge of a chair. * Faith, 
 an' it's bravely ye look, so ye do; an' sure it's 
 a credit ye are to the Mistress that 's nursed 
 ye. Powerful it is to see ye sittin' there after 
 all you 've been through ; an' God knows 
 we 're all as glad as if ye were our own blood. 
 . . . Och no, now; sure I couldn't be havin' 
 anythin'. . . . Well, well, then ; just a toothful 
 for friendship's sake. . . . Here 's your good 
 health, ma'am ; an' yours, Squire boy ; an' 
 God be kind to ye both.' 
 
 Still, as they say in Gorteen, good wishes 
 mend no bones, and surely they did little for 
 Martin. His progress was very slow. When 
 James came back, after a week or two, he 
 found the Squire still in the big arm-chair ; 
 when John, turning in once more for market- 
 day greeting, stepped across the lawn, his 
 face fell at sight of Martin still behind the 
 window. ' God help the boy,' said James, as 
 he stumbled down the stairs. * Man alive, 
 his face haunts me,' muttered John, going 
 slowly towards his cart. ' Patience,' said the 
 doctor, as he pulled on his gloves, ' keep quiet 
 and keep cheerful.' ' Patience? ' cried Martin 
 
278 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 in his chair, his eyes greedy upon the sun- 
 shine. ' Great king, I 'm sick of patience.' 
 
 So day after day, throughout the long glory 
 of October weather, he sat there by the 
 window or crept about the room, each day as 
 it went leaving him a little stronger, a little 
 more restless and impatient. Was this never 
 to end? Was he to be caged there, like a 
 tame monkey, for ever and ever? ... He 
 was weary of the house, weary to death of 
 physic and slops ; what he needed was the 
 open air, and the smell of the clay, and the 
 warmth of the sun on his back. . . . Doctors 
 knew nothing. Women were always afraid. 
 What mortal harm could come of a stroll in 
 the sunshine, or a smoke by the kitchen fire ? 
 He was well enough. See how firm he was 
 on his feet, see him lift that chair head 
 high. . . . The autumn was going, the days 
 were drawing short, soon winter would be 
 here and the bitter rain. . . . Look at the 
 fields and the hills, see the leaves whirling in 
 showers, see the mountain over there, with 
 the sky touching it, and the fresh breeze 
 sweeping across its back. . . . Think of all 
 he was missing. Think of the big open world 
 
THE SQUIREEN 279 
 
 out there so big, so big and fresh and he 
 shut away from it like a bird in a cage. It 
 was hard. It was bitter hard. . . . Here was 
 October gone, and November come, and to- 
 morrow it might be snowing. Oh, by the 
 Lord above, he must go or die! Let him 
 out let him out ! And breaking from Jane, 
 Martin rushed downstairs and out through 
 the front doorway. 
 
 Bareheaded, he stood on the gravel path, 
 face to the sky and shoulders back, drawing 
 the air into his lungs with great deep gasps. 
 Ah, the pleasure of it ! Jane might plead and 
 weep, Mary the servant come wailing protest, 
 but here was heaven. Look at the fields, 
 stretching out and away, back, back ; see the 
 hills crowding full in the big world. ' Woman, 
 woman,' he said to Jane, ' quit worryin' me. 
 Let me be for this one hour this one hour.' 
 
 They brought him hat and coat, muffled 
 and shod him ; then left him with his hour. 
 His blood ran wine. His feet were like wings 
 bearing him along. Like one come at last 
 upon the wonders of a new world, he drank 
 them in greedily. Such bigness. Such fresh- 
 ness. Such glory of change. 
 
2 8o THE SQUIREEN 
 
 Turning, in a while, he went into the yard, 
 there stopped again and, with Jane watching 
 him from the kitchen window, filled himself 
 anew. It was wondrous pleasant. Ah, the 
 smell of good earth, the scent of fresh hay, of 
 peat smoke, of withered leaves, the rattle of 
 chains, the stamping of hooves, cocks crowing, 
 calves bleating, men shouting in the valley, 
 freshness and life everywhere in the world. 
 Slowly, like one come from long exile back to 
 the haunts of youth, seeing and welcoming all 
 things, he went in and out ; fondled the horses 
 in the stable, scratched the cattle in the byre, 
 climbed into the barn and sat upon the straw, 
 drank buttermilk in the dairy, pulled hay from 
 a stack in the haggard and smelt it, went 
 through the orchard, the paddock, the garden, 
 turned out at last into the open fields. 
 
 It was glorious there. He faced the wind 
 and drew it in, warmed himself in the gracious 
 autumn sunshine, strode among the rushes 
 and the whins, leant upon gates, rested against 
 trees, kicked at the clay till his boots were 
 heavy. How big the world was, how full of 
 good and pleasant things, all so friendly and 
 fresh and quiet. The many times he had 
 
THE SQUIREEN 281 
 
 walked just here, never seeing or hearing, 
 discontented, moody ; the wonderful time it 
 was now, the great pleasure that filled him 
 full. Ah, life was good. The world was 
 beautiful. Hillside was a garden. There it 
 lay around him, field and hill, ditch and 
 hedgerow, his Hillside. He pictured it free 
 again, his very own. He wanted to lie upon 
 it, to run across it. Only he could not run. 
 He felt tired, dizzy. To-morrow he must 
 come again. But to-morrow might never 
 come. He must see more to-day, now now. 
 Bracing himself, he hurried on ; soon finding 
 strength on the ebb, turned reluctantly and 
 made for home. 
 
 Jane was waiting in the yard. At sight of his 
 face she hurried to him, took his arm and would 
 have led him in. But he would not be led. 
 
 ' No,' he said, ' not yet. Let me be, Jane. 
 I '11 come in soon.' 
 
 ' Martin, dear, you 're tired. Come, Martin. 
 Enough's as good as a feast. To-morrow 
 will soon be here.' 
 
 Had she left him he would have followed 
 her quick, but she stayed pleading, and he fell 
 obstinate. 
 
282 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 * Not yet,' he repeated. ' Quit, Jane, I say.' 
 ' But you 're tired, Martin. Come with me. 
 
 If ye stay it might be your death.' 
 
 1 Death ? ' He laughed scornfully. * I never 
 was better. I could walk for hours. I could ' 
 He turned abruptly, went to the stable, 
 presently came back leading out Nancy, 
 the chestnut mare, saddled and bridled. 
 * Bring me the spurs/ he shouted towards 
 the house. 
 
 Jane stood still, breathing hard. This was 
 the old Martin. What could she do? She 
 heard footsteps in the avenue ; looked and 
 saw Red Hugh coming up coming, as every 
 day for weeks he had come, to ask for 
 news. 
 
 ' Mary,' shouted Martin, 'bring me the 
 spurs, I say.' Then he also heard the foot- 
 steps, and saw Red Hugh. His face flushed. 
 He leant his arms upon the saddle, crossed 
 his feet, so stood waiting. 
 
 In a minute Hugh came into the yard. He 
 glanced at Jane, looked steadily at Martin, and 
 came forward with outstretched hand. 
 
 * Martin,' he said, ' I 'm glad to see ye. 
 Man, I 'm very glad. 1 
 
THE SQUIREEN 283 
 
 * I 'm obliged to you,' answered Martin with 
 a nod. ' Last time we spoke your words were 
 different.' 
 
 'Won't ye shake hands?' said Hugh. 
 ' Man, this is no time for foolishness. Martin, 
 I ask your pardon. Before God, I 'm glad to 
 see ye well. Don't ye believe me ? ' 
 
 Martin stood hesitant, that feeling of ani- 
 mosity against Fallen strong in him. ' If I 
 were dead he 'd be glad,' he thought. Then 
 with a rush his better nature triumphed, and 
 he took Hugh's hand. 
 
 ' I know you 're glad, Fallen. . . . Stay here 
 with Jane till I come back, an' we'll have a 
 talk together. Woa, Nancy girl, woa, lass.' 
 He put his foot in the stirrup, and at that 
 Jane cried to Hugh. 
 
 'Stop him, father. Stop him. He's not 
 fit to go. It '11 kill him, it '11 kill him.' 
 
 But already Martin was in the saddle. He 
 gave Nancy word and heel, waved a hand to 
 Jane, and turned for the fields. 
 
 Slowly at first, for Martin was weak, then 
 at a canter, as Martin warmed, then at full 
 gallop, away they went in mad career. The 
 hedges flew past, the hills fell behind, in the 
 
284 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 valleys was patter of clay and thunder of flying 
 hooves. ' Good lass,' cried Martin, crouching 
 forward in the saddle, voice tender, hand soft 
 on Nancy's neck ; and at touch of his hand and 
 sound of his voice, Nancy flew for love of him. 
 ' I Ve waited long for you, master,' she might 
 have said. ' Ride me even to the death.' 
 And he answered : ' Good lass, good lass,' and 
 rode her as to the death. 
 
 Ah, the madness of that supreme hour. 
 The rush of the wind, the swoop and the 
 flight, the music of Nancy's hooves, her 
 strength, her swiftness, the rhythm of her 
 going, the riot in his blood, the turmoil of 
 excitement that raged within, rose swiftly and 
 sobbed in his throat ; ah, the hour they made. 
 He was possessed, filled with hot strength 
 and passion. He rose in his stirrups and 
 shouted, waved his hat and shouted again, 
 shook loose the reins and rode as to the death. 
 Jane and Red Hugh stood watching by the 
 gate, silently waiting. On the hills men 
 dropped their spades, ran to the ditches and 
 stood wondering, crying to one another, ' The 
 Squire's out.' 
 
 Yes; the Squire was out. 'Good lass,' he 
 
THE SQUIREEN 285 
 
 cried ; and Nancy flew for love of him. ' Aloo- 
 aloo-aloo,' he shouted to the watchers on the 
 hills ; and shouted again in answer to their 
 skirls. ' Aloo-aloo-aloo,' he cried to Jane and 
 Red Hugh before him ; and waved to them as 
 in farewell. They were come to the Nine-acre 
 field, sweeping straight for home. Another 
 minute and all would be over ; Jane breath- 
 ing and the watchers back with their spades. 
 Another minute and Martin . . . 
 
 He crouched forward, a hand on Nancy's 
 neck, and whispered : * Can we do it, lass ? 
 Steady, girl ; steady. 1 And for answer Nancy 
 shook herself; then stretched for the big 
 double ditch. ' He 's mad,' said Red Hugh by 
 the gateway. 'By the king, he's trying it,' 
 said they on the hills ; then stooped to watch 
 the jump. . . . 
 
 What failed them in that moment ? Was it 
 Martin ? Was it Nancy ? Did Martin lose 
 strength at the last ; or did Nancy break her 
 heart for love of him ; or was it fated that 
 they should end just so, with that sickening 
 thud? 
 
 Who knows ? Who can say that it was not 
 well? 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 r I "HEY buried him in Drumhill church- 
 X yard, with full honours. All the world 
 gathered in and followed him. As he passed 
 Leemore and Kate Trant standing there, 
 haggard by the hedge, the last car had not 
 left Hillside gateway. { Good-bye, Martin/ 
 she said ; * and God forgive me for what 
 1 5 ve done to you. I sent you to your death 
 I sent you to your death,' she said; then, 
 as woman will, turned away to hide her sorrow. 
 1 Why was I so hard,' she said to herself, 
 sitting lone in the rostrum. * Had I listened 
 I might have helped him/ 
 
 They filled the churchyard ; thronged the 
 church to hear the Rector's sermon. It was 
 pure eulogy. Of the dead nothing but good : 
 and a long farewell. * His life was short,' was 
 the Rector's tribute, ' but he filled it full. We 
 
THE SQUIREEN 287 
 
 all knew him ; we all loved him ; and now we 
 bid him farewell, sorrowing much for what 
 we have lost, but giving him back confidently 
 to the God who made him.' Let the words 
 stand ; but could Martin have heard, maybe 
 he had liked more the simpler tribute of his 
 friends : ' A bold lad, and he died like a 
 man.' 
 
 So Jane was left alone. Bravely she met 
 fate ; boldly faced adversity. She toiled con- 
 stantly, striving night and day to keep Hillside 
 and to set it free. People were kind. Many 
 offered help, some offered money ; but she 
 accepted nothing. When Red Hugh came 
 advising, she listened patiently ; then con- 
 tinued on the way that Martin had traced. 
 At first she did well ; but seasons fell bad, 
 there were losses in cattle and crops, her 
 strength gave out. Gradually the toils closed 
 upon her, driving her to the inevitable end. 
 She persevered to the last ; and when Hillside 
 was sold, quietly took her old place in her 
 father's house. 
 
 She is there now, working out her life in 
 patience. She never complains, never fails 
 
288 THE SQUIREEN 
 
 in any duty towards God or man. Meekly 
 she goes her way, toiling in her linsey gown, 
 striving, praying, doing good ; waiting peace- 
 fully for God to call. 
 
 Edinburgh : Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE 
 
A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS 
 
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34 
 
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FICTION 
 
 37 
 
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 Knew.' THE SACRED FOUNT. 
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 THE SOFT SIDE. Second Edition. 
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MESSRS. METHUEN'S CATALOGUE 
 
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FICTION 
 
 39 
 
 ZTbe ffleur fce OLfs Hovels 
 
 Crown %vo. $*. 6d. 
 
 MESSRS. METHUEN are now publishing popular Novels in a new and most 
 charming style of binding. Ultimately, this Series will contain the following 
 
 books : 
 
 Andrew Balfour. 
 To ARMS ! 
 VENGEANCE is MINE. 
 
 M. C. Balfour. 
 THE FALL OP THE SPARROW. 
 
 Jane Barlow. 
 THE LAND OF THE SHAMROCK. 
 A CREEL OF IRISH STORIES. 
 FROM THE EAST UNTO THE WEST. 
 
 J. A. Barry. 
 
 IN THE GREAT DEEP. 
 
 E. F. Benson. 
 THE CAPSINA. 
 
 DODO : A DETAIL OP THE DAY. 
 Tuii VINTAGE. 
 
 J. Bloundelle-Burton. 
 IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY. 
 DENOUNCED. 
 THE CLASH OF ARMS. 
 ACROSS THH SALT SEAS. 
 SERVANTS OF SIN. 
 
 Mrs. Caffyn (Iota). 
 ANNE MAULEVERER. 
 
 Ada Cambridge. 
 PATH AND GOAL. 
 
 Mrs. W. K. Clifford. 
 A WOMAN ALONE. 
 A FLASH OP SUMMER. 
 
 J. Maclaren Cobban. 
 THE ANGEL OP THE COVENANT. 
 Julian Corbett. 
 A BUSINESS IN GRHAT WATERS. 
 
 L. Cope Cornford. 
 SONS OP ADVERSITY. 
 
 Stephen Crane. 
 WOUNDS IN THE RAIN. 
 
 B. M. Croker. 
 A STATE SECRET. 
 PEGGY OP THE BARTONS. 
 
 Hope Dawlish. 
 A SECRETARY OF LEGATION. 
 
 A. J. Dawson. 
 
 DANIEL WHITE. 
 
 Evelyn Dickinson. 
 
 A VICAR'S WIFE. 
 
 THH SIN OP ANGELS. 
 
 Harris Dickson. 
 THE BLACK WOLF'S BREED. 
 
 Menie Muriel Dowie. 
 THE CROOK OF THE BOUGH. 
 
 Mrs. Dudeney. 
 THE THIRD FLOOR. 
 
 Sara Jeannette Duncan. 
 A VOYAGE OF CONSOLATION. 
 THE PATH OF A STAR. 
 
 G. ManviUe Fenn. 
 AN ELECTRIC SPARK. 
 THE STAR GAZERS. 
 ELI'S CHILDREN. 
 A DOUBLH KNOT. 
 
 Jane H. Findlater. 
 
 A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE. 
 RACHEL. 
 
 Mary Findlater. 
 BETTY MUSGRAVE. 
 
 Jane H. and Mary Findlater. 
 TALES THAT ARE TOLD. 
 
 J. S. Fletcher. 
 
 THE PATHS OF THE PRUDENT. 
 THE BUILDERS. 
 
 M. E. Francis. 
 MISS ERIN. 
 
 Mary Gaunt. 
 
 KlRKHAM'S FIND. 
 
 DEADMAN'S. 
 
 THE MOVING FINGER. 
 
 Dorothea Gerard. 
 
 THINGS THAT HAVE HAPJ'l-NIiU. 
 
 R. Murray Gilchrist 
 
 WILLOWBRAKE. 
 
 George Gissing. 
 THE CROWN OF LIFE. 
 
 Charles Gleig. 
 BUNTER'S CRUISE. 
 
 S. Gordon. 
 A HANDFUL op EXOTICS. 
 
 0. F. Goss. 
 
 THE REDEMPTION OP DAVID CORSON. 
 
 E. M 'Queen Gray. 
 MY STEWARDSHIP. 
 ELSA. 
 
 Robert Hichens. 
 BYEWAYS. 
 
 1. Hooper. 
 THE SINGER OP MARLY. 
 
 Emily Lawless. 
 
 HURRISH. 
 
 MAELCHO. 
 
 Norma Lorimer. 
 
 MlRRY-ANN. 
 
 JOSIAH'S WIFE. 
 
 EdnaLyaU. 
 DERRICK VAUGHAN. NOVELIST. 
 
 Hannah Lynch. 
 AN ODD EXPERIMENT. 
 
 Richard Marsh. 
 THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 
 MARVELS AND MYSTERIES. 
 
 W. E. Norris. 
 
 MATTHEW AUSTIN. 
 
 His GRACE. 
 
 THE DESPOTIC LADY. 
 
 CLARISSA FURIOSA. 
 
 GILES INGILBY. 
 
 AN OCTAVE. 
 
 JACK'S FATHER. 
 
 A DEPLORABLE AFFAIR. 
 
 Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 SIR ROBERT'S FORTUNE. 
 THE Two MARYS. 
 THE LADY'S WALK. 
 THE PRODIGALS. 
 
 Mary A. Owen. 
 
 THE DAUGHTER OF ALOUETTE. 
 
 Mary L. rendered. 
 AN ENGLISHMAN. 
 
MESSRS. METHUEN'S CATALOGUE 
 
 Mrs. Penny. 
 
 A FOREST OFFICER. 
 
 R. Orton Prowse, 
 
 THE POISON OF ASPS. 
 
 Richard Pryce. 
 TIME AND THE WOMAN. 
 THE QUIET MRS. FLEMING. 
 
 W. Pett Ridge. 
 
 A SON OF THE STATE. 
 
 SECRETARY TO BAYNE, M.p. 
 
 Morley Roberts. 
 THE PLUNDERERS. 
 
 Marshall Saunders. 
 ROSE A CHARLITTK. 
 
 W. C. Scully. 
 THE WHITE HECATOMB. 
 BETWEEN SUN AND SAND. 
 A VENDETTA OF THE DESERT. 
 
 R. N. Stephens. 
 
 AN ENEMY TO THE KING. 
 A GENTLEMAN PLAYER. 
 
 :fi3oofc0 for 
 
 E. H. Strain. 
 
 ELMSLIE'S DRAG-NET. 
 
 Esme Stuart. 
 
 A WOMAN OF FORTY. 
 CHRISTALLA. 
 
 Duchess of Sutherland. 
 
 ONE HOUR AND THE NEXT. 
 
 Benjamin Swift. 
 SIREN CITY. 
 
 Victor Waite. 
 
 CROSS TRAILS. 
 
 Mrs. Walford. 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO THE TITLE. 
 
 Percy White. 
 
 A PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 
 
 Mrs. C. N. Williamson. 
 
 THE ADVENTURE OF PRINCESS SYLVIA. 
 
 AUT DIABOLUS AUT NIHIL. 
 
 anD <5trl0 
 
 Crown &VQ. $s. 6d. 
 
 THE ICELANDER'S SWORD. By S. Baring-Gould. 
 Two LITTLE CHILDREN AND CHING. By Edith E. 
 
 Cuthell. 
 
 TODDLEBEN'S HERO. By M. M. Blake. 
 ONLY A GUARD-ROOM DOG. By Edith E. Cuthell. 
 THE DOCTOR OF THE JULIET. By Harry Colling- 
 
 wood. 
 MASTER ROCKAFELLAR'S VOYAGE. By w. Clark 
 
 Russell. 
 
 SYD BELTON : Or, the Boy who would not go to Sea 
 
 By G. Manville Fenn. 
 
 THE RED GRANGE. By Mrs. Molesworth. 
 THE SECRET OF MADAME DE MONLUC. By the 
 
 Author of 'Mcile. Mori.' 
 DUMPS. By Mrs. Parr. 
 
 A GIRL OF THE PEOPLE. By L. T. Meade. 
 HEPSY GIPSY. By L. T. Meade. ss. 6d. 
 THE HONOURABLE Miss. By L. T. Meade. 
 
 novelist 
 
 A Monthly Series of Novels by popular authors at the price of Sixpence. Each 
 number is as long as the average Six Shilling Novel. 
 
 By E. W. 
 
 I. DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES. 
 
 Hornung. 
 II. JENNIE BAXTER, JOURNALIST. 
 
 By Robert 
 
 III. THE INCA'S TREASURE. By Ernest Glanville. 
 
 IV. A SON OF THE STATE. By W. Pett Ridge. 
 V. FURZE BLOOM. By S. Baring-Gould. 
 
 VI. BUNTER'S CRUISE. By C. Gleig. 
 VII. THE GAY DECEIVERS. By Arthur Moore. 
 VIII. PRISONERS OF WAR. By A. Boyson Weekes. 
 IX. Out of print. 
 
 X. VELDT AND LAAGER : Tales of the Transvaal. 
 By E. S. Valentine. 
 
 XI. THE NIGGER KNIGHTS. By F. Norreys 
 
 Connel. 
 XII. A MARRIAGE AT SEA. By w. Clark Russell. 
 
 XIII. THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES. By 
 Gilbert Parker. 
 
 XIV. A MAN OF MARK. By Anthony Hope. 
 
 XV. THE CARISSIMA. By Lucas Malet. 
 XVI. THE LADY'S WALK. By Mrs. oiiphant. 
 
 XVII. DERRICK VAUGHAN. By Edna Lyall.. 
 XVIII. IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS. By Robert 
 
 Barr. 
 
 XIX. HIS GRACE. By W. E. Norris. 
 XX. DODO. By E. F. Benson. 
 XXI. CHEAP JACK ZITA. By S. Baring-Gould. 
 XXII. WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC. By 
 Gilbert Parker. 
 
 XXIII. THE HUMAN BOY. By Eden Phillpotts. 
 
 XXIV. THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO. 
 
 By Anthony Hope. 
 
 XXV. BY STROKE OF SWORD. By Andrew 
 
 Balfour. 
 
 XXVI. KITTY ALONE. By S. Baring-Gould. 
 XXVII. GILES INGILBY. By W. E. Norris. 
 XXVIII. URITH. By S. Baring-Gould. 
 XXIX. THE TOWN TRAVELLER. By George 
 
 Gissing. 
 
 XXX. MR. SMITH. By Mrs. Walford. 
 XXXI. A CHANGE OF AIR. By Anthony Hope. 
 : XXXII. THE KLOOF BRIDE. By Ernest Glanville. 
 
 s Sfepenng 3Librarg 
 
 THE MATABELE CAMPAIGN. By Major-General 
 Baden-Powell. 
 
 THE DOWNFALL OF PREMPEH. By Major-General 
 Baden-Powell. 
 
 MY DANISH SWEETHEART. By w. Clark Russell 
 
 IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. By S. Baring- 
 Gould. 
 
 PEGGY OF THE BARTONS. By B. M. Croker. 
 
 THE GRREN GRAVES OF BALGOWRIE. By Jane 
 
 H. Findlat^r. 
 
 THE STOLEN BACILLUS. By H. G. Wells. 
 MATTHEW AUSTIN. By W. E. Norris. 
 THE CONQUEST OF LONDON. By Dorothea 
 Gerard. 
 
 A VOYAGE OF CONSOLATION. By Sara j. Duncan. 
 
 THE MUTABLE MANY. By Robert Barr. 
 
 BEN HUR. By General Lew Wallace. 
 
 SIR ROBERT'S FORTUNE. By Mrs. Oiiphant. 
 
 THE FAIR GOD. By General Lew Wallace. 
 
 CLARISSA FURIOSA. By W. E. Norris. 
 
 CRANFORD. By Mrs. Gaskell. 
 
 NOEMI. By S. Baring-Gould. 
 
 THE THRONE OF DAVID. By J. H. Ingraham. 
 
 ACROSS THE SALT SEAS. By J. Bloundeel 
 
 Burton. 
 
 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. By George Eliot. 
 PETER SIMPLE. -By Captain Marryat. 
 
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