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 LISHEEN 
 
 OR, THE TEST OF THE SPIRITS
 
 L I S H E E S 
 
 OR, THE TEST OF THE SPIRITS 
 
 
 
 BY 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 THE VERY 
 P. A. SH] 
 
 REV. 
 
 
 
 
 CANON 
 
 EEHAN, 
 
 D. 
 
 D., 
 
 
 
 Author 
 
 of 
 
 
 
 
 "My 
 
 New Curate"; ' 
 
 Luke 
 
 Delmege 
 
 "; 
 
 
 
 " Glenanaar 
 
 "; etc. 
 
 
 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO, 
 
 91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 
 LONDON, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA 
 
 1907
 
 Copyright, 1906, by 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 Copyright, 1907, by 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Caragh Lake 3 
 
 II. NONCONFORillSTS 1 5 
 
 III. A Talisman 25 
 
 IV. A Tolstoi Debate 37 
 
 V. A New Hand 51 
 
 VI. "In the Sweat of Thy Brow" 63 
 
 VII. Immemor Sui 74 
 
 VIII. Broken Cords 86 
 
 IX. Called Back 96 
 
 X. In the Depths 106 
 
 XI. On the Summits 117 
 
 PART II 
 
 XII. Cynic and Humanist 129 
 
 XIII. A New Saint 143 
 
 XIV. Not Forgotten 154 
 
 XV. A Sick Call 167 
 
 XVI. An Indian Letter 177 
 
 XVII. Visitors at Lisheen 182 
 
 XVIII. Testing for Gold 191 
 
 XIX. A Letter from Ireland 201 
 
 XX. Poor Reynard 206 
 
 XXI. Brandon Hall 218 
 
 XXII. A Terrible Discovery 225 
 
 XXIII. Homeless 236
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 PART III 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXIV. Before the Footlights 247 
 
 XXV. The New Overseer 262 
 
 XXVI. Depositions . 274 
 
 XXVII. The Porphyry Vase 288 
 
 XXVIII. Father Cosgrove's Dilemma 299 
 
 XXIX. Shakespearean Recitals 310 
 
 XXX. A Leper 325 
 
 XXXI. Great Preparations 340 
 
 XXXII. A Baptism of Tears 359 
 
 XXXIII. Lisheen 369 
 
 XXXIV. A Double Wedding 381 
 
 XXXV. The Roman Way 393 
 
 XXXVI. Nemesis 404 
 
 XXXVII. An Unsolved Mystery 418 
 
 XXXVIII. "Quasi per Ignem" 430 
 
 XXXIX. "One of Us?" 442
 
 PART I
 
 LISHEEN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 CARAGH LAKE 
 
 CERTAIN travellers and artists have said that Car- 
 agh Lake is even more beautiful than Killarney. 
 But let that pass. It is enough to say that this lovely 
 and tranquil evening in the late summer of 189 — , when 
 the sun had gone down behind yonder hill, and left all 
 the sky crimson, and when the crimson had faded into 
 pink as reflected in the lake, and all the shadowed places 
 were dark and tranquil mirrors of tree and shrub, the 
 whole was a picture of peace, such' as weary men long 
 for in troubled dreams, and tire of so quickly when the 
 dream becomes a reality. And the beauty was not 
 marred, nay, it was emphasized by the dark blot of one 
 shallow boat that just now lay very still and close to the 
 shore. It had one occupant, a young man — that is, if 
 one of thirty can be still considered young in these hot 
 days when the hair blanches so quickly, and the wrinkles 
 around the mouth gather so silently; but he looked young, 
 and the crimson glow from the clouds seemed to add 
 something to his youthful and calm appearance. His 
 occupations, too, just now spoke of a stillness that seemed 
 the external symbolism of his mind; for he was watching 
 in some unconscious way a salmon-rod that stretched out 
 
 3
 
 4 LISHEEN 
 
 beyond the boat, and was mirrored in a long dark line 
 on the water. He was, again unconsciously, smoking 
 tiny cigarettes, which he rolled up between his fingers, 
 lighted, and flung away in some mechanical manner; and 
 he was, again unconsciously, reading from a tiny volume 
 on his knees — a little book of three or four Russian 
 dramas, the first of which was called The Power of Dark- 
 ness. The first two dreamy occupations were compara- 
 tively harmless. The latter was perilous. For, certainly, 
 of all dangerous amusements of the present day, that of 
 reading is the most dangerous. If all the graduates who 
 passed through Trinity College during the last fifty years 
 had followed Bob Maxwell's example, this Ireland of ours 
 would long ago have been a Republic. For great power 
 streams out from those iron gates that open on College 
 Green, only it divides itself, just at its embouchure into 
 the outer world, into three sections — that of those who 
 read professionally their Anatomies or Law Digests, and 
 pass into snug sinecures and become naturally and, there- 
 fore, stubbornly strenuous supporters of the "things that 
 are"; that of those who sweep through the world, sowing 
 their wild oats everywhere, and then settle do'wn into 
 landed sinecures, and become strenuous supporters of 
 the "things that are"; and that of those who, unattached 
 to land or profession, give themselves up to thinking and 
 study. These are the dangerous class — the supporters 
 of things as "they ought to be." For if you leave college 
 with the knowledge that a certain goddess was "pulchra 
 adspectuque delectabilis " ; or that a ram goes by the 
 classical title of "magister gregis"; or if you are a mus- 
 cular Christian, what a profane modern writer would call
 
 CARAGH LAKE 5 
 
 a "flannelled oaf," — it makes not much difference in the 
 economies of life. Or, if you know that England governs 
 Ireland by "a whip and a sop," and that if you bend 
 beneath the former and swallow the latter, you may 
 become a Bencher and a K.C.B., — this, too, makes little 
 difference. But if you begin to read, first for amusement ; 
 then to be in "the swim of things, you know"; then to be 
 hurried along the stream of modern thought and tenden- 
 cies, and to become a dreamer of dawns and sunsets, and 
 vast vistas that open up an imaginary New Heaven and 
 New Earth to the masses who groan under the weight of 
 the "things that are" — ah, then, you become dangerous 
 and possibly declasse, if you are not wise enough to keep 
 the new wine from breaking through the skins of speech. 
 To this dangerous class Bob Maxwell was dangerously 
 approximating. He had begun to be troubled, not about 
 a wife, although that interesting subject did occupy a 
 share of his thoughts; not about his health, although it 
 was chiefly for health's sake he was down here in the 
 Kerry mountains, camping out under that white bell-tent 
 that seems like a mere tiny convolvulus up there in that 
 lovely valley where the fir trees are ; but about, oh, shades 
 of Trinity, his place in the universe, his work in this 
 weird world, where he had only begun to wake up and 
 find his existence. Now when a young man begins to 
 ask the fatal question, what he has to do on this planet 
 during the tiny span of life allotted to mortals, it is all up 
 with him. For, either he pursues the question to its 
 logical issue, and then he becomes an Ishmaelitc to his 
 class; or he sets it aside as an impertinence, and then he 
 is haunted during his life with some awful consciousness
 
 6 LISHEEN 
 
 of failure, some ever-gnawing remembrance that he was 
 called to the higher life, and preferred to grovel in the 
 "sty of Epicurus." 
 
 Therefore, Bob Maxwell was troubled, and that little 
 drama of Russian life did not smooth matters for him. 
 It told of a peasantry sunk in all kinds of ignorance and 
 superstition and vice; of millions on millions of human 
 beings steeped to the lips in everything that could be 
 physically and morally degrading; of a dense, brutal type 
 of humanity, through which there gleam possibilities of 
 nobleness that might satisfy the aspirations of the most 
 ambitious dreamer of a risen and exalted humanity. 
 The dreadful and poignant remorse that seizes the chief 
 actor in this powerful drama, his magnificent exculpation 
 of others, and self-condemnation, reveal depths of con- 
 science and feeling that are generally unassociated with a 
 criminal of such magnitude; and the author clearly wants 
 to prove that, deep down beneath the stagnant and 
 squalid surface of peasant life in Russia, there are hidden 
 springs of nobility, that only need a strong hand to spread 
 abroad and sweeten all the land. 
 
 "He knows it," soliloquized Bob Maxwell, as he held 
 the book open in his fingers there in the waning twilight. 
 "This man — count, too, and nobleman — had the 
 courage to go down into the depths, and see things for 
 himself; and then the greater courage of telling his country- 
 men what he thought of them. Yes, the grave clothes 
 must be unloosed and the face cloth unfolded before a 
 Christ can say: 'Arise and come forth!'" 
 
 There was a sudden tug on the rod that he had drawn 
 beneath his knees; and, in an instant, the instinct of
 
 CARAGH LAKE 7 
 
 sport banished every other thought and sentiment. He 
 tossed the book aside, and it fell into the water. He gave 
 it one thought only: "What will Mabel think of her 
 pretty book?" and then he centred all his energies towards 
 one supreme effort. 
 
 "A big fellow," he thought, as he allowed the line to 
 reel out, whilst he kept a firm finger on the wheel, and 
 held his rod deep down on a level with the lake. "It 
 will take all my time and strength to land him." 
 
 For the boat now was being swiftly towed along the 
 shore by the captive fish, which struggled gallantly for 
 life, and tore along the water to get away from the invisible 
 enemy. 
 
 Bob Maxwell contrived to lift from his watch chain a 
 small boatswain's whistle, and to ring out its clear notes, 
 whilst he held a strong hand on the rod. 
 
 "If only I had some one now," he thought, "to pull 
 back, I'd soon exhaust the fellow. Or, if he keeps backing 
 into the shallows — " 
 
 A queer figure appeared on the lake shore. A long, 
 lank body was crowned with a shock of red hair that had 
 never touched comb or brush. The red, hard flesh of the 
 chest was clearly visible through the edges of the shirt 
 that opened out into a V-like shape; and the bare legs 
 were encased in a corduroy breeches, that was slit by the 
 scissors of time, until it hung down in ribbons to the feet. 
 
 " Hould hard, yer 'anner ! Hould hard. Master Bob," he 
 gasped, as he ran along the lake shore, now stumbling over 
 a boulder, now tripped up by a furze branch hidden in 
 bracken, but wildly gesticulating and crying aloud in his 
 excitement: "Hould hard, an' you'll get him in the shalla
 
 8 LISHEEN 
 
 water! Hould hard, yer 'anner! Oh! he's the divil of a 
 fellow intirely! Pull, pull, yer 'anner! There!" 
 
 ''Have you the gaff, you fool?" gasped Bob Maxwell in 
 return, as he tried to steady the boat and call in the line. 
 The boy did not answer, but fled up the hill; and in an 
 instant the strain on the line slackened, and Bob thought 
 the salmon had escaped, when he felt the sudden swish 
 almost beneath the boat, and the rod was nearly jerked 
 from his hand, as the line drew around after the fish, as 
 it tore madly through the water. He had now to change 
 his tactics, and by main strength keep the salmon from 
 rushing into deep water, as the boat swiftly slewed around 
 under the strain. Again the young man drew in the line 
 slowly, and again let it go, as the salmon, maddened with 
 pain and fright, rushed back to the shallows, until, after 
 a long struggle, exhausted with pain and fatigue, it crept 
 slowly into the mud and shingle, and hid there panting 
 with flapping fins and quivering tail. Once more Bob 
 Maxwell drew out the whistle and sent peal after peal 
 through the hills. He heard a far-off shout, and guessed 
 it was the bare-legged boy who, regardless of his neck, 
 was leaping down the steep declivity. In a few minutes 
 the boy was up to his knees in the water, wading towards 
 the boat. Bob Maxwell held up a warning hand, and 
 drew his line right up to the top of the rod, where the 
 fish hung limp and quivering. In a moment, the keen 
 point of the gaff was in the salmon's gills, and the boy, 
 with savage delight, held him, whilst his master loosed 
 the hook. Then, with a wild shout that came back in 
 savage echoes from the hills, he drew up the dying fish 
 and flung gaff and salmon into the boat.
 
 CARAGH LAKE 9 
 
 "T'was a tight shave, d you!" said Maxwell. 
 
 "What did I tell you — never to take that gaff home? 
 Didn't I?" 
 
 ''You did, yer 'anner, but — " 
 
 "There — no buts — you have the lie always ready to 
 your lips. Here, jump in, and take the oars. That 
 brute has almost pulled my arm out of its sockets." 
 
 The boy clambered over the side of the boat, and sat 
 on the thwarts, drawing the two oars through the rowlocks 
 silently, whilst his wet garments soon made a pool of 
 water beneath his feet. 
 
 "Well, by Jove!" said Maxwell, looking admiringly at 
 the silver fish as he lay, gasping faintly through the gills, 
 and at long intervals lashing feebly with his tail, "he is a 
 beauty. What will Queen Mab and the Major say? 
 But you are all wet," he suddenly cried, as he watched 
 the red, wet knees of the boy, and the long streamers of 
 the torn corduroy dripping into the bottom of the boat. 
 
 The boy grinned, and almost blushed. He was unused 
 to commiseration, and it rather disconcerted him. 
 
 "Never mind," said Maxwell, salving his own con- 
 science, as they neared the pier, "pull straight in, and I'll 
 hold her nose all right. There, that's good! Ease her 
 now. Back her a httle." 
 
 He jumped lightly from the boat, and keeping his rod 
 untackled, he bade the boy follow him with the salmon 
 and gaff to the hotel. 
 
 The lights were twinkling in the large drawing-room 
 and dining-room of the hotel. It was the hollow, idle 
 moment in hotel-life, when veranda and billiard-room 
 and drawing-room are deserted; and men and women
 
 lo LISHEEN 
 
 are vesting themselves for the great sacrificial act of the 
 day. As Maxwell approached the house, however, he 
 saw two figures lingering on the porch. Mabel Wil- 
 loughby, his cousin, was one. She rose and came towards 
 him. 
 
 "Look here, Mab," he cried with enthusiasm, "look at 
 this fellow that I hooked. Come here, you sir! Lay 
 down the fish!" 
 
 The boy approached and laid the dead fish on the flags. 
 
 "Isn't he a beauty? What will the Major say?" 
 
 Mabel looked rather coldly on the salmon, and said, 
 with a curious chill in her voice: 
 
 "Where is Tolstoi?" 
 
 "By Jove," said Maxwell, crestfallen, "I never thought 
 — this fellow tugged, and your book fell into the water. 
 I'll fetch it the first thing in the morning." 
 
 "I'm sorry," she replied, "the book belonged to Mr. 
 Outram. It can hardly be replaced. Father is in the 
 sitting-room." 
 
 And she turned away to her companion. 
 
 Thoroughly chilled and dispirited, Maxwell took up 
 the fish; and, after a few minutes' deliberation, he passed 
 through the hotel corridor and knocked at the Major's door. 
 
 "Come in!" said a gruff voice, and Maxwell entered. 
 
 The Major was sunk deep in a soft armchair, one leg 
 swathed in flannel resting on a pillow. He must have 
 been sleeping, for he gave a sudden start as Maxwell 
 entered the room. 
 
 "Look here, Major, look at this fellow!" said the 
 young man enthusiastically, expecting appreciation here. 
 "Mabel would not condescend to look at him."
 
 CARAGH LAKE ii 
 
 The Major was writhing in sudden agony. The sur- 
 prise and the start had suddenly strained the swollen foot 
 and it was now in raging pain, 
 
 "Yee-es"; said the Major, "put him down there! 
 
 D you, Bob, why did you disturb me ? Oh-h ! Oh-h ! 
 
 Bloody wars! Oh-h! 'Tis a fine fellow! How did you 
 hook him? Oh, bloody wars! Oh-h! Leave the room 
 
 at once, d you, you numskull — you and your d 
 
 fish. Don't look that way, but leave the room, or I'll 
 strike you ! Oh-h ! Send me Mabel, and tell her to bring 
 
 that liniment quick. And take that d fish out of my 
 
 sight. The fellow stinks. You never killed him. Go, 
 and be d ! Oh, bloody wars!" 
 
 Maxwell took up the unlucky fish silently, and went 
 away. 
 
 The gruff Major called after him. 
 
 "Come back, you sir! Come back. Bob, I say! I 
 didn't mean it ! You know, well' — oh ! Bloody wars ! 
 Go away, and be d to you!" 
 
 "All right, sir!" said Bob, looking in. "It makes no 
 matter. I'll call again, when you're better. Good night!" 
 
 He passed into the veranda again. Mabel was still 
 there. 
 
 "The Major wants you," he said coldly, "he is in pain, 
 and he bade you bring the liniment for his foot!" 
 
 And without another word he passed out into the 
 darkening night, and, followed by the boy, went up 
 along the white dusky road that passed across the hill, 
 beneath which was hidden the deep, ferny valley where 
 his white tent was pegged in the midst of gorse and 
 bracken. His lamps had been lighted by his faithful
 
 12 LISHEEN 
 
 attendant Aleck, a shrewd Scotchman, remarkable for 
 many things, but most of all for his habit of reticence. 
 He was silent as a statue, nothing could disturb his equa- 
 nimity; but when he spoke he threw out words that bit 
 and stung; and he enjoyed so much the confidence of his 
 master, that the latter never resented the freedom, although 
 sometimes he said things that made Maxwell wince and 
 rage in silence. The pretty bell-tent, now lighted up, 
 looked bright and fresh as a nightflower down there in 
 the dewy valley; and Maxwell thought, as he clambered 
 down the rough grass-path, that, compared with the grand 
 hotel, down there near the lake, with all its artificiality, its 
 stuffy bedrooms, carpeted corridors, heavy dinners, and 
 stiff company, he had the best of it. 
 
 "Here, Aleck," he cried, as he gave the salmon to his 
 servant, "I had luck this evening. Isn't this a fine 
 fellow?" 
 
 Aleck took the fish in silence. 
 
 "We'll have salmon cutlets at least for a week!" said 
 Maxwell. "Is tea ready?" 
 
 The silent servitor pointed to the table in the tent. It 
 was a pretty picture. The little round table, the spotless 
 cloth, the white cup and saucer, the sliced beef and ham, 
 the sprigs of fern here and there, the bright lamp, the 
 camp-bed with its silk coverlet, the white canvas that 
 swayed and undulated in the soft air, the flapping of the 
 canvas beneath where the winds stole in, the creaking of 
 the ropes, and the odour of a hundred country scents, of 
 gorse and fern and wild flowers, and the cooler air that 
 blew up from the lake, made the whole place a little fairy 
 home of freshness and sweetness and delight.
 
 CARAGH LAKE 13 
 
 Maxwell sat down to tea with a hearty relish. The air, 
 the exercise, the early dinner, all combined to give him a 
 healthy appetite, although now and again the remembrance 
 of the chill reception he had got from Mabel, and the 
 rough manner of her father, did recur with a certain 
 poignancy and bitterness, against which he was not quite 
 proof. 
 
 It was not the first time that he had experienced the 
 capriciousness and fickle temper of his cousin. Her aston- 
 ishing beauty hardly compensated for her wilful and most 
 unjust changes of temper and attitude towards him. She 
 played with his feelings in a manner that would have 
 revolted a stronger man. But Maxwell had all the weak- 
 ness and long-suffering disposition of those who are made 
 up of generous principles and instincts. Nobility of soul 
 is very generally accompanied with infirmity of will-power, 
 because it is too generous to remember or resent. Hence 
 a frantic resolution to emancipate himself from her slavery 
 forever was dissipated by a look, a gesture, a half-spoken 
 word — any of the hundred little artifices in which his 
 cousin was such a proficient. But now, unknown to 
 himself, he was working out his freedom. That strange 
 sub-consciousness that operates silently beneath the con- 
 sciousness that works through deliberation and judgment 
 was working outward towards a new line of thought, 
 which would render him perfectly insensible to his cousin 
 and her coquetries. He was entering on a new realm — 
 a kingdom where ideas, not the senses, had dominion; 
 and where great thoughts, like wizards and enchantresses, 
 would woo him to heights perilous enough in themselves 
 and only to be trodden by firm feet, but far removed
 
 14 LISHEEN 
 
 from the valleys or the plains where the voluptuary is 
 content to rest. 
 
 He bade Aleck remove the tea-things and refurnish the 
 lamp; and he began to read, and read far into the 
 night.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 NONCONFORMISTS 
 
 What he read was this. That all the great work of 
 the world had been done by those who, discontented with 
 existing things, sought to break through the crust of 
 custom and establish a new order; that purely human 
 institutions have an invincible tendency to decay, and the 
 sooner that decay is pushed into dissolution the better 
 for the hope and prospect of creating a fresh and more 
 vital condition of things; that all the mighty men of the 
 race were nonconformists, that is, they refused to accept 
 the things that were, and pushed on to the things that 
 ought to be. And that as in the moral order the ancient 
 prophets of Judea protested against their own surround- 
 ings and gave their lives in forfeit for that protest; and as 
 they were succeeded by reformer after reformer, who 
 perished on the gibbet for an idea; so in the order of 
 science Aristotle was pushed aside by Bacon, Bacon by 
 Kant, Newton by his many successors; and in the social 
 order all the generations of economists, statesmen, and 
 philanthropists seem to have left their ideas of human 
 social happiness concentrated in the terrible struggle of 
 Socialism to reconstruct the fabric of human lives and 
 happiness, or in the efforts of some solitary dreamer like 
 Tolstoi to get back from the standard fictions of civilization 
 to some great primeval model on which human lives 
 
 15
 
 1 6 LISHEEN 
 
 might be fashioned. This brought back the recollection 
 of the lost book. 
 
 "Tolstoi," cried Maxwell, lowering the flame of the 
 lamp, " a man of men, a living figure amongst clay puppets, 
 a man with the courage of his convictions, who left behind 
 him all the luxuries and comforts of his home and went 
 down amongst the poor and became one of themselves, 
 to study their lives and draw them up to higher models 
 and larger issues. When shall we — ?" 
 
 But that thought, suddenly interpreted to his reason by 
 the very force of imagination, presented possibilities that 
 made reason shrink from even contemplating the experi- 
 ment. There was something transcendental and poetical 
 about a Russian nobleman stripping himself of all his 
 habits and traditions, and going down amongst the squalid 
 Russian peasantry to study their lives, with the idea of 
 transforming and raising them. But for an Irish landlord 
 and gentleman, an M.A, of Trinity College, Dublin, to 
 leave his own ranks and go down amongst the Irish 
 peasantry to study the economics of their wretched con- 
 dition — why, that is unimaginable ! And yet, why ? 
 
 The thought became so troublesome, and that Why? 
 would repeat itself with such damnable iteration, that he 
 took up the book again to distract himself. 
 
 This is what he read: 
 
 "If one not worn and wrinkled, sadly sage, 
 But joyous in the glory and the grace 
 That mix with evils here, and free to choose 
 Earth's loveliest at his will: one even as I 
 Who ache not, lack not, grieve not, save with griefs 
 Which are not mine, except as I am man; —
 
 NONCONFORMISTS 17 
 
 If such a one, having so much to give, 
 
 Gave all, laying it down for love of men. 
 
 And thenceforth spent himself to search for truth, 
 
 Surely, at last, far off, sometime, somewhere, 
 The veil would lift for his deep-searching eyes, 
 The road would open for his painful feet, 
 That should be done for which he lost the world. 
 This will I do who have a realm to lose. 
 Because I love my realm, because my heart 
 Beats with each throb of all the hearts that ache. 
 Known and unknown, these that are mine and those 
 Which shall be mine, a thousand million more 
 Saved by this sacrifice I offer now." 
 
 "All the same, and everywhere the same," cried Max- 
 well. "That divine ideal of losing oneself to help on the 
 common cause of humanity has been ever haunting the 
 mind of man ! There must be something in it, some echo 
 of a far-off divine revelation, once articulately spoken by 
 God to humanity, but stifled under the 'drums and 
 tramplings' of the nations. What if I, I, Bob Maxwell, 
 landlord and gentleman, the affianced of Queen Mab, 
 the envied of my own class, should be as Sidartha, as 
 Tolstoi — should break all the traditions of my class and 
 creed, and go down amongst the people to raise them up 
 unto a new consecration of life?" 
 
 The glory of the idea seemed to lift him above himself, 
 until he began to think of all the sacrifices it involved, of 
 all that it meant to himself and those dear to him. Then 
 his heart sank. To go down among these wretched 
 peasantry — ignorant, superstitious, sunk in all kinds of
 
 l8 LISHEEN 
 
 sordid surroundings — to wear rough clothes, cat plain 
 food, sleep on rugged beds, bear winter cold and summer 
 heat unprotected by suitable raiment — above all, to 
 associate with the people, whom he had always been 
 taught to regard as serfs and worse — no; it was clearly 
 impossible! These things were for heroes, and Bob 
 Maxwell could not bring himself to believe that he was 
 of heroic mould. Well, he would be at least compassionate 
 and courteous in his conduct in future. He thought with 
 a pang of conscience, which he had never felt before, how 
 he had treated that poor boy, who did his menial work 
 at a merely nominal compensation. He remembered the 
 oaths he flung at him, the vile names he called him, the 
 contemptuous manner in which he always treated him; 
 and the patience, the equanimity, the long suffering of 
 the boy; and the wistful look in his face under a shower 
 of contumely, as of a hunted beast that pleads with his 
 eyes for some mercy. 
 
 "I'm a brute," said Bob Maxwell, springing up and 
 rushing from the tent. "Here, Aleck! Is Darby gone?" 
 
 "An hour ago!" said Aleck, who was smoking outside 
 the tent. 
 
 "The poor devil was wet. He paddled through the 
 lake for me. I wish I had given him a drop of whisky!" 
 
 "I gied it," said Aleck. 
 
 "Did you?" said his master. "I'm very glad!" 
 
 And Aleck was much surprised, but said nothing. 
 
 "Time to turn in, Aleck!" said Maxwell, anxious to 
 originate some conversation as a distraction to his thoughts. 
 
 "Time enough!" said Aleck sententiously. 
 
 "When does the moon arise?" asked Max^well.
 
 NONCONFORMISTS 19 
 
 "Between eleven and twelve!" said his man. 
 
 Maxwell returned to his tent and to his thoughts. He 
 read and reflected, reflected and read, until the dawn 
 wind lifted the flap of his tent. Then he undressed, and 
 slept on till the morning was far advanced, and the moon 
 was but a cloudy radiance far down in the west. 
 
 When he rose, a dainty breakfast of salmon cutlets, 
 eggs, tea, and toast awaited him. There were no letters, 
 no newspapers, and he thanked God for it. Darby 
 Leary was sitting outside, near the ditch, his hands 
 propped on his knees, and his head on his hands, thinking, 
 dreaming in a kind of a half-conscious slumber. Max- 
 well looked at him for a moment; and then in a tone of 
 voice that startled himself by its novelty, he said: 
 
 "Darby!" 
 
 Darby leaped up, as a dog at the voice of his master. 
 
 "I dropped a book yesterday in the lake; and you must 
 find it for me. Would you recognize it?" 
 
 "The thing you had wid you in de boat?" asked Darby. 
 
 "Yes; I don't mean the fishing-rod, you know!" 
 
 Darby grinned acquiescence. 
 
 "Well, run down to the hotel pier, loose the boat, and 
 pull round to where we gaffed the salmon, and wait there 
 for me. You should find the book somewhere along 
 there!" 
 
 Darby chuckled with delight at the idea. To be alone 
 in the boat, even for an hour or two, was heaven. He 
 ran down the mountain road, his bare feet throwing up 
 little clouds of dust as he went. 
 
 Maxwell turned round, and asked Aleck the way to 
 Darby's cabin.
 
 20 LISHEEN 
 
 "Ye canna help seein' it," said Aleck, "that is, if ye 
 ken disteenguish it from the furze and bracken. First 
 house to the left, whin ye crass the burn that runs doon to 
 the loch!" 
 
 And Maxwell, enjoying the lovely morning, the fresh 
 pure air, the scents of the mountain herbs, and the superb 
 views that broke around him at every turn in the mountain 
 road, went forward, eager to know a little of these strange 
 people, yet shuddering at the thought of coming into 
 closer contact with them. "If one could raise them," he 
 thought, "but the cost, the cost!" 
 
 He had no trouble in finding the wretched cabin; but if 
 he had been told that it was a pig- sty, he would have 
 readily believed it. Four mud-walls, about five or six 
 feet high, pierced by a window not quite a foot square, 
 and a door so low one had to bend oneself double to enter, 
 supported a ragged roof of thatch and thistles, broken 
 here and there where long leaves of grass grew, and held 
 down by straw-ropes, or sugans, weighted with heavy 
 stones. There was a pool of slimy, fetid water before the 
 door, where four or five ducks cackled proudly; and from 
 a neighbouring recess, so like the habitation of men that 
 it seemed but a cabin in miniature, came the low gruntings 
 of a pig. All was poor, lowly, squalid — all but the 
 merry little burn that crossed the road, sparkling gaily 
 in the morning sunlight, and the sweet, clean birds that 
 perched everywhere without soiling themselves, and sang 
 their little songs of freedom and happiness. 
 
 Maxwell looked at the place for a while, doubtful 
 whether he would pursue his investigation further. The 
 place was thoroughly uninviting; but the deeper the
 
 NONCONFORMISTS 21 
 
 degradation, he reflected, the higher the resurrection. 
 He crossed the rough pathway; and, bending low, he 
 entered the cabin. A flock of chickens, that were feeding 
 on broken potatoes on the rugged and muddy floor, 
 protested loudly against the intrusion. An old woman 
 rose up painfully from a low seat near the fire ; and spread- 
 ing out her check apron, she sought to drive away the 
 fowls, whilst at the same time she curtsied deeply, and 
 looked at the unexpected visitor with a pitiful face of 
 surprise and alarm. 
 
 Maxwell was astonished to see how perfectly clean and 
 decent the old woman looked amidst such unpromising 
 surroundings. The check apron, which probably con- 
 cealed a more or less ragged dress, the red shawl that was 
 crossed on her breast, the spotless cap that covered with- 
 out concealing her gray hairs — all looked quite out of 
 keeping with the dirty floor and the black and rotten 
 thatch, although they quite suited the clear, healthy com- 
 plexion of the old and feeble woman. She would have 
 said "God save you!" to any ordinary visitor, and prof- 
 fered a chair; but she felt that this w^as one of the "gin- 
 thry," and she awaited in silence his introduction. 
 
 "Is Darby at home?" said Maxwell, abruptly.. 
 
 "No, yer 'anner"; replied the old w^oman. "He's just 
 gone down to the masther, God bless him!" 
 
 "Why do you say, God bless him?" said Maxwell. 
 "Do you know him?" 
 
 "Well, thin, indeed, yer 'anner, I don't," said the old 
 woman. "I never set eyes on him a- yet. But sure, av 
 I did, I'd go down on me two knees to ask God to bless 
 him for what he's doin' for mc poor little bhoy!"
 
 22 LISHEEN 
 
 This outburst of gratitude was in such singular contrast 
 to his own remorse of the preceding night, that Maxwell 
 did not know what to think. He then determined to 
 probe further to see how far it was genuine, 
 
 "Oh, come now," he said, "I know Darby has as hard 
 a master as ever ground the faces of the poor. I heard 
 him curse Darby, and call him all kinds of bad names!" 
 
 "Wisha, I suppose you did, yer 'anner," answered the 
 poor woman, " Sure I mustn't contradict you. But sure 
 that's a way the ginthry has wid 'em. I suppose they are 
 brought up to it!" 
 
 "And then," continued Maxwell, "he has your son out, 
 day and night, in wet and cold, in the river and in the 
 lake up to his waist in water; and, from all I can hear, 
 he hardly gives him enough in wages to keep body and 
 soul together," 
 
 "Wisha, thin, whoever was the busybody to tell yer 
 'anner that," said the old woman, "would be betther 
 imployed. What have poor people to do but work; and 
 sure Darby isn't made of salt that a shower of rain 'ud 
 melt him!" 
 
 "But then his master ought to pay him decently!" said 
 Maxwell. "He's a rich man, and he can well afford to 
 pay decent wages." 
 
 "Maybe your 'anner is thinkin' of imployin' the poor 
 bhoy yerself," said the old woman, "But to tell ye the 
 truth, I'm afraid Darby won't lave the masther he has, 
 av ye gev him double the wages — " 
 
 "You have a poor place here, my poor woman," said 
 Maxwell, suddenly turning the conversation. He was 
 touched in spite of himself.
 
 NONCONFORMISTS 23 
 
 '"Tis poor, yer 'anner, but clane," said the old woman, 
 "I try to keep it as clane as I can; but I'm ould, and I 
 haven't the strinth I had." 
 
 "That roof will fall soon," said Maxwell, watching the 
 grimy timbers and rotten thatch that hung down in wisps 
 from the ceiling. 
 
 '"Twill hould this year," said the old woman, "and 
 maybe we'll be able to get half a ton of straw with Darby's 
 wages agin the winther." 
 
 "Half a ton of straw!" said Maxwell. "How much 
 would that cost?" 
 
 "Oh, a power an' all of money!" said the old woman. 
 "The farmers do be thrashin' now, an' we might be able 
 to get it chaper than in the spring." 
 
 "Would it cost five pounds?" asked Maxwell. 
 
 The old woman nearly got a fit. 
 
 "Five pounds? Five pounds? Yerra, no, to be sure, 
 yer 'anner, nor half, nor quarter. Five pounds! Yerra, 
 'tis a long time we'd be waitin' before five pounds would 
 come our way!" 
 
 "Well, then, if Darby's master is as good as you say 
 he is, you shouldn't want a roof or thatch over your heads 
 very long!" 
 
 "God is good, yer 'anner! God is good, an' he said 
 he would! We can wait a bit longer, as we waited so 
 long!" 
 
 Maxwell would have liked to prolong the conversation. 
 It was novel, and deeply interesting to him; but the day 
 was wearing onward, and he had seen enough to give him 
 material for another evening meditation. He was fully 
 determined to see more of this strange people, although
 
 24 LISHEEN 
 
 he could not make up his mind to live their lives. And 
 then the thought would occur: But how am I to raise 
 them, if I cannot get a footing amongst them ? One needs 
 a fulcrum to move the world, or to raise up any of its 
 fallen. You cannot work from without. All the processes 
 must be inward; and all moral development is on the same 
 lines as physical development, from some great secret 
 principle of strength and vitality. Is that principle want- 
 ing in these people altogether; or has it been checked by 
 malignant influences? Yes, that is the problem.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A TALISMAN 
 
 Darby Leary was the happy boy as he ran, or rather 
 leaped, down the dusty road that led from the hills to the 
 lake-level. The prospect of being sole possessor of the 
 boat, even for a couple of hours, of putting his red, bare, 
 dusty feet on the thwarts, of leaning back and drawing 
 the oars through the yielding water, of hearing the zip! 
 zip! of the waves around the prow, of resting in cool 
 shades, and watching for the dark form of the salmon, 
 lying still with quivering fins and watchful eyes — was so 
 utterly delightful that he leaped up and down the hedges, 
 snapped his fingers, flung stones at' imaginary birds and 
 rabbits, sang little snatches of old Irish songs, and gave 
 himself to a very esctasy of anticipated raptures. He 
 soon came in sight of the pier; and there, yes, there was 
 the little punt rocking gently on the water, and tugging 
 at the rope, as if she were a living, aquatic thing that was 
 striving to get back to its elemental freedom. He had 
 got into the boat, and was loosening with his strong, 
 bony fingers the rope, when he was startled by a peremp- 
 tory order: 
 
 "Stop that, and come out, you sir, at once!" 
 Darby looked around wondcringly, and saw sitting on a 
 garden seat a gentleman, whom he recognised as one of 
 the visitors at the hotel. The gentleman appeared to be 
 
 25
 
 26 LISHEEN 
 
 engrossed in his pipe and book; and Darby, seeing no 
 signs of hostility, interpreted this challenge as something 
 addressed to someone else, just then invisible. He again 
 proceeded to untie the knot, when the same gruff voice 
 challenged him again: 
 
 "Do you hear me, you sir? Drop that rope and come 
 out of the boat!" 
 
 This time there was no mistake. Darby dropped the 
 rope, but thought he had a right to protest. 
 
 "The masther tould me to pull de boat around the 
 shore to the shallas," he said. 
 
 "The master?" said Outram. "What master?" 
 
 "Misther Maxall," said Darby. "The gintleman that 
 lives up in the tint, and brung the salmon here last night." 
 
 "Go tell your master," said Outram, "that that boat is 
 hotel property, and is at the service of the visitors. I 
 want that boat for a lady." 
 
 "But the masther," said Darby, now in a quandary 
 between the two "gintlemen," "tould me — " 
 
 "I tell you," said Outram, waxing very angry, "to let 
 that boat where it is, or I'll break your head." 
 
 "But the masther will be as mad as blazes," pleaded 
 Darby in agony. "He wants to fish up somethin' he 
 lost yesterday in the lake — " 
 
 "Come out at once, you dog," said Outram, now stung 
 with vexation and pride, as he saw Mabel Willoughby, 
 with her boat shawls on her arm, coming down the little 
 avenue. "Come out, or, by gad, I'll pitch you into the 
 water." 
 
 He had come over, and now stood on the little pier, 
 overlooking the boat. Darby was still undecided. The
 
 A TALISMAN 27 
 
 prospect of a pleasant row across the lake, backed with his 
 master's orders, was too much even for his innate and 
 habitual dread of the gentry. 
 
 "What is the matter?" said Mabel, standing by Out- 
 ram's side. 
 
 "This fellow and his 'masther,' as he calls him, want to 
 monopolize the boat. It is the hotel property, as you 
 know, and no one has any rights in it beyond another. 
 Come, come, I'll stand no more nonsense," he cried to 
 Darby, who was still undecided, and looked a picture of 
 helplessness, as he drew the loosened rope through the 
 iron ring on the pier. 
 
 It was too much for Outram's temper. He leaped in, 
 almost upsetting the punt; and, as the rocking of the boat 
 threw Darby out of his centre, Outram shoved him 
 roughly, and the boy fell headlong into the lake. 
 
 Mabel gave a little shriek; but Darby swam like a dog, 
 and very soon pulled himself, wet through and dripping, 
 on to some sedges that lined the lake beyond the pier. 
 Outram, without glancing at him, held the rope taut 
 through the ring with his left hand, with his right he 
 handed Mabel into the boat; and then, sitting down 
 with some caution, lest the rocking should frighten his 
 companion, he pulled the punt, with a few long, easy 
 strokes, far into the lake. 
 
 " Maybe I'll be even with you some day," said Darby, 
 casting a look after the boat and its occupants that would 
 have disturbed them, probably, if they could have inter- 
 preted it rightly. He then turned round and trotted 
 home, his wet garments leaving little streams of water 
 as he went alone:.
 
 28 LISHEEN 
 
 Bob Maxwell, meanwhile, had gone down from the 
 widow's cabin, past his tent, and was leisurely making 
 his way through narrow and sinuous paths in the shrubs 
 and heather to the edge of the lake. That brief interview 
 with the old woman had again stirred up strange reflec- 
 tions in his mind. It was quite clear that here was a 
 world of which hitherto he had been profoundly ignorant 
 — a world where poverty reigned supreme, and yet was 
 but a gentle tyrant, for patience and resignation under 
 hard circumstances made easy a yoke that seemed to one, 
 not inured to hardship, impossible to bear. And what a 
 gulf between his condition and theirs! What a colossal 
 sum five pounds seemed to the imagination of that poor 
 woman — five pounds, that he had often flung away on a 
 race, on a dog, and thought no further of it. And that 
 five pounds, wrung from the sweat and labour of these 
 toiling and patient poor! There was some abominable 
 blunder here in the economy of things; and though his 
 education and training and tradition had hitherto led him 
 to think lightly of such matters, some deep chord, hidden 
 from his own consciousness, was now stirred, and throbbed 
 with new emotions of a generous and noble spirit. But 
 Bob Maxwell was mercurial, like all such spirits; and his 
 education was far from being complete. The great 
 principles that alone can live amidst the stress and storm 
 of passion and prejudice had not yet taken root. Only 
 the fair seeds had been lodged on the surface of his soul, 
 which every wind might drive away and disperse. 
 
 Hence, when he reached the lake, and saw- no trace 
 of his boat, he leaped into a sudden rage against Darby. 
 
 "D them!" he said, anathematizing Darby and
 
 A TALISMAN 29 
 
 his class, "one can never trust them. They are all right 
 to-day; and to-morrow — What can ail the fellow, I 
 wonder? He had plenty of time to get down to the pier 
 and pull the punt around. Probably he met a chum, and 
 is now calmly smoking against the pier-wall." 
 
 He sat down on some withered bracken, drew out his 
 cigarette-case, and smoked. This calmed his passion 
 for the moment; but he had hardly rolled and lighted 
 a second cigarette, when the soft plash of oars woke him 
 from a reverie; and looking around, he just caught the- 
 black nose of the punt rounding the angle of the lake, 
 over which some willow trees were bending. The flutter 
 of a lady's veil made his heart beat quicker for a moment, 
 as he thought Mabel had ordered Darby to take her with 
 him. Then, another glance showed the long, lithe, 
 muscular form of Outram, whose gray jacket and white 
 flannels showed bright in the sunlight. Maxwell was on 
 his feet in an instant ; and in another moment he withdrew 
 into the shelter of the copse. He did not care to be seen 
 there by these two; nor did he care to observe them from 
 his hiding-place. But some singular fascination held 
 him there; and he stood sheltered from observation, but 
 rooted to the ground by the spell of their presence. 
 
 Outram was leisurely drawing his oars through the 
 placid water, each swing showing his powerful chest and 
 muscles. His eyes were fixed on the face of his compan- 
 ion; and she, with face averted, was drawing her un- 
 gloved hand through the cool ripples made by the boat. 
 To Maxwell the scene was maddening; and he made a 
 hundred furious and frantic resolutions about his future. 
 Then the oar struck something, and Mabel stretching
 
 30 LISHEEN 
 
 out her hand drew from the lake the swollen, saturated 
 volume he had dropped the evening before. He saw 
 her hold it up in a gingerly way; then drop it into the boat, 
 with a merry laugh that echoed over the waters. Outram 
 raised the oars, and allowed the boat to drift; and in a 
 few minutes they had passed from Maxwell's sight. 
 
 He would have given way to an outburst of unrestrained 
 passion; but it was one of those occasions when reason 
 comes to the rescue, and, brushing emotion aside, re- 
 places it with a firm, desperate resolve. It was all over 
 now between himself and his cousin. This little episode 
 revealed many things, or rather confirmed his belief in 
 suspicions already harboured. And somehow his read- 
 ing, his reflections, his experiences, had all the tendency 
 to compel him to look away from this siren and all that 
 an alliance with her promised of happiness and pride; 
 and to gaze forward to more heroic paths of self-denial 
 and endurance for himself, and the possibility of making 
 a noble use of a life that might be cut short at any time. 
 For it was under medical advice that Bob Maxwell had 
 come down to these primitive regions, and was now living 
 an open-air and strictly temperate life. He had an in- 
 herited tendency to gout; and had already had two severe 
 rheumatic attacks. And, although assured that there 
 was no heart lesion, there was the predisposition to a 
 disease, that could only be averted by exercise, temper- 
 ance, and care. This narrow hold on life often leads 
 men to think seriously of things, which in the full lusti- 
 ness of unimpaired health they would probably ignore. 
 The thought of a probably short life, and the possibility 
 of making it a noble one, was every day impressing itself
 
 A TALISMAN 31 
 
 more deeply on the young man's mind. He went slowly 
 homewards. One tie to the old life, the life of conven- 
 tion and tradition, was rudely broken. 
 
 "Did you see Darby, Aleck?" he asked his valet. 
 
 "He gacd up yon hill an hour agone, dripping like a 
 spoonge," said Aleck. 
 
 "He did not call here?" said Maxwell. 
 
 "Nae; I guess the laddie was nae presentable!" 
 
 Maxwell was silent; and the shrewd Scotchman saw at 
 a glance that something untoward had happened. 
 
 "Tak' yer gun, and kill somethin'," he said. 
 
 And Maxwell obeyed him. 
 
 He went up towards the mountains, trudging along in a 
 kind of desperation. He broke from the main road into 
 the heather, pursued little footpaths worn by winter 
 rains and the feet of the country folks, who came down 
 from their cabins, Sunday after Sunday, to Mass in the 
 valley. He was an eager sportsma,n, but somehow his 
 usual enthusiasm was to-day absent. Birds rose up 
 around him, whistled in shrill alarm, and whirred away 
 unharmed and unhurt. He had climbed steep hills, 
 looked in an unconscious way down from their summits 
 on lake and hotel, nestling far below; then turned again 
 and climbed still greater heights, trying by the sheer force 
 of physical exercise to drive away the fierce thoughts that 
 were tormenting him. At last he startled a hare in her 
 form, and mechanically he raised his gun. A rough voice 
 behind him shouted: 
 
 "Fire, yer 'anner, fire!" 
 
 He pulled the two triggers simultaneously, and the 
 animal rolled over as if dead. Darby sprang forward
 
 32 LISHEEN 
 
 and took it up. Maxwell came over and looked at the 
 pitiful appeal in the eyes of the dying animal. He was 
 ashamed of himself. 
 
 "It was an unsportsmanlike act," he thought, and so it 
 was. 
 
 "Why did you shout. Darby?" he cried. "It is mean 
 to shoot a hare." 
 
 "Yerra, what harrum is it, yer 'anner?" said Darby. 
 "It will make grate soup intirely for the Scotchman." 
 
 "Take it home to your mother," said Maxwell. Then, 
 as if recollecting something, he said: 
 
 "You didn't take my orders this morning. I waited 
 down near the lake for nearly an hour; and you never 
 turned up with the punt." 
 
 "The gintleman wouldn't lave me," said Darby. 
 
 "What gintleman?" queried Maxwell. 
 
 "The big, long gintleman wid the sandy hair and 
 whiskers," said Darby. 
 
 "Mr. Outram? What did he say?" asked Maxwell. 
 
 "Begobs, it wasn't what he said, but what he done," 
 replied Darby. 
 
 "What did he do?" said Maxwell, interested beyond 
 appearance. 
 
 "'Come out,' sez he," replied Darby. "'I won't,' 
 sez I. 'Come out,' agin sez he. 'I won't,' sez I. Thin 
 he jumped in and flung me into the wather, head fore- 
 most." 
 
 "What?" cried Maxwell, "flung you into the lake?" 
 
 "Yes, begobs"; replied Darby. "Look at me. I'm 
 not dhry a-yet!" 
 
 Maxwell went over and felt the boy's garments. They
 
 A TALISMAN 33 
 
 were still damp and clung close to his long, lank 
 figure. 
 
 "Sit down," said Maxwell, "and tell me how it all 
 happened!" 
 
 Darby sat down at a respectful distance from his master, 
 and narrated in detail all that had occurred from the 
 first gruff order until he found himself in the lake. 
 
 "Why didn't you pitch him out of the boat when he 
 dared seize it?" said Maxwell when the boy had finished. 
 
 "Yerra, is it me, yer 'anner?" said Darby, with a face 
 of horror and incredulity, "is it me to tetch a gintleman?" 
 
 "He tried to drown you!" said Maxwell. 
 
 "But he's a gintleman, an' I'm only a poor bhoy," 
 said Darby. "Sure they'd hang me in Tralee gaol if I 
 threw him in." 
 
 "It's the scoundrel himself that should be hanged," 
 said Maxwell. "Come, the matter mustn't rest here. 
 You must come with me." 
 
 " Oh, for the love of God, yer 'anner," pleaded Darby, 
 "lave the matter alone." 
 
 "I'll do nothing of the kind," said Maxwell. "You'll 
 have to come down this moment and swear information 
 at the constabulary depot against that ruffian. I'll have 
 him arrested this evening, so help me God!" 
 
 Darby was now thoroughly frightened. To approach 
 the police office at all would have been a trial. To 
 approach it to take an oath would be still more dreadful. 
 To swear informations against a gentleman would be the 
 climax. Maxwell urged him, coaxed him, threatened him. 
 He was anxious to drag the matter before the public if he 
 could. He had his own object in view. It was all in 
 3
 
 34 LISHEEN 
 
 vain. Darby saw, with the shrewdness of his class, that 
 not only would he not be listened to, but that he would 
 forfeit any chance of being employed again by the visitors 
 at the hotel. Whatever his own desire or promptings of 
 revenge might be, this was not the time or place. At last 
 Maxwell let him go. 
 
 "You are a coward, Darby," he said, "like all your 
 class." 
 
 "I suppose I am, yer 'anner," said Darby; "but poor 
 people must keep themselves quiet, where they're makin' 
 a hvin'." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Maxwell, "but that scoundrel was 
 a greater coward than you." 
 
 He went down to the hotel after dinner; and was shown 
 into the Major's room. The major was in an amiable 
 mood. 
 
 "Hallo! Bob, how are you? What did you catch 
 to-day?" 
 
 "You must ask Miss Willoughby and Mr. Outram that 
 question," he said. "They had the boat to-day." 
 
 " Ye-es," said the Major in a dubious kind of way. "I 
 heard Mabel say she had a row on the lake with Outram. 
 Why weren't you with them?" 
 
 "The punt has scarcely room for two," said Maxwell. 
 "I ran over the mountains with my gun. But I have just 
 run down, sir, to say good-bye. I am off to Dublin 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "No," said the Major, quite alarmed. "Why, what's 
 the matter?" 
 
 "Well, you see, the year is running late," said Bob. 
 "My agent writes to say he cannot get in the September
 
 A TALISMAN 35 
 
 rents; the evenings are getting cold, and I don't want to 
 get back that rheumatism again." 
 
 The Major was silent. Bob was advancing too many 
 reasons. He was proving too much. 
 
 "Well," he said at length, "I shall be sorry. But we 
 
 must all be clearing out soon. With these d tourists 
 
 and carpet-baggers filling every seat at table, and grinning 
 in at every window, the place is intolerable." 
 
 "Well, good-bye, sir," said Maxwell, extending his 
 hand. 
 
 "Good-bye," said the Major, reluctantly. Then, when 
 MaxwxU was moving to the door, he cried out: 
 
 "I say. Bob!" 
 
 Maxwell came back. 
 
 "You didn't mind those hasty expressions of mine last 
 
 night? 'Tis all this d gout, you know. You'll have 
 
 it yet, so have pity on a poor sufferer. Say, you didn't 
 mind?" 
 
 "Don't speak about it, sir!" said Maxwell. "I forgot 
 all about it before I had got to my tent. 'Twasn't worth 
 mentioning." 
 
 "Thanks. You were always a good fellow. Good-bye I 
 Of course you'll see Mabel?" 
 
 This time Maxwell did not reply. 
 
 As he passed out there was a group on the veranda. 
 It was quite dark. Outram, the centre of an admiring 
 circle, was showing how a wonderful ring which he wore 
 on his middle finger emitted waves of light, exactly like 
 phosphorus, in the dark. He had got it, bought it, stolen 
 it, begged it, he said, from a certain Brahmin in India. 
 It was a kind of opal, dull during the day, like a cataract
 
 36 LISHEEN 
 
 on a blind man's eye. It was only in the dark it smoked 
 and shone, 
 
 "It is a talisman," he heard Outram saying. "Who- 
 ever wears it cannot die a violent death. I have seen it 
 proved."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A TOLSTOI DEBATE 
 
 On a lovely autumn evening, later on in the year in 
 which the little incidents narrated in the previous chapters 
 had occurred, Ovi^en McAuliffe sat at the door of his 
 little cottage in Lisheen. He vpas bent forward, his hands 
 clasped between his knees, denoting the usual meditative 
 attitude of his class. He was not an old man; but his 
 face was furrowed deeply with care, the corners of his 
 mouth drooped downwards, and there was a network of 
 wrinkles in his neck. His hands were coarse and callous 
 from constant work; and the strong nails on his fingers 
 were hard as iron, and much of an iron hue. He was 
 thinking; and thinking, like every other poor Irish farmer, 
 of his hard lot. Toil and trouble — toil during labouring 
 hours, and trouble in the hours of relaxation — this is 
 their lot in life. A great sycamore tree in front of the 
 house was turning yellow under the autumnal frosts; and 
 across the level landscape that stretched to the horizon, 
 the whole scene was dappled red and russet and saffron, 
 in hedgerow, plantation, and wood. But he had no eyes 
 for such things. His thoughts were turned inward, search- 
 ing for a solution of the problems of life. The urgent 
 and immediate problem was, first, to meet the demand 
 for the March rent that had just come in; and second, 
 how to procure labour to turn up the fields for the spring 
 
 37
 
 38 LISHEEN 
 
 sowing. Out of a family of eight children, two alone, a 
 boy and a girl, remained for his old age. The rest had 
 gone to America, like the majority of their fellow-country- 
 men. Some apparently had done well and kept up a 
 correspondence with the old home for a time, then dropped 
 it. Some had never written after the landing-letter. 
 What had become of them no one knew. The two re- 
 maining children, infected with the common madness, 
 that would exchange for the prospect of gold all the 
 sweetness and beauty of life for all its foulness and sor- 
 didness, were straining against the bonds of affection that 
 held them captives at home, and pining for the fatal 
 liberty that would plunge them into the vortex of American 
 life. Some tillage had to be done, because the price of 
 cattle had gone down, and there had been some severe 
 losses during the year. And there was only this boy, 
 Pierce, or Pierry, as he was called. Not a labourer was to 
 be had for love or money. The price of labour had gone 
 up so high, that only the strong farmers were able to 
 keep and support one. 
 
 Owen McAuliffe sat a long time in meditation, turning 
 over the eternal problem in his mind. He was aroused 
 by the voice of his wife: 
 
 "Let ye cum in to the supper. The praties will be 
 could!" 
 
 The invitation was addressed to her husband, sitting 
 pensively in the porch, and to her son, who, after having 
 seen everything in barn, dairy, and outhouse snug for the 
 night, was looking with longing eyes towards where the 
 sun, in a splendid drapery of clouds, was sinking slowly 
 into the west.
 
 A TOLSTOI DEBATE 39 
 
 The two men went in with that heavy and weary step 
 that betokens not so much the leaden foot as the burdened 
 mind, and sat down on the humble sugan chairs around 
 the kitchen table that was drawn close under the solitary 
 and narrow window. There was no table cloth, but a 
 pile of smoking potatoes, bursting their jackets, garnished 
 the table; and there were two wooden porringers of milk, 
 each with a perpendicular handle, that needed some 
 experience to use it. The mother and her daughter, a 
 bright country lass of eighteen or twenty years, stood 
 apart, and watched or tended the men. They had had 
 tea an hour before; they left the more substantial things 
 for the labourers. 
 
 The meal proceeded in silence, the two men peeling the 
 potatoes with their rough nails, and swallowing each with 
 mouthfuls of sweet milk. The mother was bending over 
 the hearth-fire, and Debbie was dragging backward and 
 forward huge kettles or saucepans, when the older man said: 
 
 "How much have we in the house, Maurya, to meet the 
 agint?" 
 
 "Betwane seven and eight pounds, didn't I tell ye?" 
 said the mother. 
 
 "He won't take it," said the old man. "He'll pitch it 
 back, as he did afore." 
 
 "Thin, I'd pitch him to the divil," said Pierry in a 
 passionate way. "Bejabs, it is a cjuare thing intirely: we 
 starving on praties and milk, and him dragging the life- 
 blood from us!" 
 
 "You shouldn't fault the praties an' milk," said his 
 father. "God give them; and we would be badly off 
 without 'em."
 
 40 LISHEEN 
 
 "I'm not faulting them," said Pierry. "But it is the 
 divil's own quare thing that we should be workin' for the 
 likes of that fellow, when there's a free land and plenty 
 to eat and dhrink acrass the wather." 
 
 "You're tarkin' of that too much," said the mother, 
 interfering. "Many a good man, and good woman, too, 
 was reared on praties an' milk. An' as for America, 
 there's good an' bad news, I suppose. At laste, I wish 
 'twas sunk in the say, before I ever hard of it." 
 
 "There's no use in cadraulin' about that subjec'," said 
 Owen McAuliffe, rising from the table, and taking out his 
 pipe to redden it, "America or no America, how am I to 
 meet the agint on Friday, I wants to know?" 
 
 "Take in the seven pounds," said Pierry, not much 
 mollified by his mother's remarks, " ax him for a reduction, 
 or time; an' if he refuses, put it in your pocket, an' come 
 home!" 
 
 "And thin, the attorney's letter an' the writ in three 
 days, an' all the expinse besides," said his father. 
 
 "Let 'em do their best," said his son. "Dhrive the 
 cattle up to the hills, army of the naybours will give them 
 grass; and let the bailiffs come here for a warrum welkum!" 
 
 "Don't mind that foolish boy," said the mother. "Thry 
 ould Dinis McCarthy agin. He'll gwine to the bank and 
 rise it wid you." 
 
 "I don't like bein' behoulden to Dinis agin," answered 
 her husband. "He made mountains about it the last 
 time." 
 
 There was a long pause of silence. The old man 
 smoked calmly, sitting on a rough slate bench near the 
 hearth; the mother sat looking pensively at the fire;
 
 A TOLSTOI DEBATE 41 
 
 Pierry looked through the narrow window in a sullen, 
 angry manner. Debbie was clearing away the supper 
 refuse from the table. When she had finished, she came 
 over and stood looking down at her father and mother. 
 Then she said quietly: 
 
 ''I think Pierry is right, mother. There's nayther sinse 
 nor raison in our stopping here, toiling from morning to 
 night, making money for the landlord, when there's a free 
 counthry only five days' journey across the wather. Let 
 us sell out, in God's Name! Lizzie is dying to have us 
 all in Boston, where nayther you nor father need ever wet 
 yere hands agin; but have carpets ondher yere feet, an' 
 the besht of atin' an' dhrinkin'. Come, let us go, in 
 God's Name." 
 
 She spoke earnestly, almost passionately. It was her 
 thought, sleeping and waking. 
 
 There was another deep pause of silence. The poor 
 old mother was silently weeping. It was not the first or 
 second time this proposal, which was heart-breaking to her, 
 had been made by her children. She knew that nothing 
 could exorcise the dread discontent of home-life, the dread 
 enchantment of America. And this was her own home. 
 Here she was born (for Owen McAuliffe had merely come 
 in with a couple of hundred pounds from the County 
 Limerick); here she was brought up; here she learned her 
 prayers and first lessons; here she said good-bye to her 
 dead parents; here, on this kitchen floor, she had danced 
 the night of her marriage ; and here were her eight children 
 born and brought up with her more than usual solicitude. 
 She knew every rafter in the blackened roof, every stone 
 in the fireplace, every bush on the hedges, every tree around
 
 42 LISHEEN 
 
 her fields. Every winter had brought its songs and stories 
 for sixty years around that hearth. Every summer the 
 golden fields and the cross-road dances. True, her life 
 had been a life of sorrow and hardship; but these very 
 things consecrated the place still more. Every soul loves 
 the place of its crucifixion; and her humble Calvary was 
 knit into her life, like a living thing. And to think of 
 leaving all that, and going away into a strange, mysterious 
 country, a peopled desert, where for every one that crossed 
 its desolation and emerged successful, a hundred had gone 
 down and were lost! Oh, no; the thought was too dread- 
 ful; and it broke out in the eloquence of her silent tears. 
 
 Owen McAuliffe bore the ordeal for a time. Then, 
 rising up, he simply pointed with his pipe at the weeping 
 woman, and said: 
 
 "There!" 
 
 He walked out slowly into the field beyond the yard. 
 
 Debbie, ashamed of her mistake, which, however, she 
 had often made before, came over to her brother. They 
 were a splendid picture, but gloom and sorrow were over 
 them that evening. After a pause, Debbie said in a soft 
 undertone : 
 
 "You'll be turnin' the high field to-morra?" 
 
 "I suppose so," he replied. "'Tis the divil's own job 
 for wan man; and father can't do much now!" 
 
 "Who knows?" said Debbie, trying to give him a 
 courage she did not feel herself. "God may sind some 
 wan this way!" 
 
 "Yes," he said bitterly. "Some wan who'll ate us out 
 of house and home, and want more wages than the rint." 
 
 It was too true. She desisted.
 
 A TOLSTOI DEBATE 43 
 
 That same evening, at a certain aristocratic club in 
 Dawson Street, Dublin, five or six gentlemen were in the 
 smoking-room, discussing the papers and the world-news. 
 They had met after luncheon for business; and the nature 
 of the business might be guessed from a sheaf of telegrams 
 that had been sent at five o'clock over the country and to 
 the great landlord clubs and centres in the cities. The 
 telegrams were brief: 
 
 No purchase. No abalcment. Bide time. 
 Six words, which in a month's time carried desolation 
 into many a Munster and Connemara cabin. 
 
 This decision, however, was not arrived at without a 
 fierce and angry debate; and it was by no means unani- 
 mous. One or two members of the landlord class had 
 vehemently opposed it, partly on grounds of prudence, 
 partly for humanitarian motives. Bob Maxwell had 
 spoken with unusual heat, and very much to the surprise 
 of his hearers, against any movement that might tend to 
 accentuate the angry feelings of the people, and their 
 antagonism to the landlord class. The debate was brought 
 into the smoking-room, and was continued thus: 
 
 "I can't see, Maxwell, for the life of me, what you are 
 up to," said a great burly specimen of his class, clean- 
 shaven, despotic, swinging his arms everpvhere, as if he 
 were always using the whip. "Or where the devil you 
 picked up these newfangled notions. We are losing 
 everything we have, bit by bit, and will soon be reduced 
 to the rank of paupers — " 
 
 "Better be paupers yourselves, than keep others pau- 
 pers," interjected Maxwell. "The whole of this unhappy 
 country is pauperized and beggared by what you are
 
 44 LISHEEN 
 
 pleased to call the rights of property. In God's Name, 
 try and recognise the fact that your countrymen have 
 bodies and souls like yourselves, and have a right to live 
 as well as you!" 
 
 "But, look here, this is all d d socialism and com- 
 munism. You want to upset everything. Can't you 
 leave things as they are, and do as your forefathers before 
 you?" 
 
 "Most certainly not," said Maxwell. "My forefathers, 
 as you call them, inherited evil traditions, and, by Heaven, 
 'tis time to break them. All over the world the people 
 are rising up and crying aloud; and I tell you, you must 
 listen to them, or suffer for it." 
 
 "Pshaw!" cried another landlord. "They have tried 
 everything they could here, even murder, and they have 
 failed. One year of resolute government, and there was 
 peace forever." 
 
 "You have ill-measured the people's power," said 
 Maxwell. "They have learned it in France; they ha.ve 
 been taught it in Hungary and Austria; slowly they are 
 fathoming its depths and strength in Russia. Take care, 
 you may have to learn it here also, and the lesson will be 
 a bitter one." 
 
 "They have done their best, d them," said the first 
 
 speaker, "to crush and pauperize us; and now they're 
 going. In a few years, we'll have decent English and 
 Scotchmen on our lands — " 
 
 "And will they pay your rents?" asked Maxwell. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 Outram, who had come home to enjoy his property in 
 Ireland, and who had not the benefit of experience to
 
 A TOLSTOI DEBATE • 45 
 
 subdue his contempt for another subject race, had been 
 silent during the discussion. There was a distinct cool- 
 ness between himself and Maxwell; and he did not trust 
 his temper to speak, although he raged at the ideas Max- 
 well v/as propounding. At last, as the dinner hour 
 approached, he said with almost imperceptible sarcasm: 
 
 "Mr. Maxwell has the advantage in debate over you, 
 gentlemen. He is a reading man." 
 
 "Reading? What has reading to do with the matter?" 
 said one of the former speakers. "This is a question of 
 common sense and self-preservation!" 
 
 "Yes," said Outram, with some malice, "but if you 
 read of noblemen in other countries giving up everything, 
 and going down amongst the common people and living 
 their lives, you are naturally disposed to do the same 
 yourself." 
 
 "Going down amongst the people and leading their 
 lives?" echoed the other. "What infernal lunatic has 
 done that?" 
 
 "Ask Maxwell," said Outram. "I know but little 
 about him!" 
 
 Maxwell bit his lip and said nothing. There was a 
 silence for a few minutes. Then Outram continued : 
 
 "It is quite true that some, even Tolstoi's own intimates 
 — you have heard of Tolstoi, of course?" 
 
 "Tolstoi! Tolstoi! Never. Who is he and what is 
 he?" 
 
 "Well, as Maxwell who knows him best won't speak, 
 I suppose I must, especially as Tolstoi has come to Ireland. 
 He is a Russian Count who thinks he is sent as a savior 
 to his people. He sympathizes with the people and wants
 
 46 LISHEEN 
 
 to lift them; and in order to do so he has gone among the 
 moudjiks, that's what they call the Russian peasants, tried 
 to live their lives, etc., etc." 
 
 He paused; but Maxvi^ell would not be drawn. 
 
 '"Tis true," Outram continued, "that he has given up 
 all his estates — to his wife ; that he has renounced his 
 income — that is, all of it that he doesn't possess; that 
 he is a beggar — but lives, in a certain degree of luxury, 
 in his wife's house in Yasnaia Soliana; that he has left 
 house and lands and family — except in so far as he 
 clings to them; and that he is a kind of malodorous fakir, 
 such as I have often seen in his leprous rags on the Hooghly, 
 except, that his wife puts a sachet of petal-dust under his 
 linen in the drawer; and that under the peasant's pelisse 
 is fine linen, lavendered and voluptuous with Eau de 
 Chypre and Parma Violets." 
 
 Maxwell had now turned round with blazing eyes. 
 
 "That is the usual class calumny," he cried. "We 
 heard the same here of O'Connell, of Parnell, and the 
 rest." 
 
 "I am quoting the words of his brother-in-law, Bers," 
 said Outram, coolly. "And all experience proves them. 
 When you hear of all this self-renunciation and sanctity, 
 you may be sure the hair-shirt is not worn next the skin. 
 I, even I, should not object to take the role of prophet 
 and reformer on Tolstoi's terms." 
 
 "You're talking rot, both of you," said an elderly man. 
 "Any man who would preach, much more practise, such 
 doctrines, would be promptly placed in a lunatic asylum 
 by his friends." 
 
 "Not by any means," said Outram, with cutting sar-
 
 A TOLSTOI DEBATE 47 
 
 casm. "There are young men in Ireland to-day who are 
 prepared for sacrifice. I heard of one the other day, who 
 took up a dying woman from the streets, carried her to 
 his house, and when she was refused admission into a 
 pubHc hospital, nursed her at his home till she died; and 
 who paid forty pounds a year out of a salary of sixty to 
 send his future wife abroad to Davos Platz, till she had 
 been cured of consumption, and then married her. And 
 there are some of ourselves who would not hesitate a 
 moment to go down to Kerry and dig potatoes with — " 
 
 "There! There! You're always sarcastic, Outram. 
 You know too much of coolies and the like — " 
 
 "I assure you," said Outram, "I was never more serious 
 in my life. The new wine has been poured into new bot- 
 tles. I know men who would not shrink from the hard- 
 ships of the Irish peasant's life, if they only could supply 
 a motive for going down amongst them, such as to study 
 their condition, to elevate them, to' lift them up to a 
 higher standard. At least," he said, as if correcting him- 
 self, "I have heard those opinions expressed. I have not 
 seen them put in practice as yet." 
 
 "Nor are you likely, by Jove," said the other. "What? 
 An Irish gentleman gi^'ing up house and comforts to go 
 down amongst the farmers? Ha! ha! Well, that is a 
 good one!" 
 
 "You consider it quite incredible?" asked Maxwell, 
 standing up and planting his feet on the mat before the 
 fire. 
 
 "Quite! We've all heard of the nobleman that went 
 around the country playing a barrel-organ for a wager. 
 It was mad enough; but it was a freak, and the fellow.
 
 48 LISHEEN 
 
 I believe, did it. But to go down to a thatched cabin, 
 under smoky rafters, to wear frieze and hobnailed boots, 
 to live on potatoes and buttermilk — " 
 
 "Why, I heard you say an hour ago," interrupted 
 Maxwell, "that the farmers were better off than ourselves 
 — that they lived better, that their wives and daughters 
 dressed better than ours, that they had pianos and pictures, 
 etc. If that be so, where is the great sacrifice in going 
 amongst them and enjoying all this luxury?" 
 
 Outram laughed loud at this discomfiture, but imme- 
 diately said: 
 
 "Look here. Maxwell! These fellows are giaours — 
 infidels! "Why not take up a bet like the gentleman 
 organ-grinder? It will be hard on you, I know; but 
 then you are full of this magnificent idea. Come! I'll 
 wager what you please that you won't go down to Cork 
 or Kerry and live as a peasant or labourer for twelve 
 months, or for six, or for three!" 
 
 The gentlemen crowded around the fireplace. 
 
 "I should need a higher motive than a wretched money 
 bet to do such a thing," said Maxwell. "I should hope 
 that the little force, or energy, or life, whatever you call 
 it, that the Lord has given me, might be well spent during 
 my short sojourn here; and that there is something some- 
 what nobler than fox-hunting, claret-drinking, and evict- 
 ing. I say that the man who will lift up his countrymen 
 from the condition of serfdom, to which centuries of oppres- 
 sion and foul wrong have reduced them, would be more of 
 a nobleman than if he had fifty crests and coats-of-arms ; 
 and if I thought I dared, or could do it, I would step down 
 at once from the classes and join my lot with the people."
 
 A TOLSTOI DEBATE 49 
 
 "Then, why not do so?" said Outram, watching him 
 keenly. 
 
 "Why not?" echoed Maxwell, studying the pattern on 
 the hearth-rug. "Why not?" 
 
 "What d d rot !" cried a magistrate. " By Heavens, 
 
 Maxwell, if you thought of such a thing, I'd commit you 
 to Dundrum at once." 
 
 "You don't know the stuff of which Maxwell is made!" 
 said Outram, twirling his opal ring around his finger. 
 
 The gesture caught Maxwell's eye. 
 
 "Look here, Outram," he said. "Here's a bargain, 
 not a bet. Give me that ring for twelve months; and for 
 twelve months I shall go as a farm labourer into Cork or 
 Kerry." 
 
 Outram hesitated. The other gentlemeji laughed, and 
 began to chaff him. 
 
 "A fair offer, by Jove." 
 
 "Come, Outram, are the tables turned against you?" 
 
 " 'Twill be the talk of every club in Dublin to-morrow, 
 Outram. You might as well relinquish the bauble." 
 
 Outram went over to the window, and gently disen- 
 gaged the ring from his finger. He returned holding it 
 aloft. 
 
 "You're afraid, I see, MaxvvTll," he said. "You don't 
 trust the noblest peasantry in the world. You need a 
 talisman, and you are right. Here it is! The joke is too 
 good a one to be lost. Gentlemen, I call you as witnesses 
 that Maxwell has engaged to go for twelve months as a 
 farm labourer into Cork or Kerry. We'll make no con- 
 ditions. We can trust his honour. If he comes back 
 alive, he can take his revenge by writing a book." 
 4
 
 50 LISIIEEN 
 
 Maxwell twisted the ring slowly on to the third finger 
 of his right hand and then left the room. 
 
 "How do you know he'll keep his engagement?" asked 
 one of the gentlemen of Outram. "He can evade it in a 
 hundred ways!" 
 
 '"Tis all right," said Outram. "I know what is in his 
 mind. He has been poisoned by reading all kinds of 
 rubbish from Carlyle, Spencer, and the rest. There are 
 a good many of his class in Oxford and London — Chris- 
 tian Socialists they call themselves; and Maxwell has an 
 ambition to introduce something of the rot here. He'll 
 be pretty tired of it in twelve months; and there won't 
 be a more 'felonious landlord' in the club then." 
 
 "I heard he was engaged to Major Willoughby's 
 daughter," said the other. "What will the lady think of 
 this?" 
 
 "I am of opinion that Maxwell's vagaries have ceased 
 to trouble Miss Willoughby," said Outram. 
 
 And so, indeed, it was.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A NEW HAND 
 
 No sooner had Bob Maxwell taken the plunge than he 
 began to realize the consequences. The ideas that had 
 been slowly germinating in his mind for years had sud- 
 denly blossomed into a flower of fancy that might be 
 poisonous, and a fruit that would certainly be very bitter. 
 He began to think, as he sat by his solitary fireplace, that 
 he had made a mistake. Why should he separate him- 
 self from his class? Who called him to be a martyr for 
 principle? Why should he alone select the heroic, 
 which, dreadful thought! would, or might, end in the 
 ridiculous? The age was not heroic. The age was self- 
 centred, self-seeking, self-satisfied. Men did not under- 
 stand these things nowadays. All had come down to a 
 common level of meanness, duplicity, cunning, cruelty. 
 No man dreamed of self-sacrifice, or the immolation of 
 great possibilities and great hopes on the altar of Duty. 
 The Greek spirit had vanished; the Christian spirit had 
 followed. He alone would attempt the impossible; and 
 come back, dubbed a Quixote, a fool, a dreamer, a failure, 
 for the rest of his life. 
 
 And then? Maxwell was not oblivious of the hard- 
 ships of the task he had assumed. He knew well what 
 it was to sleep on coarse beds, to eat poor food, to work 
 hard, to be exposed to the weather, and, above all, to be 
 compelled to associate with people who had not an idea 
 
 51
 
 52 LISHEEN 
 
 beyond their wants, their struggles, and their trials. 
 "Not sordid lives, but squalid lives are theirs," he thought, 
 "and how can I participate therein?" 
 
 "And then? There's no drawing back, once the step 
 is taken. I must pursue it to the end. And this means 
 ostracism from my own class, suspicion from those with 
 whom I am going to associate, union with rabid politicians, 
 prosecutions probably, and imprisonment. Yes ; the pros- 
 pect is not brilliant. I am coveting a martrydom; and I 
 mistake much the temper of that waspish, stinging, aggres- 
 sive thing, called man, if he does not make me suffer." 
 
 Maxwell stood up and walked along the carpet that 
 edged his library. This meditation had unnerved him. 
 He felt himself shivering on the bank. He needed a 
 tonic; and, instead of the sideboard, he sought his books. 
 They were not far to seek; nor had he to look long, until 
 words spoke to him, like tongues of Pentecost — great, 
 true, flaming words, bidding him obey the God within 
 him, and not the cackling idols of the market-place; 
 and sternly ordering him onward on the path of Duty, no 
 matter how tempests howled and winds raved, and pitfalls 
 yawned, and the loud laughter of fools and knaves echoed 
 from club and drawing-room, from newspaper or letter, 
 from friends and foes across his way. 
 
 But failure? What matter? Everything is failure. 
 All that the world holds of its best is writ large in failure. 
 It is not a question of success, or non-success. It is a 
 question of Duty — to go forward and see the end ! 
 
 " Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, 
 Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ 
 So many times among ' The Band ' — to wit,
 
 A NEW HAND 53 
 
 The Knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed 
 Their steps — that just to fail as they, seemed best, 
 And all the doubt was now — should I be fit ? " 
 
 Every word of sage or poet, philosopher and economist 
 in this age of greed and selfishness pointed in but one 
 direction. It clenched the doubts of Maxwell. 
 
 Some few weeks later, a weary, drooped, travel-stained 
 figure came slowly up the boreen that led to Owen 
 McAuliffe's house at Lisheen. It was an autumn after- 
 noon; and everyone about the place was in the fields, 
 picking the potatoes and flinging them into large pits 
 for safety against the November rains. The old woman, 
 the vanithee, was alone in the kitchen, preparing the 
 evening meal. A brood of chickens, clacking noisily 
 after the maternal hen, were busy picking up from the 
 earthen floor scraps of potatoes and grains of Indian meal. 
 A huge collie lay coiled asleep under the kitchen table. 
 At the noise of a strange footstep, he roused himself lazily, 
 then suddenly assumed the defence of the place, and 
 barked furiously at the intruder. The latter, unheeding, 
 came slowly and painfully across the straw- covered yard, 
 and entered the house. 
 
 A professional beggar would have said, in the country 
 fashion: "God save you!" 
 
 And would have been answered : " God save you kindly !" 
 
 But this poor fellow sank wearily into a chair, and 
 bowed his head between his knees. The dog ceased 
 barking; and the old woman, coming over, said kindly: 
 
 " You're tired, me poor bhoy !" 
 
 "Tired and sick and hungry," said the man, in an
 
 54 LISHEEN 
 
 English accent. "'Tis a weary load I have taken 
 up!" 
 
 "Well, thin," said the old woman, "you must rest 
 here, me poor bhoy; and sure 'tis no great job to hunt 
 away the hunger and the thirst." 
 
 Saying this, she cut a huge slice of a griddle cake, and 
 brought it over with a porringer of milk to the wayfarer. 
 He ate and drank eagerly, almost ravenously. It revived 
 him, and he said in a brighter way: 
 
 "That's the only food I have had for twenty-four 
 hours." 
 
 "Well, thin," said the old woman, "the people must be 
 gettin' hard-hearted intirely, whin they refused a bite or 
 sup to a dacent-looking bhoy like you." 
 
 "It wasn't their fault," said the man. "It was my 
 own. I asked for work, work; and when that could not 
 be had, I was ashamed to ask for bread." 
 
 "Faith, thin, you must be new to the road," said the 
 vanithee. "Because 'tisn't much shame the travellers 
 have nowadays!" 
 
 "I never was from home before," said the man, "and I 
 am not accustomed to hardship. If I had known all — 
 but there's no use in complaining! But the burden I 
 took up was too much for my strength!" 
 
 The instinctive delicacy of the Irish mind forbade 
 her questioning him further. She went about her house- 
 hold work, from time to time casting a curious glance at 
 the visitor. He sat in the low sugan chair, and stared out 
 through the open door in a kind of reverie, which was only 
 broken when the two men and Debbie, well tired and 
 dirty after the day's rough work, came in. They merely
 
 A NEW HAND 55 
 
 glanced at the stranger, as they put aside their tools; but 
 the old man said in the usual way: 
 
 "God save you!" 
 
 Maxwell, for it was he, did not know what to reply, but 
 stood up as if to go. 
 
 "Ye needn't be in such a hurry," said the old woman. 
 "You had a long day's tramp, an' you want a night's rest. 
 Stay where you are for to-night; an' you'll be betther able 
 for the road to-morrow." 
 
 Maxwell seemed to hesitate, as the men said nothing, 
 but sat down silently to the evening meal. 
 
 "Come over, and give us a hand here," said Owen 
 McAuliffe, pointing to the huge pile of smoking potatoes. 
 "Maybe you could lend us a hand elsewhere to-morrow." 
 
 "Your good wife has already given me food," said Max- 
 well; "if you could let me have work, I would take it as a 
 favour." 
 
 "Well, we'll thry," said Owen. "But I'm thinking 
 that your white hand is more used to the pen than the 
 plough. 
 
 "A hand that's willing to work can do work if it only 
 gets fair play," answered Maxwell. 
 
 "Well said, me bhoy," replied the old man. "Well, 
 as you won't ate, pull over the chair to the lire, and have 
 your smoke." 
 
 Marwell began to roll a cigarette mechanically, as he 
 drew up the straw chair near the open hearth, and sat 
 looking in a dazed way at the red ashes and charred 
 timber that smouldered there. He was too tired and too 
 dispirited to feel any interest in the place or people. He 
 knew that it was a farmer's house of the poorer class,
 
 56 LISHEEN 
 
 such as he had seen, day by day, during the last few 
 weeks; and the surroundings and details were not inviting. 
 It was poverty, great poverty, accentuated by constant 
 dread of the greater trial, that it was quite within the 
 bounds of possibility they should lose even that. 
 
 He listened as in a dream to the slow munching of po- 
 tatoes and the swilling of new milk that were going on 
 quite close to him. He had not even curiosity enough 
 left to watch the young daughter of the house as she 
 busied herself on dish and platter, setting this to rights, 
 and placing that in its place on the dresser, and tidying up, 
 in a deft, silent manner, the table and the utensils that 
 were soiled after the men's supper. 
 
 It was only when Owen McAuliffe came over to the 
 hearthside, and sat on the flagged seat near the hob, and 
 drew out his black pipe and began to smoke, that Max- 
 well woke up, and began to realize his position. 
 
 "You're out of a job?" said the old man after a time. 
 
 "Yes," answered Maxwell. "I've tramped half the 
 country; but met the same answer everywhere!" 
 
 "And what would that be now?" said Owen. 
 
 "Well, they wanted hands badly; but I wouldn't do. 
 I didn't look equal to hard work, and they had nothing 
 light to give me." 
 
 "They needn't be so pertickler," said Owen. "The 
 deuce a much work they'll get out of any labourer now- 
 adays. Whin I wos a bhoy, we thought nothin' of takin' 
 out the cart in the morning fasting, and thravelling six 
 or seven miles to the mountain bog, and fillin' our load 
 of turf, and comin' back agin before we sot down to 
 brekfus. Manny and manny a time I thramped thirteen
 
 A NEW HAND 57 
 
 and fourteen miles before breakin' me fast. But you 
 won't get youngsters to do that nowadays!" 
 
 "I suppose they have not the strength or endurance!" 
 said Maxwell. 
 
 "Thrue for you, they haven't," said the old man. 
 "But," he continued, as the idea of driving a bargain 
 came into his mind, " I suppose now, as you are so delicate 
 and genteel-like, you wouldn't be expectin' high wages?" 
 
 "I expect no wages," said Maxwell, bluntly. "I have 
 as much clothes in this valise," he pointed to a port- 
 manteau, once very handsome, but now much the worse 
 for wear, *'as I want for twelve months, and I have no 
 need of anything but the food and shelter every son of 
 Adam requires." 
 
 "Well, thin," said the old man, "I won't take you at 
 your word, for that would be dhrivin' a hard bargin, and 
 takin' a mane advantage of you. But if you like to stay 
 here and look about you, you can be of some little use to 
 us maybe, an' sure, if you never did nothin', we won't 
 begrudge you the bite and the sup." 
 
 "I'm extremely obliged to you," said Maxwell, rising up. 
 "It's the first word of welcome I have had since I set — 
 since I began looking for work; and you won't find me 
 ungrateful. But I'm dead tired; and if you could show 
 me where I might rest the night, to-morrow we could talk 
 things over." 
 
 Here arose a little trouble, however; a trouble which 
 had already suggested itself to the women, who had been 
 engaged in an anxious debate over it. There were but 
 two beds in the only room that served as parlour and bed- 
 room — one of these was occupied by Debbie, the other
 
 58 LISHEEN 
 
 by her parents. Pierce invariably slept in the settle bed 
 in the kitchen. Where should they put the stranger? 
 The servant boy, when they had such, invariably slept in 
 the loft, or in one of the outhouses; and they would have 
 promptly relegated the newcomer to either place; but 
 they felt, by that secret but infallible instinct that charac- 
 terizes women, that this was no ordinary tramp. There 
 was a something about him that told them how much he 
 differed from average wayfarers. They could not dream 
 that he was a gentleman. That was too much beyond 
 the reach of imagination; but they concluded he w^as some- 
 one who had got a "let- down" in the world, and needed 
 additional consideration. 
 
 After a good deal of debating, they decided that 
 Pierce should sleep in the loft; and that the stranger 
 should have the settle bed in the kitchen. The settle 
 was a long box with a lid and two arm-rests at the ex- 
 tremities. It was used during the day as a seat, which 
 might accommodate four or five persons. At night the 
 front was let down from hinges, the lid raised, and, lo! 
 it was a comfortable bed. 
 
 So Maxwell found it, when the family, having said the 
 Rosary, and remained for some time afterwards in silent 
 prayer, retired for the night, and left him alone. He sat 
 for a few moments meditatively on the edge of the im- 
 provised bed, watching the smouldering embers on the 
 hearth, and thinking, thinking into what a sea of trouble 
 he had plunged himself. Then he rolled over into the 
 blankets, and was buried at once in a deep sleep. 
 
 He woke refreshed next morning, when he heard 
 Pierce's step on the ladder, rose rapidly, made his ablu-
 
 A NEW HAND 59 
 
 tions in a primitive manner outside the door from a tin 
 basin; and, drinking in deep draughts of the morning 
 air, he set out with the young man to commence the day's 
 work. 
 
 It was the same as yesterday's. Pierce opened with his 
 strong arm and foot the drills of potatoes, and Alaxwell 
 gathered them up in creels, and tossed them into the great 
 pits that yawned to receive them. It was not hard work, 
 but the constant stooping over the potatoes made his 
 back ache. He was not sorry when old Owen McAuliffe 
 came out, and after watching the work for some time in 
 silence and praising the potatoes for their size and dryness, 
 bade the two young men come in to breakfast. 
 
 This consisted of tea and home-made bread and butter. 
 The keen morning air and the exercise had sharpened 
 Maxwell's appetite, and he was astonished at the manner 
 in which he stowed away junk after junk of heavy, but 
 wholesome, bread, that a month ago would have given 
 him dyspepsia for weeks. Then, without an}- delay, 
 they went back to work again; Debbie and the old man 
 accompanying them. 
 
 Maxwell, although ashamed to idle even one moment 
 in the company of such industrious workers, had time to 
 look around him. He found that this farm lay on the 
 edge of a low spur of a mountain, that stretched back 
 black and gloomy in the gray October light. Evidently, 
 the larger portion of the land had been reclaimed from 
 bog and heather at the cost of infinite labour; and it was 
 quite clear it lyould revert to the same condition again, 
 if the redeeming hand of man were once lifted from it. 
 Here and there, tufts of furze had succeeded in eluding
 
 6o LISHEEN 
 
 the vigilance of the reclaimers, and the soil was peaty — 
 not the deep, rich brown mould of more prosperous farms. 
 Far around, a great plain, dotted thickly with farmers' 
 homesteads, each in its little clump of trees, stretched 
 to where on the horizon faintly-outlined mountains 
 bounded the view. And far to the right there shone or 
 bickered or slept the broad expanses of the sea. The 
 district was clearly congested; and the vast majority of 
 farms were of about the same extent and the same charac- 
 ter as that in which Maxwell now worked. The land- 
 scape was not inviting; but he saw, with a faint thrill of 
 pleasure, that behind him was the black, unsurveyed 
 mountain with all its ravines and recesses, such as those 
 where he had often encamped above the Lakes. Here, 
 at least, he thought, I can beat a retreat sometimes; 
 and, alone, think over the problem I have set myself to 
 solve. 
 
 He worked on steadily till dinner time at noon, when 
 they were called in by Mrs. McAulifiFe. He was tired, 
 and his limbs ached from the continuous stooping; but 
 he had a vigorous appetite. There was an immense 
 pile of potatoes on the table before him and three por- 
 ringers of milk. He saw the two men make the Sign of 
 the Cross over the food; and then set to work with their 
 nails to peel the potatoes. He attempted the same; but 
 the hot potatoes burned his tender fingers, and his taste 
 somehow revolted from the operation. Debbie saw his 
 embarrassment, and quickly placed a black-handled 
 knife on the table before him. But he managed to make 
 a splendid meal. He could never have believed that 
 potatoes and milk could be so appetizing.
 
 A NEW HAND 6i 
 
 They went straight from dinner to work. But Max- 
 well's back ached so badly that he said : 
 
 "Look here, men. I'm not shirking work; but, you 
 know, I am not used to it ; and my back is almost broken. 
 I'll beg off for an hour or two." 
 
 "Av coorse, av coorse," said the old man. "Sthroll 
 up the fields and take a look at the heifers. You've done 
 enough for to-day." 
 
 The kindness touched Maxwell deeply. He passed 
 out of the potato iield, and was instantly treading under 
 foot the purple blossoms of the heather he loved so well. 
 The whole mountain was covered with it, except in a few 
 patches here and there, where lean cattle were feeding. 
 He went up and up, until he almost reached the chine of 
 the hill. He then sat down on a deep purple bed of 
 fragrant heather, smoked leisurely, and leisurely looked 
 out over the country, and leisurely considered how far 
 further he could carry out the unweaving of the great 
 problem he had so rashly undertaken to solve. 
 
 Meanwhile the good folks amongst whom he was now 
 thrown were busy conjecturing the history, position, and 
 future of their strange visitor. All kinds of clever specu- 
 lations ran in their heads to account for such a singular 
 apparition among them. But the final conclusion at 
 which the men arrived was, that Maxwell was a deserter 
 from the army and on the nm. This view Debbie strenu- 
 ously contradicted. Her woman's wit saw farther than 
 masculine reasoning. She knew that there was some- 
 thing about Maxwell that was quite irreconcilable with 
 the idea that he was, or had been, a common soldier, and 
 she was strengthened in her conviction by watching and
 
 62 LISHEEN 
 
 noticing his linen, which was of an ahogethcr superior 
 kind. But what he was, how his fates had led him 
 hither, she could not conjecture. He was a mystery; 
 and it increased tenfold the interest that surrounded 
 him. Then once the idea struck her that he was a crimi- 
 nal on the run from justice, who was diving into all kinds 
 of holes and corners to escape the Argus eyes of the law. 
 It lessened her interest in him, although she tried to banish 
 the thought and invest him with the dignity of a gentle- 
 man in disguise.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 "in the sweat of thy brow" 
 
 The next few days were days of monotonous labour for 
 Maxwell. To rise at six, be at work at half-past six, 
 to breakfast at eight o'clock, dine at twelve, and sup at 
 seven, filling in the intervals with steady, unremitting 
 toil, this was each day's programme. To lessen, or 
 rather to vary his employment, he was asked to take a 
 spade and dig the lumpers out of the drills. He tried, 
 but found this as hard work as picking them up and filling 
 the creels. And, unfortunately, he sliced with the sharp 
 edge of the spade so many potatoes that the old man 
 said : 
 
 "This isn't the time for skeolans,^ me boy. You'll be a 
 great hand intirely when we're settin' the praties in the 
 spring." 
 
 At last he was allowed free play to do what he liked 
 about the farm. It was quite clear he was not equal to 
 much hard work; and as there was no stipulation about 
 wages, and he seemed willing to be useful, he was invited 
 to do as he pleased. 
 
 '"Tis wonderful," said the old man, "how handy thim 
 sojers are. They're thrained to everythin' a'most." 
 
 "You'll find he's no sojer," said Debbie, almost sulkily. 
 
 "Wisha, what else could he be?" said her father. 
 
 * Potatoes sliced in quarters or halves for seed. 
 f>3
 
 64 LISHEEN 
 
 "Shure, he won't tell his name even; and he wanted to 
 know how far away were the police!" 
 
 "Well, 'tis no business of ours, I suppose," said Debbie, 
 "but he's no desarter, whatever else he is." 
 
 "You'll see how handy he is about horses," replied her 
 father, clinging to his idea. "I saw him watchin' the 
 chestnut yesterday; and, faix, he seemed to know the pints 
 of a horse as well as Sims of Thralee." 
 
 "Well, he's quiet and asy-spoken enough," said Pierry. 
 "An' for a bhoy who made no bargain about wages, he 
 seems anxious enough for the work." 
 
 On the whole, these were favourable opinions enough 
 about our young nonconformist, who had essayed a trying 
 task, and was sinking beneath the burden, when a sudden 
 inspiration loomed up on his imagination from some far, 
 invisible depths, and turned his cloud of despair into a 
 pillar glowing with the fire and light of hope and great 
 promise. 
 
 It was on a Sunday morning a week or two after his 
 introduction to this humble family, when he lay on a bed 
 of grass and heather up there on the breast of the black 
 mountain of Croughna-Cree. The family had gone to 
 Mass three miles away; and although it was the custom 
 for one to remain at home to guard the house and premises, 
 they committed the care of the place, with singular con- 
 fidence, to Maxwell. Pierry had volunteered to stay at 
 home. He was the doubting Thomas. He thought it 
 singularly imprudent to leave the whole place in the hands 
 of a perfect stranger, and one with the possibly evil record 
 of a deserter from the army. Debbie had again insisted 
 that Maxwell was nothing of the kind; and, as it was
 
 "IN THE SWEAT OF THY BROW" 65 
 
 broadly hinted that Pierry's devotion was so tenuous that 
 he only sought an excuse for remaining away from Mass, 
 his pride was stung, and he cried: 
 
 "Very well! But the throuble be on yereselves and not 
 on me!" 
 
 And so Maxwell, who, it was charitably surmised, "had 
 no religion," was allowed to assume control of Lisheen 
 for two or three hours on that Sunday. 
 
 "You needn't stick yourself in the kitchen," said the 
 old man, going out. "Take the kay in your pocket, and 
 lave Snap loose; and you can go up and see after the 
 heifers, and keep thim blagard crows away from the 
 drills." 
 
 So Maxwell went up into the mountains, like any 
 prophet of the Lord, to think earnestly, and listen, if so 
 it might be, to any voices from within or without, that 
 would speak to him, and point out the way in which he 
 should walk. For he felt, in spite of deep heart-sinkings 
 and doubts, that he had assumed a certain noble and 
 spiritual calling, far, far removed from the petrified uni- 
 formity of an existence which his class traditions and 
 teachings would have marked out for him, but which he 
 now regarded with a certain loathing that became almost 
 physical in its intensity. For he began to reflect, there 
 in the autumnal afternoon, on the fearful waste of time 
 and life that would have been his inevitable lot had he 
 remained amongst his class, and followed its traditions. 
 "Parasites," he thought, "fattening on the vitals of a race 
 that could not shake them aside, drawing a life-sustenance 
 and a pleasure-sustenance from starving wretches, who had 
 to labour night and day to ward off starvation! Drones 
 5
 
 66 LISHEEN 
 
 in a busy beehive, eating a honey that they did not make, 
 and drinking a nectar they did not distil! Plutocrats, 
 not aristocrats — they would shame the name — for who 
 are the best, but they who, consecrated to great work, draw 
 out the slender threads and filaments of life, and weave 
 them into noble textures and tapestries for their race?" 
 And then his thoughts turned suddenly downwards to 
 these toiling and labouring serfs, and he thought how 
 noble, amidst their perpetual poverty, were their laborious 
 and austere lives. Even from a purely physical standpoint, 
 he felt ashamed of himself. He had been an athlete in 
 Trinity, winning prizes at the College sports, until the 
 doctors had warned him aside; and see how swiftly he 
 collapsed when a little daily toil was placed on his shoul- 
 ders. And these peasants! How easily, how smoothly, 
 how deftly, they plied hand and nerve and sinew and 
 muscle from dawn to dark, never tired, never fatigued, 
 their whole physical system moving rhythmically at the 
 divine call of labour. He had noticed how firm were 
 their muscles, how broad their wrists, and how the muscles 
 and tendons seemed to strain with the strength of whip- 
 cord when unusual pressure was placed on them. And 
 how beautifully clean they were! Not a single scab or 
 speck on their spotless skins. Not a trace of dust or 
 dandriff in their hair. Their hands were hardened and 
 enamelled by toil, their bodies were washed in sweat; but 
 they were kept sweet and wholesome and fragrant by that 
 daily ablution, by the free play of the pure mountain air, 
 and the immaculate sanctity of their lives. Compared 
 with many whom he had known, that peasant boy was 
 "Hyperion to a Satyr"; and compared even with Queen
 
 "IN THE SWEAT OF THY BROW" 67 
 
 Mab, that mountain girl was an Amazon of health and 
 generous vitality. "Blessed is work!" thought Max^vell. 
 "Blessed is the sentence: 'In the sweat of thy brow shalt 
 thou labour all the days of thy life!'" 
 
 But — and then his heart sank within him — what 
 chance had he to compete with these athletes of Nature, 
 and take up duties now, to which he should have been 
 indurated from childhood? How can the poodle run 
 with the greyhound; or the sloth wrestle with the lion? 
 Nay; it was madness! He should have kept to his own 
 class, lived as they did, and died as they did! No, no; 
 that will never do. He cannot admit the ignoble thought. 
 He has set out on a mission, and he must accomplish it. 
 But how? His cardinal principle was to get a fulcrum 
 within the lives of these peasants, wherewith to raise them, 
 and place them on some higher plane. But, supposing 
 they were already on a plane higher than his own, and in 
 the physical department they certainly were, what then? 
 He dared not touch the spiritual; and what remained? 
 The answer was, the social and intellectual life of the 
 people, the sweetness and the light, that would help them 
 to bear with greater equanimity the inequalities of life, 
 and the hardships incident to their condition. But how ? 
 This seems an impossibility. He has undertaken a Her- 
 culean task, without the strength of Hercules. And he 
 shall be defeated. And then, he must go back to his own 
 tribe to be for evermore a butt and a jest for his Quixotism. 
 See Tolstoi, his patron saint, is laughed at, his motives 
 misinterpreted, his self-denial contradicted, his theories 
 ridiculed. He will go down to posterity as a madman, a 
 voluptuary masquerading under the guise of a martyr,
 
 68 LISHEEN 
 
 a teacher of principles he dared not practise — an idealist, 
 carrying his sparks of inspiration into a powder-magazine, 
 a fool to be hoisted with his own petard! And thou, thou, 
 here in this Irish Nebelwelt, thou shalt be the prophet and 
 pioneer? No; only the Erztrdumer — the Arch- Dreamer! 
 Then the flash of illumination came. 
 
 "At least I have sacrificed myself for an idea. If I 
 cannot be the salt of savour to others, at least I myself 
 shall not rot." 
 
 He went down from the mountain. The family had 
 come back, all but Debbie, who had lingered behind 
 talking with the neighbours. The old woman was bending 
 over the huge pot that hung from the black iron frame- 
 work above the hearth. She was stirring up a great 
 savoury mess of pork and cabbage, whilst in another pot 
 the potatoes were simmering. The men, father and son, 
 were conversing in the yard. The young man, slightly 
 rebellious against circumstances, was making angry com- 
 ments on the sermon. Two others, neighbours, were 
 listening. 
 
 "I can't stand this," said Pierry. '"Tis all patience! 
 patience! and thrust in God. Betther for us thrust in our 
 own right arrums. 'The blackest hour is before the 
 dawn!' Thin, the dawn must be near, because the hour 
 is black enough now! Why don't the prieshts lade us? 
 Why don't they tell us: Rise up like min, and don't lie 
 undher like whipped puppies — ?" 
 
 "Because they see farther than you," said his father. 
 "They have the ejucation that you haven't; and they have 
 the Sperrit of God guidin' them." 
 
 "Begobs, thin," said Pierry, "I wish to God they'd see
 
 "IN THE SWEAT OF THY BROW" 69 
 
 as far as to-morrow; and tell us what we are to do, whin 
 these — bailiffs are upon us." 
 
 "Lave to-morrow look out for itself," said the old man. 
 "God will be there to-morrow as well as to-day." 
 
 "A piece of lead, an' a grain of powdher — " said 
 Pierry, but his father whispered: "Whist!" as Maxwell 
 came into the yard. 
 
 The latter noticed the sudden silence, but said nothing. 
 The three young men slunk silently away. The old man 
 said: 
 
 "Nothin' unusual turned up, I suppose?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Maxwell, who was somewhat disturbed 
 by the apparent suspicion with which he was regarded. 
 
 "You said your own prayers in your own way, I sup- 
 pose?" said the old man. 
 
 "I thought a good deal," said Maxwell. "Sometimes, 
 thinking is praying." 
 
 "Thrue for you," said the old man. "Just as I sup- 
 pose working is praying, as the priesht sometimes tell us!" 
 
 "And your priest is right," said Maxwell, earnestly. 
 "The old monks have left the motto, Laborare est orare, 
 to labour is to pray!" 
 
 They sat down to the Sunday dinner. Pierry's absence 
 was not noticed. On Sundays young men went away 
 from home very often to a hurling match, or a dance, and 
 took pot-luck with the neighbours. The meal proceeded 
 in silence; the old man was sunk in his own reflections. 
 Maxwell was disturbed. Clearly, from what he had heard 
 when he came into the yard, he was amongst these people, 
 but not of them. They were evidently in trouble, and 
 they could not confide in him. He had no right to com-
 
 70 LKHEEN 
 
 plain, of course, but if this barrier of distrust was not 
 broken down, his mission would remain unfulfilled. And 
 yet he was in a new country; and a single false step would, 
 he knew, be fatal. It was a sudden problem, and Max- 
 well had experience enough to know that he must not be 
 precipitate. And yet the question would force itself upon 
 him; should he await the development of events, or antici- 
 pate them by inquiries? Prudence pointed to the first 
 course. But, as he silently ate his dinner, he reflected: 
 These people took me in, a stranger, broke bread with 
 me, made no hard stipulation with me; a great cloud is 
 looming over them, and I — 
 
 He pushed aside the plate and porringer, and said, with 
 a steady gaze at the old man: 
 
 "You're in trouble, I understand!" 
 
 The old man started a little, laid down his knife and 
 fork, and said hesitatingly: 
 
 "A little. Sure, we're always in throuble, welcome be 
 the will of God." 
 
 The mother, sitting by the hearth, coughed slightly. 
 Debbie looked anxious. 
 
 "I have no right," said Maxwell, "to intrude upon your 
 secrets; but if I can help you in any way, you may com- 
 mand me." 
 
 "We're much obliged to you," said Owen McAuliffe. 
 "But sure, we've no right to put our throubles upon 
 sthrange shoulders — " 
 
 "I might be able to see farther than you," said Maxwell, 
 who was now very anxious to help these poor people. 
 "I've seen a bit of the world, and had some experience 
 of trouble myself."
 
 "IN THE SWEAT OF THY BROW" 71 
 
 "Well, thin, you're young to have throuble," said the 
 old man. "But sure there can be no harrum in telling 
 you what all the parish knows. We owe a year's rent, 
 an' haven't the manes to pay it. The agent has took out 
 a decree aginst us; and we don't know the minute the 
 bailiffs will be upon us and seize all we have." 
 
 "That's hard lines," said Maxwell, sympathetically. 
 "But what do you propose to do?" 
 
 "There's the throuble," said the old man, anxiously. 
 "Pierry and the bhoys wants to meet the bailiffs wanst 
 and forever and have it out wid them — " 
 
 "You mean to resist?" asked Maxwell, anxiously. 
 
 "Yes; to fight it out wid them; and let the case go 
 before the counthry." 
 
 "That means bloodshed and imprisonment," said 
 Maxwell. 
 
 "Yes; and thin — av coorse, Pierry won't shtay in the 
 counthry. He'll go to America, whin he comes out of 
 gaol!" 
 
 This looked bad. It meant heavy trial on this poor 
 family, and the final disruption of their home. Maxwell 
 •leaned his head on his hand, and began to think. After 
 some time, he asked anxiously: 
 
 "Is there no alternative? I mean, can nothing else be 
 done?" 
 
 " Nothing," said the old man, "except to clear the farm." 
 
 "You mean to remove the cattle and everything else 
 that might be saleable?" 
 
 "Yes; that's just it. And that's what we want, as it is 
 the aisiest way out of the throuble." 
 
 "But then they'll evict you," said Maxwell.
 
 72 LISHEEN 
 
 "No," said the old man. "Because, if they did, they'd 
 lose everythin' as well as we ourselves." 
 
 "And why not clear the farm then, as you say? It will 
 stop bloodshed, and avert serious trouble from your 
 home." 
 
 "Thrue for you, but Pierry and the bhoys won't have 
 it. They want to have it out wanst and forever." 
 
 Here was a difficulty that put Maxwell at his wits' 
 ends to solve. Ruin was before this poor family — abso- 
 lute, irretrievable ruin. He felt deeply for them. The 
 great problem of the land was presented to his eyes naked 
 to be solved. And he saw that his own little programme 
 would come to a summary end with the ruin of this little 
 household. He could not commence to work out the 
 problem elsewhere again. 
 
 After a long pause he said: 
 
 "By the way, how much is due? What will satisfy the 
 agent?" 
 
 "We owe him twelve pounds," said the old man. "I 
 carried in seven pounds to Thralee to him. 'Twas all I 
 could gather. I axed him lave us alone till we sould the 
 hay and the handful of oats. He thrun the seven notes 
 in me face, and the nixt day I had an attorney's letter, 
 with costs. I wouldn't mind," he continued, "but we 
 lost a couple of calves in the spring; and a young colt, 
 which we expected would make the rint for us." 
 
 "Look here," said Maxwell with sudden determination, 
 " we must prevent violence at any cost. Where is Pierry ? ' ' 
 
 "Gone down to the dance, or perhaps to the forge to 
 gather the bhoys for the morning," replied the old man. 
 
 "Then you and I will clear the farm," said Maxwell.
 
 "IN THE SWEAT OF THY BROW" 73 
 
 "Begobs, you're a man," said the old man, enthusiasti- 
 cally, and the mother said: "God bless you!" and Debbie 
 said nothing, but looked as if a great load were lifted off 
 her mind. 
 
 "But — " said the old man, lingering, 
 
 "What?" said Maxwell. 
 
 "This is a Sunday," was the reply, "and maybe you 
 wouldn't like workin' on a Sunday?" 
 
 "No matter," said Maxwell. "If we are breaking one 
 law, we might as well break another, though it will be 
 easier to get pardon from above." 
 
 "An' sure 'tis a good work, an' it may prevint murder," 
 said the old man. 
 
 "Come!" said Maxwell. "There's no time to lose. 
 Pierry will be back before dark; and we must have fin- 
 ished before he returns. What shall I take, and where 
 shall I go?" 
 
 "The aisiest job for you," said Owen McAuliffe, 
 "would be to drive the two heifers up the mountains into 
 the glin where Mike Ahern's cattle are. They are as like 
 as two pins; and nobody but Mike himself will know 
 them asunder." 
 
 "And you can trust him?" said Maxwell. 
 
 "Oyeh, thrust Mike Ahern? As my own brother," 
 replied the old man. 
 
 And Maxwell set out to break the Sabbath, and the 
 law of the land at the same time.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 IMMEMOR SUI 
 
 **If any one had told me a few weeks ago," thought 
 Bob Maxwell, as he trudged up the hill toward the field 
 where the heifers were feeding, "that I, Robert Maxwell, 
 Esq., gentleman and landlord, would be engaged this 
 Sunday afternoon in violating British law, and upsetting 
 British order, by frustrating the execution of her Majesty's 
 writ, I should have deemed him a madman. In the eyes 
 of the law, I am about to do a most unjustifiable thing; 
 in the light of conscience, a deed that is praiseworthy. 
 Which is right? Or are both? Is the law justice, or 
 shall justice be the law?" 
 
 But the die was cast. He drove the heifers out of 
 the little valley where they were feeding, out through the 
 broken fence, and on to the high-road that led up to the 
 mountain. He had only a rough furze root in his hand, 
 and he shouted Ho! Ho! Yeho! Yeho! as he had heard 
 the boys shouting from time to time. There was a dis- 
 tance of about three miles up along the mountain road 
 to the glen where Mike Ahern's cottage nestled; and, as 
 the night sank early. Maxwell was anxious to push along 
 rapidly, and get home before nightfall. He had accom- 
 plished the greater part of his journey, and was whistling 
 softly to himself, when suddenly two men stepped out 
 upon the road from behind a clump of furze, and per- 
 
 74
 
 IMMEMOR SUI 75 
 
 emptorily challenged him. They were rough, strong men, 
 and clad in a manner that showed Maxwell at once that 
 they did not belong to the farmer or labouring class. 
 One of them struck the heifers lightly with a switch, and 
 the animals swerved back into the ditch, as the fellow 
 said: 
 
 '' Hello ! young man, where are you taking these heifers ? " 
 
 Maxwell's temper had instantly risen; and he said 
 angrily : 
 
 "That's my business. Who are you that attempt to 
 stop me on the Queen's highway?" 
 
 Something in his air of determination and his peculiar 
 accent struck the man, for he said: 
 
 "We are here in the name of the law. Whose cattle 
 are these; and where are you taking them?" 
 
 "The cattle are mine so long as they are in my posses- 
 sion," said MaxwTll. "Where I am taking them is my 
 own affair. Allow me to pass, please, or take the conse- 
 quences of an illegal seizure and arrest." 
 
 This unexpected style of address caused the men to fall 
 back and consult together. Maxwell took advantage of 
 the indecision; and striking the animals to get them out 
 of the dyke, he shouted again Ho! Ho! Yeho! and pro- 
 ceeded on his way all the more expeditiously, because he 
 guessed at once they were either the bailiffs, who were 
 expected next morning, or spies sent to report whether 
 the cattle had been removed. As there was no police 
 escort, he rightly conjectured that they did not mean 
 business that evening. In an hour he had reached the 
 crest of the hills, and was looking down into the glen, 
 where, scattered here and there across the darkening
 
 76 LISHEEN 
 
 fields, Mike Ahern's cattle were feeding. He drove his 
 own heifers up to the door of the cabin, and announced 
 his mission. 
 
 "Bannacht lath!'' said Mike Ahern, coming out from 
 the dark, smoky recesses of the cabin. "So you dodged 
 the bailiffs, gossoon. Come in! Come in! 'Twas as 
 good as a play!" 
 
 " What ? What do you mean ? " said Maxwell, puzzled. 
 "Surely, none of you were there?" 
 
 "Oh! begobs, we wor," was the reply, "and ready to 
 lind a helpin' hand if you wanted it. But, begor, you 
 didn't. They thought 'twas the Lord Lieutenant himself 
 that wos shpakin' to them. Won't they be mad with 
 thimsel's to-morrow morning. But come in, come in, an' 
 take sumthin' agin the road." 
 
 Bob Maxwell declined the whisky that was offered him, 
 but asked for milk, which was freely given. He drank 
 standing, but this was considered incompatible with hos- 
 pitality, so he had to sit down, and accept the delighted 
 admiration of the family, and the many neighbours who 
 had been hovering around the place all the evening in 
 expectation of a scene with the bailiffs. 
 
 Mike Ahern, who prided himself on being a skilful 
 diplomatist, and who was universally reputed as a very 
 "knowledgeable man," did not allude further to the 
 evening's escapade; but fell back, like a wise man, on 
 generalities. 
 
 "Well, now, "said he, as Maxwell sat contentedly with the 
 porringer in his hand, "an' how do ye like the counthry ?" 
 
 "Very well," said Maxwell, cheerfully. "I like the 
 country and I like the people."
 
 IMMEMOR SUI 77 
 
 " Wisha, 'tis a poor counthry," said Mike Ahern, tenta- 
 tively. 
 
 "Poverty and riches are only two forms of necessity," 
 said Maxwell. 
 
 Mike Ahern looked puzzled and scratched his head; 
 but he murmured: 
 
 "That's thrue for you, begor!" 
 
 "I mean," said Maxwell, mercifully, "that the poor 
 man wants a little; the rich man a good deal; and, you 
 know, the more you want the poorer you are ! Therefore, 
 a rich man is only another name for a poor man." 
 
 This was a logical thesis that puzzled his audience 
 considerably. But he was in excellent humour, as any 
 man should be who is surrounded by an admiring crowd, 
 so he condescended to explain. 
 
 "What would you call a rich man, now?" he asked, 
 addressing Mike Ahern. 
 
 "A rich man?" said Mike, alarmed. "Begobs, that 
 depinds!" 
 
 "So it does," replied Maxwell. "But I suppose you'd 
 call a man rich that would have, say, a hundred thousand 
 pounds?" 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" said Mike Ahern. "Faix, an' I would, 
 or half, or quarter, or a tinth of it. Tare an' 'ouns, man, 
 a — hundred — thousand — pounds!" 
 
 "Well, I call him 'poor,' " said Maxwell, calmly. "Be- 
 cause there never yet was a man that had a hundred 
 thousand pounds that did not want a hundred thousand 
 more. And a man that wants a hundred thousand pounds 
 is a poor man, isn't he?" 
 
 "Faith, I suppose he is!" said Mike Ahern, dubiously.
 
 78 LISHEEN 
 
 "But to come down lower," said Bob Maxwell, entering 
 into the fun of the thing. "Would you call yourself a 
 poor man?" 
 
 "Begor, whatever I call mesclf, or any wan else, I am 
 poor enough, God knows!" 
 
 "And yet," said Maxwell, " if you had a hundred pounds 
 in the bank at Tralee, you'd be poorer still/'' 
 
 "Would I, though?" said Mike Ahern, with a wink 
 around the circle, "That's the divil's own quare thing 
 entirely. Thry me with it, and you'll see." 
 
 "Well," said Maxwell. "Here is how the matter 
 stands. How do you sleep now?" 
 
 "Divil a betther," said Mike Ahern. "From the 
 minute I puts me head on the pillow a cannon ball wouldn't 
 wake me!" 
 
 "And how is the appetite?" said Maxwell. 
 
 "Divil a betther," said Mike Ahern. "Ax herself or 
 Anstie there, an' they'll tell you." 
 
 "Oh, begor, that's thrue, whatever," said Mrs. Ahern. 
 "There are times when he'd ate the paving stones." 
 
 "Very good," said Maxwell, "Now, if you had a 
 hundred pounds in the bank, you'd never sleep or eat 
 again; and you might as well have as much tissue paper 
 as bank notes, for all \he good they'd do you!" 
 
 "Yerra, stop your codraulin'," said Mike Ahern. 
 "Why shouldn't I shleep and ate, wid me rint safe and 
 sound in the bank?" 
 
 "Because you'd be thinking every minute of the night 
 and day that the bank would break and ruin you; or that 
 the manager would run away with your little deposit; 
 or that a thief would break in and rob you. Then the
 
 IMMEMOR SUI 79 
 
 missus would want a new gown and Anstie a new hat; 
 and the neighbours would want to borrow a little from 
 you to ease your burden; and you'd never have a moment's 
 rest, night or day, until you became a poor man, that is, 
 a rich man again, that is, until you had little and wanted 
 nothing." 
 
 There was a titter amongst the boys at Mike's expense; 
 so he turned the conversation. 
 
 "Well, I suppose you had not much to spare in the 
 army, whatever," he said. "Poor sojers can't spare 
 much on a shilling a day!" 
 
 Maxwell was thunderstruck. The sudden revelation 
 disconcerted him considerably. Here, then, was the 
 estimate formed of him by these people — a discharged 
 soldier, or worse. He looked frightened, but the old 
 man, seeing it, came to his relief. 
 
 "Wisha, you needn't be put about, me poor bhoy, by 
 what I said. Your secret is as safe wid us as wid yerself. 
 If the peelers are waitin' to hear from us, they'll wait a 
 long time." 
 
 Maxwell was too puzzled to say anything. Mike 
 Ahern came to his relief again. 
 
 "I suppose now whin you go into battle you're afraid- 
 like — I mane most min are afraid?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maxwell, slowly regaining speech. He 
 raised his eyes and looked around and saw something 
 that made him quite determined to humour the fancy 
 as long as he could. It was nothing more than a few 
 rough boards leaning on a nail against the wall, and con- 
 taining a few tattered books. In the dim light he made 
 out the one word, "Shakespeare," and his heart leaped
 
 8o LISHEEN 
 
 with joy. For, amidst all the causes of depression that 
 assailed him in his new life, the worst was the lack of all 
 intellectual exercise or pleasure. Reading had been the 
 mainstay of his life in city and camp. It had become a 
 necesssity of existence. And much as he felt the loneli- 
 ness and the poverty and the dismal surroundings of his 
 new life, he thought he could bear up against the terrible 
 depression, if only he could fly sometimes from the tor- 
 ture of his own thoughts and go out into those delightful 
 realms of fancy created by the masters of poetry and 
 fiction for the benefit of the race. A hundred times he 
 was tempted to ask Pierry to beg a loan of a few books 
 from the priest — the only one within miles who would 
 be likely to possess any. But he shrank in shyness from 
 making such a request, and had his soul starved in con- 
 sequence. Now, unexpectedly, he had lighted on a treas- 
 ure, and his eyes shone with delight, like those of a 
 thrice-disappointed miner who has just seen beneath the 
 dull brown earth the gleam of hidden gold. 
 
 "Yes," he replied to Mike Ahearn's question, "that's 
 true. No man, no matter how brave, hears the bullets 
 whistle round him for the first time without fear and 
 shrinking. Then the temper rises when one begins to 
 think that over there are fellows who want to murder 
 him. And then he becomes mad, mad, and he wants to 
 kill, kill, everybody and everything." 
 
 The young men understood him well. They were of 
 the fighting race — the knights of the spade and sword. 
 
 "Men are strange beings," continued Maxwell, solilo- 
 quizing. " Just as you have often seen a horse, especially 
 at night, start at shadows and tremble all over and shake
 
 IMMEMOR SUr 8i 
 
 and become white with sweat, where the rider sees nothing; 
 and then at another time, without any apparent cause, 
 will take the bit between his teeth and pull to the devil, 
 so it is with men. We are always starting at shadows, 
 and then driving mad to ruin and destruction." 
 
 "What you say about the horses is thrue, whatever," 
 said one of the young men. "I see you wor a dragoon, 
 or else you could never have known them so well. But 
 min don't start and sweat at shaddas!" 
 
 "Don't they?" said Maxwell, turning around, and 
 facing his interlocutor, who sat back amidst a group upon 
 the settle. "I bet you a pipe of tobacco, that I'll make 
 you shiver and tremble, like a girl, before ten minutes." 
 
 "Begobs, thin, you couldn't," said the young fellow, 
 completely misunderstanding Maxwell, and standing up 
 to divest himself of his coat for a fight, "nor a betther man 
 
 den you. Come on, you d d desarter, an' lemma see 
 
 you do it!" 
 
 The others tried to pull the fellow back into the seat, 
 and to calm him, but it was no easy task. 
 
 "No, no; I wo' not be quiet," he said, struggling against 
 them, "didn't the fellow say he'd make me thrimble be- 
 fore him. D him, I often bate a betther man than 
 
 him. Let him come on now, or come out into the haggart, 
 where the wimmin won't be frickened! No, no; I won't 
 sit down, till I have it out wid him." 
 
 Maxwell himself was amazed, and even frightened. He 
 had excellent nerves, but they began to sink under the new 
 and utterly strange circumstances in which he found himself. 
 
 "You misunderstand me, my dear fellow," he said, 
 rising up. "I didn't mean that. Put on your coat." 
 6
 
 82 LISHEEN 
 
 "Oh, you didn't mane that, you didn't," sneered the 
 other. "Of course you didn't, not you. Well, would 
 you be plazed to tell the company what you did mane, 
 whin you said you could best me?" 
 
 "I never said I could best you," said Maxwell, meekly. 
 "What I meant was to show you how easily we are in- 
 fluenced, so that I can make any of you laugh or cry, 
 get frightened or angry, in a few minutes, and merely by 
 word of mouth. Which will you have first," he con- 
 tinued, with a gaiety he did not feel, "the laugh or the 
 fright?" 
 
 "Begor," said Mike Ahern, "like the man that was 
 invited to taste the tay or the whishky, and thought he'd 
 take the whishky whilst they wor makin' the tay, we'll 
 have the fright over first, that we may get our night's 
 rest afther." 
 
 "He may go on, but he's not goin' to fricken me," said 
 the young man who thought he was challenged. 
 
 "Then, hand me down that book," said Max^vell, 
 pointing to the blackened and tattered Shakespeare. 
 
 But here commenced another painful scene. For just 
 as Mike Ahern was stretching his hand towards the book, 
 his wife, a middle-aged, sorrow-stricken woman, began 
 to rock herself to and fro, on the sugan chair where she 
 was sitting, and to moan out, as she clasped and reclasped 
 her hands before her; 
 
 "Oh, vo! vo! oh! mavrone! ma\Tone! to think of you, 
 to-night, me darlin' bhoy, away from me, your mother, 
 an' I here alone, alone! Oh, don't tetch 'em! don't tetch 
 'em, me poor bhoy's books, that he loved in his heart of 
 hearts! Oh, lave 'em alone! lave 'em alone! Didn't I
 
 IMMEMOR SUI 83 
 
 promise him that no hand but his should titch 'em tell 
 he come back, me fair-haired bhoy — ?" 
 
 It was the old, old story in Ireland. The darling son, 
 the flower of the flock, the sunny, bright-haired boy, who 
 had no taste for sports or fun, but only for the books and 
 his prayers; set apart for Levitical purposes, the one 
 o\'crwhelming ambition of the Irish mother ; sent to college 
 out of the scrapings and economies of the humble house- 
 hold; coming back on his holidays, the light of his mother's 
 eyes; then, suddenly disappearing, as if swallowed up in a 
 mighty storm of anguish; and leaving behind him a terrible 
 memory of shattered hopes, disappointed ambitions, and 
 the stern judgment of silence on the hearth he had dese- 
 crated, except for those eternal echoes of maternal love, 
 that no ban or judgment, public or private, could ever 
 stifle or extinguish. It was no alleviation of her misery 
 to learn that her boy, deeming himself unsuited to the 
 ecclesiastical state, had gone to New York, and was now 
 a successful journalist on one of the leading papers; that 
 he had a salary of ten pounds a week, and was reputed a 
 man who might rise to the highest departments in his pro- 
 fession. She would rather see him a young curate in the 
 remotest chapel on the Kerry mountains, or down where 
 the Atlantic surges beat against the beehive cells of ancient 
 monks and hermits — anywhere, anywhere, provided she 
 could see him in the priest's vestments at the altar of 
 God. 
 
 "Wisha, shure, he can't do any harrum," said Mike 
 Ahern to the wife who still continued rocking herself to 
 and fro on the chair, and clasping and unclasping her 
 hands, and moaning. "Sure, he's not going to run away
 
 84 LISHEEN 
 
 wid 'em. Here, bhoy,take the book, an' see what you can 
 make of it." 
 
 But Maxwell's nerves were now too shaken; and he 
 excused himself. A strange fear had come down upon 
 his soul. The weird place, hidden away in mountain 
 solitudes, the high winds that forever moaned and wailed 
 about the valleys, the darkness of the cabin, lighted only 
 by the turf and wood fire, which cast vast, uncanny 
 shadows on the walls and up against the blackened thatch 
 and the rafters that were ebonized by years of smoke, the 
 wild faces all around, reddened by the fire whilst all else 
 was blind and black in the shadow; the anger of the young 
 man, who, without the slightest provocation, wanted to 
 pick a quarrel; the secrecy with which, as they had con- 
 fessed, they had watched him coming up the mountain 
 side; and lastly, the sudden emotion of the gray-haired 
 woman by the fire — all combined to remind Maxwell 
 that he was in strange and perhaps perilous circumstances 
 of life; and brought to his memory one parting word of 
 Outram's: "You are afraid. Maxwell. You don't trust 
 the noblest peasantry in the world. You need a talis- 
 man!" 
 
 He tried to shake it off, but in vain. Then he thought 
 he had been led into a horrid trap by the very family with 
 which he had been living in such amity during the last 
 few weeks. Perhaps, after all, the old suspicion was 
 right; and that he had betrayed himself into surroundings 
 of extreme peril. All that he had ever heard of the 
 bloodthirstiness of the peasantry, of their hatred of land- 
 lords, of their disregard for human life, came back to him; 
 and one only thought took possession of him — how to
 
 IMMEMOR SUI 85 
 
 get away from such uncann}^ people, and get back to civil- 
 ization once more. 
 
 He took the ring that Outram had given him from his 
 pocket, and put it quietly on his little finger. In the dark 
 atmosphere it began to smoke and emit flames. He put 
 his hand over his head, and stroked down his hair, so that 
 all might see the talisman. They were very soon as 
 frightened as himself, and Mike Ahern, thrusting the 
 "Shakespeare" into his hands, said tremulously: 
 
 "Here, sure, if that's what you want, 'tis aisily settled. 
 But I'm thinkin' we'll put off the fright and the laugh to 
 some other time." 
 
 Maxwell took the book; but with great courtesy he 
 stooped over and held it out towards the poor mother: 
 
 "I'll bring it back to you safe as I got it," he said. 
 " Only let me have it for a few days." 
 
 The terrible ring flamed under her eyes; and she turned 
 away. 
 
 "Oh, take it! take it! in the Name of God," she said, 
 "and go away. I knew the divil had somethin' to say to 
 you, whin I saw you comin' into the house." 
 
 Maxwell accepted the compliment, and with an affected 
 gaiety, he said: "Good-night, lads!" and went down along 
 the mountain road to his home.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 BROKEN CORDS 
 
 Was Maxwell missed from Dublin society? Not in 
 the least. His landlord friends had departed, each down 
 to his own mansion by moor, or mountain, or sea, and had 
 forgotten all about him. Once or twice his Quixotic 
 ideas about property and tenants were alluded to as a 
 joke in the Dublin club, and then dropped suddenly. 
 
 In the more gentle social life, too, the life that runs its 
 pleasant course through steady rounds of balls and parties, 
 over smooth-shaven tennis-lawns and polished floors, to 
 the accompaniment of military bands or famous violinists, 
 his name was never mentioned. The truth is that Bob 
 Maxwell had been more or less of a recluse, and had had 
 a decided aversion to the frivolities of life, mingling with 
 the throng just because there was a certain silent law com- 
 pelling him; but unsympathetic, and, if he dared confess 
 it, somewhat contemptuous and pitying. He was amongst 
 them, but not of them. They knew it; and they gave him 
 back indifference for indifference. 
 
 In one place alone he was remembered — remembered 
 with angry affection and resentful scorn. Old Major 
 Willoughby was connected with Maxwell by marriage; 
 but there was a closer bond in the intimacy, or rather the 
 close friendship, that had subsisted, since they were young 
 subalterns, between himself and Bob Maxwell's father. 
 
 86
 
 BROKEN CORDS 87 
 
 Men who have messed together in their adolescence, who 
 have been sundered by the War office, who have again met 
 and fought, side by side, against Pathan or Afghan, who 
 have camped out together in Himalayan snows, and have 
 ridden, neck to neck, over ploughed fields in Ireland, are 
 not likely to view each other coldly, or through the wTap- 
 pings of social convenances. And when Maxwell's father 
 died, leaving an only son, heir to large estates, it was the 
 darling hope of the old Major's life, to see the son of his 
 old friend and his own beloved daughter happily married 
 in the enjoyment of their joint estates. Hence there was 
 a tacit engagement, prolonged only because the Dublin 
 doctors had some suspicion of Maxwell's health; and the 
 latter was slow, through a sense of honour, in assuming 
 responsibilities until he was assured he was qualified to 
 discharge them. Hence, there were many discrepancies 
 and disagreements amongst the young people during this 
 protracted engagement; and these grew more intense and 
 embittered as each began to perceive that their dispositions 
 hardly suited. During their stay at Caragh Lake the 
 conviction had dawned into certainty that neither in taste 
 nor temper were they suited to draw the chariot of life 
 together; and they had parted without any formal relin- 
 quishment or rupture of their engagement, and yet with 
 the understanding, unspoken but understood, that all 
 question of marriage was at end between them. On his 
 part, this sundering of such close ties was taken with an 
 equanimity that would have been singular, and even un- 
 natural, but that he had always regarded their engagement 
 as a something artificial, and made to suit the whims of 
 others; and, as we have seen, his thoughts had taken a
 
 88 LISHEEN 
 
 higher range along summits whose austere sublimities 
 frowned down upon the felicities of happy hearths and 
 households. On her part, she was little loth to break an 
 engagement with one whose health was imperfect, and 
 whose sympathies swept beyond the minor affections and 
 attentions, where women place their destinies with their 
 hearts. And when a new and more sympathetic figure 
 came into her life, in the person of Ralph Outram, who, 
 belonging more to the nether world, could yet touch her 
 maiden fancies with dream- pictures of Indian life, savage 
 and picturesque, military and native, squalid and sublime, 
 but above all mysterious and occult as the predictions of 
 Sybils, or the rites of some Eleusis, she gladly abandoned 
 an engagement that could only be fraught with disappoint- 
 ment, and went over to a newer and more human life, 
 which instinct and reason told her would be more helpful 
 to her happiness and peace. 
 
 But, if this pleased Mabel Willoughby, it did not suit 
 the plans and ambitions of her father. At first, he found 
 it impossible to believe that the dream of his life was at an 
 end, and that all his happy arrangements were silently 
 frustrated. He had been used to command, and to be 
 obeyed. He could not understand disobedience or re- 
 sistance. He also considered that he had as much right 
 to exact obedience from Maxwell as from Mabel ; and when 
 he found that suddenly all his delightful plans were frus- 
 trated, he raged equally against both. 
 
 "'Tis all d d rot," he said one morning to his 
 
 daughter, after a stormy scene, now, alas! of frequent 
 occurrence between them, "to tell me that Bob has gone 
 away through some confounded fad or another. Bob
 
 BROKEN CORDS 89 
 
 was too level-headed for that kind of thing. 'Twas you 
 yourself, with your confounded whims and nonsense, 
 drove the boy away." 
 
 "I don't wish to argue the matter further," she said, 
 with a certain kind of coldness that could hardly be called 
 sarcasm. "I have only to repeat that there was no scene, 
 no rupture between Mr. Maxwell and myself; and that, 
 so report goes, he has embarked on a foolish enterprise, 
 where it would be idle and degrading to follow him." 
 
 " I don't believe one word of it," said the Major. " 'Tis 
 that confounded Indian fellow — that nabob, or rajah, 
 or something — who has spread the report for some vile 
 purpose of his own. I say, Mabel, beware of that fellow. 
 I don't hke him; and we know nothing of him." 
 
 " Except," said Mabel, "that he has been now appointed 
 aide-de-camp to the Viceroy, and has got his C. B." 
 
 "What? What?" said the Major. "Then the fellow 
 is somebody after all. Well, no matter. Bob Maxwell 
 for me. Old friends, old books, old wine for me. See 
 here, Mabel, get me at once pen and paper. I'll put an 
 advertisement first in the Irish Times, and if that fails 
 to fetch him, by the Lord, I'll put him in the Hue and 
 Cry, and get him arrested." 
 
 Mabel dutifully brought pen and paper to her irascible 
 father; and he spent half the day concocting a notice for 
 the Irish Times. These were some of the specimens, 
 which, however, never reached the dignity of print. 
 
 "Missing. — Young gentleman; aged thirty; hair 
 brown; eyes — What kind of eyes had Bob, Mabel?" 
 
 "I hardly know, I'm sure," said Mabel. "Say — 
 hazel. It means anything and everything!"
 
 90 
 
 LISHEEN 
 
 " — Hazel; height about five feet ten inches (it may be 
 an inch or two more); call him 'Bob' suddenly, and he 
 will reveal himself. If any one should find him, corre- 
 spond with Major Willoughby, late ist Dragoon Guards, 
 Dalmeny, Dublin." 
 
 ''There," said the Major, after reading it aloud for his 
 daughter. "That'll fetch him!" 
 
 "I wouldn't insert that if I were you," said his daughter. 
 
 "Why? Why?" said the Major. 
 
 "Because you will make yourself the laughing-stock of 
 every mess and club in Dublin," said Mabel. 
 
 "Why? Why? What the devil have I said?" said the 
 Major. "Isn't it plain as a pikestaff?" 
 
 "Too plain," said Mabel. 
 
 And her father tossed the paper into the fire. Later 
 in the day, after much cogitation, he wrote: "If Robert 
 Maxwell will return from his foolish and absurd expe- 
 dition, and come back to his friends, all will be forgiven 
 and forgotten," 
 
 This, too, after a similar scene, passed into the fire. 
 
 Later on he wrote: 
 
 "If any member of the R. I. C. or the military in 
 the counties of Cork, or Kerry, or Limerick, have any 
 information or tidings about a young gentleman, who is 
 roaming around the country in disguise, he will receive a 
 handsome reward by communicating such intelligence to 
 Major Willoughby, Dalmeny, Dublin." 
 
 This was an after-lunch composition; and the Major 
 read it over nearly a hundred times. When Mabel came 
 in to tea the Major read it to her. He looked at her wist- 
 fully.
 
 BROKEN CORDS 91 
 
 "'Tis better," she said coolly, "than the other com- 
 positions. But I should say it would be wiser to have 
 your intelligence or information sent to 'Major, this 
 office.'" 
 
 "That's an anonymous business," said the Major. 
 "I hate that kind of thing. I'm not ashamed of my 
 name, Mabel." 
 
 "N — no"; she said slowly, throwing her hat and 
 jacket on a sofa. "But I shouldn't like to be exposed to 
 ridicule just now." 
 
 "Ridicule? Just now?" echoed the Major. 
 
 "Yes," said Mabel, going over and arranging her hair 
 before a mantel mirror. "The subject is one that is 
 causing some merriment in society ; and — ah ! — I — 
 well, Mr. Outram mightn't like it!" 
 
 "Mr. Outram?" said the Major, flaring up. "Mr. 
 Outram! And who the devil cares what Mr. Outram 
 likes, or dislikes?" 
 
 "Why, I, for one, care a good deal," said his daughter, 
 coming over and calmly pouring out some tea. 
 
 "You?" said the Major, growing pale with apprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 "Yes," said Mabel. "Mr. Outram and I are engaged!'''' 
 
 At the sudden and awful revelation the Major was 
 struck dumb. He stared at the cool, supercilious face of 
 his daughter, whilst a tornado of impetuous language 
 swept through his mind, and would have escaped his lips, 
 but for that 'cruelly meek' expression, that bade him be- 
 ware, for he was no match for a woman. The quiet way 
 in which she had conquered; her cold, passionless manner 
 in announcing her engagement to a man whom she knew
 
 92 LISHEEN 
 
 her father cordially detested, made him suddenly realize 
 that should he force a quarrel here, he would be certainly 
 defeated. After a while, he muttered between his 
 lips: 
 
 "Very good!" 
 
 Then, as the old affection for the deserted Bob came 
 back, and he imagined the latter wandering houseless 
 and alone through wild, savage places, whilst his cousin, 
 without a particle of feeling or remorse, had transferred 
 her affections to an absolute stranger, a feeling of great 
 compassion for Maxwell came over him, and the tears 
 started into his eyes. 
 
 "And so you have thrown Bob Maxwell over," he said 
 at length. "Poor Bob!" 
 
 "Well, no," she said, with singular composure. "I 
 should rather say that Mr. Maxwell had made it but too 
 clear that he wished our engagement at an end!" 
 
 "That puts a new complexion on affairs," said the 
 Major. "When did Bob break up the matter?" 
 
 "There was no formal understanding between us," said 
 Mabel. "But I knew, after that last evening in the 
 Caragh Lake Hotel, that it was his wish that all should 
 be at an end between us." 
 
 "But he never said so?" persisted her father. 
 
 "No, never, but I had no intention of waiting till I was 
 contemptuously dismissed. And this Quixotic expedition 
 would have brought the matter otherwise to a termination." 
 
 "I don't believe one d d word of it," said the 
 
 Major, in a sudden fury. " 'Tis some d d lie, invented 
 
 by this Outram or some such sneaking fellow, to prejudice 
 you against your cousin."
 
 BROKEN CORDS 93 
 
 "I take no account, Father," she said, "of your violent 
 language ; but it is quite useless to suppose that what every 
 club and mess were talking about a month ago could be 
 altogether a fabrication. You knew that Mr. Maxwell 
 was not dishonourable!" 
 
 "Yes; by heaven, I'd swear it," said the old man. 
 "Bob Maxwell was the soul of honour!" 
 
 "Then, when he made an engagement, call it rash, 
 Quixotic, mad, you may be sure he'd keep it!" 
 
 "Yes, certainly, but then he must have been betrayed 
 into it by taunts of cowardice, or somehow. He was too 
 level-headed a fellow to give up his rooms, his club, and 
 — and — and you, Mab, to start off on a fool's errand. 
 Besides," continued the old man earnestly, as he advanced 
 in the defence of his favourite, "Bob was the last man in 
 Ireland to disgrace himself, his family, and his class, by 
 doing what these scoundrels say he did. A gentleman 
 may lose at cards, or on horses, or get decently drunk on 
 honest port, or run away from a scoundrelly bailiff, and 
 be still a gentleman; but to go down amongst these rob- 
 bing, murdering ruffians, who'd think no more of shooting 
 him than if he were a dog, if once they discovered he was 
 a gentleman — no, no ; Bob Maxwell, take my word for 
 it, has never disgraced himself thus!" 
 
 And the Major puffed and puffed, as he struggled to 
 catch his breath after such an outburst of eloquence. 
 
 Mabel was silent. The Major took the last paper he 
 had intended as an advertisement, and flung it in the fire. 
 Rollo, his big retriever, who had been sleeping on the rug, 
 roused himself, came over, and placed his great head on 
 the Major's knee.
 
 94 LISHEEN 
 
 After a long and awkward interval of silence, Mabel 
 arose and put on her hat and jacket again, preparatory 
 to going out. The old man looked at her pitifully and 
 pleadingly; but she took no notice. At last he said: 
 
 "Look here, Mab. Give me one chance to find Bob 
 and make it all right with you. Give me time to put the 
 matter into the hands of ,a detective; and I'll search 
 Ireland for him, and bring him back to you." 
 
 "To me? Oh, not to me," said his daughter. "That 
 chapter of life is over forever. If you want Mr. Maxwell 
 back, Father, by all means use every instrument you can 
 towards it. But the matter concerns me no longer. I 
 hardly think I shall meet him again!" 
 
 "You are a d d, ungrateful hussy," said the Major, 
 
 now furious again, "I shall call in Radford to-morrow; 
 
 for, by ! neither you nor that cad shall ever touch a 
 
 penny that I possess." 
 
 "You'll come back to reason, Father," she replied. 
 "And some day you'll be glad to withdraw that word, for 
 you will see its injustice." 
 
 "Injustice? No, I can't be mistaken. The fellow 
 that would steal away a girl's affection from her intended 
 husband, and who hadn't the courage to come to me and 
 state his intentions, is a cad, and a contemptible one, if 
 he had the Ribbon of the Garter." 
 
 "Well, I presume, as Mr. Outram did not care to hazard 
 your good opinion before, he is not likely to embarrass 
 you with his presence now," said Mabel, going out. 
 
 "If he does, I'll give orders to Michael to pitch him into 
 the channel," said the Major. "And now one last 
 word — "
 
 BROKEN CORDS 95 
 
 But Mabel had gone out. He heard the hall-door 
 slammed; but was unable to follow. 
 
 But next day he did communicate with a certain Dublin 
 detective, and gave instructions, whilst he detailed every 
 particular of Bob's appearance, that he was to be found, 
 cost what it might.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 CALLED BACK 
 
 When Bob Maxwell emerged from the cabin in the 
 valley the darkness had fallen, and the hea^7, drizzling 
 rain preluded a wet night. He had some difficulty in 
 making his way to the main road, for the rough passage 
 seemed to branch out into a hundred by-ways that might 
 have led him hopelessly astray. But at last he knew 
 by the evenness of the surface and the absence of rough 
 boulders that he was once more on the County Road, 
 and he pushed briskly forward towards home. But his 
 heart was heavy; and the weight of an unaccustomed 
 fear pressed down upon his spirits. Once or twice he 
 was about to return, and give back the book. "For what 
 use can it be now," he thought, "when I am leaving this 
 uncanny place forever?" But the trouble of returning 
 along the rock- strewn mountain path, and the aversion he 
 felt towards renewing such an inauspicious acquaintance, 
 determined him otherwise ; and he moved down the moun- 
 tain road, heedless of the fine, thin rain that was now 
 soaking through his garments. 
 
 It was late when he lifted the latch and pushed in the 
 half-door in Owen McAuliffe's cottage. The family were 
 seated moodily around the fire. The shadow of a great 
 trial was over them, and kept them sadly silent. As Max- 
 well entered they looked inquiringly towards him, and 
 
 96
 
 CALLED BACK 97 
 
 perceiving that it was no stranger they turned their sad 
 faces again to the fire. He went over and sat silent on 
 the settle. After a while the old man said: 
 
 " Come over and set near the fire. Were the heifers all 
 right?" 
 
 "They were all right," said Maxwell, coming over and 
 taking a chair. "Two men accosted me as I went up 
 the hill; but I paid them no heed — " 
 
 "So we hard! so we hard!" said the old man, waving 
 his pipe. "They're gettin' ready for the mornin'." 
 
 "I took them safely up to Ahern's, and left them there," 
 continued Maxwell. 
 
 "They kep' you too long up there, and you caught the 
 rain," said Mrs. Mcx\uliffe, feelingly, as she saw the steam 
 rising from Maxwell's clothes under the heat of the 
 fire. 
 
 "Yes, we were talking a good deal," said Maxwell; 
 "and I didn't heed the time. I should have come home 
 when my business was done." 
 
 "An' I suppose you had no supper now a-yet?" he was 
 asked. 
 
 "No, I had some milk — " 
 
 "Get the bhoy a cup of tay, Debbie," said the old man, 
 "the kittle is boiling." 
 
 Before he had tea, however, Pierry came in; and it 
 needed but a glance to see that Pierry was the worse 
 for drink. He flung his hat defiantly upon the settle, 
 then sat down moodily, his head between his knees. 
 
 "Oh, wisha, dheelin,' dheelin'," said the old woman, 
 rocking herself to and fro, "and this night, too, of all the 
 nights in the year." 
 7
 
 98 LISHEEN 
 
 "Whash matther wi' dis ni'?" said Pierry, raising his 
 flushed face. 
 
 But he got no answer, and seemed sunk in stupid uncon- 
 sciousness. When the tea, however, was placed on the 
 table for Maxwell, Pierry seemed to notice it; and stum- 
 bling across the kitchen, he placed himself opposite Max- 
 well and demanded tea also. They gave it to him, and 
 the strong stimulant seemed to arouse him from his stupid 
 torpor without restoring self-consciousness, for Pierry be- 
 came facetious. With that maudlin, stupid smile that 
 makes a drunken man so absurd and ridiculous, he looked 
 towards Maxwell with swimming eyes, and shouted, like 
 an officer on parade: 
 
 "ShouP awms!" 
 
 Maxwell saw at once the insinuation, but he said 
 nothing. The others were quick enough to observe the 
 same, but they were afraid to provoke the drunken fellow 
 into anger. 
 
 "Shoul' awms," I say, shouted Pierry again. '"Shun! 
 'Tinshun!" 
 
 Maxwell, though utterly angry and disgusted, con- 
 tinued the meal in silence. 
 
 "Ri' 'bout face! March!" shouted Pierry. And then, 
 as Maxwell took no heed, Pierry gave the final sentence: 
 
 "Shells! Black ho', fortni'!" 
 
 When, however, after a little while, his hea\7' senses 
 began to lighten a little, he stooped over and said con- 
 fidentially to Maxwell: 
 
 " You're the bhoy we wor lookin' fer. Mike Ahern's 
 plantation! Prepare to 'ceive cavalry! Thiggun-thu ? " 
 
 And after sundry winks and nods and gestures, indica-
 
 CALLED BACK 
 
 99 
 
 tive of the use of arms, Pierry sank into unconsciousness 
 again. 
 
 They opened the settle bed and tumbled him into it, 
 the old mother moaning! 
 
 "Dheelin'! dheelin'! an' of all nights of the year, whin 
 we don't know but we'll be thrun upon the road to- 
 morrow!" 
 
 Maxwell had to take the bed in the loft. He climbed 
 the ladder, heavy at heart, and put down the candle in the 
 tin sconce on the chair near the bed, which was placed 
 upon the floor. He had not been up here before; and now, 
 before undressing, he took a survey of the room. Half 
 the floor was occupied with hay and straw, room for 
 which could not be found in the barn. There was no 
 ceiling. The rough-hewn rafters were bare; and between 
 them the thatch would be plainly visible, but that it was 
 festooned with a vast white net of cobwebs, whose orifices 
 here and there told of the size of the spiders who had 
 woven them. In fact it was a great dark city of spiders; 
 and Maxwell shuddered as he thought of the possibility 
 of some of these dropping down on his face in the night. 
 He latched the door, removed the candle from the chair 
 and sat down and began to think. What his thoughts 
 were may be conjectured from the final exclamation: 
 
 "My God, what a fool I have been! But only to- 
 night remains ! To-morrow — " 
 
 The morning broke wet and drizzling; but before Max- 
 well descended from the loft, he heard angry voices of 
 altercation in the yard. The bailiffs, escorted by a cart- 
 load of police, armed to the teeth, had come and had been 
 baffled. Not a beast was on the premises except the huge
 
 lOO LISHEEN 
 
 collie who snapped defiance at them. High words were 
 being exchanged when Maxwell appeared. There was a 
 group of young men in the yard who were jeering at the 
 bailiffs and taunting them with their ill success by every 
 manner of word and gesture. The bailiffs, on their part, 
 were doing all in their power to provoke an assault, well 
 knowing that it meant instant arrest and imprisonment. 
 When they saw Maxwell their fury increased, and they 
 pointed him out to the constables. 
 
 "There's the fellow who abstracted the cattle last night. 
 Take a note of the fellow, sergeant ! Believe me, he has a 
 bad record!" 
 
 Dispirited as Maxwell was, he strolled over to the 
 bailiff, his hands stuck deep in his pockets, and with that 
 calm air of independence, so utterly different from the 
 abjection or alternating fury of the peasantry, he said: 
 
 "You have been guilty of a double slander, for which I 
 intend, at some future day, to take full and adequate 
 satisfaction. You will please give me your name and 
 address; also the name and address of your employer." 
 
 The fellow, taken aback, said something insolent; but 
 Maxwell strode over to the car where the constabulary 
 sat, and addressing the sergeant, said: 
 
 "You're here in the name of the law; and it is your 
 business to see that the law is not violated. This fellow, 
 as you have heard, has publicly slandered me. I intend 
 to take proceedings against him. You will please give 
 me his name and your own, for I shall have to call you as 
 a witness." 
 
 The sergeant gave both reluctantly. He could not 
 quite reconcile the bearing and accent of Maxwell with
 
 CALLED BACK loi 
 
 his faded clothes, rough boots, and unkempt appear- 
 ance. 
 
 "Very well," he said. "And now, as you are also 
 charged, you will give me your name and address and 
 occupation." 
 
 "Certainly," said Maxwell. "My name is Robert 
 Maxwell; my address is Lisheen, care of Owen McAuliffe, 
 farmer; my occupation is farm labourer. Anything 
 else?" 
 
 "N — no," said the sergeant, dubiously; and imme- 
 diately bailiffs and police left the yard, the derisive and 
 triumphant shouts of the men echoing in their ears. 
 
 Instantly Maxwell became their hero. His evasion of 
 the bailiffs or their spies the evening before; his cool, in- 
 dependent manner both to these dread myrmidons of the 
 law, and to the police, marked him off as one of a superior 
 class, and yet left them as puzzled about his character or 
 antecedents as before. 
 
 "Begor, he's no desarter," said Pierry, who was also 
 thoroughly ashamed of his drunken bout the evening 
 before, and was anxious to make reparation for his rude- 
 ness, "or else he'd never have faced the peelers as he did. 
 He's not in the Hue and Cry, that's sartin!" 
 
 "I wish we had a few more like him in the counthry," 
 said another admirer. "The peelers and the bailiffs 
 would meet their match. See now, how they shivered 
 before him. Begobs, they'd have clapped the handcuflfs 
 on us before we could say 'thrapsticks!'" 
 
 "That's thrue for you, begor," said another. "You'd 
 be on the side-car now, an' in Thralee gaol to-night, if 
 you hadn't kep' your distance."
 
 I02 LISHEEN 
 
 But all these eulogiums were lost on Maxwell. He had 
 made up his mind definitely that this business should end, 
 then and there, for him. And he began to be conscious 
 of a strange chill and alternate flushing, that made him 
 think of the possibility of the recurrence of the rheumatic 
 fever from which he had already suffered twice. 
 
 "And imagine," he thought, "to be seized with sick- 
 ness here! My God! what a frightful prospect. I must 
 quit with this insane idea and with these good people at 
 once." 
 
 He lingered, however, until the young men, who had 
 gathered in from the neighbouring farms to help, had 
 dispersed; and it was only after the midday meal that he 
 broke his resolution to the family. They were deeply 
 grieved and genuinely sorry. He had crept into their 
 hearts by his quiet, gentle ways, until they began to regard 
 him as "one of themselves." And now that every kind 
 of trial was accumulating and pressing upon them, they 
 began to feel that this, too, was to be part of their unhappy 
 lot, and, whilst they bent beneath it, they began to feel 
 that it crushed out all hope. One thing, however, they 
 should make clear. He had never, by word or gesture, 
 showed the slightest sign of anger or disrespect toward 
 them; and they felt deeply pained that he should have been 
 insulted in their home and by their own son. True, it 
 was in drink; but that was no excuse, so they felt. 
 
 "We're sorry from the bottom of our hearts," said the 
 old man, "to be partin' wid you. We never saw or heard 
 anythin' from you but what was good and gracious. An' 
 shure, we thought you wouldn't mind the words of that 
 foolish bhoy in his dhrink!"
 
 CALLED BACK 103 
 
 "I assure you," said Maxwell, somewhat moved, 
 "Pierry's words had nothing to do with my resolution. 
 I see I have made a mistake; and I want to rectify it as 
 soon as possible." 
 
 Pierry, conscience-stricken, had gone out into the fields. 
 He was determined to meet Maxwell; and to make the 
 apologies in private he could not bring himself to utter 
 in public. 
 
 "Ef it was them blagards up at Mike Ahern's," con- 
 tinued the old man, "you shouldn't mind them nayther. 
 Shure, they're ignorant, an' don't mane half what they 
 say." 
 
 " Believe you me," said the old woman, who was bitter 
 and angry in her sorrow, "that blagard, Driscoll, will 
 meet his match some day. He's always wantin' to fight 
 with some wan or other." 
 
 "No, no; you quite misunderstand me," said Maxwell, 
 who began to fear that evil consequences would arise from 
 his departure, " these little disagreements have had nothing 
 to say to my resolution. I see I made a huge mistake, 
 and I want to correct it as speedily as possible!" 
 
 "Well, indeed, it would be more proper to give you your 
 right wages from the beginnin'," said the old man. "It 
 was not right to expect you nor anny man to work for 
 nothin'." 
 
 Maxwell saw that it was useless to make further ex- 
 planations. He took down his old valise that had lain 
 these weeks on the top of the dresser, and began to pack 
 in the few, very few things he possessed. 
 
 The old woman went about in sorrowful silence; the 
 old man had sat down on the sugan chair, his head bent
 
 104 LISHEEN 
 
 low between his knees. Debbie, as usual, was tidying 
 around the kitchen, silent, too, but her face was white, 
 and her hand trembled. 
 
 When Maxwell had finished packing, he came forward 
 to say his farewells. 
 
 "I have to go," he said to the old woman, for she alone 
 seemed to listen, "but I assure you I shall never forget the 
 kindness I received in this household. And perhaps 
 some day it may be in my power to repay it." 
 
 Then for the first time the old woman saw that he was 
 ill; for his face was a bluish purple and his teeth were 
 chattering. 
 
 "For God's sake," she said, "if you don't want to be 
 found dead on the road,shtop your nonsense, and set down." 
 
 But he only shook his head, as he touched her rough 
 palm. Owen McAuliffe, without looking up, grasped 
 his hand, and said nothing. Maxwell, with a heavy heart, 
 walked out through the yard. He had passed the rough 
 straw carpeting, and was emerging into the field, where 
 Pierry was awaiting him, when he heard a footstep be- 
 hind him. Turning around, he saw Debbie. 
 
 "I quite forgot," he said, stretching out his hand, "to 
 say good-bye! I was thinking of so many things!" 
 
 The girl did not take the proffered hand, and he stared 
 at her in surprise. There was absolutely nothing in her 
 appearance to attract the fancy for a moment. She had 
 only the beauty of perfect health, and the glamour of 
 perfect innocence about her. There were no tears in her 
 eyes, for, alas! with these toilers of the earth, every emo- 
 tion is frozen at its source; but her lower lip trembled as 
 she said, in a low tone :
 
 CALLED BACK 105 
 
 "You had no right ever to come here!" 
 
 Startled by this sudden challenge, Maxwell did not 
 know what to reply. Did this girl divine his secret 
 through her womanly instincts? Did she suspect some 
 love afifair, or disappointment? Or did she know, at 
 least, that he was far removed from the class to which 
 he had stooped in his desire to elevate them ? He could 
 not conjecture; but he said candidly: 
 
 "You are quite right. I should not have come here. 
 But I hope that at least I have done no harm, except to 
 myself." 
 
 She kept her eyes fixed steadily upon his face, as she 
 replied : 
 
 "But, having come among us, you have no right now 
 to lave us!" 
 
 The words touched him. They appealed to his honour 
 and to his conscience. It was the higher call, which he 
 had been on the point of refusing. ' 
 
 The girl placed her hand on his sleeve, and said : 
 
 "Come back!" 
 
 And he followed her, like one who had no other will, or 
 option. Pierry's apology remained unspoken.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IN THE DEPTHS 
 
 It was well for Maxwell himself that he obeyed that 
 call. Somewhat shamefaced, he entered the dark cabin 
 again; and Debbie, with instinctive politeness, anticipated 
 his explanation. She did so with that curious air of 
 assumed anger, which the Irish peasant often uses to 
 cloak affection, or relieve the embarrassment of others. 
 
 "Begor, 'twas a quare thing intircly," she said, whilst 
 she busied herself about the kitchen, "to allow that 
 angashore of a boy to go on the road, an' it pourin' cats 
 and dogs. 'Tis little ye'd like yerselves to be sint out 
 in that weather." 
 
 "Wisha, thin," said the mother, "an' sure 'twasn't we 
 sint him, but he plazed himself. An' sure, I towld him 
 he was lookin' as green as a leek." 
 
 "You're right," said Maxwell, "and I was wrong. 
 I'm not fit to travel." 
 
 "Thin, in the name o' God, pull over your chair, and 
 set down, and dhry yerself. There, Debbie, can't you 
 get the poor bhoy a dhrink of somethin' hot? Sure, he's 
 shivering like an aspin." 
 
 So he was. There was a deadly chill all over him, so 
 that he trembled and shook; and there were alternations 
 of hot flushes, when his skin seemed to fill and burn, 
 as if it would burst. He drank the milk slowly, sipping 
 
 io6
 
 IN THE DEPTHS 107 
 
 it leisurely, and not objecting this time to the "spoonful" 
 of spirits which their charity had mixed with it. The rain 
 came down in a steady, calm, persistent way, for it was 
 now November. The little cabin looked darker than ever 
 from the leaden skies without. The one cheerful, grate- 
 ful thing was the huge fire made up of peat and wood, 
 which threw volumes of smoke up through the broad 
 chimney, and sent a cheerful glow around the dingy 
 kitchen. The old man, sitting in as close as he could on 
 the stone seat, smoked in silence. Pierry, in silence, 
 and with his hands deep in his pockets, stood at the door, 
 the lintel of which was on a level with his face. The old 
 woman was busy in the bedroom; and Debbie, casting a 
 sharp look from time to time at Maxwell, was, as usual, 
 busying herself around the kitchen. 
 
 As the day wore on, Maxwell became worse; until at 
 last, as the shades of night came down, he expressed a 
 wish to go to bed. They became very solicitous. 
 
 "Did he ever get sick before?" 
 
 "Yes, twice," said Maxwell. "I had two attacks of 
 rheumatic fever; and, to be candid, I'm afraid I'm in for 
 another." 
 
 The dread word "fever" appalled them. The terror 
 of the famine times and the dread typhus is in the hearts 
 of the people still. He must have seen it written in their 
 faces; for he instantly added: 
 
 " It is not a malignant fever, you know, merely a fever- 
 ish condition arising frorn rheumatism and causing a high 
 temperature." 
 
 They did not understand him; but their duty was plain. 
 They swiftly decided to give up to him the only bedroom
 
 io8 LISHEEN 
 
 they had, with its two great beds, until he should recover 
 his health and be himself again. He protested emphati- 
 cally, made out and argued that it was only a cold, and 
 that it would pass ofif in a day or two. It was no use. 
 He was ordered to bed; and all that rough but generous 
 hearts could do was done for him 
 
 That night, perhaps, witnessed the climax of his suffer- 
 ings and his despondency. He insisted on their retiring; 
 but he asked that a candle, or paraffin lamp, should be 
 left lighted by his side. He knew there was no sleep for 
 him. The terrible dry heat was stifling him; the well- 
 known agonizing pains were creeping down into the ex- 
 tremities of his hands and feet; his heart was beating 
 wildly; he tossed restlessly from side to side beneath the 
 heavy bedclothes. As the night wore on, he became 
 worse. The burning heat became intolerable. The 
 canopy of wood that hung down low over the bed seemed 
 to be crushing him beneath it. Great shadows flickered 
 on the whitewashed walls, and stretched up towards the 
 naked roof. Drip, drip, came the awful rain outside, as 
 it fell from the rotting thatch into the open channels. 
 Restless, fevered, tormented, somewhat excited by the 
 spirits he had drunk, he began to imagine all kinds of 
 dreadful things — that he had been decoyed thither, be- 
 trayed, and left to die in such awful surroundings. He 
 recalled his last illness. It was painful and agonizing 
 enough; but he remembered with a pang all the delicate 
 attention he had received; the comfortable, warm, luxuri- 
 ous bedroom; the dainties on the table near the bedside; 
 the scrupulous attention of the doctor; the cool-handed, 
 dexterous, silent, unobtrusive attendance of the two
 
 IN THE DEPTHS 109 
 
 skilled nurses. He recalled the days of his convalescence; 
 the numerous visits ; the card-plate well filled ; the presents 
 of fruit; the sweetness of coming back to life. And then 
 he looked around him. The bleared and smoking lamp 
 could hardly be said to have lighted the dark apartment, 
 but it threw light enough to reveal its misery. The 
 wretched fireplace bricked up and whitewashed, the dark 
 recesses of the open ceiling, the mud floor, rough and un- 
 even and pitted; the tawdry and somewhat hideous en- 
 gravings on the walls — all made a picture of desolation 
 so terrible that, coupled with his feverish condition, it 
 threw him into a kind of delirium, during which he after- 
 wards suspected he had said many wild, incoherent things. 
 He remembered but one. He had been staring for some 
 time in a kind of blank inquiry at a rough representation 
 of the Virgin and Child that was pinned on the cretonne 
 at the foot of the bed. Somehow, in his great agony and 
 desolation, he found a comfort here. And then, suddenly 
 turning around, he came face to face with the Man of 
 Sorrows, hanging on the gibbet of Calvary, and looking 
 the embodiment of all human suffering, which there had 
 culminated in one concentrated agonizing death. Old 
 words, old thoughts, heard long ago in infancy, came back 
 to him, and the feeble murmur rose to his lips : 
 
 "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" 
 When he woke from a deep sleep, although it was 
 troubled with horrid dreams, he found himself in a perfect 
 bath of perspiration. Sweat was dripping from every 
 pore. His hair was wet, as if sponged; and he knew 
 that the bedclothes were saturated through and through. 
 But he felt quite light and relieved from that dry, burning
 
 no LISHEEN 
 
 heat that had been torturing him; but when he attempted 
 to move hand or foot, a terrible pain racked him, and he 
 dared not turn on his wet couch from the agony in his 
 shoulder. The lamp had flickered out; but in the gray- 
 dusk he could discern the form of the old woman moving 
 around the wretched room. He coughed to attract her 
 attention; and she came over. 
 
 "How are you, agragal,^' she said, "after the night? 
 Sure, we wor throubled about you. Will you have a dhrop 
 of tay or milk now; or will you wait for your brekfus'?" 
 
 "I'll take it now, if you please," said Maxwell. "I've 
 perspired freely during the night." 
 
 "Wisha, thin, sure they say that's the best thing in the 
 wurruld for a could or a faver. Whatever is bad inside 
 comes out in the sweat," said the old woman, consolingly. 
 "Wait, now, and Debbie won't be a minit bilin' the kittle; 
 and we'll get you a good strong cup of tay with some 
 nourishment in it." 
 
 Maxwell lay still, comfortable but dreading the slightest 
 movement; and in a few minutes Debbie brought in the 
 tea, which he drank eagerly. No skilled nurses in Dublin 
 or elsewhere could equal the gentle and tender strength 
 with which these poor women raised the pillows beneath 
 the sufferer, when they discovered that the least shock or 
 vibration was painful. 
 
 After some time Maxwell ventured to ask : 
 
 "Is there a physician — a doctor — near?" 
 
 "Begor there is," answered the old woman, "and as 
 clever a man as there is from here to London. They say 
 the head docthors in Dublin are nothin' to him; and he's 
 the deuce an' all at the fa vers."
 
 IN THE DEPTHS ill 
 
 "I think it would be well if I could see him," said Max- 
 well. 
 
 "We wor thinkin' of that same oursel's," said the old 
 woman. "Sure he can't do you anny harrum, if he don't 
 do you much good. We'll send Pierry by'm bye for the 
 red ticket: and he'll be here before night." 
 
 "The red ticket? What is the red ticket?" said Max- 
 well. 
 
 "The piece of paper the doctor must get before he'll 
 go to poor people," answered his nurse. 
 
 "Oh!" said her patient. "And must ye always get 
 that?" 
 
 "Oh! faith, no," said the old woman. "We're rich, 
 if ye plase, bekase we have a couple of acres of mountain 
 and bog. He wouldn't come to wan of us undher a 
 pound!" 
 
 Another revelation that set Maxwell thinking again. 
 
 In the evening the doctor came ; and at once pronounced 
 the malady — rheumatic fever. After feeling him all 
 over, and examining his heart carefully, the doctor said: 
 
 "You had this before?" 
 
 "Yes, twice," said Maxwell. 
 
 "You had medical attendance, of course?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maxwell, mentioning the name of a lead- 
 ing Dublin physician. 
 
 "What?" cried the doctor. "I didn't think he kept up 
 his hospital practice!" 
 
 "I wasn't in hospital," said Maxwell. "He attended 
 me at my own residence." 
 
 A remark which made the doctor draw back, and stroke 
 his chin thoughtfully, and look dubiously at his patient.
 
 112 LISHEEN 
 
 "Is there any heart-lesion as yet?" 
 
 "Any what?" said the doctor. 
 
 "Any lesion of the heart — any dangerous murmurs?" 
 said Maxwell. 
 
 " N — no," said the doctor, completely puzzled. " Look 
 here, young man," he said, after a pause, "you know too 
 much. What the devil do you know about lesions and 
 murmurs?" 
 
 "Not much!" said Maxwell, wearily, "but you cannot 
 help hearing of those things from doctors and nurses!" 
 
 When he went into the kitchen. Maxwell heard the doc- 
 tor say aloud: 
 
 "Whom have ye got here?" 
 
 "Wisha, a poor bhoy, doctor, that came around on 
 thramp here a couple of months ago!" 
 
 "What's his name?" 
 
 "We never axed him; but we hard him say 'twas 
 Robert Maxwell." 
 
 "I see," said the doctor, writing his prescription at the 
 kitchen table, "I see. I'm ordering him into the Work- 
 house Hospital." 
 
 "Thin the faver is ketchin'?" said the old woman. 
 
 "'Tis nothin' of the kind," said the doctor. "No more 
 than a cough or a cold. But he can't have proper attend- 
 ance here." 
 
 "Begor, thin," said the old woman, bridling up, "av 
 all we hear is thrue, the divil much of an attindance he'll 
 have there aither." 
 
 "That's all nonsense, my good woman," said the 
 doctor. "Old women's talk and gossip. If I were sick 
 myself, I'd go into the hospital."
 
 IN THE DEPTHS 113 
 
 ^'Begor, thin, you may," said the old woman. "But 
 onless the poor bhoy likes it himself, he'll stop where he is!" 
 
 The doctor did not reply; but went into the room 
 again. 
 
 "You know the nature of your malady," he said to 
 Maxwell. " You went through it before. I want to send 
 you into hospital where you'll have proper care and atten- 
 tion. These good people have old-fashioned prejudices 
 against it; and they want to keep you here. As your 
 malady is not contagious, I cannot insist. Please your- 
 self." 
 
 "What hospital do you speak of?" said Maxwell, again 
 deeply touched by the affectionate interest of these poor 
 people. 
 
 "There's only one — the Workhouse Hospital," re- 
 plied the doctor. "But it is well managed; and you'll 
 have every care." 
 
 "Yes, an' if he die, he'll be lef die without priesht or 
 minister, and be buried in the ban-field," said the old 
 woman, coming in. 
 
 "Here, I wash my hands out of the matter," said the 
 doctor. "Of course, I'll come to see you; but in your 
 case, nursing is everything." 
 
 Max-well remained silent for a long time. Then, sud- 
 denly starting up, he said; 
 
 "As these good people are kind enough to keep me, 
 I'll remain with them. The matter is in higher hands." 
 
 "All right," said the doctor, going out. "Just let me 
 know from time to time how things are going on. You'll 
 get that medicine and liniment and medicated cotton at 
 the dispensary," he said to Pierry. And going out the
 
 114 LISHEEN 
 
 door, he turned back suddenly, and said in an under- 
 tone: 
 
 "He's no poor boy on tramp! Take my word for it!" 
 
 And so Robert Maxwell was now, for life or death, in 
 the hands of these unskilled and more or less ignorant 
 peasants. He thoroughly understood his risks; but he 
 was content. 
 
 In the afternoon he dropped into a deep slumber, 
 broken by some fitful dreams. When he awoke, the old 
 man this time was his nurse. He noticed some change, 
 he thought, about the bed; and, after a good deal of mus- 
 ing, he discovered that the sacred pictures, which he had 
 watched so keenly the night before, had been removed. 
 He made the remark to the old man. 
 
 "Wisha, they thought, I suppose," he replied, "that 
 you mightn't hke them. And sure, we wouldn't like to 
 interfere with you at all, at all, in the way of religion." 
 
 "Would you mind asking Debbie to put them back?" 
 said Maxwell. 
 
 "Begor, no," said the old man. "Sure, 'tis she an' the 
 ould woman will be glad intirely." 
 
 And the pictures were put back. 
 
 This gave them some encouragement to go further. 
 They had never broached the subject of religion to their 
 guest, through a sense of delicacy and reverence for his 
 own opinion. But now, his life was somewhat in danger; 
 and his "poor sowl" became an object of much interest 
 and solicitude. 
 
 "Wisha, now," said Owen McAuliffe, late in the even- 
 ing, when the bottles had come, and the liniments had 
 been applied and the aching limbs of the patient had been
 
 IN THE DEPTHS 115 
 
 swathed in cotton, "we do be thinkin' that perhaps, as 
 you had the doctor, you might also want to have some 
 one to say a word or two about your sowl?" 
 
 "Is there any minister in the neighbourhood?" asked 
 Maxwell. 
 
 "Not nearer than Thralee, I'm afeard," said Owen. 
 "There used to be a church down there where you see the 
 tower, or ould castle; but the place was shut up years ago, 
 and the roof was sowld." 
 
 Maxwell remained silent again a long time. At length 
 he asked: 
 
 "What kind of gentlemen are your priests?" 
 
 "Wisha, thin, I wouldn't have mintioned them, at all, 
 at all, to you, av you hadn't spoken yerself. But we have 
 as nate and dacent priests as are to be found in any parish 
 in Ireland." 
 
 "Is any of them old — I mean, advanced in years?" 
 
 "There is, begor," said Owen. "But the quare thing 
 intirely is, that the ould man is the cojutor; and the young 
 man is the parish priesht." 
 
 " How is that ?" asked Maxwell. " I thought it was the 
 other way!" 
 
 "And so it ought to be; an' so it ought to be. But quare 
 things happen sometimes." 
 
 He did not like to proceed further with his revelations, 
 in presence of a Protestant. But Maxwell persisted. 
 
 "Well, thin, to make a long shtory short, it was this 
 way," said Owen. "The ould man, a livin' saint, if 
 there's wan in heaven, was the parish priesht here twenty 
 years ago, an' 'tisn't bekase I say it, there never was a 
 betther, nor a thruer father of his flock than you, me poor
 
 ii6 LISHEEN 
 
 Father Cosgrove. Well, wan day, somethin' turned up 
 between him an' the bishop. What it was, we don't 
 know. Some say one thing, some say another. Any 
 way, the poor priesht was silenced, and was sint away. 
 'Twas a sad and sore day for the parish. Thin, after a 
 while, he was reshthored; but he had to go as cojutor; 
 an' he wint. But he had an ould hankerin' after the place 
 an' the people; and he axed to be sint back to us as cojutor, 
 where he was formerly parish priesht. To the surprise 
 of every wan, the bishop sint him back; an' here he is, 
 an' the people would kiss the ground undernathe his 
 feet." 
 
 "And the parish priest — is he old?" 
 
 "Ould? Yerra, no; he's young enough to be Father 
 Michael's grandson!" 
 
 "I'll see that man," said Maxwell, after a pause. 
 "Would he come?" 
 
 "You may be sure he will," said Owen McAuliffe, in a 
 state of high delight.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 ON THE SUMMITS 
 
 The Major sat in his armchair beside his comfortable 
 fire one of those dead, dull, leaden days in November, 
 whilst Maxwell was passing through his critical illness. 
 He had given a gloomy, sad, unwilling consent to his 
 daughter's marriage with Outram. He had under great 
 pressure, and with great mental pain, abandoned his pet 
 project of Mabel's marriage with Maxwell, whom he now 
 gave up as hopelessly lost; and in this, as indeed in most 
 other matters, he found he had to submit to the will of 
 his capricious, but very determined, child. He had re- 
 ceived Outram into his house as his accepted son-in-law; 
 but he was an honest old fellow, and found it impossible 
 to pretend to an interest he did not feel, or an affection 
 which he could not simulate. He was tortured by two 
 bitter feelings, which at last neutralized each other — an 
 aversion to Outram, which he found it hard to explain, 
 and honest anger against Maxwell, for having disap- 
 pointed him so sorely. But, as there was no great prin- 
 ciple involved where Outram was concerned, no rupture 
 of class distinction, no violent snapping of old and 
 cherished traditions, he was the more readily brought to 
 telorate him, than to forgive one who had violated all the 
 proprieties, broken caste, and was the possible pioneer 
 in ^ movement that would revolutionize the country, and 
 
 117
 
 Il8 LISHEEN 
 
 bring disaster and ruin on the dominant, ascendant class. 
 By degrees, he began to regard Maxwell as a traitor to his 
 own; and, being an old military man, to whom treason 
 was the unforgivable sin, he had finally determined to 
 abandon Maxwell, and to allow Mabel's marriage with 
 Outram. 
 
 And yet, somehow, he could not quite reconcile himself 
 to Outram, much less make a friend or confidant of him. 
 There was some strong feeling of repulsion which he could 
 not explain; and, being a man of facts, who hated analysis 
 of any kind, he did not trouble himself very much to ascer- 
 tain where the motive of dislike lay hidden. It was there, 
 and that was enough. 
 
 "I don't like the fellow, Mab," he would say, "that's 
 all. He's well-looking, and all that; and, of course, will 
 catch a girl's fancy. But I don't like him, that's all 
 about it." 
 
 Mabel quoted his position at the Castle and his C. B. 
 The Major snorted. 
 
 "There's many a cad at a Castle ball," he said, "and 
 many a scoundrel a C. B. No, no; I don't mean to say 
 anything against Outram. I know nothing about the 
 fellow, except that he flogged natives in Serampoul; and 
 is always talking about the 'whip and the sop.' I don't 
 
 like that, even if the Irish are d d scoundrels and 
 
 Hottentots." 
 
 This November evening the Major was in a particularly 
 gloomy mood. The dull, damp weather had brought on 
 his gout again. Outram was to dine; and he had to dine 
 alone with his betrothed, because the Major was on 
 "slops" and could not get away from his arm-chair. He
 
 ON THE SUMMITS 119 
 
 was doubly impatient during that long and tedious dinner, 
 as he thought it; and fifty times he asked the footman 
 when it would be over. At last, Outram appeared. He 
 was slightly flushed; but apparently cool and collected 
 as usual, as the Major pushed a decanter of port and a 
 box of cigars before him. 
 
 "I don't know if you feel this beastly weather — this 
 muggy, clammy, wet blanket that hangs down over this 
 confounded country these two months. But it drives me 
 to despair, especially as it develops this infernal gout." 
 
 And the Major shifted carefully the uneasy foot. 
 
 "You should have gone abroad in October," said 
 Outram. "All the civilized portion of these hyperborean 
 regions migrates to India, or at least as far as the Medi- 
 terranean until April." 
 
 The Major glared at the word "civilized," but said 
 nothing. 
 
 "These countries are barely tolerable in summer, that 
 is, if you have got cricket and tennis, and good weather 
 by the sea; but that is always problematical. But in 
 winter, UghP' 
 
 And Outram shivered with disgust. 
 
 "You seem to find it tolerable," said the Major, with a 
 slight attempt at sarcasm. 
 
 "Yes, just tolerable!" echoed Outram, "You see, 
 between my duties at the Castle, and looking up military 
 matters, which I regret to say are in a hopeless condition, 
 and looking up my estates, which are still more hopeless, 
 I have no time to think of the weather." 
 
 "I wish Mabel heard him," thought the Major. "A 
 man may say too Httle sometimes."
 
 I20 LISHEEN 
 
 "I don't know," continued Outram, "how your Govern- 
 ment could have allowed things to drift into such a ras- 
 cally mess as you have here in Ireland. Why, there's 
 more respect for law and life in Burmah than here." 
 
 "I'm not sure about the law," said the Major. "But 
 as for life, it is not quite so bad as you think. Every 
 Englishman thinks he carries his life in his hands, and is 
 walking among thugs in this country." 
 
 "And is not that so?" said Outram. "Would any 
 gentleman walk his estate unescorted in Ireland?" 
 
 "I know he wouldn't: and I'm sure he don't," said the 
 Major, who at once placed himself on the defensive. 
 "No Irish landlord ever saw the inside of a tenant's 
 cabin as yet." 
 
 "Of course not," said Outram. "I suppose if he did, 
 they'd wash the place with holy water, and throw out the 
 potatoes if his evil shadow rested on them." 
 
 "I see, Outram," said the Major, "you've brought home 
 your Indian ideas. As an old Indian myself, I'd advise 
 every returned officer to leave behind him everything but 
 his gold, his liver, and his curry-powder." 
 
 "I cannot agree with you, sir," said Outram, who was 
 a little more flushed, "I am convinced that if we governed 
 Ireland as we govern India, you would have a settled 
 country in twelve months." 
 
 "You govern India by the prestige of British arms," 
 said the Major, whose old military pride was stirred by 
 the allusion. "Clive and Napier, Havelock and Gough 
 are the men that are governing India to-day by the aid 
 of — native jealousies!" 
 
 Outram by no means liked this laudation of the past
 
 ON THE SUMMITS 121 
 
 at the expense of the present. He thought he had done 
 a fair share himself towards the maintenance of British 
 power in the East. 
 
 "It is not the ghosts of the past," he said, "but the men 
 of the present that hold the reins of power." 
 
 "The reins are dragged too tight sometimes," said the 
 Major. " I saw things in India the recollection of which 
 makes me shudder." 
 
 The Major had become meditative. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" said Outram, whose brain had become 
 clouded under too deep potations, "an old soldier to fear. 
 What would the Buffs say?" 
 
 "It was not the fear of death or danger I alluded to," 
 said the Major, "although that comes down on the nerves 
 of brave men sometimes; but, by Jove, we can't stifle our 
 consciences altogether." 
 
 "It was fortunate for us that the founders of our Indian 
 empire had none," said Outram. "Consciences are all 
 right for full-dress church parade on Sunday morning 
 here and in England, when you kneel on soft cu — 
 cushions, and hear the children sing the Anthem and the 
 women look so — so nice and — dainty, with their hats 
 and gloves and pretty — pretty prayer-books. But, by 
 Jove! when you are in the thick of battle, and dealing 
 with rascally natives, conscience is altogether out of place." 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear you say so," said the Major, mildly. 
 He was unwilling to provoke a controversy now. 
 
 "Look here. Major," said Outram, somewhat thickly. 
 
 "I'll listen to no d d nonsense about conjuns. The 
 
 British army would never have conquered the world if 
 they had conjuns. Eh? 'Tis all d d nonsense about
 
 122 LISHEEN 
 
 humanity and lifting up fallen races. A Paythan is a 
 Paythan, and an Irishman is an Irishman the world over. 
 And 'tis the bizness of an Englishman to — squelch them. 
 It is, by !" 
 
 The Major was looking at him with some disgust and 
 growing apprehension, when the footman entered and 
 presented a telegram on a salver. It was from a central 
 detective agency in the city, and ran thus : 
 
 "Some traces found of missing, and are pushing in- 
 quiries rapidly. Hope definite information in a few days." 
 
 "Look here, Major," continued Outram, too stupid to 
 notice the look of pleasure on the Major's face, "ther's 
 no use in pretending to be what we aren't. God made 
 men different. The lion is not the skunk; and the tiger 
 is not the cobra. They won't sit down together nowise. 
 What does the lion do when he meets skunk ? Squelches 
 him. What does the tiger do when he meets cobra? 
 Squelches him. So, too, a Briton is a Briton; an' a Pay- 
 than is a Paythan; and a Paddy is a Paddy. Now, what 
 should the Briton do to the Paythan and the Paddy? 
 Squelch him. Look, now, at that fool, Maxwell! A 
 good fellow, but forgot himself. He forgot he was a 
 
 gen'leman. Began to read all about a d d old fool in 
 
 Russia — Tolstoi ; and wanted to become an Irish Tolstoi. 
 Probably by this time he's killed and hidden in a Kerry bog." 
 
 "No," said the Major, sententiously, holding up a tele- 
 gram. "He's alive. I've just heard from him." 
 
 "Ah!" said Outram, with a maudlin laugh, "too cute. 
 By Jove! the fellow will come out of it, an' I've lost my ring." 
 
 "What ring?" said the Major, with suddenly aroused 
 curiosity.
 
 ON THE SUMMITS 123 
 
 "Nev' mind! nev' mind, Major!" said Outram. "Bob 
 thinks it a big thing, he! he! — a tahsman. Between you 
 and me, 'tis only one of the seal rings every Persian wears. 
 But Maxwell was too cute. The Maxwells always were, 
 don'che know?" 
 
 "I never heard," said the Major, across whose mind 
 just now a new thought, or new temptation, had come. 
 For it had suddenly flashed on him that now, when there 
 was a chance of finding Bob, there was also a superb 
 chance of getting rid of this fellow forever. He had only 
 to touch the bell and say: "Tell Miss Willoughby we'll 
 have some tea!" and Outram was dismissed ignominiously 
 and forever; and perhaps Bob, poor Bob, would be re- 
 instated in his daughter's favour. It was a great tempta- 
 tion; and, as the Major from his rechning chair watched 
 the flushed face and the watery eyes, and heard the thick 
 speech of the half-drunken Outram, the thought would 
 obtrude itself: 
 
 "Is it not a duty to Mabel to make her see what is be- 
 fore her? Married to this fellow. What will her future 
 be?" 
 
 He put his finger on the bell, and for a long time waited 
 and watched. At last he said : 
 
 "Shall I ring for tea?" 
 
 "No' for me!" said Outram, quickly. "Good old port 
 for me!" 
 
 Then, after a stupid pause: 
 
 "I shay. Major! Don't be taken in by Bob. The 
 Max'ls were always shly and treasurous. Wai' an' I'll 
 tell a shtory." 
 
 He paused again in his stupor.
 
 124 LISHEEN 
 
 "Wha's it? A shtory? Oh, yes! There was once a 
 Max'l. No; tha'sh not it. There was once a duel in 
 Scotland. A Gordon was killed; and he fled. 'Twas 
 fair — a fair fight between gen'lemen ! No, what'm I 
 sayin'? A Campbell was killed; an' a Gordon fled. 
 'Twas all over. Gordon — do you un-shtand?" 
 
 "I'm following you," said the Major, very angry, hold- 
 ing his finger steadily on the beU. 
 
 "Well, Gor'n fled. An' shtayed away for years. At 
 lasht, wha's it? At lasht a Max'le found him, and sez: 
 'Come back, ole fel', 'tis all over and forgot.' Gor'n 
 believed him and come back. Do you undershtan' ? " 
 
 The Major nodded, his finger still on the bell. Far 
 away could be heard the tinkle of a piano, very faint and 
 sweet. And now and again the sound of a footfall, quiet 
 and subdued, in the hall. 
 
 Outram opened his sleepy eyes and stared stupidly at 
 the Major. 
 
 " Wha'm I sayin' ? Yesh ; old shtory. Gor'n came back. 
 Big meetin' Sawbath on's return. All clansh asshemble. 
 'Shut doors,' shouted Max'le, ' murderer 'sh here!' " 
 
 The Major, spite of his disgust and suspense, became 
 interested. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, whash? Look here, Maj', ole fell' — you'se 
 my fazzer-in-law now. Mabel is my wifesh, ishenot? 
 Yesh; well, I was saying whash?" 
 
 "You were saying something about Maxwell and a 
 murderer," replied the Major. 
 
 "Wash I? Yesh. Well, Gor'n was sheized and 
 hanged, an' Max'le — the coward — "
 
 ON THE SUMMITS 125 
 
 "Go on!" said the Major. 
 
 "No," said Outram, in a sudden paroxysm of anger 
 and pride. "No, I will not go on! Who the devil are 
 you, you ole fool — ? " 
 
 This time the Major's finger pressed the gong, and a 
 footman appeared. 
 
 "Order Mr. Outram's carriage, and at once," he said, 
 with ill-suppressed anger. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the footman. 
 
 There was no more conversation. But the tinkle of 
 the piano came from afar off, very sweet, very tender, as 
 it spoke the thoughts that were uppermost in Mabel 
 Willoughby's mind.
 
 PART II
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 CYNIC AND HUMANIST 
 
 About two or three fields back from the sea, which 
 could be seen glimmering from the heights above Lisheen, 
 and situated on a high knoll, was a mansion, whose broad 
 pediment, large high windows, and stately porch were 
 indications of that massive solidity with which country 
 houses were built in Ireland in the latter years of the 
 eighteenth century. A terraced garden lay along the slope 
 fronting the sea; and behind the mansion a wood of hazels, 
 oaks, and beeches formed the base of a conical hill that 
 seemed to be always blue-black, even in the summer suns. 
 This mansion, restored from the general ruin and dilapida- 
 tion that had fallen on all such relics of ancient wealth 
 and splendour in Ireland, was at this time inhabited by 
 one of those Englishmen who have, of recent years, taken 
 up their residence in remote places in Ireland, where they 
 reign like little kings. What the motives or reasons are 
 that drive so many excellent Englishmen away from their 
 own country, and even from civilization, to take up their 
 abode in such uninviting surroundings as are to be found 
 in the Clare or Kerry mountains, or Connemara bogs, it 
 would be difficult to conjecture did we not know what a 
 vast variety of influences are forever actuating human 
 minds, and driving men into situations that seem to the 
 ordinary mind so very undesirable. Perhaps loss of 
 
 9 129
 
 130 LISHEEN 
 
 station or of wealth; perhaps cupidity and the desire to 
 utilize the hidden wealth which the blind, dreaming Celt 
 passes by unseen and undesired; perhaps the tedium of 
 civilization and the hidden passion in most men to get 
 back to the simplicities of a natural life — are amongst 
 the causes that have brought about this curious exodus, 
 which, strange to say, seems to be unnoticed. But there 
 the strange fact remains that, in many places along the 
 western coast, a solitary Englishman and his family are 
 often the only Protestants in parishes of three or four 
 thousand Irish Catholics; and, for the most part, they 
 are idolized by the people around. Having no landed 
 interest, they are not concerned about dragging out the 
 vitals of the poor, farming population; they often estab- 
 lish valuable industries, inconceivable to the unenter- 
 prising Celt; they give liberal English wages; they are 
 benevolent and humane ; and they assume a kind of feudal 
 sovereignty, which a people, accustomed to feudal tra- 
 ditions, most readily acknowledge. 
 
 Amongst these was Hugh Hamberton, the gentleman 
 who occupied the mansion on the seacoast described above. 
 He had been in Ireland about three years; and had already 
 secured a kind of local kingship in this wild Kerry coun- 
 try. The mansion had been refitted and refurnished with 
 elaborate taste and at great expense; he had a large staff 
 of servants, mostly English ; and he had already created, in 
 the cottages and cabins around, a condition of comfort 
 and a sense of independence, which to these poor people, 
 eternally struggling against poverty, seemed too good to 
 be real. "Too good to be true," was one of their melan- 
 choly adages; and their new conditions were so happy
 
 CYNIC AND HUMANIST 131 
 
 that they sometimes rubbed their eyes to see was it all a 
 dream ; or mournfully shook their heads, like sad, prophetic 
 Celts as they were, and declared it could not last. 
 
 Hugh Hamberton had been a London merchant, and 
 had amassed an immense fortune by speculations and in 
 the shipping trade; and, like so many Londoners, he had 
 varied his business anxieties and ambitions by little ex- 
 cursions into the vast world of literature, which has a 
 curious exoteric attraction for many who cannot be 
 scheduled amongst its high-priests, or even its votaries. 
 He numbered amongst his acquaintances several very 
 distinguished litterateurs; and seemed to take a special 
 delight in having at his dinner-table not the great stars 
 of commerce, nor the leading hghts in politics; but the 
 successful, and even, more frequently, the struggling, 
 poet or journalist, who was just embarking on dangerous 
 seas. Rumour had it, that he extended to the struggling 
 brotherhood even more useful assistance than dinners: 
 and even once a grateful poet had the courage, or hardi- 
 hood, to speak of him as a Maecenas of literature. Like 
 all other literary patrons, he did venture, once or twice, 
 into the sacred precincts; but those vergers of the temple, 
 the reviewers, asked him politely to retire. But he kept 
 up his interest in the craft to the end. 
 
 In religious matters he had no defined beliefs. He pro- 
 fessed to live the life of Christ, without any attachment 
 to religious creeds. One of his reasons for seceding 
 from the Anglican Church was that, on a certain Sunday, 
 he heard from the pulpit a certain text from the Gospels; 
 and the preacher, interpreting the text, declared that its 
 application w^as limited to the Apostles, who had to do
 
 132 LISHEEN 
 
 certain things in order to break down, by the sheer audacity 
 of their hves, the vast fabric of Paganism; but that now, 
 when Christianity had conquered the world, it would be 
 absurd to accept such teaching in its literalness. This 
 amiable and accommodating theory was very grateful 
 to the majority of the well-dressed Christians present, 
 who had laid up their treasures in Consols, and not in the 
 phantom Banks of Eternity. But one man arose from his 
 pew, pale with indignation, and walked down the aisle amidst 
 the startled congregation. Next day he called on that 
 preacher, and put the pertinent, or impertinent, question : 
 
 "If what you say is true, and these words of Christ do 
 not apply to any age subsequent to the Apostolic, wherein 
 does Christ differ from Aurelius or Epictetus?" 
 
 And not receiving a satisfactory reply, he did not darken 
 a church door again; but read the New Testament, and 
 Robertson's (of Brighton) Sermons every Sunday. 
 
 It will be seen from this that the man had a terrible 
 taint in his character, the taint of inability to compromise, 
 the sin of too great sincerity. And as it is the oil of com- 
 promise that makes the wheels of life revolve with smooth- 
 ness, it may be supposed that Hugh Hamberton got many 
 a rude shake and stumble, as he plunged along the ruts, 
 or rode over the smooth asphalt of life. It is one of the 
 most shocking things in this sad world to see a generous, 
 large-minded man compelled to become cautious and pru- 
 dent, and sometimes even hardened and sceptical. That 
 terrible "Timon of Athens," that still more terrible "Lear," 
 show how the bitter truth had sunk into the mind of the 
 greatest interpreter of humanity the world has ever seen. 
 And if Hugh Hamberton did not receive such rude shocks
 
 CYNIC AND HUMANIST 133 
 
 as these mighty phantoms of Shakespeare's imagination, at 
 least he saw enough of human nature to wish to have 
 as httle as possible to say to men during the remainder 
 of his life. His business relations showed him brutally 
 and indecorously all the seamy side of human nature; 
 once he was savagely attacked for an innocent poem that 
 he had foolishly published in a tiny volume, and he was 
 not very long in discovering that the attack was made by 
 a hungry poet, who had partaken largely of his plate and 
 purse. He made no allowance for that exuberant sarcasm 
 which must be interpreted as the "scorn of scorn," of 
 which another poet speaks. Finally, he was dishonoured 
 by a wretched creature, a gentleman of fallen fortunes, 
 whom he had rescued from poverty, and placed in a con- 
 fidential position. This was the last straw; and Hugh 
 Hamberton determined to fly from civilization, his only 
 companion being the criminal's daughter, who was his 
 godchild, and whom he had adopted as ward and heiress, 
 whilst her father was paying in enforced exile the penalty 
 of his embezzlements. 
 
 Why he had selected this remote spot on the Kerry 
 coast can only be conjectured from what afterguards 
 happened. Very probably during some autumn holiday 
 he had skirted this coast in a steamer, or driven along its 
 splendid roads on an outside car. And very probably, 
 whilst his fellow-passengers were listening to the rude 
 jokes or time-worn anecdotes of the driver, he had, with 
 his shrewd English eye, seen in the rude seams where 
 quarrymen had blasted for road metal, or which the 
 mountain torrents had chiselled among the hills, indica- 
 tions of mineral or stone, that might be wrought into
 
 134 LISHEEN 
 
 something profitable or useful. For just behind that 
 conical hill was seen, at the period of which we write, a 
 vast quarry torn open with pick and powder; and — most 
 unusual sight in an Irish landscape — huge derricks with 
 great chains swinging in the air to lift from the bowels of 
 the earth the blocks of porphyry and black and green 
 marbles that were to fill yonder luggers, riding in the 
 ofiing, for exportation to England. Rumour, too, had it 
 that iron ore had been discovered; and there was a secret 
 whisper, that was heard only about the firesides at night, 
 that Hamberton had picked up some heavy stones that 
 glittered in the sunlight, and that he had gone hastily 
 away from home a few days after the discovery. How- 
 ever, here he was, the "masther" of this little colony, stern 
 but kind; exacting a full day's labour for very liberal 
 hire; and leading a lonely, solitary life, unbroken save 
 for the companionship of Claire Moulton, godchild and 
 ward. 
 
 She, too, was worshipped; but in another way. She 
 was worshipped for her extraordinary loveliness that 
 made people cast down their eyes when they first beheld 
 her; then worshipped for her bereaved condition, that of 
 orphan, as they believed, an instantaneous passport to 
 the sympathies of an affectionate people; finally, wor- 
 shipped because she entered every cabin, and spoke "like 
 one of theirsels"; showed the women how to cook and 
 knit; "hushoe'd" the baby and rocked the cradle; and 
 did all manner of kindly ofiices to the sick. And they 
 worshipped her all the more, because she was English 
 and a Protestant; and because, disdaining the gewgaws 
 of London fashion, she dressed in the plain skirt and
 
 CYNIC AND HUMANIST 135 
 
 bodice of the natives; and, when she went abroad, never 
 wore but that most becoming of all outdoor dresses, the 
 hooded Irish cloak. True, she yielded to feminine vanity 
 so far that the lining of her hood was daintily quilted in 
 red or blue satin; but that was all. And she wore no head 
 covering but her hair. One companion she had, an old 
 nurse, who acted as duenna, and watched over her with 
 incessant and affectionate attention; and who could never 
 understand how one so delicately reared could fraternize 
 so easily and so warmly with these "dirty Hirish." And 
 the silence of Ireland oppressed her. She yearned for 
 the roar of London, and the soldiers, and the parks. 
 
 Withal, Hugh Hamberton was a melancholy man. 
 All men are melancholy who think deeply, or who suffer 
 deeply, especially if they still hold in reverence that 
 abstraction "humanity," whilst they have come to loathe 
 their fellowmen. He cannot be said to have loved any- 
 thing except his godchild; and this w^as a pure, ethereal 
 love, where there was not a particle of sense or self; only a 
 perfect, disinterested affection, that sought the happiness 
 and well-being of the beloved, and no more. The sole 
 object that would redeem his life from absolute failure 
 was her happy settlement in life. There was a kind of 
 secondary duty towards these poor serfs that surrounded 
 him. But this was paramount, and then ? And then — 
 a certain thought would rise up before him, at first vague 
 and easily put aside; then recurring with irritating per- 
 sistence, until it became at last an obsession. But he hid 
 it away, away even from himself. He would wait, wait. 
 "Sufficient for the day is its own evil." 
 
 He had met the old priest. Father Cosgrove, in one of
 
 136 LISHEEN 
 
 the cabins during a hurried visit; saluted him in cold, 
 English fashion, and no more. Then he made a few 
 cautious inquiries of his workmen, afraid to touch too 
 closely on that most delicate topic of religion, with the 
 result that, some weeks later, he asked the priest to his 
 house. Father Cosgrove, in his simple, humble way, 
 trying to be " all things to all men," accepted the invitation. 
 It was winter time, and a huge fire was burning in the 
 splendid library, whose high windows let in a pale sun- 
 light from east and south. It was a large room, and 
 literally crammed with books, exquisitely bound, from 
 the floor to the heavy moulded cornices that ran beneath 
 the ceiling. The fireplace was framed in white marble, 
 richly cut into all kinds of Cupids and Bacchuses and 
 grapes and roses — ancient splendour and modern luxury 
 side by side. 
 
 After a few commonplace remarks, Hamberton suddenly 
 stood up, and standing on the hearth rug, his hands be- 
 hind him, he shot these questions at the priest in a quick, 
 peremptory manner: 
 
 "I understand, sir, that you were at one time rector or 
 parish priest here?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, at one time, long ago, long ago," said the 
 priest, repeating himself as if it were a matter of very little 
 consequence to any one. 
 
 "You were silenced?" said his examiner. 
 
 "Well, yes, yes, yes; there was a little misunderstand- 
 ing, a little misunderstanding" — and he waved his hand 
 in the air, as if to blow it away. 
 
 " Then you recommenced life in your old age as curate, 
 I understand?"
 
 CYNIC AND HUMANIST 137 
 
 "I did, I did, I did. No responsibilities, you know; no 
 responsibilities!" 
 
 "And after a time you, at your own request, were sent 
 back here as curate, and in a subordinate position, where 
 you had before to suffer disgrace?" 
 
 " 'Twas my own wish, my own wish," said the old priest, 
 shuffling in his chair. "I wanted to see the old people 
 before they passed away forever; I wanted to see the 
 boys and girls I had married, and to see their little families 
 grown up about them; I wanted to see the little children 
 I baptized, now young men and women; I wanted to see 
 the old mountains and the glens and to run down here 
 sometimes to hear the sea talking. And so the bishop 
 took pity on me, and sent me back without any care or 
 trouble, without any care or trouble." And he waved 
 his hand again in the air. 
 
 "That's very good," said Hamberton; "but you have 
 come back in a manner that's humiliating to human 
 nature; and I believe you are on a much lower stipend, 
 and have all the rough work?" 
 
 "As to the humiliation," replied the old man, "it is 
 just about what I deserved, neither more nor less. As to 
 the stipend, I have seven pounds a year and what the poor 
 people choose to give me ; and I want for nothing — ab- 
 solutely nothing, absolutely nothing. As to the work, 
 I have a purty boy of a parish priest, who finds every kind 
 of excuse for doing what I should do. This Sunday he 
 wants to see a certain person in the outlying chapel, and 
 he must go; next Sunday he wants to see the school- 
 master, and he must go; next Sunday he hears there's a 
 leak in the roof, and he must go. He's just like the people
 
 138 LISHEEN 
 
 in the Gospel, that found an excuse in buying farms, 
 marrying wives, etc.; only that they excused themselves 
 for not going; and he invents excuses for going, and 
 sparing me the trouble." 
 
 Hamberton looked at the old man long and earnestly. 
 There was nothing very attractive in his appearance. 
 He was about the same age as Hamberton himself, grizzled 
 too in his hair, and wrinkled in his cheeks; but there was 
 a strange, quiet, serene look on his pale face and in his 
 fearless eyes that Hamberton never saw before. 
 
 "But," said Hamberton at length, "I understand you 
 have to get up at night and go long distances in snow and 
 storm, and face all weathers, and every kind of disease — " 
 
 "There you are again!" said Father Cosgrove; "not a 
 bit of it! My parish priest has left strict orders to his 
 housekeeper, on pain of dismissal, to send every night 
 call to his room. He says he can't sleep; and he'd rather 
 be out in the fine fresh air at night. Once or twice I 
 thought to beat him, but he was out the front door before 
 I was on the stairs. I sometimes tell him he'll be damned 
 for telling lies!" 
 
 "He won't!" said Hamberton, emphatically. "Would 
 to God, if there be a God, that all men were such liars 
 as he!" 
 
 He had become suddenly excited, and had lost, in an 
 instant, and to the old priest's consternation, the equa- 
 nimity he had up to this manifested. He turned almost 
 fiercely on the old man, as he asked: 
 
 "Tell me, are there many more men like that in this 
 country?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, oh yes; lots, lots!" said the priest, "every-
 
 CYNIC AND HUMANIST 139 
 
 where; everywhere!" And he made circles in the air 
 with his hands. 
 
 "I haven't seen them," said Hamberton. ^'Up to this 
 moment I beheved that horses and dogs were the nobihty 
 of creation." 
 
 "Well, horses and dogs are good, too," said this modern 
 St. Francis. "Everything is good that the good God has 
 made — " 
 
 "Except men!" said Hamberton, bitterly. 
 
 The priest was silent. He had never heard these 
 opinions before. 
 
 "Look here, sir," said Hamberton, pointing his finger 
 at the priest, "what you say may be true. I'm not in a 
 position to deny it. But I have walked through life, as 
 through a forest, where I had to pick my every step for 
 snares and pitfalls; and where every moment I might 
 expect to hear the snarl, or feel the bite, of a wild beast. 
 In the beginning I opened my heart to men; but I had to 
 shut it with a snap. I wanted to be generous, to give 
 freely and royally; I found I was despised as a fool. Men 
 took my gifts and laughed at the donor. I brought a 
 wretched, scraggy, half-starved tatter-de-malion — but a 
 genius — into my house, clothed his nakedness, fed his 
 hunger, and opened to him my purse. The frozen wretch, 
 when he had thawed, bit me. But — let me not do a 
 class an injustice. It was only amongst the lower classes, 
 as they are called, that I received gratitude; and hence 
 I hold that it is civilization that makes men selfish and 
 brutal. There is honour among thieves; there is love 
 and kindness among street- walkers. Did you ever read 
 De Quincey?"
 
 I40 LISHEEN 
 
 "No," said the old priest. "I haven't read much at 
 all, at all!" 
 
 "Well, you will read in his Conjessions one of the most 
 wonderful examples of fidelity and truthfulness ever re- 
 corded, which shows that the higher you advance in civil- 
 ization, the more hardened and brutal men become; till 
 deception and lying are the recognized virtues of good 
 society; and the lower you go, the more Godlike men be- 
 come, until, as I say, the horse and the dog are the nobility 
 of creation." 
 
 The old man was silent. These were strange and 
 ominous sayings. Hamberton was watching him closely 
 out of half-shut, angry eyes. 
 
 "I think," said the priest at last — "No," he said at 
 once, as if checking himself on the verge of an admission 
 or an avowal, "I shouldn't think at all on these matters. 
 They are beyond me!" 
 
 "But they are your experience, too?" queried Ham- 
 berton. 
 
 "Oh, not at all; not at all!" said the priest. "I find 
 everybody good and kind and generous. Look at your- 
 self, now! You never saw me before. Yet you intro- 
 duce me into this magnificent house, and speak to me as 
 an equal." 
 
 Hamberton would have smiled at this naivete. He 
 had never met anything like it before. But he was too 
 much in earnest; and too puzzled about this phenomenon. 
 
 There was an awkward silence. Then the priest, as if 
 a sudden idea had dawned on him, said with an air of 
 triumph : 
 
 "I have it. It is because you were great and wealthy
 
 CYNIC AND HUMANIST 141 
 
 and gifted that men envied you and coveted what you 
 have. If you had nothing, men would love you. Look 
 at me! I have no brains; no position; no talents. I am 
 down below most poeple. And they look down on me 
 and love me. I have no money, no lands — only a few 
 books and these old clothes; and, therefore, they have 
 nothing to covet. If you have all that the human heart 
 can desire, you must not complain because men would like 
 to have a little share." 
 
 "But my horse and my dog don't want a share," replied 
 Hamberton. "They are content to toil for me, to defend 
 me, to love me for myself — for what I am, not for what 
 I have." 
 
 "True, true," said the old priest. "Everything is 
 good; everything is good that the good God has made!" 
 
 "Except men!" repeated Hamberton. 
 
 The old man shook his head, and rose up to depart. 
 
 "You will come again?" said Hamberton. 
 
 The priest was silent. He did not know what to make 
 of this strange man. 
 
 "You'll find me, perhaps, somewhat different from what 
 you expect," said Hamberton. "Come for your people's 
 sake!" 
 
 "I will come," said the priest, about to leave. 
 
 "One moment," said Hamberton, his hand on the bell- 
 rope. "You must see my ward." 
 
 "Tell Miss Claire to step here for a moment," he said, 
 when the footman appeared. 
 
 Claire Moulton was then hardly more than a child. 
 She was a little more than fifteen years old; but, being of 
 a dark complexion in hair and eyes, she looked somewhat
 
 142 LISHEEN 
 
 older. And she had acquired all the manners of a young 
 mistress of the household — quiet, self-possessed, and 
 sometimes imperious. Her great beauty was set off, or, 
 as some thought, lessened, by a quick gleam in her great 
 brown eyes, that might be pride, or temper, or genius. 
 With this sudden gleam her great eyes shone when she 
 appeared to answer her guardian's summons. She had 
 never spoken to a priest before, and had been trained by 
 her English nurse to all manner of ugly preconceptions 
 and prejudices against everything Catholic. Neverthe- 
 less, when she approached the old man, she glanced 
 quickly at him; and when her guardian said: 
 
 "I want to introduce you, Claire, to Mr. Cosgrove!" 
 she bowed. The old priest, in his simple, kindly way, 
 stretched out his hand. She seemed for a moment sur- 
 prised; but instantly, and with great gravity, she raised 
 the priest's hand to her lips. Hamberton could hardly 
 speak with astonishment. 
 
 That evening, before dinner, as the two stood by the 
 fire in the drawing-room, he suddenly asked her: 
 
 "Why did you kiss the old priest's hand to-day, Claire?" 
 
 " Because he is a good man, and he does not know it," 
 she said, looking him full in the face. 
 
 "You never kissed me?" he said reproachfully. 
 
 She put her arm around his neck, and drew down his 
 face to hers. 
 
 "You are a good man, too," she said, "and you don't 
 know it." 
 
 The strong man, his heart hardened and annealed from 
 the hard blows of the world, burst into silent weeping; but 
 that was the happiest dinner he had had for many a long day.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A NEW SAINT 
 
 The acquaintance, thus auspiciously commenced, 
 ripened into something hke intimacy. There was hardly 
 a day that called the old priest away from his presbytery 
 which did not see him installed by that fireside, or wander- 
 ing for a leisured hour or more about the grounds, which 
 Hamberton had now laid out with great taste and at no 
 little expense. And different as these two men were in 
 temperament and education, they seemed to have some 
 affinity with each other. Perhaps each supplied the 
 other's defects. Perhaps Hamberton saw in this guileless 
 man the simple, unsophisticated, disinterested character 
 he had so long sought for in vain in the world of London. 
 And to the priest there was quite a novel attraction in 
 this strange being, who seemed to his simple mind to have 
 been dropped from another planet, so different were his 
 habits, thoughts, principles from everything to which the 
 priest had been heretofore accustomed. And although 
 sometimes the latter shrank from expressions that seemed 
 to him irreligious and even blasphemous, he imputed the 
 evil to ignorance or inexperience; and here under his 
 eyes were ample compensations for the crudities and 
 irregularities that seemed part of Hamberton's education. 
 For now "the desert had blossomed like a rose." Where 
 a few years ago was a barren and blighted landscape, 
 
 143
 
 144 LISHEEN 
 
 wintry looking even in summer, and fronting a cold and 
 barren sea, was now a smiling upland, gay with the 
 colours of many flowers, and feathered with the plumes 
 of handsome trees. And where there had been but 
 wretched hovels, mud-walled and thatched with rotten 
 straw, and surrounded with putrid pools of green, fetid 
 water, were now neat cottages, stone-built, red-tiled, 
 each bright in front with carpets of flowers, and glowing 
 in the rear with all kinds of fruit and vegetables. And 
 all day long to the sound of the sea rang the clink of steel 
 upon marble; and the hiss of the steam which swung the 
 huge derricks around rose like the fall of the surf on 
 the shingle and sand beneath. Tourists, rushing by to 
 Glenbigh or Waterville, stopped their cars, and rubbed 
 their eyes, and asked incredulously: ''Is this Ireland?" 
 And many a pale-faced and withered and shrunken Ameri- 
 can girl, home for the holidays, bade farewell with tears 
 in her eyes to this little paradise; and looked across the 
 darkening ocean with dread forebodings in her heart of 
 the life that was before her in the gehennas of Pittsburg 
 or Chicago. 
 
 Claire Moulton, too, was a bright and peculiar feature 
 in this picture. Scarcely emerged from childhood, she 
 retained a certain wilfulness of character, a kind of girlish 
 despotism, which gave her unquestioned power over these 
 primitive people, who feared her for her imperiousness, 
 loved her for her goodness, smiled at her impetuosity, so 
 very like their own impulsive and emotional ways. She 
 endeared herself to them more particularly, because she 
 never stood aloof from them, but walked into their cot- 
 tages with the familiarity of an equal; gave her little
 
 A NEW SAINT 145 
 
 impetuous orders, which she helped to carry out; scolded 
 the women for untidiness or indolence; and challenged 
 the men if ever they were remiss in their duties. Once, 
 when a rude workman uttered a profane word in her 
 presence, she slapped him across the face; and every one 
 said she was right. The poor fellow came shamefaced 
 to the hall door in the evening, and made a most abject 
 apology. 
 
 It was this vein of impetuosity in her character that 
 made Hamberton somewhat anxious about her. A firm 
 believer in the inviolable laws of heredity, he knew 
 there was an oblique line somewhere in this very beautiful 
 and perfect picture; and sometimes he caught himself 
 watching her as she read or worked by the fireside at night, 
 or stooped over her manuscripts, copying or inditing 
 strange, wild verses, that to him seemed incantations. 
 
 She was often, too, the subject of much intimate con- 
 versation between Hamberton and hfs new friend. For, 
 although the latter was absolutely guileless and ignorant 
 of the world and its ways, there was a shrewd power of 
 discernment in his character — that kind of intuition 
 which makes children know instinctively who are enemies 
 and who might be friends. Hence, Hamberton spoke 
 often to the priest about the girl; and as she grew into 
 womanhood, and all the strong features of her character 
 became more pronounced and developed, his anxiety 
 increased, and she became a more frequent subject of 
 conversation. 
 
 The Sunday evening on which Bob Maxwell had 
 driven up the cattle to the glen in the hills, the three, 
 Father Cosgrove, Hugh Hamberton, and Claire, were
 
 146 LISHEEN 
 
 seated around the fire in the library. The weather was 
 cold and drizzling without, and although there was no 
 cold within doors, the sight of the fire in the dark evenings 
 was cheerful. They had been talking of many things; 
 and just then the name of General Gordon turned up, as 
 having come in some more prominent way than usual 
 before the British public. 
 
 "Voila un homineP^ said Hamberton, enthusiastically. 
 "Yes, Mr. Cosgrove, Gordon does not bring me around 
 to your optimism, but the existence of one such man 
 redeems the race. Look now, if Gordon were in your 
 Church, you'd have the whole tribe of pious Catholics 
 running after him; and you would canonize him, and call 
 him St. Gordonius, and put him into stained-glass win- 
 dows, and turn him into marble statues, with a helmet 
 and sword and breastplate, with Satan wriggling beneath 
 
 his feet, and representing all the d d money-grubbers 
 
 through the world. Yes; your Church is a wise Church. 
 She knows her best men; and honours them. Macaulay 
 was generally silly; but he was right there!" 
 
 "I don't know," said Father Cosgrove, meekly. "Some 
 of our saints were never discovered until years after their 
 death. And some got pretty rough handling during 
 their lives. But that is only as it ought to be!" 
 
 "How is that? I don't understand," said Hamberton. 
 
 "Neither do I," said the priest, who was always most 
 unwilling to enter into religious matters with a man 
 whose training had not fitted him to understand them. 
 "What does Miss Moulton think?" 
 
 "I have but one hero and one heroine," said Claire. 
 "And they bear out your contention, Father. General
 
 A NEW SAINT 147 
 
 Gordon and Joan of Arc, We English burned the latter. 
 She was troublesome and they turned her into bone-ashes. 
 As to Gordon, we shall probably erect a statue to him, if 
 we can find a niche somewhere between tallow-chandlers 
 and soap-manufacturers." 
 
 "There, there," said Hambcrton. "Claire must say 
 something spicy. By the way, you never met Gordon?" 
 said Hamberton to the priest. 
 
 "Oh, never, never," said Father Cosgrove. "I was 
 never out of Ireland." 
 
 "No, but Gordon was here," said Hamberton. "He 
 was around here touring I suppose; but he kept his eyes 
 open, and he saw many more things than fifty purblind 
 English statesman would perceive in twenty years. Where 
 have you put that letter, Claire?" 
 
 Claire Moulton went over to a table, and picked up a 
 scrap-book, in which she had pasted every little picture 
 or poem or extract she deemed interesting. 
 
 "Read it for us, Claire," said her guardian. 
 
 And Claire read slowly and with emphasis that famous 
 letter of General Gordon's, containing his bitter comments 
 on the agrarian system in Ireland ; and suggesting remedies 
 which only now, and slowly and with reluctance, are being 
 adopted. She read over twice, as if to imprint the words 
 on the memory of her hearers, the lines: 
 
 "'In conclusion, I must say, from all accounts and from 
 my own observation, that the state of our fellow-country- 
 men in the parts I have named is w^orsc than that of any 
 people in the world, let alone Europe. I believe that 
 these people are made as we are; that they are patient 
 beyond belief; but, at the same time, broken- spirited and
 
 148 LISHEEN 
 
 desperate, living on the verge of starvation in places in 
 M^hich we would not keep our cattle. The Bulgarian, 
 Anatolian, Chinese, and Indians are better off than many 
 of them are. The priests alone have any sympathy with 
 their sufferings; and naturally alone have a hold over 
 them.'" 
 
 When she finished, Hamberton was looking steadily 
 into the fire, a deep frown on his handsome features. 
 Father Cosgrove was softly crying. She took the scrap- 
 book over and laid it aside on the table. 
 
 "There, mark you," said Hamberton, as if he were 
 arguing against an adversary, "that's no partisan, no 
 politician. But we have seen the thing with our own eyes 
 — 'man's inhumanity to man' — injustice and cruelty 
 legalized." 
 
 " Well, no matter, no matter," said the priest. " ' Blessed 
 are they that suffer persecution' — there, I forget the rest!" 
 
 "I have no patience with that kind of thing, Mr. Cos- 
 grove," said the Englishman, angrily. "That kind of 
 religion doesn't appeal to me. No man is bound to lie 
 down and get himself kicked, when he can stand up and 
 punish his aggressor. It seems to me that your religion 
 has emasculated this people, and turned them from a 
 nation of fighters into a race of whimpering slaves." 
 
 "That's what old Ossian said to St. Patrick," said the 
 priest, "The old pagan couldn't understand why he 
 shouldn't smash his enemies in this world and send them 
 to hell hereafter. But you know — " 
 
 "I know that I agree with that old pagan gentleman 
 thoroughly," said Hamberton. "In public or in private, 
 in races and in individuals, the law of self-preservation
 
 A NEW SAINT 
 
 149 
 
 holds; and that cannot be if a man is not at liberty to de- 
 fend himself and punish his aggressor. But, Claire, you 
 forgot something. Gordon ended that letter with a 
 comical proposal. Just get that letter again, and read it." 
 
 Again Claire Moulton took up her scrap-book, and 
 read: 
 
 "'I am not well off; but I would offer or his agent 
 
 ;iCi,ooo, if either of them would live one week in one of 
 these poor devils' places, and feed as these people do.'" 
 
 "A safe offer," said the priest. "That is an impossible 
 condition, an impossible condition," and he waived it 
 away. 
 
 "I think I would marry that man," said Claire, laugh- 
 ing. "That is, if the fellow came out of the ordeal alive." 
 
 "Who is he, by the way?" asked Hamberton. 
 
 "The landlord of a large district many miles from 
 here," said the priest. "He has a bad name; but we 
 don't know; we don't know; we don't know!" 
 
 And the old priest dropped into silence, as Claire 
 Moulton left the room. 
 
 Hamberton had noticed that he had shivered when 
 Claire uttered the word "marry," and had looked towards 
 the girl, as if beseechingly. He understood well the 
 emotion and the look; and he closed the door carefully, 
 and came over, and laid his hand on the old priest's arm. 
 
 "Fear not!" he said. "All will come right. Claire 
 will never marry, and I — " 
 
 "How do you know? How can you know?" said the 
 old priest, passionately. 
 
 "There, now, don't be disturbed," said Hamberton, 
 soothingly. "You'll find all will be right in the end."
 
 I50 LISHEEN 
 
 "It cannot be right. It must be wrong, all wrong," 
 said the priest, still in the passionate tone that contrasted 
 so painfully with his usual meekness. "Oh, how can you 
 think of it — you who are so good, so good — whose life 
 is so perfect before God?" 
 
 "There is no God!" said Hamberton, solemnly. "And 
 I am not good." 
 
 "But you are, you are," reiterated the priest. "You 
 cannot deceive me. Cannot we see your goodness around 
 us everywhere?" 
 
 "What you, my dear friend," said Hamberton, "in 
 your simplicity and guilelessness, call goodness, is only 
 selfishness in another form." 
 
 "No, no, no," said the priest. "I cannot, I will not, 
 believe it. Look at all these poor people whom you have 
 made happy. Look at their cottages, their gardens, their 
 flowers, their steady weekly wages, where there was but 
 poverty and dirt and ignorance. And all this the work 
 of your hands. And you, you,''^ he cried emphatically, 
 "to even think of such a thing." 
 
 "Listen!" said Hamberton, sitting down and speaking 
 slowly. "I appreciate your kindness and your good 
 opinion ; but you do me wrong. You impute to me virtues 
 which I do not possess, which I never possessed. I have 
 money, more than I know what to do with. I could have 
 gratified myself one way by purchasing a yacht and fooling 
 around the world; but I had no taste for seasickness and 
 tarred ropes and danger. I could have travelled; but I 
 had no fancy for being packed into the narrow compart- 
 ments of Continental trains, squeezed between sweating 
 women, who would not allow the eighth of an inch of a
 
 A NEW SAINT 151 
 
 window to be raised in the dog days. I could have spent 
 my money on rioting and dissipation; but I had no fancy 
 to be racked by the gout ; and, thanks to my dead mother, 
 I abominate uncleanness, physical or moral, in every 
 form. What then? I come here. I create a certain 
 beauty out of a certain ugliness. It pleases my taste, 
 which is fastidious, I admit, by placing certain pretty 
 pictures before my eyes, where there were but certain 
 deformities. I enjoy all the pleasures of a poet — a 
 maker of things. I can now look from my window, 
 and enjoy the beauty of that harbour and those sands 
 and cliffs, and that sea, without having the prospect 
 marred by rotting roofs, and gaping mud-walls, and 
 ragged babies. I have made these men decent w^orkers 
 out of drunken loafers. I like to hear the click of the 
 chisel, and the hiss of steam, and the creaking of the der- 
 rick. But I am not such a fool as to call all this virtue. 
 I know it is nothing but the selfishness of the ordinary 
 parasites of society under another form. All this altruism 
 is but self disguised ; and sometimes, I think, self disguised 
 in an ignoble form," 
 
 He stopped, and remained for some time buried in deep 
 thought. Father Cosgrove was silent. These were psy- 
 chological positions never before presented to his mind. 
 Hamberton continued: 
 
 "Believe me, my dear friend, self is the only God — 
 egoism the only religion. All the great deeds of the 
 world, that sound heroic, are done simply through selfish 
 impulses. Scaevola putting his arm into the flames — 
 what was this but pride, or vanity — the desire of that 
 most contemptible thing called fame? Sidney giving the
 
 152 LISHEEN 
 
 drink of water to the dying soldier — what was this ? 
 The same impulse of 'self that made me build yonder 
 cottages. And all your patriots, statesmen, churchmen, 
 masquerading in their rags and tinsel before the world — 
 each rogue or fool, admitting to his valet or his looking- 
 glass that he is but an actor — why, he is not even that. 
 He is but a poor puppet in the hands of that mysterious 
 thing, called Nature, which keeps up its little show, 
 lighted by its little lantern, through the selfish impulses 
 of these marionettes." 
 
 "I cannot follow you, I cannot follow you," said the 
 priest. "These things are beyond my comprehension. 
 But it seems to me you wrong yourself. You are not the 
 man you have painted. I saw you the other day take up 
 in your arms and kiss the child of that unhappy woman 
 — Nellie Gillespie. A bad man wouldn't do that!" 
 
 "I didn't say I was bad," replied Hamberton. "In 
 fact, there is no good or bad — " 
 
 "And you must admit your affection for Miss Moulton. 
 At least, there is no self there." 
 
 "Right. None, absolutely none. And hence, when I 
 see Claire happy beyond question, I shall obliterate self 
 and blot it out forever!" 
 
 "Then," said Father Cosgrove, rising, "I shall do all 
 in my power to thwart every attempt at having Miss Claire 
 settled. The cost would be too great, the cost would be 
 too great." 
 
 "You cannot," said Hamberton. "This is beyond 
 your power or mine. Behind blind Nature is the blinder 
 force called Fate. If it is Claire's destiny to marry, the 
 mighty wheel of Fate will turn round slowly and blindly,
 
 A NEW SAINT 153 
 
 and place at her feet the man she is to wed. She cannot 
 escape him, nor can he escape her. And it isn't you, my 
 dear friend, that can grasp the spokes of that wheel and 
 stop it, or turn it back." 
 
 "But if I tell Claire — Miss Moulton — what will 
 happen after her marriage, she never will, she never can, 
 marry," said the priest. 
 
 "But you won't, you cannot, tell Claire anything that I 
 have told you. You know," he continued, laughing, 
 "that we are taught to believe that all priests are casuists, 
 and can find an excellent reason for every violation of 
 pledge or honour, or every contravention of truth. But I 
 know you — know you weU. I won't say but that you 
 are at liberty to thwart Claire's marriage, although you 
 have perceived, I think, that hers is not a character to be 
 thwarted without peril. But you know that you are not 
 at liberty to thwart me by any unseasonable revelation 
 of my principles or purposes." 
 
 "Then, may God help me!" said the old priest, rising 
 up. " I am going to say a dreadful thing — I'm sorry 
 I ever knew you or Miss Moulton. My parish priest, 
 who is only half my age, often told me to beware of inter- 
 meddling in other people's affairs. He meant, of course, 
 that I am an old fool. And so I am; and so I am!" 
 
 "Well, we mustn't be premature," said Hamberton, 
 smiling. "Let us await the development of things. And I 
 shall be more complimentary than you, and say that it has 
 been a pleasure and a profit for me to have known you." 
 
 "Ah, you're too good, too good," said the priest, shak- 
 ing his hand in farewell. " God will save you both ! God 
 will save you both!"
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 NOT FORGOTTEN 
 
 Like so many others in the hour of their dereliction, 
 Bob Maxwell did not think that he was still an object of 
 interest — of hope, or commiseration, or contempt — to 
 many. We are prone to think, in the hour of agony, that 
 we stand solitary in our trial. It is not so. Even as a 
 matter of self-interest, we centre the thoughts of many, 
 whose images may have faded from our own minds. 
 
 There were two places, at least, where Maxwell was 
 not only not forgotten, but where his memory was kept 
 in frequent and fragrant remembrance. The one was the 
 cabin of the Widow Leary, up amongst the bracken, 
 where the burn sparkled across the road, and the birds 
 never ceased from singing even in the winter time. The 
 other was the couch of almost perpetual agony, on which 
 Major Willoughby lay. 
 
 In the little homely conferences, about "ways and 
 means," between Darby Leary and his mother, the 
 "masther" was often mentioned. For Darby had very 
 pleasant recollections of that little camp down there in 
 the glen; and before the bright, fragrant fire of pine logs 
 and turf during that winter, whilst the wind soughed dis- 
 mally outside, and whilst his bare legs were almost scorched 
 and blistered with the heat, his fancy summoned up the 
 long, sweet, summer days in the glen, when he lay flat 
 
 154
 
 NOT FORGOTTEN 155 
 
 in the sun, on a bed of fern, or leaned up against a sunny 
 ditch, and ate, with a relish unknown to the most fas- 
 tidious epicure, the mashed potatoes and the ricli creamy 
 fat, that his master had to cut away carefully, by doctor's 
 orders, from the sirloin or the steak. 
 
 It almost made Darby cry, there in his cabin and con- 
 demned to potatoes and milk, to think of that beef-fat — 
 to think of his esctasy when he held it in his fingers, and 
 watched its creamy transparency; to think of the bite of 
 the hot potato, which was dry in his mouth, until, oh, ye 
 heavens! he liquified it with that delectable jelly, and rolled 
 the morsel in his mouth, whilst the crisp skin crackled 
 under his teeth. No coloured son of Africa with his 
 juicy watermelon, no Esquimo with his whalc-blubbcr, 
 ever enjoyed such ecstasies as Darby; and when he had 
 wiped his fingers on his corduroy breeches, he wondered 
 as only a pleasant digestion can make one wonder, 
 what strange folks these rich people must be, to reject 
 the most glorious delicacies of life, and limit themselves 
 to lean beef and soda-water. 
 
 His mother had her own interpretation of these anoma- 
 lies. 
 
 "It keeps them from gettin' shtout an' fat," she said, 
 "in ordher to plaze the ladies." 
 
 And Darby said : " Begor, muddcr, you're right. That's 
 it!" 
 
 He told his mother, too, that the "masther" wanted him 
 to drink ink from a black bottle; but that he only tasted 
 it, and spat it out. But he said nothing, wise fool that he 
 was, about the "wee drap" of spirits which sometimes, 
 but not often, Aleck had given him on the sly, and Avhich
 
 156 LISHEEN 
 
 gripped his throat and made him cough, and then say 
 ecstatically: "Ah!" as he rolled his eyes towards heaven. 
 
 Very minute and graphic, too, were the stories Darby 
 told his mother of the "doin's" and " carryin's-on " of 
 the great people ; and very great was her wonder when she 
 heard what a complicated thing civilization was. How 
 people could eat eight or ten courses of soups, fish, entrees, 
 joints, fruits, sweets, cheese, etc., etc., without becoming 
 what she called "porpushes," surpassed her understand- 
 ing. 
 
 "Where the dickens do they shtow it all away?" she 
 often asked. "And why are they so shlim and yallow, 
 when they have the besht of 'atin' and drinkin' every 
 day?" 
 
 When Darby told her that the "masther" had two kinds 
 of "mate" for his dinner, it produced great surprise in 
 the old woman's mind, who never saw meat but at Christ- 
 mas and Easter. But when she heard of the a la Russe 
 dinner, she decided the world had gone mad. 
 
 Then, one day, in a moment of inadvertence and com- 
 municativeness. Darby, with a blush mantling his already 
 red neck and face, told his mother how fine ladies dressed 
 for dinner, and described their toilettes rather minutely 
 as he had seen them, after much hesitation and many 
 scruples, one summer night. The poor old woman, who, 
 in Oriental fashion, wore several coverings across her 
 breast, and several wrappings around her head, was slow 
 to grasp his meaning. When she did, she gave way to a 
 regular paroxysm of passion. 
 
 "Be off, you blagard you," she cried, snatching up the' 
 bellows, and smiting this unfortunate reporter across the
 
 NOT FORGOTTEN 157 
 
 back. "What do you mane by bringin' sich things into 
 a dacent house? What the divil timpted you to invint 
 such shtories ? I suppose thim grooms and gamekeepers. 
 Go out and wash your dirty mouth in the river ; or, be this 
 and be that, you'll niver set down to a male in this house 
 agin." 
 
 "Shure, I didn't mane no harrum, mudder," said the 
 poor fellow, whimpering. "Shure, I only tould you what 
 I saw with me own two eyes — " 
 
 "You niver saw nothin' of the kind, you ruffian," said 
 his mother. "Don't be tellin' me sich shtories as that, 
 you were listenin' to them blagards at the hotel talkin' of 
 things that no dacent Christian ud mintion; and you want 
 to pershuade yer ould mother you saw thim yourself." 
 
 "Pon me sowkins, I saw thim," said Darby. "And, 
 more'n that, I saw the gould bracelets on their bare 
 arrums — " 
 
 " That'll do now ! That'll do now ! I want no more of 
 yere blagardin'. Take that where 'tis welcome. Be the 
 way, whin were you at yere juty?" 
 
 "The fust of de mont," said Darby. "I never missed 
 it yet." 
 
 "Did ye do your pinnance?" asked his mother. 
 
 "I did, begor, twice over, for fear I'd make a mistake," 
 said Darby, confidently. 
 
 "Thin, you'll go to the priesht agin next Saturday, and 
 tell him of your bad talk; an' av I don't see you at the 
 althar Sunday morning, cut the head aff av me if you inter 
 this cabin agin!" 
 
 It will be seen from this that Mrs. Leary's temper was 
 variable; and really Darby, after all his experience, didn't
 
 158 LISHEEN 
 
 know, as he said, "Whin he had her." Sometimes when 
 Darby was facetious, and put on the airs of a fme gentle- 
 man, Mrs. Leary was amused, and even proud of her 
 poor boy. When, for example. Darby rushed in with a 
 ploughman's appetite and in glorious spirits, and de- 
 manded, in an affected accent: 
 
 "What for dinner to-dee, mudder?" the old woman 
 would answer good-humouredly : 
 
 "Oh! everything, everything, yer 'anner; and plinty 
 of it!" 
 
 "Shawl we have roshe-beef to-dee, mudder?" 
 
 "To be sure, to be sure; an' lashin's and lavin's of it, 
 yer 'anner!" 
 
 "An' plum-puddin', av coorse?" 
 
 "Oh, yeh; av course, yer 'anner. Is there annythin' 
 else yer 'anner 'ud hke?" 
 
 "Lemme see! No; I think that'll do!" And Darby 
 would sit down with a relish to the potatoes and salt, 
 sometimes improved with a little dip; and the old mother 
 would think: 
 
 "Wisha, who knows? Quarer things happen. Look 
 at Mrs. Mulcahy's boy, that I knew a bare-legged gossoon, 
 like Darby, a few years ago; and look at him now home 
 from America. Why the masther is not aiqual to him. 
 And perhaps, who knows, wan of thim foine ladies may 
 take a fancy to me poor bhoy — sure, he's straight as a 
 pike-staff, and as light on his feet as a bird. And, shure, 
 didn't ould Captain Curtis' daughter elope wid the 
 coachman? Not that I'd be wishin' that, God forbid! 
 Shure, his soul is fust and foremost ! But, if it was right, 
 an' they had the priesht's blessin' — "
 
 NOT FORGOTTEN 159 
 
 So the maternal fancy wandered, throwing up its little 
 castles here and there, whilst Darby, with much emphasis, 
 gobbled up the floury potatoes and swilled the skim-milk 
 from his wooden porringer. 
 
 But, once or twice, Mrs. Leary caught Darby suddenly 
 "doin' the gran' gintleman," and she resented it. For 
 when she caught Darby in the kitchen, the sugan chair 
 tilted back, till it nearly upset the centre of gravity, whilst 
 Darby with crossed legs, and an attitude of ease and 
 voluptuousness, smoked a cigarette of brown paper or 
 straw, she gave him the bellows across his back, and sent 
 him howling into the haggard. 
 
 But, whilst thus maintaining proper discipline in her 
 household, and keeping Darby within proper bounds, 
 she never tired of hearing him talk of the "masther." 
 What the "masther" did; what the "masther" said; 
 how the "masther" dressed; what the "masther" ate; 
 the "masther's" fine round curses^ when he was in a 
 passion; the "masther's" acts of generosity, when he was 
 in a better mood; these were endless topics around that 
 humble fireside there amongst the Kerry hills. And 
 these gloomy December days, when the leaden skies 
 stooped down and wrapped mother earth in their hea\7 
 folds, and while Maxwell lay, in agony and desolation of 
 spirit, there in Owen McAuliffe's cabin, many were the 
 conjectures made by the widow and son about his sur- 
 roundings and occupation, and many were the hopes and 
 wishes that the winter would swiftly pass, and the little 
 bell-tent shine out once more down there amongst the 
 furze and bracken in the glen. 
 
 "'Twon't be long comin' now, agra," the widow would
 
 i6o LISHEEN 
 
 say. "Sure the days will be lingthenin' soon; and thin 
 we'll be into Aisther; and, sure, 'tis only a lep from that 
 to summer. We won't know where we are, whin the 
 Scotchman will be up here lookin' fer you agin." 
 
 "That's thrue fer you, mudder," Darby would reply. 
 "An' shure if the 'masther' doesn't come this time, 
 there'll be always gintlemen at the Hotel. I hope that 
 foxy scoundrel won't come, though; or I'll give him a 
 worse duckin' thin he giv me, bad luck to him!" 
 
 "Sh! Shtop that cursin', Darby. 'Tis no good here 
 nor there. An' shure, 'tis always betther say the good 
 thing. An' the walls have ears." 
 
 "The masther wouldn't do it," Darby would reply. 
 "He was a rale gintleman. No wan knows where the 
 foxy fellow kem from. An', shure, I hard the byes saying 
 that he tuk the masther 's young lady away from him." 
 
 "Begor, thin, she must have the quare taste intirely to 
 turn her back on the masther an' go after an object like 
 him. But I wondher what's the masther doin' now?" 
 
 "Oh, sphortin' an' injyin' himself, I suppose," con- 
 jectured Darby. "Yerra, what else has they to do but 
 divartin' themselves? They gets up whin we're goin' to 
 bed ; and goes to bed whin we are gettin' up. They does 
 everythin' by contrayries. Begor, I wouldn't be shur- 
 prised now if the masther was away in the West Injies, or 
 some out-of-the-way place injyin' himself; or, maybe, 
 he's rowlin' about Dublin in his carriage with the Lord 
 Lieutenant himself." 
 
 "You wouldn't be afther sayin' that?" said the mother. 
 "He must be a gintleman out an' out to do that. But, 
 shure, wherever he is, may God save him. Only for him,
 
 NOT FORGOTTEN i6i 
 
 we wouldn't have the thatch above us to-day, I wondher 
 will he keep it out of yer wages, Darby?" 
 
 " The masther ? Not him. He thinks no more of that 
 five pounds than you would about a thraneen of male." 
 
 " 'Tis a fine thing to be rich and happy and continted," 
 the mother would reply. "I suppose we'll have somethin' 
 ourselves in the nixt wurruld, as we haven't much in this!" 
 
 In quite a different manner, and not with less sympathy, 
 did the Major brood over Bob Maxwell these dark Decem- 
 ber days. His thoughts wandered after the young man, 
 although he had cursed and blowed his folly a hundred 
 times, and had mentally excommunicated him for his 
 Quixotic ideas and his treacherous abandonment of his 
 own class, and the great central dogma of ascendancy. 
 
 '"Tis all d d rot," he would often say to himself, 
 
 "this talk about justice and equality — all d d Social- 
 ism. The next thing will be the barricades and the 
 guillotine, with all the insufferable poltroonery of this 
 Government. But this comes from ourselves — ourselves ! 
 Good God! to think I should live to see a gentleman so 
 forget himself! I hope the fellow, if ever he comes back 
 alive from the hands of these moonlighters, will be ostra- 
 cized, expelled, and blackballed in every club in Dublin. 
 What will these ruffians think, by that we're afraid? 
 And then — 'tis all up. By heavens! They'd think 
 nothing of lighting the Smithfield fires again and roasting 
 every man of us." 
 
 But the Major had gentler moods. Thoughts of Bob 
 — Bob, the son of his old friend; Bob, the splendid sports- 
 man; Bob, the soul of honour, who would no more touch 
 another man's money than he'd take his life; Bob, who
 
 1 62 LISHEEN 
 
 challenged that coward, EUis, and wanted to bring back 
 that gentlemanly amusement of duelling amongst a retro- 
 grade and cowardly generation; and Bob, who he thought 
 would take Mabel to the altar, and be to himself a son 
 and a support in these sad days that were stretching 
 down the declivities of life — would come back ; and 
 sometimes Freeman, his valet, would detect him talking 
 sadly to himself; or, be not incredulous, O reader! for 
 human nature is always and everywhere the same, wiping 
 his eyes secretly behind the friendly shelter of the Times. 
 And the Major, too, had misgivings about Mabel's future 
 — misgivings which made more poignant his anger and 
 sorrow for Bob Maxwell. It was not only the little 
 episode we have mentioned in a former chapter, but 
 sundry other little things — little revelations of character 
 in a look, in a word, in a gesture — that made the Major 
 uneasy. Above all, there was that secret repulsion, that 
 original, intuitive dislike for Outram, which he could not 
 explain, which he strove to conquer, which remained 
 in spite of every effort to dislodge it. And sometimes, 
 although he hated and despised himself for doing so, he 
 would speak on the subject to Freeman. 
 
 "No further telegram about Master Bob, Freeman?" 
 
 "No, sir, I was hup at the hofhce yesterday; and they 
 'ave not an ideer where the master is. They thought once 
 they 'ad 'im; but they were mistook!" 
 
 "Oh, no matter; no matter," the Major would say. 
 "Only I should be glad if he were home for Miss Mabel's 
 wedding. If would be nice!" 
 
 "Very nice, hindeed, sir! I'm quite sure both Miss 
 Mabel and Mr. Houtram will miss 'im very much!"
 
 NOT FORGOTTEN 163 
 
 And Freeman moved the Major's couch as imper- 
 turbably as if he were the impersonation of truth. 
 
 "Look here, Freeman," the Major would cry, "that's 
 all rot. That doesn't go down with me. Do you believe 
 that either Miss Mabel or Outram would care one jot 
 whether Bob Maxwell was at the marriage, or half-mur- 
 dered down in a Kerry bog?" 
 
 "Well, sir, it's not for the likes of me to hoffer hopinions 
 about those above us. But I thought you would ha' 
 liked to be told that Mr. Maxwell was still hinterested in 
 Miss Mabel." 
 
 "And do you think he is? Come now, do you honestly 
 believe he is?" 
 
 "No, sir, I can't say as I do. When a genelman goes 
 away, and leaves the young lady halone, and doesn't pay 
 'er those hattentions that young ladies hexpec's, well, 
 then, he can't hexpect nothin' in return." 
 
 "I'm sorry for Bob Maxwell," said the Major, medita- 
 tively. 
 
 "So am I, sir!" said Freeman. "And so are we hall!" 
 
 "Why should you be sorry?" asked the Major. 
 
 "Because you see, sir, he's losing such a splendid gir 
 — ahem — young lady; but we're sorry for Miss Mabel, 
 too!" 
 
 "For Miss Mabel? Why should you be sorry for Miss 
 Mabel?" queried the Major. 
 
 "Because we hall liked Mr. Maxwell, or Master Bob, 
 sir! And because Mr. Houtram — " 
 
 Freeman suddenly stopped. 
 
 "Well, what about Mr. Outram?" sharply queried 
 the Major.
 
 1 64 LISHEEN 
 
 "I beg your pardin, sir. I should not ha' mentioned 
 Mr. Hou tram's name." 
 
 "That's all right. But now you have mentioned it, 
 what is it you were about to say?" 
 
 " Oh, nothink, sir, nothink at all. 'Tis not for the likes 
 of me— " 
 
 "Stop that d d rot, Freeman! You know me now 
 
 too well to believe that kind of stuff. What were you 
 about to say concerning Mr. Outram?" 
 
 "Oh, nothink, sir, nothink, hi hassure you. But we 
 do be saying among ourselves, how it were well for young 
 ladies to know hall about their hintendcds before taking 
 the big plunge. The cook is agoin' to be married soon to 
 a feller from Hindia — " 
 
 " Yes, I know, I know," interrupted the Major. " What 
 has that to do with Mr. Outram?" 
 
 "Oh, nothink, sir, nothink; honly hi says to cook, says 
 hi: 'You should know somethink habout the feller's han- 
 tecedents.' 'Oh,' sez she, 'the priest must see habout 
 all that.' These poor Papists believe that their priests 
 knows as much as Halmighty Gawd. 'That's hall right,' 
 sez hi, 'but when the knot is tied, can the priest unloose 
 hit?' 'No,' sez she, 'not on this side of the grave.' 
 'Well, then,' I sez, puttin' it plain like, 'if that feller has 
 a girl or two abroad in Hindia or Haden, what can the 
 priest do when you diskiver it?' 'Nothin',' sez she. 
 'Well, then', sez hi—" 
 
 "Look here. Freeman, I want no more of that d d 
 
 nonsense," interrupted the Major. "What has all this 
 got to do with Mr. Outram?" 
 
 "Oh, nothink, sir, nothink," said Freeman. "We
 
 NOT FORGOTTEN 165 
 
 don't know nothink about Mr. Houtram; leastways, we 
 don't think as how Mr. Houtram — Mr. Houtram is a very 
 nice gentelman, sir!" 
 
 "He is — very," said the Major. "When I ask your 
 opinion about Mr. Outram, Freeman, you can give it." 
 
 "I'm sure, sir, I meant no offence. Leastways, I 
 thought that, maybe, you would like to know what people 
 think — " 
 
 "No; I can think for myself," replied the Major. "I 
 don't want to hear kitchen gossip. There's always too 
 
 much d d nonsense and gossip going on downstairs. 
 
 If we had less talk, we'd have better dinners." 
 
 "I'll tell cook so, sir," said Freeman, imperturbably. 
 "You're quite right, sir. It's not the business of servants 
 to discuss their superiors' affairs. Shall I move that 
 couch, sir? A little towards the fire?" 
 
 And the Major was not quite sure whether he ought to 
 fling a spittoon at the fellow's head, or offer him an increase 
 of wages. 
 
 But he was much disquieted at what he had heard. 
 Clearly, this forthcoming marriage was much discussed 
 downstairs. Clearly, too, it was not highly approved of. 
 There were little innuendoes about life abroad, which, to 
 the Major, who had seen a good deal of Simla, meant a 
 good deal. What if Outram had had a "past"? What 
 if his reputation could not bear investigation ? What if — 
 
 Yes; the Major was disquieted. But what could he 
 do ? Whom could he consult ? There is the evil of being 
 without friends in this world. For if friends are some- 
 times troublesome, and would like to share with you the 
 material things of life, they are also useful, and may
 
 1 66 LISHEEN 
 
 sometimes give disinterested advice. You may have to 
 pay for it in one shape or another; but, then, you must 
 pay for everything M^orth having. The world is but a 
 Chamber of Commerce, whether you play with counters 
 or coins.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 A SICK CALL 
 
 The man of the world, who is not a cynic at forty, 
 must be a saint or a scoundrel. If he is the former, he 
 condones all things on the principle of infinite pity. If 
 the latter, he forgives everything on the grounds of uni- 
 versal depravity. But if he have no ear for the "still, sad 
 music of humanity," and if he has not come to think, 
 
 "what d d beasts your godlike men can be," there 
 
 must remain only a kind of mild cynicism, that contemns 
 while it pardons. 
 
 Such was the frame of mind in which Hugh Hamberton 
 came to Ireland. He had modified his ideas after three 
 years' residence in what is called "the distressful country," 
 so far that he still recognised the metaphysical possibility 
 of distinterestedness and unselfishness, and, with this, the 
 possibility, hitherto unimaginable, that he might yet have 
 to change his entire estimate of human nature. He found 
 it hard to understand how the laz}', thriftless, drunken 
 Irish, as he had heard them described, could be the same 
 as the quick, eager workers whom he employed; just as 
 he found it hard to believe that the gloomy, rainy, wet- 
 sodden, rain-soaked island could be the island of such 
 idyllic graces and charms that many a time he thought 
 he would not change his home to Capua or Sorrento, even 
 if he had a mind. But it was in the matter of political, 
 
 167
 
 1 68 LISHEEN 
 
 or rather social, economy that his ideas had to submit 
 themselves to the greatest revolution. It had become 
 an article of faith with him that the one instinct of hu- 
 manity, innate, irresistible, was that of "getting." No 
 one was free from the low desire. From the child in its 
 cradle, stretching out its little hands eagerly for the glass 
 bead or piece of shining metal, to the capitalist who 
 clutches his wealth, till it drops from his dead hands, 
 it is all alike. Everywhere the passion for acquisition; 
 everywhere the greed of gold; everywhere the reluctance 
 to part with anything once acquired, except under the 
 fierce grip of death. He remembered how often he had 
 practised this little trick on his most intimate friends at 
 dinner, or at a picnic. He would procure for them all 
 the delicacies of the season; heap his table with costly 
 and luxurious viands; order his footmen or waiters to 
 uncork costly wines; draw out all the better elements of 
 human nature under the influence of rich living, and high 
 thinking; lead the conversation to high topics of literature, 
 or science, or humanitarianism, or even religion; see the 
 faces expanding and the eyes lighting and the smile 
 mantling; and then — suddenly drop a hint of unsuccess- 
 ful speculations, or banking perils, or rapid stock declen- 
 sions; and it would be as if a ghost stood in their midst. 
 Faces would lengthen and harden, his guests would shuffle 
 in their chairs; they would look askance at one another, 
 and suddenly shut themselves in silence. And Hamberton 
 would smile and think: Yes; it is always and everywhere 
 the same. Touch the spring and the harlequinade be- 
 comes a tragedy. 
 Here in Ireland all this was changed. These Irish
 
 A SICK CALL 169 
 
 drove hard bargains at fair and market; were economical 
 almost to miserliness in their homes; knew the value of a 
 shilling as well as any other race; but he soon found 
 that they lent at pleasure; that the poor farmers around 
 were up to their necks in debt for each other in banks 
 and loan offices. And here this old priest! Hamberton 
 had taken him to his heart, because he was a priest — 
 Hamberton, an agnostic, an infidel — and, in turn, the 
 old priest had warmed towards this Englishman in a 
 manner which was a daily surprise to himself. Hamber- 
 ton was so straight, so matter-of-fact, so manly, so silent; 
 he did such noble work in so unostentatious a manner, 
 that often and often Father Cosgrove caught himself 
 thinking, what a saint that man would be if he were a 
 Catholic; and what a paradise would Ireland be, if we 
 had everywhere such noble and sympathetic benefactors 
 to our poor, struggling people. Yet the beautiful picture 
 was dashed, as by a blur of blood, by one observation 
 that Hamberton had once made in a moment of con- 
 fidence and f orgetf ulness ; and it was whilst pondering 
 deeply on his words, and uttering a silent prayer in his 
 heart, that he was suddenly summoned one night from 
 his supper, and told that Pierce McAuliffe wanted to see 
 him on urgent business. He was in the little parlour to 
 the left of the hall, and had but to step into the hall to 
 see his visitor. 
 
 "Well, Pierce, nothing wrong at Lisheen, I hope?" 
 he said. 
 
 "Oh, yeh, no; nothin', yer reverence, than' God!" said 
 Pierry, 
 
 "The old people all right?"
 
 1 70 LISHEEN 
 
 "Bcgor, they are, ycr reverence," said Pierry, fumbling 
 with his cap. 
 
 There was an awkward silence. Pierry turned his cap 
 around several times, turned it inside out, examined the 
 lining, looked around the hall, and at last peered through 
 the parlour door. 
 
 "There's no one there," said Father Cosgrove. 
 ''What's the matter?" 
 
 "Sich a thing, yer reverence," said Pierry. 
 
 "What is it?" said the priest. 
 
 "The quarest thing you iver hard in yer life," said 
 Pierry. 
 
 "Well, well, let's have it, whatever it is," said the priest. 
 
 "Begor, I don't know where to begin," said Pierry. 
 
 "Well, begin somewhere," said the priest a little im- 
 patiently. "Is it a sick call?" 
 
 " 'Tis, an' it isn't, yer reverence," said Pierry. 
 
 "How can that be?" asked the priest. "You mean it 
 isn't serious?" 
 
 "Well, 'tis serious enough," said Pierry, enjoying the 
 mystery. "But yer reverence needn't bring anythin' 
 wid you." 
 
 "That is to say, there's no need for anointing?" 
 
 " Divil a bit — I beg yer reverence's pardon — I mane, 
 that's just it." 
 
 "The poor patient is not in danger of death then?" 
 
 "No; but he's bad enough," said Pierry. 
 
 "Well, then, I shall come prepared. One never knows 
 what may be the condition of the patient." 
 
 "Ah, you needn't, yer reverence," said Pierry, smiling. 
 "You won't anoint him."
 
 A SICK CALL 171 
 
 "Oh, but I will though," said the priest. "That is, if 
 I find there's danger." 
 
 And Father Cosgrove went away and Pierry remained 
 in the hall grimly smiling. He would not practise the 
 joke on other priests; but he knew the infinite patience 
 and forbearance of Father Cosgrove. 
 
 When the latter came downstairs, Pierry began to 
 think he had carried the joke far enough, so he said : 
 
 "I forgot to tell yer reverence, he's a Prodestan'." 
 
 "Oh!" said Father Cosgrove, buttoning his great-coat 
 and looking dubiously at Pierry. "'Tis the strange boy 
 at Lisheen?" 
 
 "'Tis, yer reverence." 
 
 "What have I to say to him?" said the priest. "He's 
 not one of us." 
 
 "No, but he said he wanted to see yer reverence, and 
 badly." Father Cosgrove reflected for a moment. 
 
 "I hope ye didn't put any notions in the boy's head?" 
 he said. " Did he send for me, or have you come of your- 
 self?" 
 
 "He sint for you himself," said Pierry. "He said: 'I 
 wants to see that man.' Thims his very words." 
 
 "Then you were speaking about me?" said the priest. 
 
 "Begor, we wor; but we were sayin' nothin' bad about 
 yer reverence," said Pierry. 
 
 The priest smiled. 
 
 "Very good," he said. "If the poor lad wants a word 
 of comfort, why shouldn't I say it? You go on, Pierce, 
 and say I'm coming." 
 
 It was very dark as he trudged along the moorland road 
 that led to the house at Lisheen; and the soft mud created
 
 172 
 
 LISHEEN 
 
 by the late heavy rains splashed his boots and gaiters. 
 But he was quite heedless of such things. His thoughts 
 were with his Master; and, if they wandered from him, it 
 was to stray towards the flock, of whom his care, though 
 vicarious, was yet parental and pastoral. And he began 
 to wonder how strange it was that his life should suddenly 
 be linked with two souls not of his fold — Hamberton, a 
 stranger and an agnostic, and this poor boy, who had 
 come hither from unknown regions, and whose history 
 was obscure, except for the conjectures that he was fleeing 
 from justice and in hiding. He determined to be very 
 cautious, to measure his words, and limit his visit to a 
 few short moments of sympathy or help to a sick stranger. 
 He should have known by experience that caution was 
 not one of his many virtues; that he had all the impetuosity 
 of charity, and that he believed, but would not acknowl- 
 edge it, that the first thoughts are always thoughts of 
 virtue; the second are the instincts of prudence and self. 
 
 "Your reverence is welcome," said the old vanithee, 
 courtesying to the aged priest, as he entered with the 
 salutation on his lips: 
 
 "God bless aU here!" 
 
 After a few moments of kind inquiries, he asked to be 
 shown the patient, and was ushered into the bedroom 
 where Maxwell lay. The latter was much better, quite 
 free from the dread, feverish feeling he had at first ex- 
 perienced, but still suffering from the violent pains in 
 hands and feet. He looked at the old man, with that 
 curious, half-wistful, half-fearful glance with which 
 Protestants often regard the priest to whom they have had 
 a first introduction — a glance that seems to say :
 
 A SICK CALL 173 
 
 "I know you are a mysterious thing; whether good or 
 ill I cannot say. But I crave your sympathy, if you are 
 capable of such!" 
 
 ''Well, my poor boy," said the kindly old man, "so you 
 wished to see me? I hope you are feeling better." 
 
 "Much better, thank you," said Maxwell, in a tone of 
 such stiffness that the priest began to think he was not 
 wanted here; but had been the victim of a pious ruse. 
 The answer sounded hard and metallic to his ears, accus- 
 tomed as they were to the affectionate and caressing 
 accents of his own people. 
 
 "You have been very unwell, I understand," said the 
 priest. 
 
 "Very! It is a relapse, or repetition, of an old ail- 
 ment," said Maxwell. 
 
 "Well, you must cheer up. Courage is half the battle," 
 said Father Cosgrove. " I hope you have good attendance 
 and every comfort." 
 
 "As much as human solicitude and ever}^ affectionate care 
 could give," said Maxwell. "The doctor wanted to order 
 me into the Workhouse Hospital ; but theywouldn't allow it." 
 
 "God bless them!" said the priest. "They will have 
 their reward. 'I was a stranger, and you took me in.' 
 But, tell me, have you no friends, no relatives, parents, or 
 a sister, to whom we could wTite, and let them know of 
 your condition?" 
 
 "Nonel Absolutely none!" said Maxwell. 
 
 "You know you needn't be afraid of us," said the priest. 
 "Your secret is safe in the keeping of these poor people. 
 No one need ever know you are here, except you choose 
 to reveal it!"
 
 174 LISHEEN 
 
 The words startled Maxwell. Had his secret been dis- 
 covered? Did these people really know who he was? 
 And, dreadful thought! was this the secret of all their 
 kindness? The suggestion actually frightened him. It 
 would have been such a revelation of human meanness, 
 where he had seen but such noble excellence. But he 
 might be mistaken. He began to feel his way cau- 
 tiously. 
 
 "I have done nothing wrong," he said. "I have in- 
 jured no man. If it pleased me to become a labouring 
 man, had I not the right to do so?" 
 
 "Of course, of course," said the priest. "And, accord- 
 ing to all accounts, you have been doing your duty faith- 
 fully and honestly. But you mightn't like the world to 
 know you are here. There may be people looking for 
 you and inquiring all about you; and you may prefer to 
 remain where you are." 
 
 "I was not aware that I was an object of interest to any 
 one," said Maxwell, now quite uneasy. "I suppose 
 people will talk, and make all kinds of conjectures; but I 
 don't heed, so long as I am let alone." 
 
 "Quite right! quite right! my boy," said the priest. 
 "And perhaps, after all, the people are wrong in their 
 thoughts about you." 
 
 "What do they think, Father?" said Maxwell. 
 
 It was the first time he used the word that means so 
 much to the Irish peasant; and it almost choked him. 
 But it softened yet more the heart of the good priest. 
 
 "Well, it is not right to tell, perhaps," he said, "and I 
 hope you won't be offended, because the people regard 
 the matter as a virtue, more than a crime. But they
 
 A SICK CALL 175 
 
 have got it into their heads that you have been in the 
 army." 
 
 "Yes?" said Maxwell, smiling. 
 
 "And that you have taken French leave," said the priest. 
 
 "Oh, yes; I guessed so much," said Maxwell. "Is 
 that all?" 
 
 "That's all," said the priest. "And, as I tell you, the 
 people consider it no great crime." 
 
 "Well, they're quite wrong," said Maxwell, simply. 
 "I was never in her Majesty's service; and I am not fleeing 
 from justice." 
 
 "That simplifies matters," said the priest. "And now 
 why did you wish to see me?" 
 
 It was Maxwell's turn now to be puzzled. For the life 
 of him, he could not express the sudden and singular 
 emotion that made him yearn to see the face of this man. 
 He blurted out: 
 
 "Things are lonely here, you know, Father. There is 
 no minister of my own persuasion in the vicinity; and I 
 was yearning for a word from a stranger, who might 
 understand me. I hope I have not annoyed you." 
 
 "Not by any means, my dear boy," answered the priest. 
 "As you say, we all covet human friendship, even of the 
 humblest kind; and I shall be delighted to come, and 
 come again, if you assure me I can be of any help. But 
 you're sure you have every attention?" 
 
 "Quite sure. I'm on a milk diet; and that is easily 
 procurable, although the poor people had to 'clear their 
 manes,' as they say, by deporting their cattle to the moun- 
 tain. And that young girl has a hand as light as a feather. 
 No skilled nurse ever treated me so gently."
 
 176 LISHEEN 
 
 "Yes, God will bless them!" said the priest, fervently. 
 "He always does, even in this world. Poor people! 
 their trials only increase their sympathies." 
 
 "So you will come?" said Maxwell, anxiously. And, 
 as the priest nodded, he continued: 
 
 "And some day I shall tell you my secret; and you will 
 help me?" 
 
 "I have so many secrets burthening me," said the priest, 
 "I don't care for more. But if I can help, I will." 
 
 "For your people's sake," said Maxwell, extending his 
 hot hand. 
 
 And the priest marvelled much ; for were not these the 
 exact words with which Hugh Hamberton solicited his 
 visits to his own house ?
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 AN INDIAN LETTER 
 
 Calcutta, October 21, 189-. 
 
 Camssima: Your dear little note came in the nick of time. 
 You will be pleased to hear that it saved a life — mine — from 
 asphyxia, or apoplexy, or some nameless mode of exit from this 
 horrid existence, called Life. It was thus. There is one awful 
 season here, as you know, when men and women have to breathe 
 vapour, often miasmatic, in a temperature of 120° Fahrenheit. 
 There are punkahs and iced drinks and scandals, and such other 
 stimulants as may make existence barely tolerable, but there are 
 times when nothing short of an earthquake can give you the slightest 
 interest in life. Such a moment was that when, reclining in a 
 hammock on the veranda, your letter wa:s placed in my hand. I 
 was completely used up, could not breathe, nor speak: could only 
 wonder at the native woman, who, cool and unfiurried, went about 
 arranging things, whilst the arteries in my neck and temples were 
 swelling and throbbing, and the next thing would be — Suddenly 
 came your note, un higlietto di cielo, and, yes, carissima, I am not 
 jesting, it woke me to life again. I did not shriek out, nor faint. 
 Both would be unbecoming, as you know — and, whatever happens, 
 we must do what is decorous, even in India. But I started, and 
 said something violent: "Cielo " or something (but no one heard 
 me); and the shock, pardon the expression, dearest, has given me 
 back to life — to English official life in Calcutta — for another 
 season. So you have commenced the new role you will have to play 
 as benefactress to your quondam friend and Mentoress. But, 
 what do I think? Nothing, dearest, I can't think. That is, no 
 effort of fancy can picture the little fay, Mab, in the awful tragedy 
 12 177
 
 178 LISHEEN 
 
 of married life. There, now! Forgive me! I must not depress 
 you. No fear, I hear you say. Nothing can depress me. I know 
 it well; and hence do I write in answer to your request; but in terms 
 which would kill another girl; but at which you will merely smile. 
 
 But I must answer your conundrum. Of course, it will answer 
 itself by and by; but I cannot deprive myself of the pleasure of say- 
 ing some far-off day when we meet : / told you 1 
 
 And now, dearest, sweetest little Mab, I'll tell you all about it. 
 Hitherto, you have been a child, a spectator, down there in the pit, 
 or in some cosey box, calmly munching caramels, or grapes, and 
 watching the little drama on the stage. Doubtless, you have often 
 thought how much nicer it would be to go up and mingle, as one of 
 themselves, with all the knights and kings and princesses and heroines 
 behind the footlights. You are quite wrong; but, Che sara, sard.. 
 You have envied the princess and the priestess and the shepherd 
 girl and the heroine. You have uttered the fatal wish; and, lo! you 
 are in the green-room, far behind the scenes and lights, and all is 
 revealed. Yes; there are the supers and the attendants and the 
 prompter and the dresser. There are the pulleys and the ropes. 
 The golden helmet on King Arthur is tinsel and his shining breast- 
 plate of steel is but paper; and his sword, Excalibur, is a painted 
 lath. The awful thunder is hidden in yonder tray; and the light- 
 ning in that paper of magnesia. And all the princes and prin- 
 cesses are in deshabille, sitting idly on the stage properties, talking 
 scandal and drinking eau-de-vie. Yonder Sir Galahad is flirting 
 with Elaine; and Vivien is cajoling some aged Merlin, not for 
 his secret magic, but for his money. For all things begin, and 
 end, here. You did not expect this. No, dearest, of course not; 
 nor do you believe it now. You think me an old, croaking raven, 
 unprophetic, but for the fatal Nevermore! Ah, yes; that Nevermore! 
 It means you cannot go back to the stalls or box again — never again 
 be a spectator of the mighty drama. Only an actor. That is, hide 
 as you like between old trunks and canvasses, there goes the mana- 
 ger's call; and you must come out, and show yourself and play your 
 part before the footlights. There is no shirking the duty — "Break- 
 ing heart," "scalding tears," "wounded pride," "lost opportunities"
 
 AN INDIAN LETTER 179 
 
 — you cannot, you dare not plead such things. Dry your eyes, 
 and compose your features, little Mab, and step gaily forth from 
 the wings. Play well your part in the little drama. Be proud and 
 haughty and disdainful. Be cold as ice and supercilious as — 
 Mephisto. Contemn all things and all persons; and the audience 
 will worship you. The world likes to be despised. Envious eyes 
 will watch you through opera glasses to detect a flaw in your cos- 
 tume, a blur in your accent, a spot on your hands or face. Be per- 
 fect and despise them. They will repay you with envy; and what 
 more can human heart desire ? Play well your part. Life is but a 
 drama; and no one can ask of maid or mortal to do more. 
 
 But, when you go back to the dressing-room — there, I shall say 
 no more. I have said too much. And, Che sard, sard. 
 
 I am wondering whether your future husband is the delicate 
 boy I used to know long ago — Bob, Bob, Bob Something! I 
 remember how you used to tease him, ridicule his little peace- 
 offerings, laugh at his moodiness, and call him back with a word 
 or look. Well, do you know, dear Mab, I hked him. The boy 
 had a heart that could love; and that is something, if the thing is 
 not petrified long ago by contact with the world. I think my little 
 Mab would be happy with him, unless', unless — shall I say it ? 
 
 — she would practise too frequently, once too frequently, her little 
 caprices and wiles, and then? There are some natures that bear 
 and bear and forbear, apparently forever, the little frictions of life; 
 and show no more heat or fire than a piece of sandal-wood. And 
 then, one day they flare up suddenly into a huge blaze of passion; 
 and then die out sadly into little embers and ashes. And I think 
 Bob, Bob, Bob What's His Name? is one of those. But I don't 
 know. 
 
 Mab, dearest little Mab, if you will marry, marry a tow-headed 
 curate, who hasn't a particle of brains and but £80 a year, and you 
 will be happy. 
 
 You won't cut a figure in society; but, with your chickens and 
 vegetables and babies and the love of an honest man, you will be 
 happy. But who wants to be happy? No one. At least, I see 
 half the world throwing happiness to the winds.
 
 i8o LISHEEN 
 
 I am sending you a little Indian present. I hope it will not be 
 broken en route. And I shall await, with much hope, your account 
 of the ceremony. Please write it in your most vigorous and epi- 
 grammatic style, for the hot season is with us yet; and we haven't 
 had news of a single scandal from Simla or Peshawur for ever so 
 long. And tell me all that was said and what every one wore. 
 I know you will keep your head and notice things. And tell me all 
 the banalities that shall be uttered for long life and happiness, etc.; 
 and where you go for your honeymoon; and how you played your 
 part as a much married woman, and not a baby-bride of yesterday; 
 and how you stood the shock of intimacy, and the revelations of the 
 new being, whose life for evermore is inextricably linked with yours. 
 Yes, yes; these poor benighted Papists, wrong in nearly everything 
 else, are right in holding that marriage tie inviolable. Nay; there 
 should be strict law that marriage shall not be dissolved in death; 
 because it is enough for each human being to have one world re- 
 vealed, and no more. My! How I do run on! And I'm sure I'm 
 forgetting lots of things that I want to say; and there will be no 
 opportunity for another letter. Oh, yes; don't let that most detest- 
 able Wedding March be played! It is an abominable sacrilege on 
 such an occasion. Get the organist to play an "Ava Maria," or a 
 sonata, or something, lest, when looking back, after many years, 
 you should say: "Woe! woe! Marriage bells mark the time of a 
 departing soul." But, oh, me! I am writing such a depressing letter; 
 and I know it ought to be all congratulations and rejoicings. Put 
 it down, dear, to the awful climate, and our wretched livers, and 
 believe me always, 
 
 Cara, Carissima, yours, 
 
 Edith CmsHOLM. 
 
 P. S. — I have absolutely sent you no news. But there is none 
 to send. The same daily routine. You can guess its dull, dread 
 monotony. Up before dawn — the only time of day and night when 
 we can be said to live, for the air is crisp and light, and breathable. 
 Tea and muffins at 6 a.m. Such little work as we need here — 
 tending the few flowers beneath the veranda and reading some
 
 AN INDIAN LETTER i8i 
 
 trashy novel. Then, up comes Sol, red, angry, and threatening, 
 making all the heavens blood and fire. Henceforward, no peace, 
 no mercy from the Day God. Good Heavens! to read these mad 
 poets about pink-fingered dawns, when the dawn is a fiery furnace, 
 heated seven times over as the bad king did for the three children. 
 And all day long and all night suffocation, relieved by the creaking 
 of the punkah-pulleys, and copious draughts of lemonade. How I 
 envy you your Irish climate, with its quiet autumn splendours and 
 mild wet winters. How I long for the cool, sweet, Irish rains that 
 fall so noiselessly, unlike the angry deluges here! And your cosey 
 winter firesides, etc., etc. There is no news. Oh, yes; do you 
 remember that semi-brunette, Gerty Richards? Well, they say she 
 is engaged to Lieutenant Whitbread. I don't believe it, although 
 I knew he would be a catch. He has but two lives between him 
 and ten thousand a year in England; and one of these is an idiot. 
 There is some talk of the Collector General being recalled — some- 
 thing about accounts, which we poor women cannot understand. 
 We know enough — too much, God knows! And one thing I know 
 well is, that I love you, dear little Mab, dearly, and wish you all 
 bliss and happiness. 
 
 P. P. S. — I read this letter over, a thing I never do; and I had 
 a hundred thoughts to tear it up. What right have I, I said, to send 
 such a jeremiad to a young girl? But then — well, then, I close it 
 with a few bitter tears. It is the climate, dearest. Please believe 
 so, and say so to yourself. What a dreadful Slough of Despond 
 India must be, when Edith could write me such a letter. That's 
 just it. Forgive it all, forgive it all, little one; and be happy, happy, 
 happy! 
 
 E. C.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 VISITORS AT LISHEEN 
 
 A FEW days after the priest's visit, the little household 
 at Lisheen were startled by the sudden appearance in 
 the farm-yard of a lady and gentleman, evidently of su- 
 perior station in life. They first guessed it was a land- 
 lord apparition; but this idea was quickly dispelled, 
 when the strangers declared they had come to visit the 
 sick man, who had found refuge with the humble cottiers. 
 Bob Maxwell, convalescent, was sitting by the kitchen 
 fire, his hands still swathed in cotton wool, when he heard 
 himself suddenly accosted by Hugh Hamberton: 
 
 "Well, my man, and how are you? Had a bad time, 
 eh?" 
 
 Maxwell rose with some pain and confronted his visitors. 
 He felt the least touch of resentment at being addressed 
 so abruptly, and was about to answer coldly, when his 
 eyes fell on Claire Moulton, who stood beside her guar- 
 dian. She was clad in her usual simple fashion; and the 
 long, black cloak, clasped at the throat with some fine 
 silver ornament, revealed her tall, shapely figure. The 
 silk-lined hood was flung back on her shoulders, so that 
 her head was bare, but for the coronal of hair that crowned 
 it. She looked anxiously at Maxwell; and the interest he 
 excited gave a new animation to her features, which 
 
 182
 
 VISITORS AT LISHEEN 183 
 
 glowed from the fresh air and the soft winds that had 
 played around them during their long drive. 
 
 Maxwell was sorely puzzled. At once he divined that 
 they belonged to his own class in life; but the simple, 
 peasant dress of the young lady led him to think that per- 
 haps they belonged to the better farming class, who come 
 under the title of "gentlemen farmers." However, there 
 was no mistake about one thing. Here were interesting 
 visitors, and they manifested much concefn about him. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I have been very unwell. It was a 
 renewal of an old malady, caught in a severe wetting." 
 
 "So we heard," said Hamberton, surprised at the calm, 
 easy independence with which Maxwell addressed him. 
 "These things are not easily eliminated, and not easily 
 avoided, as we old duffers know. But you had careful 
 nursing?" 
 
 Hamberton looked around at the poor place, and at the 
 men. Claire's eyes rested on the face of Debbie McAuliffe, 
 which just then wore a strong air of resentment. 
 
 "I shouldn't be alive to-day, had I not," said Maxwell. 
 "I can never thank these good people enough for all 
 their kindness to me." 
 
 "So we heard, so we heard," said Hamberton. "If 
 ever I get unwell, you must lend me your young nurse 
 here. There is more in kindness than in skill. But, look 
 here, you are now convalescent, and you need sea air. 
 Come over to us at Brandon Hall, and we'll nurse you 
 back to health again." 
 
 Maxwell shook his head; and yet the thought of being 
 nursed by such a dainty figure as Claire Moulton was a 
 temptation.
 
 1 84 LISHEEN 
 
 "I am bound to these good people," he said. "They 
 could have sent me out on the world to die, and no one 
 could blame them. They kept me here in spite of doc- 
 tor's solicitations and their own interests. I am happy 
 with them. There is no place where I can attain to health 
 or happiness so easily as here. That is," he added, look- 
 ing around, "until they turn me out." 
 
 The dark shadow that had fallen on Debbie's face whilst 
 Hamberton proffered his invitation now lifted, and she 
 actually laughed with joy at Maxwell's choice. 
 
 "Ah, I see," said Hamberton, "ye want to keep all the 
 charity of the world to yourselves. Now, that's not fair. 
 Here am I, anxious to do a little good in this queer world 
 while I am in it, and you won't let me. What do you say 
 now, ma'am?" he suddenly cried, addressing the old 
 woman. "Wouldn't it be only fair, when you all have 
 done your share towards this poor fellow, to allow us to 
 have a hand in working him back to life and health?" 
 
 " Faix, I don't know, sir," said Mrs. McAuliffe. " Sure, 
 'tis rale good of you to think of such a thing at all, at all; 
 and we all such black strangers to your honour." 
 
 "Never mind that," said Hamberton, in his brusque 
 English manner. "Never mind that. Here's what I 
 propose. I have an empty cottage over there at Brandon 
 Hall. You know where Brandon Hall is?" 
 
 "We never hard of it, sir," said Owen McAuliffe. 
 
 "You did, Father," said Pierce, breaking in for the first 
 time. " Sure everybody knows the place where the people 
 are getting sich fine wages, and have sich fine houses." 
 
 "I never hard of it before," said the old man. And 
 Debbie darted a look of fierce anger at her brother.
 
 VISITORS AT LISHEEN 185 
 
 "Well, now, your son — I presume he is your son," 
 replied Hamberton — "knows all about us; and that we 
 are not such bad folk. Now, if you will allow this poor 
 fellow to come to us for a few weeks, we will put him in 
 that cottage, give him all he requires, nurse him back 
 to health again. What do you say?" 
 
 "The poor fellow, about whom you are so anxious," 
 said Maxwell, with a slight accent of resentment, "has 
 already notified you of his intentions. It remains for 
 these good people to say whether they wish me to remain 
 here or not!" 
 
 "Oh, I meant no offence," said Hamberton, seeing 
 Maxwell bridle up, "I assure you. I just want to do all 
 I can in this distressful world while I'm in it; and I just 
 heard there was a fellow-countryman of mine here in some 
 trouble, and thought I could help him. And Miss Moul- 
 ton here, my ward, was equally anxious. Of course, we 
 know that everything has been done for you that could 
 be done ; but we just thought, that is. Miss Moulton and I 
 thought, tliat perhaps you would come around quicker 
 with us." 
 
 "Yes," said Claire Moulton, speaking for the first 
 time, "that's just it. We simply want to help on a bit; 
 and we English have a feeling for a fellow-countryman 
 in distress. We wish you would allow us to help you. 
 We do, indeed." 
 
 It was tempting, was it not? To be near the sea, to 
 see its ripples, to hear its musical and melancholy wash, 
 to breathe its odours, to feel its invigorating influence; 
 and, then, to be nursed back to convalescence by such 
 amiable and interesting people — surely, it was not in
 
 1 86 LISHEEN 
 
 human nature, least of all in the heart of a solitary man, 
 to refuse. And, then! This man, of whom he had never 
 heard before, was a philanthropist. From what Pierry 
 had said it was clear that he had brought a new soul into 
 his own neighbourhood; that he was one of nature's 
 workers, who would clear the bog and sweeten the fen 
 and drain the moorland, and lift the people out of the 
 Slough of Despond; and be, in fact, a man of light and 
 leading to himself. And there was no doubt, so Maxwell 
 swiftly admitted to himself, that hitherto his own mission 
 had been a failure. He had suffered, but effected nothing; 
 and where's the use in needless suffering, where no results 
 come forth? What if he joined hands with this power- 
 ful man, this bright and cheerful girl, and, revealing his 
 own wishes, enlist them in the same sacred cause? But, 
 then! 
 
 He looked away from Claire Moulton's face and saw 
 Debbie McAuliffe's, silent, pallid, suffering. He saw the 
 old woman wiping away a secret tear with her check 
 apron; and he made up his mind. 
 
 "I'm sure," he said, "I am deeply obliged for your 
 kindness. But I am not a fellow-countryman. I am an 
 Irishman. And I am not in distress. I am poor; but I 
 have wanted for nothing. And no rich man can boast 
 of more. I am happy with these good people; and have 
 no wish to change." 
 
 Claire was looking wistfully at him. He felt her eyes 
 pleading with him. But he was firm. 
 
 "Well," said Hamberton, "we're disappointed; and you 
 are, like all your countrymen, a fool to throw away a 
 splendid offer of a new home, good wages, light work — "
 
 VISITORS AT LISHEEN 187 
 
 He felt Claire's hand on his arm, and was suddenly 
 silent. She interposed. 
 
 "You will allow us to call again?" she said to Debbie, 
 who was staring angrily through the open door. "We 
 sometimes drive around here, and would like to see you 
 all again, if we may?" 
 
 The girl was silent. The mother spoke. 
 
 "Wisha, sure, Miss, we'll be glad to see you, and wel- 
 come at all times. 'Tis good of you to come so far and 
 see a poor boy, who has nayther father, nor mother, nor 
 home to go. You'll be welcome. Miss, at all times to us, 
 like all other dacent, honest people." 
 
 "Well, then, we'll say good-bye!" said Hamberton. 
 "Should you change your mind," he continued, address- 
 ing Maxwell, "just drop a note to Mr. Hamberton, 
 Brandon Hall; or, better still, walk over. 'Tis only 
 about seven or eight miles from here; and we'll put you 
 up." 
 
 "Thank you!" said Maxwell, curtly. And after a smile 
 from Claire Moulton, and a deep courtesy from Mrs. 
 McAuliffe, the visitors left the cabin. Debbie stood like 
 a statue, and made no sign, and spoke no word of farewell. 
 
 Guardian and ward had driven a mile or so in silence 
 before the latter said: 
 
 "You see, Uncle, Father Cosgrove was right. There 
 is some virtue in the world." 
 
 "Yes, by Jove!" he replied, "there is. What a strange 
 people ! To take in a tramp, a beggar, and keep him and 
 nurse him through a dangerous illness, without hope of 
 recompense! Yes: there is a little hope yet for this most 
 disastrous world."
 
 1 88 LISHEEN 
 
 "You'll have to make a humble admission of your 
 incredulity and conversion," said Claire Moulton, 
 
 ''Yes, I will," he said. "The priest is right, even 
 though this is probably the only case to be found in the 
 world. This is genuine though. No hypocrisy or de- 
 ception there." 
 
 "None whatever," said his ward, smiling. "The people 
 are transparent as glass. They have not learned the 
 tricks of the world. Did you notice that young girl?" 
 
 "N — no, not particularly!" said Hamberton. "She 
 struck me as a strong, buxom, country wench; and no 
 more." 
 
 "She stabbed me with her eyes while you were speak- 
 ing," said his ward. "I think she is interested in that 
 boy." 
 
 "No, no," cried Hamberton. "These Irish are as 
 proud as Spaniards, from whom they trace their blood; 
 and the daughter of a farmer would no more marry a 
 labouring man than a baron would marry a kitchen 
 wench. And this man from whom we have got such a 
 cold shoulder is but a farm hand, and, from what we have 
 heard, a tramp." 
 
 Claire Moulton was now silent. They drove rapidly 
 homeward and talked of other things. It was only after 
 dinner that she asked her guardian if he believed that 
 Maxwell was but a farm hand or a tramp. 
 
 " Ton my soul, Claire, I think you are interested in the 
 fellow. Are you now?" 
 
 "There are others more interested than I," she said. 
 
 "You mean the family, the people who have housed 
 him?"
 
 VISITORS AT LISHEEN 189 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 " Of course they are. We saw that. But what do you 
 mean?" 
 
 ''I mean that I think you have still the victory over Mr. 
 Cosgrove. That man is a gentleman; and they know 
 it." 
 
 Hamberton was slow to grasp her meaning. When he 
 did, he stared at her blankly for a moment, and said: 
 
 " Good God! what moles we are compared with women! 
 But, why do you say so, Claire ? I could see no marks of 
 that." 
 
 "If he were a soldier," said Claire, "he would have 
 straightened himself and stood to attention. If he were 
 a workman, he would have said, sir. He spoke to you 
 as an equal, did he not?" 
 
 "By Jove, yes," said Hamberton. "And, what is 
 more, he had the address and language of a gentleman. 
 But, no; that's impossible! What, in heaven's name, 
 would bring a gentleman there?" 
 
 "That's a mystery," said his ward, "which time will 
 umavel. But you have the victory over Mr. Cosgrove 
 so far." 
 
 "True. And the thing is interesting in itself, is it not? 
 We must watch the development of it. It is something 
 to have a mystery to unravel so near us. But, every- 
 thing is a mystery and a paradox in Ireland. We shall 
 go there again soon. Shall we not?" 
 
 "I won't," said Claire. 
 
 "Won't? You will. Or I shall say you are jealous 
 of that little country girl. No; not jealous, but 
 afraid."
 
 190 LISHEEN 
 
 "Very well, I will," said Claire. "The thing may be 
 interesting. Whatever the man is, there is a story some- 
 where in his life; and I am getting tired of Ned Galwey 
 and his potatoes." 
 
 Which allusion will be explained in subsequent 
 chapters.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 TESTING FOR GOLD 
 
 The anticipated victory over Father Cosgrove had 
 its origin in one of those frequent conversations between 
 himself and Hamberton that went on at Brandon Hall. 
 Nothing pleased the cynical Englishman more than re- 
 futing the optimism of the humble priest, who saw all 
 things in the mirror of his own guilelessness and self- 
 effacement. Many a debate, that would have been 
 heated but for the gentleness of the old priest and the 
 laughter of Claire Moulton, took place as to whether 
 pure disinterestedness could exist in this world, and under 
 the ordinary conditions of humanity. For a long time 
 the priest had the victory in the very immediacy of Ham- 
 berton's own workmen, who had been loyal and obedient 
 and faithful, not so much from a sense of the profits that 
 might accrue, as from gratitude to so excellent a bene- 
 factor. 
 
 "Psha!" Hamberton would cry, "the fellows would 
 turn against me to-morrow if another employer came 
 who would offer them a shilling a week more. They 
 know they can't do better. Gratitude ? There's no such 
 thing!" 
 
 "Well, I misunderstand them very much if that is the 
 case," said the priest. "I go amongst them a good deal; 
 and, believe me, if you needed it, there are a hundred 
 
 191
 
 192 LISHEEN 
 
 willing hands at your command. As for Miss Moulton, 
 you know her presence is a sunbeam in the poorest cot- 
 tage." 
 
 "For what she brings!" said Hamberton. 
 
 "No, no, if she came empty-handed, she would be just 
 as welcome. Is this not so, Miss Moulton?" 
 
 "It is so. Father. Uncle is wrong, all wrong. I'm 
 sure the people are not grasping. At least, I should be 
 much disappointed if I found it otherwise." 
 
 "And you will find it," said Hamberton. 
 
 "Never! never!" Father Cosgrove said emphatically. 
 "The day Miss Moulton's shadow shall not be welcome 
 across every threshold in this parish I shall despair." 
 
 "We shall see," said Hamberton. Swiftly and sud- 
 denly came his prophecy and his justification. 
 
 He was, as we have said, much in the habit of searching 
 for minerals, and picking up bits of quartz, etc., in which 
 might be a possibility of gold. And a few times he 
 journeyed to London to have these specimens tested. 
 This did not escape the sharp eyes of his workmen, who 
 at once attributed their own unusual wages to the fact 
 that Hamberton had found gold, and "was coining." 
 The marbles, they argued, bits of coloured stone, could 
 not pay him; nor could any explanation of his presence 
 on this wild Kerry coast, and his munificence to them- 
 selves, be found, but in the fact that he had discovered 
 some auriferous vein, and was secretly working it. These 
 poor workers had as poor an opinion of human nature 
 as Hamberton himself. They would have killed with 
 scorn the idea that any man could do good from purely 
 philanthropic motives. Their school had been a hard
 
 TESTING FOR GOLD 193 
 
 one; and there had been no place for high or generous 
 estimates of their kind. 
 
 The ring-leader in this new suspicious movement 
 towards Hamberton was a small farmer and day-labourer 
 named Ned Galwey — a knowledgeable man, because 
 he had been at a Kerry hedge-school and could say the 
 answering at Mass. 'Tis quite true his quantities were 
 not always correct, and he had a tendency to mix Irish 
 and Latin together. But he was the "best ejjicated" 
 man in the townland, and there was considerable defer- 
 ence for his opinion. Ned had watched with shrewd, 
 suspicious eyes the taste Hamberton had manifested for 
 certain pieces of rock, and certain kinds of gravel; and he 
 concluded that the "masther" was finding gold and 
 secretly amassing a huge fortune. And what were their 
 wages? In one sense good; but, relatively to the vast 
 wealth Hamberton was secretly accumulating, simply a 
 mere pittance. He brooded over the matter a long time, 
 whispered his suspicions to others; and then, unknown 
 even to his confederates, he made several careful assays 
 himself. 
 
 He secreted a large quantity of gravel, and took it by 
 night to a lonely spot where a clear, mountain stream 
 rolled down amongst grasses and hardy ferns, until it lost 
 itself in the sea. In the deep midnight, and lighted only 
 by a dim stable lantern, he washed the red gravel, eagerly 
 looking for some dim specks that would reveal the pres- 
 ence of gold. Alas! nothing remained but a little red 
 mud, that refused to scintillate in the light. 
 
 Then he got some quartz and broke it into powder in 
 his back yard, his good wife wondering what he was 
 13
 
 194 LISHEEN 
 
 searching for. This, too, was a failure. A couple of 
 flakes of some glinting material, that looked like glass, 
 and this was all. The dream of untold wealth had 
 vanished from his eyes, only to make him more and more 
 certain that Hambcrton held the secret. So, by degrees, 
 many murmurings were heard, as the disaffection gained 
 ground, and the belief in Hamberton's millions held them 
 spellbound. 
 
 He listened patiently and said nothing; but, like a calm 
 Englishman, he made inquiries, and found that that un- 
 successful miner, Ned Galwey, was at the bottom of the 
 discontent that now raged amongst his people. He also 
 heard — there is a traitor in every camp — of Ned's 
 unsuccessful assaying for gold; and he took his revenge. 
 
 In the hearing of a young son of Ned's — a little fellow, 
 cute as a fox and cunning as a weasel — he threw out a 
 hint that, unless the quartz were boiled down until every 
 grain of earth or clay were eliminated, and unless the 
 gravel were similarly boiled in a leathern bag, the gold 
 would refuse to appear. The hint was taken; and Ned's 
 poor wife had hard times during the next few weeks to 
 boil the potatoes and cabbage for the midday dinner, 
 while Ned's stout pots were simmering with huge deposits 
 of quartz and gravel. 
 
 Hamberton waited for a few days; and then strolled in, 
 as was his wont, and talked to the cottagers in his easy, 
 familiar style — talked about the weather and the crops 
 and the hay and the potatoes. 
 
 "By the way, Mrs. Galwey," he cried, going over and 
 stirring with the ferule on his cane the huge masses of 
 quartz that were being boiled in one of the largest pots,
 
 TESTING FOR GOLD 195 
 
 "I heard that you had excellent potatoes. These 
 they?" 
 
 "Yes, your 'anncr," said the poor woman. "They're 
 wanderful intirely this year, Glory be to God!" 
 
 "They look nice and floury," Hamberton said. "But 
 they seem rather hard." 
 
 "They'll come all right when they're well biled," said 
 Ned, looking suspiciously at Hamberton out of the corners 
 of his eyes. 
 
 "And this," said Hamberton, stirring up the bag which, 
 in another pot, held the auriferous gravel, "a leg of mutton, 
 by Jove! That's right! That's just what we want! I 
 can boast now, like the French king, that there is a fowl 
 or something better in every pot in my little kingdom." 
 
 "God bless your 'anner. Sure, 'tis to you and to the 
 grate God we owe everything." 
 
 Hamberton should bring Claire to see the wonderful 
 prosperity of his people. The pots were still simmering, 
 
 "Look here, Claire, look at this," he cried, again stir- 
 ring up the quartz, "look at these for potatoes!" 
 
 "They are not potatoes!" said Claire Moulton, who 
 was not in the joke. "They seem hard as stones." 
 
 "An' sure they are shtones, me lady," said Mrs. Gal- 
 wey. "Sure, we left the masther have his little joke 
 about potatoes, and the King of France, and every wan 
 with a chicken in his pot. Them's only chanies that Ned 
 does be clanin' to put on the dhresser, or outside on the 
 wall." 
 
 "The devil!" said Hamberton. "And the leg of mut- 
 ton? I suppose that's meal for the chickens?" 
 
 "Ycrra, no, yer 'anner; sure you're innicent. That's
 
 196 LISHEEN 
 
 only a little sand up from the sayshore that Ned does be 
 screenin' to make cimment for the little piggery outside!" 
 
 Hamberton laughed quietly; but he spread the story 
 far and wide amongst the men, about Ned Galwey boiling 
 quartz for chanies and boiling gravel for cement. The 
 rest were not slow to understand; and public opinion 
 veered around, and set steadily against avaricious Ned. 
 And he had to stand a running fire of questions ever after; 
 for the Irish are unrelenting when they have turned a joke 
 against some poor victim. 
 
 "Yerra, Ned, are the praties biled a-yet?" 
 
 "Yerra, Ned, when will ye be axin' us up to ate that 
 leg of mutton wid ye?" 
 
 "Begor, we know who's coinin'. 'Tisn't crocks of 
 goold, but rocks of goold we're afther findin' nowadays." 
 
 "Well, Mary" — to the wife — "plase God, we'll see 
 you, one of these days, rowlin' in yer carridge and pair." 
 
 "Wisha, thin, sure 'tis we don't begridge you yer good 
 fortune. Sure ye aimed it hard, stirrin' and bilin' and 
 rinsin' night after night. 'Tis the divil's own work to 
 get at that same goold; and, sure, whin ye have it, little 
 good it is, they say." 
 
 Father Cosgrove was taken into the confidence of Ham- 
 berton; but only half-way. In his simple, guileless fashion 
 he believed that his poor parishioners had received a 
 sudden accession of wealth, and he was genuinely glad 
 of it. 
 
 "I'm delighted to hear ye have come in for somethin' 
 good," he said to Mrs. Galwey. 
 
 " Yerra, no, yer reverence," the poor woman would say, 
 "but they must be afther havin' their jokes."
 
 TESTING FOR GOLD 
 
 197 
 
 "But all this golden quartz and gravel that Ned has 
 been breakin' up! I believe Mr, Hamberton thought 
 they were potatoes." 
 
 "His 'anner is fond of his fun wid poor people," she 
 would reply. "And, sure, we're depindin' on him, and 
 can't say a word agin' him." 
 
 And they didn't. They saw the "masther" was no 
 joke; and that there was pretty deep meaning in his jest- 
 ing. And he would have punished Ned Galwey severely, 
 but that he argued, in his own cynical way: He's no worse 
 than every one else! Poor devil! What is he doing, but 
 what every capitalist and speculator is doing the wide 
 world over? 
 
 But the discontent and conspiracy were at an end. 
 They were killed by the practical jest. 
 
 "These Irish are like the Jacobins," said Hamberton. 
 "A clever mot will always pull down the barricades." 
 
 But it gave him the text for a little homily which he 
 preached at Father Cosgrove some time after. 
 
 "There are two classes of men in the world, Rev. dear 
 Father, that are intolerable — preachers and novelists. 
 The former, because they teach a religion whose prac- 
 tices they know to be impossible; the latter, because they 
 paint an ideal world, a Utopia of morality and goodness 
 and benevolence, which never existed and never could 
 exist. Every sensible man knows that the real and only 
 business of life is getting something — pleasure, profit, 
 revenge, victory; a wife, her money, large dividends, 
 broad acres, your enemies under your feet, your friends 
 fearing you and depending on you. Now, when we all 
 know this to be the sum and aim of all human existence,
 
 198 LISHEEN 
 
 why will a certain class of men in snowy surplices take to 
 telling us that this — the fact that stares us all in the 
 face — is a delusion, that it does not exist ? What would 
 we do with a man that would tell us the sun doesn't shine 
 at midday, nor the stars at night; that fire doesn't burn, 
 and cold doesn't freeze? Clap a strait-jacket on him. 
 And that's just what I'd do with all preachers. Strip 
 them, unfrock them, as good Queen Bess did; and clap 
 on the strait-jacket. But these confounded day-dreamers 
 and romancers are worse. They pretend that such a 
 cloud-world is realized in everyday life; they give the 
 credulous world pictures of pure attachment, generous 
 deeds, high motives, sincerity, honour, which every one 
 knows cannot, and do not, exist. What is the result? 
 Plainly, that the young and unsophisticated, instead of 
 being taught the terrible truths of existence, go out as 
 day-dreamers into a hard and terrible world; and have 
 to learn by bitter, personal experience that what their 
 romancers taught them is all a lie. And 'tis all the same 
 and everywhere the same. London broker and Kerry 
 peasant, American trust-thief and Ned Galwey — 'tis 
 all the same. By the way, I'll break that fellow, I think!" 
 
 "No, no, you mustn't," said Father Cosgrove. "He 
 has a big family and is not a bad fellow at heart." 
 
 "Certainly not. A first-rate fellow, until he was bitten 
 by the mad dog. Well, for your sake, I'll give him a 
 chance. But don't speak of disinterestedness again. 
 There's no such thing." 
 
 "There is, there is, there is," said Father Cosgrove 
 triumphantly, at which Hamberton bent his eyebrows 
 and Claire Moulton laughed.
 
 TESTING FOR GOLD 199 
 
 "Another mare's nest? O man, great is thy faith!" 
 said Hamberton. 
 
 "What would you think, now, of a family in this 
 parish," said Father Cosgrove, "in this parish," he con- 
 tinued slowly, trying to make his description graphic, 
 "and within a few miles from here — a poor family, a 
 very poor family, whose cattle had been seized for rent, 
 or rather driven away, lest they should be seized — " 
 
 "That's better," said Hamberton. "Go on!" 
 
 "Well, this family, rack-rented, poor, distrained, took 
 in a poor fellow, a wandering tramp from nobody knew 
 where, fed him, clothed him; and when he was sick, as he 
 was lately, nursed him, and wouldn't allow him to go to 
 the Workhouse Hospital — wouldn't allow him to go to 
 the Workhouse Hospital, although he had fever — 'twas 
 only rheumatic, but still it was fever — defied doctor, 
 nursed him themselves through all that fever, stayed up 
 at night with him, and — and — and — " 
 
 " Were well paid in the long run, I bet," said Hamberton. 
 
 "Paid? How could he pay? A tramp, a beggar, and 
 an Englishman," said Father Cosgrove. 
 
 "That caps the climax," said Hamberton. "When 
 they could take an Englishman to their heart, they must 
 be Gospel Christians in very deed." 
 
 "Well, see for yourself," said the priest. "And, 
 mind you, these poor people had to get milk for that 
 poor fellow down from where their cows were hidden 
 on the mountain. And, mind you, they hardly know 
 his name; and they certainly don't know where he came 
 from." 
 
 "Have they no suspicion?" said Hamberton.
 
 200 LISHEEN 
 
 "Suspicion? Yes; but only suspicion. They think 
 he is a deserter from the armyl" 
 
 "Hallo! That explains it," said Hamberton. "There 
 always is an explanation. They are 'agin the govern- 
 ment'; and it is a satisfaction to know they are sheltering 
 a rebel. There it is, always something besides real 
 sympathy and love. But we must see our fellow-country- 
 man, Claire, and bring him over here. There's an empty 
 cottage down there near that scoundrel's, Ned Galwey; 
 and we'll put him there, and he can keep a watch on Ned's 
 prospecting. I'll give that fellow one chance for your 
 sake. Father; but if I find him tampering with the men, 
 I'll certainly dismiss him. By the way, where does this 
 model family live?" 
 
 "At Lisheen, about six miles to the east of this. You'll 
 find what I say is right." 
 
 "Very good, mon phe, we'll give you every chance 
 to prove your optimism. Lisheen! Lisheen! Claire, re- 
 member the name!" 
 
 Well she did remember it. They visited Lisheen, with 
 the result we have described.
 
 CHAPTER XrX 
 
 A LETTER FROM IRELAND 
 
 Dublin, December 12, 18 — . 
 
 Dearest Edith: I have been in the green-room, and have seen 
 it all, just as you describe; but I have not seen the awful banalities 
 you imagine. And I have been on the stage — a little — and I 
 think, but I must not be too sure as yet, until I have heard the 
 critics, that I performed my little part fairly vi'ell. The audience 
 was vulgar enough, loudly-dressed and vacantly staring. My six 
 bridesmaids were under sixteen — this I insisted upon; four were 
 under twelve. They haven't bitten the apple of the Tree of Life as 
 yet, and are still in their primeval innocence. But Maud Beresford 
 kissed me, which is a good sign; and others, some not in my hearing, 
 but all things return, nodded and whispered: "An' if she knew"; 
 and, "Was that a wedding-bell or a passing-bell?" And one said: 
 "Pride goeth before a fall"; from all which you will conjecture, 
 dearest, that my debut on the stage of married life was a fair success. 
 At least, I like it. The prompter's call has no terrors for me; and I 
 think my complexion stands well the footlights. No; I have not the 
 slightest desire to go back to those lonely and stupid boxes again. 
 I have gone beyond the caramels and the sugared lemons; and I 
 was tired of mere staring and wondering. "Give me action, action," 
 was the cry of my heart; and my cry has been heard; and it shall go 
 ill with me if I do not perform my part so well as to excite the ad- 
 miration of my friends, the spleen of my enemies; and what more 
 can human female heart desire? 
 
 But to drop metaphor — you led me into the detestable habit — ■ 
 why did you write me such a doleful, lugubrious letter? If it were 
 written from foggy London — where we have just been, the fog
 
 202 LISriEEN 
 
 yellow as the Tiber and thick as the darkness of Egypt — I could 
 understand it. Everything is thick and heavy there; and the atmos- 
 phere clogs the ink in the pen, and the thoughts in the brain; and 
 Puck could not be merry. But to get such a letter as yours from 
 "India's coral strand," from the land of shining pagodas and skies 
 of eternal blue — it was a profanation. Rainy reasons and steam- 
 ing grasses and tropical heats won't explain it. What is it, dearest 
 Edith ? There is a note of sadness, even of despair, running through 
 it all. Surely your life is not unhappy. I cannot think it. You — 
 who were so jolly, so careless, so light-hearted — to send me, and 
 on such an occasion, so terrible a forecast! Write again, dearest 
 Edith, and say you retract it all, that it was all a horrible blunder, 
 brought on by the heat depression. Or else I shall never allow 
 Ralph to return to India. But I haven't told you about Ralph. 
 Don't start at the name. The boy you mentioned — he was but a 
 boy, compared with Ralph — took a mild attack of insanity, a 
 strange weird delusion, from excessive reading and poring over 
 nonsensical books; and has gone down to the south of Ireland on 
 some Quixotic expedition, from which it is expected he cannot return 
 alive. I did him no injustice, I assure you. I warned him again 
 and again to beware of ideas that, however nice they may seem in 
 books, are never adopted in life, except within the walls of an asylum. 
 It was no use. He would see for himself. He calmly dropped me, 
 without a word of explanation, and went his way. When people 
 marry an idea, they cannot wed a wife. Otherwise there would be 
 incompatibility of temper, etc., which we read of in the courts. 
 
 Now, Ralph Outram — that's my dear husband's name — 
 Ralph Outram, C.B., late of the Indian Service, has no ideas; and 
 he is an archangel. He has mounted up, step by step, in the official 
 and social ladder, until he has very nearly reached the top; and 
 thence he has stooped down and drawn up little me! The height is 
 dizzy; but I keep my head. We had a delightful few weeks in 
 London, where he seemed to know every one, even the proletariat, 
 for some queer people called at our hotel to see him, but he drew 
 the line sharply at these. We had quite a round of parties, theatres, 
 and then we ran down to a quiet seaside place called Littlehampton,
 
 A LETTER FROM IRELAND 203 
 
 away from the big, noisy world, and this was delectable. Not that 
 I dislike the big, noisy world; oh, no; it is all right, especially when 
 one can look the thing steadily in the face. But for one, just — 
 well, on the stage, a little retirement away from the glare is some- 
 times welcome. But Ralph is an angel. Ever so considerate and 
 kind and gentle; he has a strong side, too, to his character. He says 
 all old Indians have. They must have from their intercourse with 
 natives. One little instance gave me a shock, but filled me with ad- 
 miration for such a great, strong protector. One of the proletariat 
 (Ralph always calls them thus) presumed too much, and became 
 offensive. Ralph was infinitely tolerant. Then he took the fellow, 
 as if he were a child, in his arms, and dropped him into the area 
 of the hotel. It was the evening we left London for Littlehampton. 
 And now one word about my little presents: They were many — ■ 
 I send you the Irish Times by this mail, as I cannot recount them in 
 a letter — and beautiful. Very beautiful and very costly. One 
 species was absent, and I thanked heaven. The vile, the detestably 
 vulgar, cheque. It is one of the most dread signs of modem de- 
 cadence. Ralph cannot see it. But men look at these things so 
 differently; and I shall educate him. But how shall I thank you, 
 dearest Edith, for your Indian present? I assure you its beauty 
 took away my breath. The intense polish of the porphyry vase — 
 it is porphyry, is it not? — the perfect outline and finish, and the 
 sudden contrast with the little green, coiled cobra at the bottom, 
 gave me a start of surprise, which soon yielded to pleasure. One 
 vulgar woman declared she saw a fac-simile, but on a much larger 
 scale, at Chatsworth; but this was a little feminine boasting. No; 
 there's nothing like it in the world. So every one says. One or two 
 affected creatures pretended, while admiring the exquisite vasej to 
 have received a sudden shock when they saw the beautiful reptile. 
 But this was an affectation. And some tried to make it a sign of 
 something — a hint, an indication! But this, of course, is absurd. 
 There it remains, until I shall create for it a special place in my new 
 drawing-room. Your lovely card that was in it Ralph picked up 
 and kept as a talisman, he said, because you wrote in his beloved 
 Sanskrit. He won't tell me what it is, except good wishes and all
 
 204 LISHEEN 
 
 forms of Oriental and fanciful felicitations. Some day, dearest, 
 when you have returned home, we shall talk the whole thing over, 
 and you will translate the beautiful poetry for me. 
 
 One little drawback I must mention. Poor father, in his failing 
 health, was depressed about it all. He couldn't come to church, 
 his feet are so swollen; but he has been extremely kind. Somehow 
 — there! I must tell you everything, the golds and the grays mix 
 themselves up so much in life — I fear he set his heart too much 
 on my marriage with Bob Maxwell — the young fanatic, who has 
 lost his head about Socialistic theories, etc. — and I know he was 
 hoping up to the last moment to have heard tidings of him. Not 
 that it would matter much. I had long ago made up my mind that 
 I would follow my star; and that no girlish or parental caprice 
 should deter me. I knew I had a destiny, and that I must fulfil it. 
 But poor Pap had set his heart on Bob — his father was an old 
 military comrade — and sometimes he looks depressed and sad, 
 and murmurs: "Poor Bob! Poor Bob!" Ralph is highly amused; 
 and repeats: "Poor Bob! Poor Bob!" until I have to laugh. "Bob 
 must gang his own gait," he says; "I only wish I had my ring back." 
 This was a talismanic ring, given Ralph by a Brahmin, or a Buddha, 
 or something, out there in India; and Ralph parted with it to Mr. 
 Maxwell, as a kind of pledge or security that the latter would do his 
 part in the mad undertaking. The ring is valuable, I believe, and 
 Ralph says he must have it back. It was all a madcap business 
 transacted in a Dublin club; but no one took Mr. Maxwell seriously 
 until he asked for the ring; and then Ralph couldn't refuse it. But 
 father is gloomy over the matter. Ralph says it is only the de- 
 pression of gout, which will wear away. 
 
 There, now, I think I have told you everything. Oh! I was 
 near forgetting. 'Tis only a trifle; but you are so good as to be 
 interested in every little thing that concerns me. The poor organist 
 at the cathedral did grind out the Wedding March from Lohengrin; 
 but he broke down suddenly. Something went wrong with the 
 hydraulic engine, or something else; but we had gone! Otherwise, 
 I — not I, but some of my dear friends — would say it was an evil 
 omen. I hope I am above such things; but some people are so
 
 A LETTER FROM IRELAND 205 
 
 superstitious. Anything more? No, except that I love you dearly, 
 dearest Edith, and dream and dream and dream of the day which 
 shall reunite us. Do you know, I sadly need a friend; and I have 
 not one. With which sad confession, I remain, as ever. 
 
 Yours, etc., 
 
 Mabel Outram. 
 
 P. S. — Ralph tells me that he is some relative to a great Outram, 
 who distinguished himself in India, far back in the eighteenth cen- 
 tury, or seventeenth, I quite forget which. NHmportel Isn't Ralph, 
 too, great, or shall be? M. O. 
 
 When the httle woman to whom the above letter was 
 addressed, received it on a dull December morning, as 
 the old year closed sorrowfully, she uttered some ejacula- 
 tions that were quite unintelligible to her Hindoo maid. 
 And all day she went around sorrowful and mute, so that 
 her husband asked her anxiously at dinner: 
 
 "Is't a mutiny at Delhi, or an approaching earthquake, 
 Edith? I never saw you look so glum!" 
 
 To which she only vouchsafed the dumb answer of 
 putting her finger on her lips, and waving a certain letter 
 in the air. 
 
 Once or twice he heard her murmuring: "Porphyry 
 vase! Cobra coiled at the bottom! Sanskrit!" But he 
 was too wise to ask further questions.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 POOR REYNARD 
 
 Much as he struggled against it, Maxwell became every- 
 day, after Hamberton's visit, sunk in profound melan- 
 choly. They had brought with them that atmosphere of 
 refinement and wealth to which he had been now for 
 months a perfect stranger; and this had awakened remi- 
 niscences of the past life of gracious ease and pleasure, 
 which was his natural environment. Nay; it must be 
 confessed that, after this visit, Lisheen took on an aspect 
 of sordid poverty which it had not worn before ; and — 
 shall it be said ? — Debbie, his nurse, his handmaid, 
 whom he had come to regard with a kind of brotherly 
 affection, and whose rustic health and comeliness he had 
 often wondered at, suddenly shrank into a mere country 
 girl, rough, strong, healthy, but sadly wanting in the 
 nameless graces that surround her city-bred sisters. 
 The whole revolution in his feelings was horrible to his 
 conscience and his honour; and he struggled manfully 
 against it. But it would come back. That visit had shed 
 a light on the floor of the humble cottage, in which the 
 old, familiar aspects of things could never be seen again. 
 
 And then, as he brooded over this sudden change in his 
 feelings, the conviction would force itself upon his judg- 
 ment that his mission had failed. He had done nothing. 
 These people were — where he had found them some 
 
 206
 
 POOR REYNARD 207 
 
 months ago. He was so far from having lifted up the 
 entire population, that he had not even helped on a single 
 family. All that he had dreamed of in his sunniest 
 moments had been dissipated. He had gained but one 
 thing — the grace of illumination, the deep, close insight 
 into a condition of things that seemed to him desperate. 
 Whatever he had read or heard of the sordid and humble 
 condition of peasant life in Ireland paled into shadows 
 before the reality; and "Good God!" he cried, "imagine 
 some quarter of a million of people living under these 
 conditions. The very stones should cry out." 
 
 In marked and violent contrast with his own failure 
 was the reported success of this Englishman, Hamberton. 
 He had made many cautious inquiries of Pierry and of 
 the priest as to the success of Hamberton's work. Yes; 
 there was no denying it. Hamberton had swept away a 
 foul village of rotten cabins, and replaced it with a com- 
 fortable and picturesque little harnlet of neat, red-tiled 
 cottages; Hamberton had burned some rotting coracles 
 and placed a little fleet of safe and shapely vessels in the 
 harbour. Hamberton had put up a little fishing-pier; 
 and Hamberton had torn open the bosom of a hill that 
 had sheltered its treasures with ignoble secrecy since the 
 creation of things, and with the appliances of science had 
 established an industry that was repaying him and yield- 
 ing a decent livelihood to his workmen. 
 
 "What wages does he give?" asked Maxwell. 
 
 "Fifteen shillings to boys; twenty and twenty- five 
 shillings to men," said Pierry, as if he were relating some- 
 thing legendary and fabulous. 
 
 Father Cosgrove confirmed the legend, adding that he
 
 2o8 LISHEEN 
 
 never allowed the men to work more than nine hours a 
 day — seven to nine; ten to one p.m.; two to six p.m. 
 
 "And they have never struck?" 
 
 "No; they have murmured, but no more." 
 
 "We need the hand of the Saxon over us as yet," said 
 Maxwell, in confession of his own impotence. 
 
 But the sense of failure galled him. How could he 
 ever go back to Dublin, and face his own class again? 
 The time was running on; and, so far, he could see no way 
 out of the terrible difficulty wherein he had deliberately 
 placed himself. If he could only see Hamberton, confess 
 his identity and his failure, and seek for light and leading! 
 But he had given his answer, curt and clear enough, and 
 how now could he break with these people who had been 
 so Jiumane and kind ? It was a horrible impasse, this 
 to which his precipitancy had led him; and, apparently, 
 there was no escape. 
 
 A few days before Christmas the long-expected letter 
 came from a daughter in Philadelphia. There were 
 many excuses for the delay — sickness, hospital expenses 
 eating away whatever little reserve had accumulated, etc., 
 but it contained a postal order for ;;^5 ; and there was great 
 jubilation at Lisheen. 
 
 "I'll take it in to the agent," said Owen McAuliffe, 
 " and get a clare resate from him. And thin we can bring 
 down the cattle. I hope it will be a long time before we 
 can have to clare the manes agin!" 
 
 "Av you take my advice," said Pierry, "you'll buy a 
 shuit of clothes for yerself, and a dress for Debbie, and 
 let us have one dacent Christmas dinner; and pitch that 
 ruffian to the divil."
 
 POOR REYNARD 209 
 
 "Betther have an aisy mind an' our night's rest," said 
 Owen. "Sure I have not wan dacent shleep since our 
 cattle wos removed." 
 
 So the old man took in the five pounds to Tralee, 
 trudging the whole thirteen miles thither and back, and 
 returning with a sad countenance. 
 
 "He wouldn't take thim," said he in explanation. 
 "He demanded two pounds, twelve and sixpence more 
 — costs, he said — which I hadn't to give him. I'm 
 afeard he manes mischief." 
 
 "I'm dom'd glad he didn't," said Pierry. "Did you 
 bring us anythin' from town for the hohdays?" 
 
 "Not much," said the old man, dragging out of a 
 frayed and broken bag a scraggy piece of raw beef 
 and a bottle of whisky. "'Twas hard to brake Mary's 
 bit o' money; but I thought ye'd be expectin' some- 
 thin'." 
 
 "The ruffian does mane mischief," said Pierry. "But 
 we'll be ready for him ; believe you me, we'll be ready for 
 him." 
 
 Christmas Eve came around — that blessed season 
 when men seem to forget for a while that life is a war- 
 fare, and to remember that momentous saying: "A new 
 commandment I give you — that you love one another, 
 as I have loved you." Alas! It fell cold and bleak, and 
 darkened by shadows of coming ills, on the little house- 
 hold at Lisheen. 
 
 One incident touched Maxwell deeply, revealing as it 
 did awful depths of poverty and hardship. Right over 
 the fireplace there hung two pigs' heads, so dry, so hard, 
 so blackened by eternal smoke, that for a long time he
 
 2IO LISHEEN 
 
 had supposed them to be wooden ornaments or articles 
 of an unknown use. That they could be used for human 
 food never remotely entered his mind, until this momen- 
 tous Christmas Eve, when it was suggested that, perhaps, 
 they could make the sacrifice, and use one of these as a 
 kind of condiment to the ragged beef which the old man 
 had brought from Tralee. At first the idea was scouted, 
 the old woman protesting that she would feel lonesome- 
 like, if she missed it from its accustomed place; but 
 probably it was Maxwell's presence that finally decided 
 that the bacon should be used with the beef. 
 
 "Two kinds of mate," said the old man, jokingly. 
 "Begor, we're gettin' on in the world." 
 
 And yet it was a lonesome Christmas — probably the 
 most utterly miserable time Maxwell had yet spent. 
 
 St. Stephen's day dawned bright, crisp, and cheerful; 
 and the two young men, Pierry and Maxwell, started out 
 for a long bright walk up the mountain-side. It was 
 about eleven o'clock, and they had mounted a declivity 
 or two, when suddenly the music of a horn and the bay- 
 ing of fox-hounds broke on their ears. It startled them 
 both into feelings of swift and eager joy; for Maxwell 
 was a keen sportsman, and one of his many sorrows at 
 Lisheen was to see the pheasant and the partridge whirring 
 over his head whilst his fingers twitched for the weapon 
 that was not there; and Pierry, like every farmer's son 
 in Ireland, was prepared to walk twenty miles to a race or 
 a meet. They both wheeled around, and saw, deep down 
 in the level, a gay assemblage of pink and black coats, 
 hats shining in the sunlight, and the dappled coats of the 
 hounds. They swiftly descended and came out on the
 
 POOR REYNARD 21 1 
 
 road, and made their way down to the meet. The hunts- 
 man was consulting some farmers or labourers, who were 
 pointing hither and thither as if to demonstrate the places 
 where a fox was likely to be found. When the two young 
 men mingled with the throng they just heard the name 
 " Netterville " addressed by one of the gentlemen present 
 to a horseman, who sat his horse without grace, and was 
 otherwise distinguished by short stature, a furtive look, 
 and a pair of bristling moustaches fiery red, and sharply 
 cut at the ends. 
 
 In an instant. Pierce McAuliffe divined that this was 
 the hated agent, who threatened ruin to their humble 
 household, and while his passions flamed up, he swiftly 
 decided that, no matter what the consequences might be, 
 he would shame that fellow before the crowd. 
 
 "Here," said the huntsman, impatient at the delay, 
 whilst the fierce dogs ran aimlessly between the horses* 
 legs, "do you know which of the two covers, Lisheen or 
 Ahacross, is likely to hold a fox to-day?" 
 
 He spoke to Pierry and Maxwell. 
 
 "I dunno," said Pierry, with a drawl; "but I can put 
 ye on the track of as big and bould a fox as there is from 
 here to Dingle this minit." 
 
 "Where? where?" was shouted, as the horsemen 
 bunched together. 
 
 "There, jest behind ye," said Pierry, pointing to Netter- 
 ville. 
 
 There was a titter; and to escape, Netterville, under 
 pretence of exercising his animal, leaped a fence, which, 
 roughly constructed of stones, gave way beneath the 
 horse's hoofs; and cantered into a field, where the stubble
 
 212 LISHEEN 
 
 of last harvest still lay. In an instant Pierce McAuliffe 
 was after him. 
 
 "Get out, get out, d you," the boy cried, "get out 
 
 of an honest man's lands, you thundering rogue." 
 
 The horseman wheeled round at the challenge and con- 
 fronted the young man, who was now in a dreadful fury. 
 
 "How dare you, you, sir, speak to a gentleman in that 
 manner? I'd cut your hide well for you." 
 
 "Would you?" said Pierry, coming over. "You 
 
 daren't lay a wet finger on me, you d d coward, and 
 
 you know it. Come, out o' this! None of your exter- 
 minators and evicthors will hunt over my lands to-day." 
 
 The whole group had now gathered at the fence to 
 watch the singular episode. And Netterville, pale with 
 rage and shame, gnawed his moustache, and made his 
 horse caracole around. 
 
 "Come, come," said Pierry; "no nonsense. Out of 
 this field, or, by G , I'll make you." 
 
 There were now cries of anger from the whole hunt, 
 and many queries: 
 
 "Who's this fellow? Who's his landlord? We must 
 make an example of him," etc., etc. 
 
 And one said it was the Maxwell estate — which made 
 Bob Maxwell shudder; and others said it was the Bernard 
 property; and others that Netterville knew best, and 
 would take a subtle revenge. He was still pulling his 
 horse round and round, disliking to be conquered, and 
 yet conscious that he was breaking the law, when Pierry, 
 stung to madness by the remarks of the genteel crowd, 
 struck the animal smartly on the haunches, and leaped 
 aside just as the riding whip of Netterville swished in the
 
 POOR REYNARD 213 
 
 air over his head. Again Pierry struck, and again Netter- 
 ville strove to lash him with his whip ; but the boy was too 
 agile, and lightly leaped back. At this juncture Max- 
 well, having shouted to the hunstman: " Call off the hounds 
 if you don't want bloodshed!" leaped lightly over the 
 fence, and approaching Netterville said, with the accent 
 and manner of one gentleman addressing another: 
 
 "You must be aware, Mr. Netterville, that this young 
 man has a strict legal right to stop hunting over his fields, 
 and that you are putting yourself in the power of the law 
 by assaulting him. Come, let me lead your horse!" 
 
 "Who the devil — ?" Netterville was saying, when 
 Maxwell quietly took his horse by the head, and, as the 
 bridle swung loose in the rider's hands, cantered the 
 animal gently across the stubble and led him through the 
 gap on to the road. Then, looking up, he saw Hugh 
 Hamberton and Aliss Moulton watching with interest 
 the whole proceeding. The former, his face set sternly 
 and his lips tightly closed, was looking vacantly across 
 the field. He was evidently studying this strange object- 
 lesson in Irish life, and apparently his sympathies were 
 with the boy w^ho had merely asserted his legal rights. 
 Claire Moulton, looking very trim and perfect in her 
 riding habit, was slightly flushed, and that strange gleam 
 came into her eyes as in every moment of excitement. 
 Maxwell was turning away, when she nodded in a friendly 
 manner towards him; and Hamberton, waking up, said 
 gravely : 
 
 "You did that well, my young friend, very well indeed. 
 Come, Claire!" 
 
 They galloped after the hounds; and then, for the first
 
 214 LISHEEN 
 
 time, was Maxwell aware how shabbily he was dressed 
 and how plebeian a picture he must have presented to 
 these new-found friends, in whom he had begun to feel a 
 strange interest. He looked down at his mud-soiled 
 boots, his blue trousers stained with earth and badly 
 frayed at the extremities, his overcoat gray and wrinkled 
 and greasy, his brown hat slightly indented and badly 
 discoloured, and he grew red with shame. 
 
 "I'd have killed him if you hadn't interfered," said a 
 voice. It was Pierry's; and his white face and manner 
 made it clear that he meant it. "An' it was a chanst that 
 will never come again. They couldn't hang me, for it 
 was he broke the law." 
 
 The young men returned home, whilst the hunt moved 
 away across the country towards Ahacross; and the short, 
 bright winter day was darkening slowly towards evening, 
 when again the deep baying of hounds, and the sound of 
 the horn, drew them forth from the fireside. 
 
 This time, following the sounds, they went up towards 
 the hills, Pierry armed with a thick bludgeon, and as 
 determined as in the morning to allow not one of that 
 hated band to cross a fence of his fields. When they 
 had reached the heights, they saw the huntsmen labouring 
 heavily across some fields beneath them, and looking 
 further up they saw the hounds slowly and laboriously 
 toiling up the fields, their tongues lolling out sideways 
 and their dappled skins white and panting with exhaustion. 
 A little in advance, and making his way apparently towards 
 a farmer's cottage just outside the bounds of Lisheen, 
 was poor Reynard, now making one last desperate struggle 
 for life. He had given them a glorious run for many miles
 
 POOR REYNARD 215 
 
 across the country from the cover at Ahacross; and now, 
 as he stumbled wearily across the ploughed field, he could 
 not be distinguished, except by practised eyes, from the 
 brown earth, so discoloured was he with dirt and so slow 
 and heavy his movements. The hounds were leaping 
 the fences into this field, as he approached the farm-yard; 
 and they were now silent from fatigue, and the certainty 
 that they had reached their quarry. One or two hunts- 
 men, and one lady, were leading, when suddenly the fox 
 disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed him; and 
 the hounds, rushing madly here and there, set up short 
 yelps of disappointment. 
 
 There was a large crowd of country people assembled 
 to watch the hunt; and they were as deeply interested in 
 the sudden and unexpected termination of the day's sport 
 as the horsemen who had ridden across country, and who 
 now came up, hot, querulous, and angry. No one could 
 tell what had become of Reynard,' until one old hound, 
 whose experience atoned for his loss of scent, tracked the 
 animal down to where a narrow channel, on the level of 
 the field, seemed to lead through the ground across the 
 road. It was so narrow and so blocked with brambles, 
 that the hound could only put his nose into the aperture, 
 whence he immediately withdrew with a long deep howl 
 of disappointment. In a short time, the whole hunt had 
 assembled, horses and men panting and foam- flecked 
 with the fierce exertion; but after a pause of a quarter of 
 an hour or so, the huntsman decided that Reynard had 
 escaped, and he drew off his hounds, and faced homewards. 
 With the terrible instinct for destruction which still 
 lingers in human hearts, the hunt, ladies and gentlemen
 
 21 6 LISHEEN 
 
 alike, decided that it would be worth while to wait and 
 unearth the fox; and they asked a few peasant lads present 
 if there were no means of driving Reynard from his re- 
 treat. Maxwell, who with Pierry was standing by, could 
 not help saying, as he forgot for the moment his assumed 
 character : 
 
 "Let the brute alone! He has given you a good day's 
 sport, and will give another. Don't you see the hounds 
 are gone!" 
 
 There were some profane answers to this burst of 
 indignation, some supercilious queries: "Who is this 
 fellow?" etc., etc., which were interrupted when a young 
 peasant lad put in a fox terrier in the channel, and the 
 hounds and huntsman were whistled after to return. In 
 a few minutes the poor hunted brute emerged fr6m the 
 channel at the other side, and wearily crossed a potato 
 patch near the farmer's outhouses. There was a shout 
 of triumph from the horsemen, the huntsman rode merrily 
 up, the hounds gave tongue once more, and the hunted 
 animal ran wearily backward and forward on a ditch 
 that bounded the farmer's haggart. When the hounds 
 plunged down into the potato garden the fox, with one 
 last effort for life, leaped up and struggled wildly to get 
 a foothold on the thatch of the barn. He succeeded, and 
 for the next few minutes he ran across the ridge of the 
 barn, whilst the hounds came beneath, yelping at their 
 victim and tossing their tails wildly. The whole hunt 
 stood still, watching the end. Maxwell was furious. 
 It was cold-blooded cruelty, without an atom of sport. 
 He told the huntsman so; he told the horsemen so; he told 
 the ladies so. They looked on and laughed After
 
 POOR REYNARD 217 
 
 about ten minutes' vain endeavour to tire out or elude his 
 foes, it was clear the fox's strength was failing. There 
 was nothing for it but to wait. Then one fierce dog 
 leaped up and pursued the exhausted animal. Without 
 a cry, or moan, the poor brute rolled down the thatch, 
 and fell into the jaws of twenty hounds. In a few seconds 
 he was torn limb from limb, and nothing remained but a 
 few scraps of skin and bone. The hunstman deftly saved 
 the brush, and cantering over to where Claire Moulton 
 was holding in her horse, he gallantly offered it to her. 
 But she put it aside with a gesture of disgust; and Max- 
 well, again forgetting himself, could not help saying: 
 
 "Quite right, Miss Moulton! It was the most brutal 
 and unsportsmanlike act I ever saw!" 
 
 Which remark again excited the curiosity of the crowd, 
 who could not reconcile Maxwell's manner with his dress 
 and company. And many were the conjectures that were 
 made, as the hunt broke up and the horsemen filed slowly 
 homewards in the deepening twilight. And Pierry too 
 was lost in thought as he trudged slowly down the hill to 
 Lisheen. 
 
 "Perhaps, after all," he whispered to himself, "Debbie 
 may be right. No wan but wan of theirsel's would spake 
 up to thim that way. But what, then, can he be doin' 
 here?"
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 AT BRANDON HALL 
 
 Like many another poor mortal, Ned Galwey, trusting 
 too much to his httle learning, and refusing to be taught 
 by experience, fell and fell sadly. The conviction forced 
 itself on his imagination until it became a monomania, 
 that gold was here, here in their own townland, where 
 they were bom and reared, and where now this black 
 stranger coolly comes in and, by aid of superior knowledge, 
 which was uncanny and criminal, was pihng up an enor- 
 mous fortune secretly and covertly from the world. The 
 thought was maddening. Ned had read all about Nevada 
 and the mines of Kimberley, and the rivers rolling down 
 their golden sand in far India. And here, clearly and 
 unmistakably, was this prospector, luckily for himself, 
 digging and mining and pocketing the precious metal that 
 had lain so long within a few feet of their own labours. 
 
 The nights were cold; Ned Galwey heeded it not, but 
 estabhshed a kind of detective system of his own, by 
 which, sooner or later, he sought to catch Hamberton, as 
 the wise men of old caught the Leprechaun and compelled 
 him to surrender his ill-gotten wealth. Night after night 
 he wandered around the lonely hills that frowned down 
 on the marble quarries, expecting to see the gUnt of the 
 lantern that would mark the EngHshman at work; but he 
 saw nothing, except, now and again, a hare that he might 
 
 218 .
 
 AT BRANDON HALL 219 
 
 start from her form, or some wild thing creeping in the 
 darkness from covert to covert. The good wife came to 
 the conclusion that Ned's head was "turned"; and she 
 communicated her fears to others; until at length the 
 report reached Hamberton of Ned's nocturnal vigils, and 
 he swore he would teach the fellow a lesson, and then 
 dismiss him back to his farm and his fishing. 
 
 In one of the Hmestone caves in his Cj[uarries he had a 
 tall figure dressed completely in white, the head covered 
 except to reveal a grinning skull. He placed a lantern to 
 hang as it were from the hands of the dead, and secreted 
 two confidential men in the cave on a certain very dark 
 night in January. Then, when his whole household were 
 stilled in sleep, he came out at midnight, and slowly and 
 cautiously entered the rough path to his quarries. As he 
 went along, he threw the powerful light of an acetylene 
 lamp before him; and he often paused and looked down, 
 and picked up worthless pebbles and threw them away. 
 He was quite conscious that his every movement was 
 watched from above, and he strove by every gesture and 
 pause to increase Ned Galwey's suspicions. At last he 
 put out the hght and entered the cave, and instantly Ned 
 descended and followed him. 
 
 "I have him at lasht," said Ned. "An' he's the divil 
 if he escapes me now. Here he has his gold heaped up 
 in bags or boxes, I suppose. I wondher will I be able 
 for him!" 
 
 Ned's idea was to come behind Hamberton, when the 
 latter was counting his treasures, and seize him and them, 
 using only the violence that might be necessary to carry 
 out his project. He calculated that Hamberton might not
 
 220 LISHEEN 
 
 know him in the darkness; or that, if he were detected, it 
 would be Hambcrton's interest, as well as his own, to keep 
 the matter secret. For he had some dim idea that Ham- 
 bcrton's supposed mining was not strictly legal; and that 
 the government or the landlord had claims on mines and 
 minerals. 
 
 He stumbled over broken hmestone and marble, as he 
 descended from his post of observation; and, once or 
 twice, when he caused some larger boulder to tumble 
 down the decUvity, with a noise as he imagined Hke 
 thunder, his guilty conscience made him pause in terror. 
 As he proceeded further, his terror became greater, until 
 the bark of a sleepless dog, or even the wash of the sea, 
 made him tremble. He would have turned back, but 
 that the demon of cupidity was too strong within him, 
 and the gUnt of the imaginary gold bhnded his eyes to 
 guilt and danger. 
 
 At length, after many pauses, he reached the opening 
 of the cave. There was the dim reflection of some hght 
 cast from behind a mighty shelf of rock that screened the 
 entrance of the cavern, and Ned thought: "He's now at 
 his work, the divil; and won't he be surprised?" 
 
 Cautiously he crept fonA^ard, and then, after a moment's 
 pause, he flew swiftly around the boulder, and came face 
 to face, not with Hamberton, but with the awful sheeted, 
 silent figure, with the skull grinning from beneath the 
 white hood. A lantern hung down before the ghost and 
 ht the walls of the cave. 
 
 For an instant Ned Galwey was paralyzed with terror, 
 and could only stare. There was a sudden bending for- 
 ward of the awful figure, and then the unhappy fellow,
 
 AT BRANDON HALL 221 
 
 with an awful shriek, turned to flee. As he did the figure 
 fell on him and threw him to the earth. The lantern was 
 extinguished, and in the darkness and dread and cold 
 terror, as of death, his consciousness staggered and fled. 
 
 In the gray dawn of the morning, when the men assem- 
 bled for work in the quarries, they thought they heard 
 stifled moans proceeding from a certain cave, where 
 sometimes they left their picks and hammers after the 
 day's work. After some hesitation, for the Irish peasant 
 is rather fearful of "finding somethin'" that would impH- 
 cate him with the law, they entered the cave and saw but 
 a white sheet, from beneath which the moans came, sad 
 and fitful enough, a broken lantern, and a skull. They 
 raised the sheet and discovered the prostrate figure of 
 Ned Galwey, more dead than aUve. To every query, 
 there was but one feeble answer: 
 
 "Oh! the ghosht! the ghosht!" 
 
 "What the divil brought you here, Ned, man ahve?" 
 
 "Oh! the ghosht! the ghosht!" 
 
 "How long are you here?" 
 
 "Oh! the ghosht! the ghosht!" 
 
 "Rouse up, man ahve, and tell us what happened." 
 
 "Oh! the ghosht! the ghosht!" 
 
 "Thunder and turf, man! What ghosht? What did 
 you see?" 
 
 "Oh! the ghosht! the ghosht!" 
 
 "This bangs Banagher. This must be the banshee that 
 we hard last night late. But what brought Ned Galwey 
 here in the middle of the night?" 
 
 "Oh! the ghosht! the ghosht!" 
 
 They took him home and told his wife the circumstances.
 
 222 LISHEEN 
 
 Even to her queries he had but one answer: "The ghosht! 
 the ghosht!" And for many years after, whenever Ned 
 was coming home from a fair or market, and was "unco 
 fuV' it was a usual sight to behold him swaying to and 
 fro within the prison of his crate and cart, and to hear 
 him cry with outstretched hands: "Oh! the ghosht! the 
 ghosht!" At last he became known all around the coun- 
 tryside as "The Haunted Man." 
 
 Hamberton, however, was not disposed to let him off so 
 easily. He had a good deal of contempt for such a char- 
 acter; and he needed an example to prove that the popular 
 fancy about hidden treasure was ill-founded, and also to 
 show the discontented moiety of his labourers that he was 
 not a man to be trifled with. 
 
 "When time and thought brought back something like 
 reason to Ned Galwey, Hamberton calmly but firmly de- 
 manded an authentic account of the event that was now 
 the talk of two parishes. The one point that he desired 
 particularly to clear up was, what brought Ned to the 
 cave that winter night. He knew right well what it was; 
 but he demanded the admission from Ned's own lips. 
 This was no easy task. Ned had several theories about 
 his presence in the cave, and these varied as their proba- 
 bihties. He said he was bewitched; that he was a som- 
 nambulist; that he had dreamt three times running that 
 there was a "crook of goold" hidden in the cave, and that 
 it was whilst dreaming he sought it. Finally, he declared 
 that it was "thim moonlighters, who wor agin the govern- 
 ment an' every dacent, hard-working man, and who would 
 think no more of shooting an EngUshman than of shooting 
 a rabbit, who took him by force out of his warm bed by
 
 AT BRANDON HALL 
 
 223 
 
 night, and thranshported him to the cave, where they held 
 their nocturnal and rebellious meetings." 
 
 Hamberton took each story as it came from Ned's hps, 
 and told it to the men; and each new invention was a 
 source of intense amusement day by day ; whilst Hamberton 
 saw that every additional falsehood was wearing softly 
 away every trace of discontent and every lingering idea 
 that he was secretly amassing wealth. Then, one day, he 
 determined to call them together and talk to them of their 
 infideUty and perfidy. But he abandoned the idea under 
 the influence of some cynical humour. 
 
 '"Tis all the same," he argued, "and will be so to the 
 end of time. All men are liars. I must tolerate them 
 until I can leave them forever." 
 
 This was the idea — not passion, nor fear, nor mono- 
 mania — but the calm, well-formed idea that was haunting 
 the mind of this singular man. The idea of getting out 
 of life, when he had accomplished certain things, as softly 
 and as voluptuously as possible. The old Roman mode 
 of life, sybaritic, cynical, philosophical, appealed strongly 
 to him. And the Roman method of leaving Ufe appealed to 
 him still more strongly. He had no idea of drifting on 
 to old age, a prey to every wretched infirmity, until he 
 became an object of contempt even to those few who loved 
 him. He had seen old age and shuddered at it — its 
 imbecility, its multiform diseases, its impotence; and he 
 determined that when certain things had been done he 
 would leave of his own free will this most disastrous 
 world. Once or twice he had hinted this to Father Cos- 
 grove in their occasional conferences on the immortality of 
 the soul and the future Hfe. Then, he had broadly stated
 
 224 LISHEEN 
 
 his intention to the horrified priest to leave this wretched 
 hfe as soon as he had placed Claire Moulton under the 
 protection of some man, in whose honour he could confide. 
 And he added, in mitigation of the horror he had raised in 
 the mind of the simple priest: 
 
 "You see it is a far-off event, Father. I think the con- 
 dition is hardly realizable at all; or, at least, only so after 
 the lapse of many years. But when you meet that Sir 
 Galahad, you will tell me, will you not?" 
 
 "You must allow Miss Moulton some choice," the priest 
 answered. " From the little I know of them, young ladies' 
 fancies cannot be forced, cannot be forced." 
 
 "Quite so. Quite so. I shall allow Claire the most 
 absolute freedom. But this puts my design further back. 
 Because, you know, like all girls, she is sure to marry a 
 knave or a fool." 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that," said the priest. "But I pray 
 it may be so; or that God will change your heart. And 
 he will; he will. I am but a poor prophet; but I foresee 
 the day when Miss Moulton will be the happy mistress of 
 Brandon Hall, and you her honoured and respected friend 
 and father." 
 
 "Oh, man of mighty faith, how Httle dost thou know! 
 How little dost thou know!" said Hamberton.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 
 
 The discovery that was now to throw dread and con- 
 sternation, at least amongst some of the family at Lisheen, 
 was made by Pierry, and communicated with great caution 
 to Debbie alone. Maxwell's action and demeanour in the 
 j&eld before the hunt began, and afterwards at Reynard's 
 death, gave, as we have seen, some food for reflection to 
 Pierry McAuHffe. No peasant, no matter how brave and 
 independent, would act as Maxwell had done; and surely 
 no deserter, hiding from the police, would tempt Provi- 
 dence in that way, Pierry, loth enough to act the spy, 
 was yet so disquieted about their visitor, that he deter- 
 mined to set a watch on his movements; and, although 
 these were manifest and unconcealed, he thought he should 
 catch Maxwell in some moment when he was off his 
 guard, and in which he might reveal something that would 
 betray his identity. 
 
 Strange to say, the thought of the agent, Netterville, of 
 his anger at the insult offered him by Pierry before the 
 entire hunt, and of the possible revenge he might take, 
 did not occupy the mind of the young peasant these winter 
 days so much as the question: Who was their unknown 
 guest, whence had he come, and what was his object in 
 selecting Lisheen, above all other places, for a retreat ? 
 
 He questioned his father closely about the chance of 
 IS 225
 
 226 LISHEEN 
 
 their having rich relatives in England or America, some 
 far-out cousins, who might, after the lapse of many years, 
 be anxious to resume the rights of family relations, and 
 perhaps bring back some httle resources to help their 
 meagre means. The good father shook his head. There 
 were, of course, relatives in America; but all were doing 
 for themselves, and not hkely to be troubled with home 
 emergencies. There were none, so far as he knew, in 
 England. He bade Pierry abandon all hope of succour 
 from abroad. He thought that this was Pieriy's idea. 
 The latter then cast about for some other solution of the 
 problem, but in vain. He consulted Debbie more than 
 once. She persisted in maintaining that Maxwell was a 
 gentleman; and she instanced his demeanour towards 
 Miss Moulton when they had visited Lisheen. She spoke 
 rather scornfully of "that thing," as she called Miss 
 Moulton, and in great laudation of Maxwell's attitude 
 towards people who should have minded their own 
 business. 
 
 Clearly, then, Maxwell was a gentleman — but in dis- 
 guise, and hiding away in this remote place for some 
 obscure and suspicious cause. He cast up every possible 
 cause in his mind — domestic trouble, reduced means, 
 gambling, even Debbie's attractions; but rejected them 
 all. The revelation then burst unexpectedly upon him. 
 
 Every soft moonhght night in the early spring he 
 noticed that Maxwell, after supper, used to throw on a 
 heavy frieze coat, and, under pretence of having a quiet 
 smoke, was in the habit of going to a lonely plantation or 
 screen of firs higher up on the hill, but not very far from 
 the cottage. One night, when a heavy fog rose up from the
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 
 
 227 
 
 valleys beneath and almost hid ever}'thlng, Pierry, under 
 its friendly cover, followed Maxwell up along the hill, 
 and hid in ambush under a wet and dripping hawthorn 
 hedge, on which a few withered leaves and a few red 
 berries were still lingering. The plantation, composed of 
 heavy timber with light young fir-trees springing up be- 
 tween, looked ghostly enough in the pale moonhght, that 
 was now struggling with the heavy fog; and through a 
 path cut between the tender young saplings, on which the 
 beads of vapour were glistening, Maxwell was walking to 
 and fro, apparently buried in deep thought. Suddenly, 
 and with a kind of stifled cry, he stopped; and, turning 
 around, he appeared to be engaged in angry altercation 
 with some unseen person. His voice at first was pleading 
 and pitiful, then it rose shrill and piercing, as if arguing 
 against the suggestion of some terrible deed. Then it 
 seemed to die away, as if remonstrance were unavailing, 
 and Pierry heard him mutter: "When we have marked 
 with blood these sleepy two," as Maxwell turned away 
 into the recesses of the plantation again. 
 
 The boy was badly frightened ; but he had nerv^e enough 
 to wait and see what further developments would take 
 place. 
 
 After a pause Maxwell emerged from the shadow of the 
 firs, and stood in the open moonlit space again. 
 
 Suddenly he turned, as if taken red-handed in his guilt, 
 and shouted: 
 
 "Who's there? What, ho!" 
 
 Pierry, now believing that he was discovered by this 
 madman or murderer, was about to run, when Maxwell, 
 after a pause, cried:
 
 228 LISHEEN 
 
 "What hands are here? ha! they pluck out my eyes." 
 
 And then, as he rubbed his hands violently together, 
 Pierry heard him ask if all the waters in the ocean could 
 wash the filthy blood from his hands. 
 
 He needed no more ; but crept along the hawthorn hedge 
 and, once again wrapped in the fog, sped down with 
 throbbing heart and bursting eyes towards home. But as 
 it would never do to reveal prematurely all things before 
 they were ripe, and as Pierry, consummate actor as he was, 
 was now determined to see other and more tangible proofs 
 of this man's guilt, he went into the cowhouse, and re- 
 mained there until he saw Maxwell, half an hour later, 
 lift the latch of the cottage door and go in. Then Pierry, 
 with a half-lighted pipe in his hand, also entered, and 
 sat down as calm as he could by the smouldering fire. 
 
 "A cowld night outside?" said the old man. 
 
 *"Tis cold," said Maxwell, so calmly that Pierry was 
 shocked by the contrast of the man's demeanour with 
 what he had witnessed an hour ago. "There is a thick 
 fog and a heavy dew is falling." 
 
 "I fear the ground is too wet to turn up a-yet?" said 
 the old man, interrogatively. 
 
 "Yes," said Maxwell. "It would be heavy under the 
 plough just now." 
 
 "I suppose we musht wait, though the spring is running 
 on," said the old man. 
 
 And Maxwell pursued the conversation as calmly as if 
 nothing was on his mind more terrible than the fencing 
 of a ditch or the planting of a ridge of potatoes. 
 
 "He's the divil's own play-acthor intirely," Pierry 
 thought, as he beckoned Debbie to follow him.
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 229 
 
 Not till they had gone around the house, and were safely 
 ensconced in the cow-byre did Pierry open his mind to the 
 wondering sister. 
 
 "I've found out all," he whispered at first. 
 
 "All what?" said Debbie. 
 
 "All about the houchal inside," said Pierry. 
 
 Then Debbie's curiosity, and more than curiosity, was 
 aroused. 
 
 "No wondher he was hidin'," said Pierry. "If I 
 had what he has on my mind I'd drownd meself in 
 the say." 
 
 "Wha — what is it?" said Debbie, now thoroughly 
 terrified, as she looked out into the square of moonlight 
 before the door. 
 
 "You'd never guess," said Pierry. 
 
 "No; what in the Name of God is it?" said Debbie. 
 "Is it anything very bad intirely?" 
 
 "Couldn't be worse," said Pierr}-. "He has blood on 
 his sowl, as sure as we're talkin' here to-night. He has 
 done away wid somebody." 
 
 "Great God in Heaven to-night!" almost shrieked the 
 girl, " what did we do to punish us in this way ? To think 
 of having a murderer in the house, an' undher our roof! 
 But are you sure, Pierry?" she asked, as the gleam of an 
 old affection shone up under such a dark cloud of gloom. 
 "How do you know? How did you find it out?" 
 
 "Aisy enough," said Pierr}^ "I had it from his owti 
 lips; an' if you can hould yer tongue for wan twenty-four 
 hours, you can hear it, too, or I'm mistaken." Then he 
 told her all. 
 
 They then decided to hold a deep, unbroken silence
 
 230 
 
 LISHEEN 
 
 about the matter, until Debbie could verify her brother's 
 suspicions. And then they would consult further on the 
 matter. 
 
 The next night was equally favourable for observation; 
 and when Maxwell, again donning the heavy frieze coat, 
 strolled out into the moonhght, Pierry soon followed. 
 But he immediately returned, and said aloud: 
 
 "I'm thinkin', Debbie, that some wan is paying a polite 
 
 visit to your fowl. At laste, they're makin' the h of 
 
 a row outside." 
 
 "Wisha, bad luck to that fox!" said Debbie, hustling 
 around and assuming a heavy shawl. " There's the second 
 visit this year; and not a pinny compinsation from thim 
 huntsmin." 
 
 Brother and sister separated in the yard ; and made their 
 way, by different routes, towards the plantation, the 
 theatre of Maxwell's appalling confessions. But they met 
 and crouched beneath the hawthorn where Pierry was 
 ambushed the night before. The night was cold and the 
 grass was wet; but they heeded not these things under 
 the spell of the night's adventures. 
 
 "Now, Debbie," whispered Pierry, "for your sowl's 
 sake, don't let a screech out o' you, nor wan worrd, no 
 matther what you see, or you'll spile all." 
 
 "I'll try," said Debbie with chattering teeth and shiv- 
 ering all over, rather from fright than cold. 
 
 Again they had not long to wait. For again Maxwell, 
 his figure looming up larger in the mist, emerged from 
 the plantation where the trees were thickest, and stood in 
 the glade, where the young saplings could not conceal 
 him. After pausing some time, and making some wild
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 231 
 
 gesticulations, he struck his forehead violently with his 
 right hand and strode back into the shadows. 
 
 "Did you see that?" whispered Pierry. 
 
 "I did," chattered Debbie. "God help us! he has 
 something weighty on his sowl." 
 
 "Weighty enough," answered Pierry. "Wondher we 
 never shuspected anything. Whisht! here he comes 
 again!" 
 
 Again, with slow and solemn tread, Maxwell strode out 
 into the moonlight ; and after a pause, and looking around 
 solenmly at the heavens, he suddenly gave a violent start, 
 as if he had seen an apparition, and shouted at it to 
 depart: "Avaunt! and quit my sight! Thou canst not 
 say I did it; never shake thy gor}^ locks at me!" 
 
 These were the appalling cries that came to the fright- 
 ened watchers. 
 
 "He sees something," whispered Debbie, half dead with 
 terror. "Can you see anything, Pierry?" 
 
 "I do," said Pierry. "There's somethin' white between 
 the trees." 
 
 "Is it a man or a woman?" said Debbie. 
 
 "'Tis nayther. 'Tis a sperrit," whispered Pierry. 
 "'Tis the thing he kilt." 
 
 "God save us!" said Debbie, making the sign of the 
 cross. "Could we get home without his seein' us?" 
 
 "No, no," said Pieriy. "Listen! he's at it agin!" 
 
 Maxwell was still apparently arguing with the ghost, 
 when suddenly the latter must have disappeared; for he 
 turned around, and pulled up his coat-collar and 
 muttered : 
 
 "Why, so; being gone, I am a man again."
 
 232 $ LISHEEN 
 
 And muttering: "I will have blood; they say, blood 
 will have blood," he went back into the shades again. 
 
 "Come home, in God's Name!" said Debbie to her 
 brother. 
 
 "No, no," said Pierry. " We must see it out now. We 
 won't get a chance agin!" 
 
 "But maybe he's gone home," said Debbie. 
 
 "No," said Pieny. "You'll see him hghtin' his pipe 
 first." 
 
 "He's the cool divil out an' out," said Debbie. "To 
 think of shmokin' after what he's seen! But I wondher 
 who was it? Was it a man or a 'uman?" 
 
 "Wait, and maybe he'll let on!" said Pierry. 
 
 This time the interval was longer; but at last Maxwell 
 came out into the glade again. After a few minutes, he 
 began an imaginary dialogue with some person or persons, 
 but in a low, determined tone. Then he walked back- 
 wards and forwards as if waiting. Again he addressed 
 his victim, who appeared to be pleading with him for 
 mercy. He answered sharply and walked to and fro 
 again. The only words they could catch were: 
 
 "Well, quick, be brief; I would not kill thy soul." 
 
 The dialogue now became more impassioned. Maxwell 
 uttering quick, jerky expressions, as of one impatient and 
 not going to be trifled with. At last he stopped short, and, 
 stooping down, made as if he would kneel on his victim's 
 breast to suffocate or destroy him. He was apparently 
 interrupted in his murderous effort, for he stood up 
 suddenly, and, looking around, shouted: 
 
 "WTiat noise is that? Who's there?" 
 
 "He's found us out," said Debbie. "What'U we do?"
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 233 
 
 "No," said Pierry. '"Tis the divil's conscience that's 
 troubhng him. Whisht!" 
 
 But they heard no more. For Maxwell, after one long, 
 lingering look at the dead body, passed into the shrubbery 
 again. 
 
 In a few seconds he came back, and stood over the dead 
 body, his hands clasped and hanging down before him. 
 Then he broke out into an awful lamentation, swinging 
 his hands wildly, hke women that are keening over a 
 corpse; and, in a voice broken by his tears and moans, 
 they could hear him saying: 
 
 "Cold, cold, my girl! Whip me, ye devils! Blow me 
 about in winds! Roast me in sulphur! Wash me in 
 steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! Oh! dead, dead, dead! 
 Oh! Oh!! oh!!!" 
 
 These last words he almost screamed, his arms held 
 wildly over his head; and his whole frame contorted in 
 agony. The lonely hour, the otherwise silent scene, the 
 ghostly moonlight, the heavy drapery of mist and fog, 
 and this man, alone with his terrible remorse, made a 
 picture of horror and desolation that would have para- 
 lyzed any soul with dread. The girl nearly fainted, while 
 her tears fell fast ; and it needed every effort of her brother 
 to keep her from shrieking out with the horror that con- 
 fronted her. At last Maxwell went away; and Debbie 
 was free to speak amid her tears. 
 
 "Oh, Mother of Heaven to-night!" she cried, whilst her 
 brother held her in his strong arms, "what are we to do, 
 at all, at all? To think of our having a murderer in our 
 house for over six months, an' we thratin' him like a 
 gintleman. Sure I knew there was somethin' quare about
 
 234 LISHEEN 
 
 him all along; but we couldn't sind him away. An' it 
 was a girl! Sure I ought to know it. What's that he said: 
 'Cowld, cowld, me girl!' Oh! the ruffian! To desthroy 
 some poor, innicent crachure, that never did nobody 
 harrum — " 
 
 ''Well, he seems sorry enough for what he done!" said 
 Pierry. " Did ye hear him callin' on all the divils in hell 
 to blow and blasht him ? An' sure, bad as he is, it made 
 me a'most cry to hear him say: 'Oh! oh! oh!' in the ind!" 
 
 "What good is all that, if he done the deed?" said 
 Debbie, who was jealous that another had preceded her 
 in Maxwell's affections. "Will all that moanin' and 
 groanin' bring the poor thing back to Hfe ? Well, I sup- 
 pose he'll have to swing high for it now. Sure, he can't 
 escape much longer!" 
 
 "But what in God's Holy Name are we to do?" she 
 continued. "Sure, we can't give him up to the pelice. 
 We'd be called thraitors and informers forever!" 
 
 "We'll lave it alone till to-morrow, however," said 
 Pierry, "and maybe I'll run over and tell the priesht!" 
 
 "The very thing," said Debbie, trying to dry her eyes. 
 "But how am I to meet him again, or set at table with 
 him, or make his bed?" 
 
 "Well, do your besht," said Perry. "It v/ill never do 
 to let on that we know anythin'. Why, he might murdher 
 us all in our beds!" 
 
 "May God and his Blessed Mother save us!" said 
 Debbie. "What a pickle we got ourselves into by too 
 much good nature. 'Twill be a lesson to us, I warrant 
 you." 
 
 They passed down the hillside together, and then sepa-
 
 A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY 235 
 
 rated in the yard, Pierry going into the cabin first. After 
 a long time Debbie entered; but kept turning her face 
 away from the place where Maxwell was calmly smoking 
 and chatting with the old people. 
 
 "Come over and take a hate of the fire," said her 
 mother; and when Debbie demurred, the mother looked 
 at her keenly and saw she had been crying. 
 
 "Why, surely, 'tisn't cryin' about a couple of chickens 
 you are?" she said. 
 
 "'Tis enough to make any girl mad," interposed Pierry, 
 "to see wan fine fowl afther another desthroyed by that 
 rogue of a fox." 
 
 " Yerra, no matther," said the mother, "there's as good 
 to be got where thim kem from." 
 
 This commenced a pretty little debate, after Maxwell 
 had inquired what were the rules regulating compensation 
 to farmers and labourers for the destruction of poultiy by 
 the foxes kept for the gentiy's amusement. He was very 
 indignant at the revelations — the refusal in nine cases 
 out of ten to repay anything, the incrcduUty of the gentle- 
 man who was Grand Almoner, the proofs that were re- 
 quired of the peasantry, the pittance that was reluctantly 
 given. He expressed himself freely about the iniquitous 
 custom. It was another sidcHght on Irish history. But 
 no matter how indignant and sympathetic he was, espe- 
 cially with Debbie, she kept her face averted from him. 
 She only heard : 
 
 "Cold, cold, my girl! Oh, dead, dead, dead! Oh! oh!! 
 oh!!!"
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 HOMELESS 
 
 At dawn next morning the whole household was startled 
 from slumber by the sudden appearance of police in the 
 yard. They had heard the rumbHng of cars in a kind of 
 half dream, and the swift orders of ofl&cers; but the half- 
 dream became a dread reality when, on looking out through 
 the half pane which served as a window, they saw the 
 rough frieze coats and the glazed caps of the officers of 
 the, law. Debbie was the first to realize the situation; 
 and Maxwell, in his settle bed, awake from heavy slumber 
 to see her half -dressed form in the kitchen, and hear her 
 shout to Pierr)^ in the loft: 
 
 "Pierry, Pierry, get up; get up! the place is full of 
 police!" 
 
 And in an instant there was a furious knocking at the 
 door and the stem order: 
 
 "Open in the Queen's name!" 
 
 The girl was so full of her adventure the night before, 
 she at once associated the presence of the police with the 
 crime of Maxwell ; and it was with a look of some pity and 
 remorse she said to the latter: 
 
 "The police are lookin' for some wan!" 
 
 She was swiftly undeceived when, on opening the 
 kitchen door, two brutal fellows, clearly bailiffs, rushed 
 in and began at once to take possession of the place. 
 
 236
 
 HOMELESS 237 
 
 Utterly heedless of protestations and appeals, they com- 
 menced flinging out into the yard everything they could 
 lay hands on, utterly regardless as to whether it was 
 broken or not. Chairs, tables, the settle, the ware, tins, 
 dishes, pictures, the wheel-bellows at the fire, the dried 
 meat over the fireplace, the irons that held the heavy 
 pots — all were flung out, whilst Pierry and Maxwell and 
 Debbie looked on as if paralyzed. Then the latter rushed 
 into the room where her parents were. The bailiffs were 
 following, when Pierry rushed forward and planted him- 
 self before them : 
 
 " My father and mother aren't up yet," he said. " Give 
 them time to dress theirselves." 
 
 But with an oath the fellows tried to get past. Pieriy 
 pushed them back, and cried out to his sister. 
 
 She instantly came forward and placed a heavy pike in 
 her brother's hands. Thus armed, he beat the baihffs 
 back into the kitchen, and held the' pike at rest to guard 
 his father's privacy. The fellows shouted for help; the 
 police rushed in, made some feint to throw the boy off his 
 guard, and in an instant had him and his sister hand- 
 cuffed and led out, but not before one of the policemen 
 was seriously stabbed in the thigh. As Debbie passed 
 out she threw a look of withering scorn at Maxwell, and 
 said : 
 
 "I know what you are; but I didn't Imow you wor a 
 coward. But your time is near." 
 
 He flushed up and said nothing, but looked like one 
 paralyzed. Then he was rudely hustled out of the room 
 into the yard, where brother and sister were guarded by 
 the police. In a few moments the old couple, sorrowful
 
 238 LISHEEN 
 
 but resigned, were driven out from their home, and the 
 work of demolition proceeded. It took the baiUffs many 
 hours to accomplish; for they were now in no hurry, but 
 went on calmly with their dreadful work; and a huge 
 colHe dog, who took a family revenge by biting one of 
 the baihffs severely, had to be evicted and evicted again 
 and again. Then the bams had to be visited, the turkeys, 
 geese, and hens ejected ; and the whole round of the farm 
 examined, lest any hving thing should be left on the 
 place. 
 
 It was near three o'clock, and the orders were given to 
 the officers to close in, when Hamberton and Miss Moulton 
 rode in from the main road, through a dense mass of 
 spectators, and into the yard. They had come by acci- 
 dent on the terrible scene. They had been out for an 
 afternoon ride, when their attention was attracted by the 
 presence of the vast, black crowd that filled the fields and 
 Hned the ditches at Lisheen. They were respectfully 
 saluted by the police ; and Hamberton entered into a close 
 conversation with the District Inspector, whilst Claire 
 Moulton rode over and inquired soUcitously of Debbie 
 how the whole unfortunate affair could have arisen. She 
 was dreadfully shocked at seeing the steel handcuffs on 
 the poor girl, and she said with some feehng to the officers : 
 "Surely these manacles are not necessary?" 
 The officer said nothing, but pointed across the yard 
 where, in a butt, recHning on coarse straw, the wounded 
 policeman lay. But Debbie, tortured by the revelations 
 of last night, furious at their eviction and the perfidy of 
 Maxwell, and tired after the long day's trial, hung down 
 her head and was sullenly silent. She wanted no sym-
 
 HOMELESS 239 
 
 pathy from that quarter, Claire Moulton turned her 
 horse's head aside; and Debbie looking up saw Mr. 
 Hamberton arguing with the sherifiF, and apparently pro- 
 posing a settlement that would allow them to retake 
 possession of their home. The latter apparently was on 
 the point of yielding, for Debbie could hear the poUce 
 discussing the whole question, and just then Hamberton 
 had taken out a notebook and was rapidly writing in it, 
 when Alaxwell was seen to go over and remonstrate with 
 him. The result was that Hamberton replaced the note- 
 book in his pocket and shook his head, as if the matter 
 were impracticable. 
 
 Debbie had witnessed the whole thing with blazing 
 eyes, and she muttered between her teeth: 
 
 "Thraitor and murdherer! But you'll swing for this 
 a-yet!" 
 
 The baihffs, having walked the farm, and filing outside 
 the boundaries every Hving thing, had come back into the 
 yard; and, after some dehberation, they proceeded to 
 demolish the dwelHng house. It was at this crisis the old 
 people, who had hitherto looked on in calm resignation 
 at their fate, raised a wild cr}^ of lamentation. It looked 
 as if the final hope had been cut from beneath their feet; 
 for so long as the dwelling was there, there was a chance 
 of resuming possession. Now, the decree seemed to be 
 irrevocable. that the family should not enter on their land 
 again. The dense crowd outside began to show symp- 
 toms of excitement, when the wild cries of the old people 
 reached them; and a stray stone was dropped on the 
 thatch where the bailiffs were at the work of destruction. 
 The night-shades, too, were falhng, and the officer looked
 
 240 LISHEEN 
 
 anxious. He had a long journey before him; and how 
 could he conjecture what might happen under the cover 
 of night, and passing through a hostile country? He 
 looked anxiously at his watch; and again Hamberton 
 approached the sheriff, apparently to remonstrate with 
 him on the altogether unnecessary demolition of the Httle 
 home. He appeared to be prevailing, and the sheriff had 
 put up his hand to stop the dismantling of the roof, when 
 again Maxwell interfered, and said something that ap- 
 parently induced the officer to decide otherwise. It was 
 such gross, uncalled-for treachery that even the patient 
 old man said aloud: 
 
 "Dom your blood, you scoundrel! Isn't this a nice 
 return for takin' you aff the road and makin' a dacent 
 man av you?" 
 
 But the old woman interfered : 
 
 "Lave him to God, Owen! Lave him to God! Shure 
 whin we mint well, 'twill be all the same bye-'m-bye!" 
 
 And Pierry said, and he threw his voice out from the 
 midst of the posse of police that surrounded him: 
 
 "Yes; lave the ruffian to God, and the hangman's rope, 
 that's swinging for him this many a day!" 
 
 Maxwell flushed up as he saw public attention thus 
 drawn toward him, and then he grew suddenly pale, as 
 he saw Hamberton's and Miss Moulton's eyes bent on 
 him in surprise. But there was no longer time for senti- 
 ment. The night was falling; the bare rafters of the little 
 home at Lisheen were now letting in the fading light on 
 wreck and ruin ; the window had been long since smashed ; 
 the door hung on its hinges. The evil work was done. 
 The Inspector looked again at his watch, shook hands
 
 HOMELESS 241 
 
 with Hamberton, raised his hand in salute to Miss Moulton, 
 pulled up his scabbard, and ordered his men to fall in. 
 
 Maxwell, looking wistfully at the two prisoners, seemed 
 undecided what to do. Then, under a sudden impulse, 
 he strode over to where Debbie, who had been sitting on 
 a cart surrounded by poHce, was standing up to accom- 
 pany her captors to gaol. She looked him straight be- 
 tween the eyes in her fearless way ; and his face fell before 
 her gaze. But he had to say something. 
 
 "Don't judge me too hard, now," he pleaded. "I 
 cannot explain. Some day you will understand and 
 forgive." 
 
 The old, smothered affection rose up in the girl's heart, 
 as she saw his worn and woe-begone face. There was 
 nothing of the self-assurance of a traitor there. Only a 
 pitiful, pleading look for mercy and compassion. But 
 the remembrance of last night came up, and steeled her 
 to every kinder feeHng. 
 
 "There's One that will judge you and condemn you — 
 you know for what!" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," he said. "I tell you, 
 as God is my Judge, that I have done no wrong to your 
 family or yourself. You will understand this soon; and 
 all will be clear." 
 
 "I only understand," she said, "that wan day, not so 
 long ago, I called you back when you were facin' the 
 world. May the Lord forgive me for it! Now% go your 
 own ways, and may the divil, your father, guide you." 
 
 And jerking her shawl over her head with her shoulders, 
 as the poHceman helped her, she strode forward to join her 
 brother. The old people came forward to say good-bye. 
 16
 
 242 LISHEEN 
 
 "God save you, and God keep you, alanna!" said the 
 weeping mother, "Sure, never mother reared a betther 
 son nor daughter than ye. God save you and keep you; 
 and come back soon! Sure, God is above us all!" 
 
 And she kissed the weeping boy and girl again and 
 again. The old man kissed them both in silence, and 
 passionately wrung their manacled hands. Then turned 
 away weeping. 
 
 Maxwell had sat down on a broken cart far over in a 
 comer of the yard. He had touched the nadir of human 
 misery, and sat in the growing darkness, his head bent 
 forward and supported by his hands. He was wondering 
 if on earth there were then a more unhappy man than 
 himself. He had made a magnificent attempt and had 
 utterly and hopelessly failed. Fate was against him; and 
 worse than Fate, circumstances over which he had no 
 control. The idea that he had previously entertained, of 
 lifting up these people, socially and intellectually, appeared 
 now so ludicrous that he actually laughed sardonically at 
 himself. To think of dining with the sword of Damocles 
 raising your scalp was considered absurd, he thought; but 
 to think of lifting up this race with that frightful incubus 
 of landlordism weighing on it, night and day, was pre- 
 posterous. There is no room in an Irish peasant's cabin 
 for books. No room for anything but the mattock and 
 the spade to make gold for strangers. 
 
 And yet under this awful cloud of depression he saw a 
 gleam of light — the change in his own circumstances, 
 the possibility of his doing better in another sphere of 
 action. But all this belonged to the higher and more 
 speculative part of his undertaking. But Maxwell, too,
 
 HOMELESS 243 
 
 was emotional. He was so far from being a mere doctri- 
 naire and enthusiast, that even his dismal failure would 
 have been supportable, but that he felt so deeply for the 
 troubles that had fallen so swiftly on this beloved house- 
 hold, where, looking back, he saw that he had been 
 comparatively happy. He knew well it was Nettervdlle's 
 wounded pride and vanity that had precipitated this awful 
 crisis, in the anguish of which he had deeply shared. The 
 sorrows of the Uttle family were his. He felt for the aged 
 father and mother; he felt sorely for the manacled boy and 
 girl, who had been to him brother and sister. He felt for 
 the desolation and min; but most of all he felt that he, 
 in some mysterious manner, had come to be regarded as 
 a deadly and treacherous enemy. He knew that the few 
 words he had spoken to Hamberton and the sheriff were 
 wrongly interpreted; but this did not account for the 
 sudden change in the whole tone and temper of the family 
 towards him. The words addressed to him by Pierry and 
 Debbie hinted at something strange and mysterious. Yes; 
 he parted with them now full of kindness and gratitude to 
 them ; but with their minds poisoned against him. Traitor! 
 Ingrate! Houseless! Homeless! Surely the night-shades 
 never gathered around a more miserable man.
 
 PART III
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS 
 
 In the snug, well appointed drawing-room of a hand- 
 some villa outside Dublin, a small but very select party of 
 Dublin fashionables was gathered at the close of a cold 
 evening early in the March of this year. The lawn in 
 front sloped down to the sea; and on a summer evening 
 the view across Dublin Bay, down along the coast, to 
 where Bray Head juts out and frames the picture in green 
 and gold, would be almost unrivalled. This evening, 
 with the cold east wind blowing back to the shore the 
 plumes of smoke from cross-Channel steamers, the lawn 
 looked gray and sad in the growing twilight ; but in the 
 large bay-window that jutted over the basement in the 
 villa, there was a pretty picture that lent a little light and 
 beauty to the scene. A fair, tall woman in evening dress 
 was turning over the pages of an album or pictorial story 
 book for the delectation of a little boy, whose yellow 
 ringlets ran over his dark blue velvet dress, and hid the 
 broad collar of fine lace that covered his shoulders and 
 breast. The child looked intensely pleased with the 
 amusement. The lady looked tired and weary. But 
 suddenly that aspect of sadness disappeared, and she 
 appeared to make a violent effort in the transformation, 
 for she drew herself up to her full height, smiled softly, 
 and gently toyed with her rings, when a gentleman came 
 
 247
 
 248 LISHEEN 
 
 forward, spoke a few pleasant words, drew the boy 
 gently aside, and pulled down the blinds, against which 
 instantly shone the soft ruby light from the chandelier 
 inside. 
 
 It was the evil quarter-hour before dinner — the pars 
 gelida before that daily holocaust of society, when the 
 guests are frozen by first introductions or Umited ac- 
 quaintance ; when the hostess is frozen by frightful antici- 
 pations of spoiled viands, kitchen catastrophes, yawning 
 intervals between courses, and all the other dread possi- 
 bilities of the dinner-table; when the waiters are frozen 
 into frigid icicles of propriety and decorum ; and probably 
 the only warm person under the roof is the cook. Mabel 
 Outram, who had just returned from the darkness and 
 screened Hghts of the window, where she could toy with 
 a boy's curls and forget herself, now put on her stage 
 appearance before the footUghts, and looked cold and 
 dignified as the rest, which coldness did not in the least 
 degree thaw out even when she knew she was an object 
 of admiration; and had overheard a Httle prim old lady, 
 who had been watching her through a tortoise-shell 
 pince-nez, whisper: 
 
 " A daughter of the Gods, divinely fair." 
 
 And cold and slimy as a coiled snake was Ralph Outram 
 as he leaned against the marble mantelpiece, and Hstened 
 cynically to the dreary platitudes of a certain professor 
 of ethnology, who was pouring into his ears a lot of gra- 
 tuitous information about the very India from which 
 Outram had so lately come. He hstened with lifted eye- 
 brows and scornful lips to the bookish learning of the
 
 BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS 249 
 
 amiable but tiresome pedant; and when the latter, tapping 
 him confidentially on his coat-sleeve, asked: 
 
 "But you will clear up one point for me, on ethnological 
 grounds only, — not on historical, or theological, or philo- 
 sophical grounds, but on ethnological — because really 
 there is no science worth speaking of in the end but 
 ethnology, — what is this I was going to ask? Oh, yes! 
 The ethnological explanation of the very singular fact 
 that a handful of men, say fifty thousand at most, can keep 
 down, subdue, and control some hundreds of millions of 
 (what I am led by my rather extensive reading to beheve) 
 the most intelHgent and highly-cultured races on the 
 earth?" 
 
 Outram looked his questioner all over, pulled his red, 
 bristling moustache, and answered sententiously and with 
 pauses between the words: 
 
 "The whip — and — the — sop.!" 
 
 "Wha — what?" said the professor, staring at him. 
 
 "The whip — and — the — sop!" repeated Outram, 
 with slower and more prolonged pauses. 
 
 "I don't quite understand, my dear friend," said the 
 professor. "You military men have the advantage of us 
 literary folk, in that you can express yourselves laconically, 
 and, if I may use the expression, emphatically. The 
 whip — and — the — sop ? I never heard of such things, 
 and I feel sure I have read every book that was ever 
 written about India." 
 
 "You won't find these things in books," said Outram. 
 
 "Where then?" asked the professor. 
 
 "In real life," answered Outram, "of which books are 
 but a fallacious and lying presentment. India is gov-
 
 250 
 
 LISHEEN 
 
 cmcd," he continued, as the professor was about to make 
 a strong protest, "by two things — the shades of Hastings, 
 Clive, Gough, Havelock, and others; and is held down, 
 strapped down," he said, with vivacity, "by the whip — 
 and the sop. The sop is held in the left hand, and is 
 extended to those who are worth it. The whip is held in 
 the right hand behind the back — thus, and they who 
 won't accept the sop must accept the whip; and it is the 
 less pleasant of the two." 
 
 "Dear, dear, you surprise me veiy much," said the 
 mystified professor, "I must take a note of this. It is 
 most interesting. The whip — and — the — sop. The 
 whip in the left hand to be extended first; and whosoever 
 does not take the whip must swallow the sop. Most 
 interesting from an ethnol — " 
 
 But just then the amiable professor had to be recalled 
 to social duties; and, as he passed into the dining-room, 
 his partner was much embarrassed by hearing him murmur: 
 
 " The whip and the sop ! The — whip — and — the — 
 sop! Dear me! Strange I never heard of such things 
 before!" 
 
 Mabel and Outram were the guests of the evening, and 
 occupied the places of honour next the host and hostess; 
 and the dinner drew wearily along. Its monotony was 
 broken for Mabel by three events. The first was, that she 
 was asked more than once by the little amiable old lady 
 of the tortoise-shell pince-nez, who had flattered her with 
 such consummate subtlety in the drawing-room, whether 
 she did not admire very much a spray of lihes of the 
 valley, which sparkled across the deHcate background of 
 a clump of maiden-hair fern; and a magnificent bunch of
 
 BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS 251 
 
 crhysanthemums, a name which the old lady feigned 
 several times to forget, although lost in admiration of the 
 superb browns and coral reds of the winter flower. The 
 second was a startling statement made by a young lady 
 that she had a pet poodle that would easily fit into, and 
 be decidedly comfortable, in one of the ruby finger-glasses 
 on the table. The third was an animated discussion that 
 was going on at the further end of the table within the 
 circle dominated by the hostess, and limited to Outram 
 and the professor. 
 
 The latter had never got over his surprise at the naive 
 explanation of British supremacy in India that had been 
 given by Outram; and, as he reflected during the pauses 
 of the dinner courses, he became convinced that cither 
 Outram, hke many other Anglo-Indians of whom he had 
 heard, was profoundly ignorant of the bearings of the 
 vast question propounded by himself, or else was delib- 
 erately mocking him. This last idea gradually became a 
 certainty, as he observed the cynical manner in which 
 Outram seemed to treat every question, social or other- 
 wise, that came up for discussion at table; and being a 
 man of profound erudition and enjoying a European 
 reputation, he was much annoyed at the contemptuous 
 flippancy of this officer. He had a swift revenge. 
 
 A young girl, questioning Outram about Hindoo life 
 and manners, hinted her idea that the Brahmins were a 
 class of men distinguished by rare holiness of life and 
 detachment from all earthly things. This was quite 
 enough to awaken all the angry contempt of Outram for 
 subject races of any kind. 
 
 "There is no measuring the depths of ignorance," he
 
 252 LISHEEN 
 
 said, "that exist amongst all Europeans on this subject. 
 Books are written that deserve only to be burned by the 
 common hangman. You will see articles in the Fort- 
 nightly and Nineteenth Century that should not be written 
 by a clerk in a London counting-house. Brahmins pious ? 
 Brahmins disinterested? We will soon hear that a Jew 
 hath a conscience; or that a Fakir is clean." 
 
 The professor was gently toying with his dessert-fork; 
 and he looked up with a smile of bland satisfaction mant- 
 ling his rosy face, framed in silver- white whiskers. 
 
 '*I fear," he said, as if about to answer some foolish 
 question put by a beardless undergraduate, "that Mr. 
 Outram is too sweeping in his observations. There are 
 distinctions in this matter as in all things else. There is, 
 of course, a certain class of low-caste Brahmins, — the 
 Brahmin Sowkar, or the Marwarree, — a kind of priestly 
 Shylocks, who are usurious and exacting. But, then, 
 there is also the Chitpawan or Kdnkanee Brahmin, who 
 have given us in India leading hghts in every department 
 of social and poHtical Hfe." 
 
 And the professor laid down his fork, and looked 
 around, as if he would ask. Is there any other point on 
 which you would desire to be enUghtened? 
 
 Outram scowled at him with all the contempt of an 
 ancient expert for a young amateur; and he asked in a 
 chilling way: 
 
 "The professor has been in India, I presume?" 
 
 " Oh, no, not at all," said the professor. The admission 
 generally brings a blush of inferiority with it; but not so 
 with the professor. " It is a pleasure in store — a pleasure 
 In store!"
 
 BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS 253 
 
 "But I have," said Outram, with significance. "I have 
 only just returned from fifteen years' service in every part 
 of India from the Himalayas to Cape Comorin." 
 
 "And it was I," said the professor with modest assur- 
 ance, "who wrote the article on 'The Brahmins' for the 
 Encyclopadia Indica." 
 
 It was a triumph. Everyone felt it. The sympathy 
 of the entire table was with the learned professor, Mabel 
 was listening with a little embarrassment, but much 
 interest. 
 
 "And so you hold, sir," said Outram, icily, "that you 
 can gather more information about a people or a race 
 from books — I presume you read a great deal on the 
 subject?" 
 
 "I had to consult no less than three hundred and 
 twenty-seven authors," said the professor, "and to employ 
 two amanuenses, in order to expedite the work." 
 
 "A great cry and little wool," said Outram, offensively. 
 "And do you still think that the reading of books can give 
 as close an insight into the habits of a people as direct 
 intercourse and observation?" 
 
 "Certainly," said the amiable professor, not at all 
 heeding the insult, "certainly, my dear sir. Is it not 
 clear that the unprejudiced observations of many persons, 
 who have taken their ideas either from personal expe- 
 rience, or the foresight of others, should count more for 
 truth than the observations of one man, who possibly — 
 I do not say it appHes to you — possibly, may have been 
 unable to divest himself of the prejudices of an official?" 
 
 It sounded reasonable to all but Outram. He answered 
 again sharply:
 
 254 LISHEEN 
 
 "I have seen certain things, and can testify to them. 
 You have never seen them, and cannot testify. Which is 
 the more likely to have grasped the tmth?" 
 
 "Certainly I who have not seen these things," said the 
 professor. 
 
 "I think we shall leave the gentlemen to discuss these 
 questions over their cigars," said the hostess, rising. 
 "They are too deep for us poor women!" 
 
 And with that sad confession of inferiority, the ladies 
 swept from the dining-room. 
 
 When, after some Httle time, the gentlemen rejoined 
 them, it was quite clear there was not only an armistice, 
 but a positive alHance between the professor and his 
 antagonist. Nay, the professor had become enthusiastic 
 about Outram, and had scribbled over half a note-book 
 with learned jottings for future reference. Blessed cigars! 
 Blessed Lady Nicotine! How could anyone, least of all 
 a king, have written against thee, thou peacemaker 
 amongst men? 
 
 "We mustn't," said the professor, as he sat comfortably 
 upon a sofa, propped with pillows, and held his teacup 
 in his left hand, whilst he waved his right hand gently, 
 "we mustn't again introduce learned ethnological discus- 
 sions amongst ladies; but my friend, Mr. Outram, has 
 been just telHng us a story, — an experience of Indian Ufe, 
 which will bear repetition and be not quite out of place 
 in a drawing-room. Ahem!" 
 
 Outram drew his red eyebrows together In a kind of 
 scowl, but instantly recovered himself, and toying with a 
 teaspoon, he said: 
 
 "The professor is too kind. I fear the story is not quite
 
 BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS 255 
 
 SO interesting as his benevolence would lead you to sup- 
 pose!" 
 
 "Let us be judges of that, Mr, Outram," said his 
 hostess. "It will have the merit of novelty to us all, 
 except, of course, Mrs. Outram." 
 
 "Don't except me, please," said Mabel. "I do not 
 recollect any incident in Mr. Outram's Indian Hfe that 
 would merit the professor's encomiums." 
 
 There was a note — a sHght note of sarcasm here ; and 
 Outram winced under it. But he threw the feehng aside 
 gaily. 
 
 "Quite true. I did not deem it sufficiently interesting 
 to speak of it before. It was a remark of Professor 
 Masson's that elicited it. If the narrative has a leaden 
 ring in it, blame the professor, not me." 
 
 He was silent for a few minutes, as if pondering over 
 the incident. Then he said: 
 
 "It occurred in the Mahratta country, during one of 
 these periods of famine that recur so frcc^uently in India. 
 The Mahrattas are a fierce warHke tribe, with whom we 
 have had some trouble — " 
 
 "I beg pardon," said the professor, forgetting himself 
 for a moment. "Did you say the Mahrattas were — I 
 beg pardon. Yes! Yes! you are quite right." 
 
 A young lady, during the awkward pause, was heard 
 murmuring: 
 
 "Where in wild Mahratta battle fell my father, evil -starred." 
 
 "Well," continued Outram. "The Mahrattas, as I 
 was saying, are a fierce warlike tribe. There would be no 
 finer class of men in India than the "Desh" Mahrattas,
 
 256 LISHEEN 
 
 were it not for these wild Brdhmins, who would corrupt' 
 the unfallen angels. But they are superstitious, believe 
 in the existence of gods, and all that kind of thing. And, 
 as a result, they are sometimes cruel. Well, during one 
 of those periodical famines, when the people were dying 
 hke flies, one poor woman of high caste happened to be 
 among the victims, and she left behind her a httle child, 
 a girl, then not more than three or four years old. There 
 were no other relatives; and one of these vile Brahmin 
 priests (Poo j drees they call them in some places) suggested 
 that the anger of a certain female divinity should be pro- 
 pitiated by the sacrifice of this child. They did not put 
 the child to death; they feared British vengeance and 
 justice. They simply exposed the child at the foot of a 
 hideous, beastly, vulgar image of this amiable goddess. 
 What they expected was obvious. Not that Siva or any 
 other piece of woodwork would destroy the child ; but that 
 a panther or a tiger would stray that way, and do the 
 work of sacrifice. 
 
 "A good Mussulman, however, like the Samaritan of 
 old, passed that way, and although he ran a fearful risk, 
 he rescued the child, and kept her in hiding for some time. 
 To throw the wretched fanatics off the track, he had a few 
 lambs' or kidhngs' bones scattered about the place. 
 After some years, he took back the child, and kept her 
 in his own house. But he had no sooner done so than 
 a fierce storm arose. Questions were asked that could 
 not be answered; inquiries were made that could not be 
 shelved; and in the end the good man was subjected to 
 such obloquy and calumny that he determined to part 
 with the girl, although she had become as dear to him as
 
 BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS 257 
 
 a daughter. People at home, who read books," here 
 Outram glanced at the professor, "are at Hberty to form 
 their own crude opinions about foreign races; but I tell 
 you," here Outram's voice became so fierce and hoarse 
 that the ladies started, "that it needs experience of those 
 conquered and half-savage tribes to understand their 
 deviUsh machinations. Fortunately, Hke your good Irish 
 here, they hiss and spit at each other, and would sell 
 their fathers for a rupee; and this alone makes their 
 subjection easy." 
 
 "Well," he continued more calmly, as if he were freeing 
 himself from all personal interest in the matter, "it then 
 became a question where Ballajee Chitnees could send 
 his adopted child, whom he had called Satira. At length 
 he sent her far up the country to a fellow-Mussulman, 
 reputed pious and honourable ; but even there, vengeance, 
 Brahminical vengeance, followed the girl, and after some 
 months her new protector was glad to part with her to 
 a certain British official, who, as he knew well, snapped 
 his fingers at the whole tribe of Brahmins and Mahome- 
 dans. 
 
 "Under his protection she grew up, a tall, thin girl, 
 with soft, black eyes, lustreless, unless when excited, and 
 then, by all the gods of India, you never saw such sheet- 
 hghtning as that which shot and played beneath that 
 girl's forehead." 
 
 He stopped a moment as if conjuring up that figure. 
 He did not notice his wife's eyes fixed steadily upon him 
 with awakened curiosity. 
 
 "I forgot to say," he continued, "that she had not a 
 bawbee in the way of money, but there was found in her 
 17
 
 258 LISriEEN 
 
 garments a ring, a strange intaglio, resembling those 
 single eyes in triangles which sometimes represent 
 the Trinity in Christian countries. The eye was cut 
 deep into a kind of opalesque stone, and the latter was 
 ringed in sohd gold in the shape of a cobra. This 
 does not sound very strange. What is strange is, that 
 in the light the stone was a dead, dull pearly thing; 
 but in the dark it seemed to flame and smoke, just 
 as phosphorus does. And there was a strange and 
 ominous similarity between the flames of that intaglio 
 and those which shot across that girl's eyes when she 
 grew excited. Whether the ring was of value in a lapi- 
 dary's eyes I cannot say. Some would think the stone 
 valuable in itself; some thought it valueless. But it was 
 a tahsman, reputed to have the power of warding off 
 death from the wearer — " 
 
 "But, my dear sir," interrupted the professor, "that's 
 quite impossible — superstitious you know! Mere reUcs 
 of Paganism. I wrote an article on amulets many years 
 ago for the Encyclopedia Britannica — the gist of which 
 was that these things were all right for the Middle Ages — 
 Holy Grails, Lady of Shalott, Magic Mirrors, etc., but 
 they are completely out of place in the nineteenth cen- 
 tury." 
 
 "Do you think so?" drawled Outram. "There is one 
 wise saw, professor, I would recommend for your con- 
 sideration. 
 
 "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio" — 
 
 You know the rest. Anyone who has been in the East, 
 and has not merely read of it, will tell you that Europeans
 
 BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS 259 
 
 had better restrain their expressions of omniscience when 
 dealing with these questions. At any rate, I can testify 
 that more than once I escaped a sudden death whilst 
 wearing that ring. Call it coincidence if you please. I 
 think it was more." 
 
 "But the story, the story, Mr. Outram," exclaimed the 
 ladies. "What became of Satara?" 
 
 "Oh, Satara! Well, she grew up rapidly under her 
 British protector and developed extraordinary powers. 
 She could do what she pleased with her wonderful hands 
 — string beads and corals, arranging colours in a way 
 that would make Europeans despair; she could carve 
 metals in a kind of repousse work that was a miracle to 
 behold; she could cut intaglios and raise cameos on all 
 kinds of stones; and shape and pohsh alabaster and other 
 vases until they shone like precious stones. And she 
 interwove with all her work a kind of symbolism, never 
 allowing the smallest thing to pass from her hands without 
 some mute lesson or warning conveyed in a sign, some- 
 times almost imperceptible, but always clear to the ini- 
 tiated. Where she learned that symbolism no one could 
 tell. Probably in the mountains under Poojdrees or 
 Thibetan Lamas, who had strayed across the frontier, 
 and who seem to know all that is worth knowing about 
 the other world. 
 
 "Well, things went on in this way for some years. 
 Various attempts were made to kidnap the girl; but she 
 was safe under the EngHsh flag. Then a strange thing 
 occurred. Unknown to himself, Sdldra had contracted a 
 very strong affection for her protector; and one day, in 
 a fit of jealousy, she upbraided him in terrible language
 
 26o LISHEEN 
 
 for some imagined slight. He resented it and turned her 
 from the house. Then he relented and brought her back. 
 She used to hang around his room, chaunting strange 
 poems in her native dialect : 
 
 '"What has his slave done to anger thee, Son of the 
 Priests of the Sun! All night long have I lain flat on my 
 face on my bed ; and there was no one to give me food or 
 drink. Who was the Mighty One that saved me from 
 the anger of Siva and the teeth of the serpent of the 
 desert ? Who was raised up by the full speech of the gods 
 to be my father; and who hath taken the place of Medudu, 
 my brother? And shall I be cast away from before the 
 face of my Lord; and nevermore break his bread and 
 wait upon Him?' 
 
 "This was all very well; but again the same awful 
 jealousy broke out, and again she was dismissed. 
 
 "The third time she came again, purring and fawning 
 around him, like a wild cat; and again he drove her 
 forth. She went away meekly, having first deposited the 
 ring on his dressing-table with a few kind words of fare- 
 well. But next morning, when he awoke, he found him- 
 self all coated as with silver. He was a leper from head 
 to heel." 
 
 The ladies cowered together and uttered httle shrieks. 
 But Outram went on: 
 
 "He came down to Madras, where I met him. For 
 six months the doctors were dosing him with all kinds of 
 medicine; and at last he was partially cured. Some 
 fakirs offered to cure him wholly by incantations; but he 
 would have none of them. When I was coming home, 
 he gave me the magic ring."
 
 BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS 261 
 
 "Where is it? Show it to us!" exclaimed the 
 
 company. 
 
 "Not now, not now!" he said. "My wife — " 
 
 Here for the first time he glanced towards Mabel. 
 
 White as alabaster, she lay back on the pillows of the 
 
 sofa in a swoon that seemed like Death.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 THE NEW OVERSEER 
 
 Hugh Hamberton and his ward had accompanied the 
 mournful procession from Lisheen as far as the main 
 road, when, on a sudden thought, the former wheeled 
 round his horse, and both rode back to the farm-yard. 
 The old people were still sitting disconsolate on the 
 wreck of their little household furniture, and Hamberton 
 approached them with a proposal to come over and settle 
 down near Brandon Hall, 
 
 "You cannot stay here," he said kindly, "there is no 
 shelter for you. Come with me, and I shall put you in 
 a new cottage, and get work for you." 
 
 They thanked him; but no! 
 
 "Here I was born, and here my father and mother 
 lived before me," said the old woman. "An' here I was 
 married, and my children first saw the light. I cannot 
 lave it now till I lave it for the last time." 
 
 "But you have no shelter, no house room," pleaded 
 Hamberton. "You cannot remain here to perish with 
 cold and hunger." 
 
 "No matter," was the reply. "God is good! We'll 
 make a little bed for ourselves in the cow-house or bam — " 
 
 "But that will be illegal possession, and you can be 
 arrested," said Hamberton, his British ideas of the su- 
 premacy of the law rising above every other consideration. 
 
 262
 
 THE NEW OVERSEER 263 
 
 "So much the better," said the old woman, "we can 
 thin go and jine our poor children, and be all together 
 agin." 
 
 Disappointed, and almost angry at such stubbornness, 
 Hamberton was about to leave the yard, when he saw 
 the soUtary figure of Maxwell bent together in the growing 
 dusk. He rode over, and tapped him lightly on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Come, my man," he said, "you have no business here 
 any longer." 
 
 Maxwell arose. His face was so drawn and pallid 
 from suffering, that Hamberton hardly knew him. 
 
 "Yes. Thank you very much. I will go," Maxwell 
 said. 
 
 "Then we'll ride over, and send a trap for you," said 
 Hamberton. 
 
 "No, no, I shall walk," said Maxwell. "It is only a 
 matter of a few hours." 
 
 " But you look weak and suffering," said Claire Moulton. 
 "We'll send the trap and you can be with us sooner than 
 if you walked." 
 
 "No, no; thank you ever so much," he said. "The 
 truth is, I am anxious to get away from this place as 
 speedily as possible." 
 
 "Very good, then," said Hamberton. "We shall ride 
 over, and make things ready for you. Go straight to 
 Donegan's cottage. Donegan! You'll remember?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you. I shall be there between eight and 
 nine o'clock." And Hamberton and his ward rode away. 
 
 Maxwell looked around the wretched place and picked 
 out of the cottage debris his Httlc vaHse, now much dilapi-
 
 264 LISHEEN 
 
 dated. He went slowly across the yard, and accosted 
 the desolate old people. 
 
 "I'm going away," he said humbly, "perhaps for ever. 
 I cannot leave your hospitable house without thanking 
 you for all your goodness and kindness to me while I was 
 with you." 
 
 "And the devil's own bad return you made," said the 
 old man turning away. 
 
 "You do not understand. Some day I will explain; 
 and all will be cleared up," said Maxwell, in a pleading, 
 humble way. 
 
 "It will," said the old man, bitterly. "It will be cleared 
 up that we kep' a rogue and a thraitor under our roof." 
 
 "Asy now, asy, Owen," said his good wife. "Shure, 
 how do we know? In any case, it was for the love of 
 God we tuk you in an' kep' you. An' 'tis for the love of 
 the same God, we forgive you, if you have done anythin' 
 agin us." 
 
 "Then, you'll say good-bye?" he said, holding out his 
 hand. 
 
 With the old instinct, the poor woman wiped her clammy 
 hand on her check apron, and put it in his palm. 
 
 "Say 'God bless you!' also," he asked. 
 
 "Yes, good-bye, and God bless you," said the pious old 
 woman. "Sure a prayer hke that can harrum no wan!" 
 
 "God will reward you!" he said, turning mournfully 
 away. 
 
 It was a long and weary road that led to the village 
 of Cahercon, nestling under the mighty shadow of Brandon 
 Hill, and touching the hem of the mighty ocean in the
 
 THE NEW OVERSEER 265 
 
 recesses of Brandon Bay. He had hardly gone a mile 
 from Lisheen, when the hills sloped up precipitously, and 
 he saw he had to make his way through a mountain pass 
 or gorge that shelved upwards and upwards, until it 
 touched the summit, and then sloped down to the valleys 
 through which the Ownamore makes its way to the sea. 
 It was a lonely walk. The moment he entered the gorge, 
 nothing could be seen but the blue stars glinting softly 
 down, all their vast splendours shorn away by distance, 
 until they became but points of hght in the inimitable 
 blackness of space. 
 
 He was hungry and weak and melancholy, and it is 
 these things that make men meditative. And Maxwell's 
 thoughts ran back to the problem he had suggested to 
 himself so many years ago in Trinity; and, looking down 
 on the past few months he had spent there in that lonely 
 valley, and looking up at the heavens, so solemn, so sad, 
 so silent, he heard himself muttering: "Yes. 
 
 We are such stuff as dreams are made on, 
 And our little life is rounded with a sleep." 
 
 And the thought came uppermost: Would it not be as 
 well, here and now, in this remote mountain valley, to lie 
 down and seek the rest that is eternal ? For old sayings, 
 old songs, old utterances came upward, and he thought: 
 
 " And if there be no meeting past the grave, 
 If all is darkness, silence, yet 'tis rest; 
 Be not afraid, ye waiting hearts that weep. 
 For God still giveth His beloved sleep, 
 And if an endless sleep He wills — so best." 
 
 Suppose then, he considered, I should now turn aside from 
 this road, and lie dovm on the wet bracken or furze there
 
 266 LISHEEN 
 
 in some mountain cavity, where the eye of man seldom 
 rests; and suppose that in a few days or weeks some 
 shepherd's dog should find me. There would be an in- 
 quest; and the verdict: "Tramp, died from hunger and 
 exposure. Name unknown. Supposed deserter, etc.," 
 and then all would be over. No more problems, no more 
 speculations. Absorbed in the Infinite like all the many 
 millions before and after me! That is all. 
 
 It was but a fancy, a dream occasioned by hunger. 
 But he shook it aside as a cowardly suggestion; and had 
 he not a mission, growing every day more interesting and 
 absorbing as he mixed more freely with his fellow-beings ? 
 He turned aside where a labourer's cottage fronted the 
 road, across which the ruddy light from the fireplace 
 streamed. The family were at their frugal supper. 
 Bareheaded, the father sat at the head of the table, his 
 children grouped around him. The good housewife was 
 going about busily. It was a picture of hfe, social happi- 
 ness, comfort, love, consecrated by poverty. 
 
 "God save you!" said Maxwell, in the country dialect. 
 He had learned so much. 
 
 "God save you kindly," was the response. There cer- 
 tainly was some reserve. Tramps were constantly coming 
 around, and frightening women and children. And Max- 
 well knew his appearance was hardly respectable. 
 
 "I'm weak with hunger!" said Maxwell. 
 
 "That's a dizase that's aisily cured," said the man of 
 the house. "Here, Paudheen, git out o' that, and give 
 your chair to the stranger." 
 
 Paudheen, with his mouth crammed with potatoes, 
 reluctantly rose, carrying with him an armful of potatoes.
 
 THE NEW OVERSEER 267 
 
 Maxwell sat down, eagerly swallowed some home-made 
 bread and milk, and turned to go. 
 
 "You're in a mightly hurry intirely," said the man of 
 the house. 
 
 "I must be at Cahercon to-night," said Maxwell, taking 
 up his valise. 
 
 "Oh, that's where the grate gintleman Hves," said his 
 host. 
 
 " Mr. Hamberton ? Yes. I have been evicted with the 
 rest of the family down there at Lisheen to-day; and am 
 offered employment by Mr. Hamberton." 
 
 "Wisha, were you now? Sit down and tell us all 
 about it, man," said the host. "We hard of the eviction; 
 but that's all. Tell us all about it." 
 
 It was the smallest recompense he could make for the 
 generous hospitality offered him. But he delayed only a 
 httle time, and soon got out again under the stars. 
 
 His way now lay through a deep 'defile in the mountains, 
 which rose black and threatening at his right hand. At 
 the left side there was after a time a deep decHvity broad- 
 ening out into a plain; and he thought he saw the gUnt 
 of the stars in a tiny lake, and heard the murmur of a 
 river on its way to the sea. That river he soon had to 
 cross, and down on the level road he made his way 
 swiftly forward, till the lights of the little hamlet broke 
 across his way. He found Donegan's house easily, and 
 had a warm welcome. The first thing that struck him 
 was the sense of comfort and perfect neatness all around 
 the cottage, contrasting so strongly with the discomfort 
 and sordid surroundings at Lisheen. The floor was tiled 
 and spotless, there was a large range whose steels shone
 
 268 LISHEEN 
 
 in the lamplight, the dresser was well filled with plates 
 and dishes and tins, the children were gathered around 
 the kitchen table, reading by the hght of a lamp, whose 
 opal shade threw a golden Hght on their books. Donegan 
 was a tall, thin, Celtic figure, sinewy, clean, alert, with 
 deep blue eyes shining out from beneath black eyebrows. 
 His wife was a small, blonde woman, very quietly but 
 carefully dressed. She came forward without any bustle, 
 and taking the vaHse from Maxwell's hand, she said: 
 
 "You must be both tired and hungry." 
 
 "I am both," he said cheerfully, his spirits rising with 
 the brightness of the scene around him. "But I think 
 I've come to the right place for both," 
 
 "Well, sit down, and make yourself at home," she said. 
 "I'll have a cup of tea and a couple of eggs for you in a 
 minit." 
 
 "You come from the eviction at Lisheen?" said her 
 husband, bending his keen eyes on Maxwell. 
 
 "Yes," said the latter. "It has been a sad and a 
 trying day." He said no more but looked vacantly at the 
 range fire. 
 
 After supper he was shown into a small, neat bedroom, 
 poorly but tastefully furnished. There was a camp bed 
 in a comer. The Hnens were spotless, the blankets soft 
 and clean. The counterpane was of cotton with a heavy, 
 honeycomb pattern. There was a washstand, a dressing- 
 table of deal, and a small strip of carpet near the bed. A 
 few pious pictures decorated the papered walls. He crept 
 swiftly into bed, and the sense of comfort on the hard 
 mattress and beneath the cold, clean sheets kept him 
 awake for a while. He thought that then and there was
 
 THE NEW OVERSEER 269 
 
 the beginning of a change in his fortunes, and the end of 
 his trials. But his thoughts would revert to the events 
 of the day just passed — the mournful horror of which 
 was oppressive. He shook it off, as all troubles should 
 be thrust aside by great thoughts. And great thoughts — 
 thoughts of self-sacrifice and benevolence, thoughts of 
 human fellowship cemented by noble actions, thoughts of 
 a glorious surprise for the poor people with whom his hfe 
 had been so strangely linked, of their resurrection and 
 subsequent life, freed from all lower cares for ever; wider 
 and nobler thoughts of the regeneration of a whole race 
 to be effected by new methods on a broad scale of human- 
 itarianism and justice — flooded his soul and seemed to 
 fill him with a new sense of exaltation and happiness, 
 under which he passed away into the realms of uncon- 
 sciousness and happy dreams. 
 
 One of these disturbed him much. It was just before 
 the dawn. And it woke him up with a merry peal of bells, 
 as Donegan burst into his room. 
 
 "That's the seven o'clock bell. You're not to mind it, 
 the masther said, this morning. I'm off." 
 
 He was in such a mighty hurry that when he returned 
 at twelve o'clock to dinner. Maxwell could not help 
 interrogating him. 
 
 "Oh, begor," he said. "If we aren't inside the works 
 at the lasht shtroke of the bell, it manes a quarthcr's wages 
 docked for that day." 
 
 "Smart practice!" thought Maxwell. "But," he said, 
 "you have excellent wages!" 
 
 "Divel a betther!" said Donegan. "A pound a week, 
 house free, two tons of coal at Christmas, and a quarther
 
 270 LISHEEN 
 
 of garden. Thin herself aims a few shillings by washin,' 
 an' all round we are fairly thrated enough!" 
 
 "An' quite satisfied, of course?" said Maxwell. 
 
 "Well, ye-es," said Donegan. "There was wan fella 
 wanted to make a fortin all of a heap; but begobs he 
 came to grief, I'll tell you the shthory to-night. But 
 the masther would hke to see you to-day." 
 
 "Where?" said Maxwell. "At the works?" 
 
 "No. Up at the grate house," said Donegan. "He 
 said about three or four o'clock." 
 
 "All right. I shall be there," said Maxwell. 
 
 It was an eventful interview, and the most eventful 
 feature of it was, that Maxwell noticed on his entrance 
 into the dining-room, to which he was most reluctantly 
 introduced by the Hveried footman, that he was treated 
 with some deference, although Hamberton addressed him 
 brusquely; and that Miss Moulton seemed unable to rest 
 her eyes on her work but was watching him intently. It 
 was the first time since he left DubUn that he was in a 
 room that recalled by its surroundings old associations, 
 and everything in the furniture, the hangings, the side- 
 board, the glass and silver, the noble pictures, seemed 
 to smite his senses with eager and pleasant suggestions. 
 The contrast between such elegance, and between the 
 whole appearance of this gentleman and lady and his own 
 shabbiness, smote him with shame and he blushed and 
 fumbled uneasily with his worn and broken hat. 
 
 "Sit down," said Hamberton. "Are you all right after 
 your journey? Was Donegan's all right?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maxwell. "I feel well this morning. The 
 Donegans were very kind."
 
 THE NEW OVERSEER 271 
 
 "Look here, Maxwell," said Hamberton, playing with 
 a paper-knife, but watching his visitor keenly, "you're a 
 bit of a mystery, you know. At least, it is quite clear you 
 don't belong to the people around here. By the way, 
 Claire, isn't Maxwell our landlord's name?" 
 
 "Yes," said Claire. "That's his name." 
 
 "And a d — d bad landlord he is," said Hamberton. 
 "I had the devil's work to get a lease from the fellow or 
 his agent for this place. He had as much fuss over it as 
 if we were buying land in Belgravia. Well, Maxwell, 
 you're a mystery, but you have an indefeasible right to 
 keep your own secrets, and I'm the last man in the world 
 to break in on your privacy. You're not strong, so I 
 have determined to make you time-keeper and overseer 
 in these works. Bells go at seven, twelve, one, and six. 
 Half-time on Saturday. Every man must be inside the 
 gate at the last stroke of bells or lose a quarter. Do you 
 understand?" 
 
 Maxwell nodded. 
 
 "You'll also hold yourself in readiness to meet me at 
 any time, and do any account work or other I shall select. 
 Your wages — one pound a week, cottage furnished and 
 free. You're not married?" 
 
 Maxwell started, and, forgetting his part for the mo- 
 ment, looked towards Miss Moulton and smiled. Strange 
 to say, she smiled back, and a faint tinge ran over her 
 face and forehead. 
 
 "All right. Then we'll get an old woman to do the 
 necessary things for you. Nance Brien ? Would she do, 
 Claire?" 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Moulton, abstractedly.
 
 272 LISHEEN 
 
 "Donegan will show you your cottage," said Hamber- 
 ton, bringing the interview to a conclusion. "Anything 
 else?" he asked, as Maxwell seemed to hesitate. 
 
 "No, but— " 
 
 "Say it out, man, whatever it is," said Hamberton. 
 
 "Well, you see, I'm very shabby in dress," said Max- 
 well, with a faint blush. "I know I'm presuming too 
 much, but perhaps you would advance — " 
 
 "No," thundered Hamberton. " I never advance wages. 
 But I'll see to it. Your clothes are good enough for 
 every-day work. I suppose 'tis Sunday you're thinking of. 
 By the way, what religion do you profess?" 
 
 "Well, Church of Ireland," said Maxwell. 
 
 "Very good. But we have no church here, thank 
 Heaven. What have you been doing for the last few 
 months on Sundays?" 
 
 "Smoked a cigarette whenever I could get it, and read 
 Shakespeare," said Maxwell. 
 
 "Read Shakespeare," echoed Hamberton. "You're 
 the very man I want. Have you read any other authors ?" 
 
 "Yes. All," said Maxwell, recounting all his Hterary 
 acquaintances, ending with Ibsen and Tolstoy. 
 
 "The man I'm looking for all my life," said Hamberton, 
 half-musingly. "I don't ask how you have become ac- 
 quainted with all the demigods of literature, but you can 
 help me materially to build up the social and intellectual 
 character of my people. Have you any objection, or is it 
 in your line?" 
 
 "It has been the dream of my life," said Maxwell. "It 
 is why I am here." 
 
 "Then you have had experience," said Hamberton.
 
 THE NEW OVERSEER 273 
 
 "How did you succeed with these poor people over at 
 Lisheen?" 
 
 "I dared not even attempt it," he repHed. 
 
 "Dared not?" 
 
 "Yes — dared not," said Maxwell, with some heat, 
 that glowed through his eyes and face. "How could I 
 speak of such things to a people sunk in all kinds of 
 abject poverty, with the hand of the baiUff ever on their 
 doors, and the awful shadow of landlordism glooming 
 over all? What time had they for such things? From 
 cock-crow to sundown, it was work, work, work, and 
 work not for themselves but for another. Where's the 
 use of talking about the resurrection of a people until you 
 remove the stone from the door of their sepulchre ? You 
 cannot have a nation without manhood ; you cannot have 
 manhood without education, you cannot have education 
 without leisure and freedom from sordid cares, and you 
 cannot have the latter until landlordism is removed 
 wholly and entirely from the land. We are Protestants 
 in some shape or form. But I tell you, we would have 
 succeeded in making our Catholic countrymen brutes 
 were it not for the saving power and grace of their reli- 
 gion. Don't wonder at my heat, Mr. Hamberton, Miss 
 Moulton. If someone doesn't speak, the very stones will 
 cry out against us." 
 
 "True, my young friend, true. I wish to Heaven your 
 namesake. Maxwell, was listening to you. Meanwhile, it 
 is a good rule to find the work nearest to your hand and 
 do it. I'll place at your disposal all the books you need." 
 
 18
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 DEPOSITIONS 
 
 The trial of Pierce and Debbie McAuliffe was swift; 
 the judgment summary and vindictive. These were the 
 days when Ireland was governed by satraps — half-pay 
 officers, returned Indians, etc., and when the law was 
 stretched to the utmost against agrarian offences of every 
 kind. The resistance to eviction was grave enough, the 
 wounding of the officer made it heinous. The two young 
 people were sentenced to six months hard labour, and 
 then to find sureties for good behaviour for twelve months 
 afterwards. 
 
 Young and healthy, they bore bravely up against the 
 rigours of confinement for some weeks. Then the meagre 
 food began to tell on constitutions used to plentiful, if 
 hard, fare. Pierce bit his lip and made no complaint. 
 But, after the lapse of a couple of months the want of 
 food weakened Debbie's mind, and, losing all her pride 
 of being a victim of EngHsh law, she began to brood over 
 her sorrows and losses. The dread soHtary confinement, 
 too, began to affect her mind. With no intellectual re- 
 sources, hardly able to read, she was thrown in upon 
 herself, and the mind, Hke a mill without grist, began to 
 grind terribly upon itself. Strange hallucinations would 
 arise, dreams within dreams, even in her waking moments; 
 and the centre of the horrible maelstrom of thought was 
 
 274
 
 DEPOSITIONS 275 
 
 ever and always Maxwell. By degrees the angry thoughts 
 that would come uppermost against him, and which in 
 the beginning she suppressed with an effort, began to 
 conquer her; and she raged in silence against him, all her 
 smothered and untold affection tortured into ungovernable 
 hate. 
 
 At last one day a visitor told her that IMaxwell was 
 installed prime favourite at Brandon Hall and had been 
 transformed from the aspect and condition of a tramp or 
 labourer into the decent costume and appearance of an 
 overseer. Nay, he had been actually seen out at sea in 
 a boat with Miss Moulton. That same day her father 
 and mother were brought in by the police from Lisheen. 
 They had retaken possession of the house, were again 
 evicted and warned. They again defied the law, and 
 illegally broke the padlocks that had been placed on the 
 doors and WTre now arrested on the charge. The thought 
 drove the girl wild. She paced up and down her narrow 
 cell, her hands clutched fiercely behind her back. Then, 
 in a sudden but not unpremeditated impulse, she rang her 
 bell violently, and the wardress appeared. 
 
 "I wants to see the Governor," said Debbie, doggedly. 
 
 "The Governor?" echoed the w^ardress, doubtingly. 
 
 "Yes," said Debbie, excitedly. "I wants to see the 
 Governor, and at wanst." 
 
 "Very well," said the wardress, locking the door care- 
 fully and departing on the strange errand. 
 
 She returned quickly and informed Debbie that the 
 Governor would see her after dinner. 
 
 "Av he knew what I wants him for, he'd see me now," 
 said Debbie. "I may change me mind."
 
 276 LISHEEN 
 
 "Come, then," said the wardress. 
 
 The Governor sat at his desk in his little office near the 
 front entrance to the prison. He was an old man, pale 
 and grave, Hke one who had had much responsibility and 
 had been well schooled by experience. He beckoned to 
 the girl to be seated, and ordered the wardress to remain. 
 
 "I wants to see you alone," said Debbie, with an air of 
 defiance. 
 
 "That cannot be, my good girl," said the Governor. 
 "You have something to say, or some complaint to make, 
 and we must have a witness." 
 
 "Whin the gintlemen comes around, they sees the pris- 
 oners alone in their cells without anny witnesses," said 
 Debbie. 
 
 "True. But that is for complaints against officials. 
 If you have any complaint against Wardress Hickson, I 
 shall take it in her absence." 
 
 Debbie moistened her dry lips and rubbed her clammy 
 hands on her check apron. 
 
 "'Tis no complaint I have agen any of ye," she said. 
 'Tis a murdherer that I wants to get what he desarv^es." 
 
 "Do you mean a man who has actually committed a 
 murder," said the Governor, "or do you mean a ne'er- 
 do-well, who ought to be in gaol?" 
 
 "I mane a man who killed a girl," said Debbie, "and 
 whose conscience is throubling him, night and day, over 
 it." 
 
 "That is a very serious charge, my good girl," said the 
 Governor. "You understand the consequences, and that 
 you will be bound to appear against this man?" 
 
 Nature began to struggle against the passion for revenge
 
 DEPOSITIONS 
 
 277 
 
 in the girl's breast, but she held it down firmly and an- 
 swered : 
 
 "I do. I only want him to get what he desarves." 
 
 "Very well, then," said the Governor, drawing over a 
 sheet of foolscap. "I shall take notes now of your evi- 
 dence; you will make your after-depositions on oath 
 before a magistrate. What is your name?" 
 
 "Debbie McAuUffe." 
 
 "That is Deborah, I suppose. Place of residence?" 
 
 "Lisheen." 
 
 "Yes, Lisheen," said the Governor. "Now an inmate 
 of her Majesty's prison at Tralee." He continued writing. 
 
 "Now, what is the name of the man?" 
 
 "Robert Maxle," said Debbie. 
 
 " Very good. Trade, or profession, or business ? What 
 is he?" 
 
 "He was workin' wid us," said Debbie, "as a farm- 
 hand. But I suspects he's somethm' else." 
 
 "What do you suspect?" 
 
 "Well, some says he's a desarter from the army, but I 
 know he's a gintleman." 
 
 "A gentleman?" said the Governor, laying down his 
 pen, and looking searchingly at the girl, and then at the 
 wardress. 
 
 "Yes," said Debbie, seeing his incredulity. "Maybe 
 av you lave me tell me shtory me own way, without yer 
 cross-hackling, you'd get at the thruth sooner." 
 
 "Very well," said the Governor, taking up his pen again. 
 "But be careful, my good girl. This is more important 
 than you think." 
 
 Again Debbie moistened her lips and choked down the
 
 278 LISHEEN 
 
 emotion of affection which she had conceived for Maxwell, 
 by steadily keeping his image away from her mind. Then 
 she resumed: 
 
 " About six months ago, it may be more or less, a thramp 
 kem to our dure. There was no wan inside but me poor 
 mother. We were all out in the fields. He had nothin' 
 wid him but an ould bag. Me mother gave him somethin' 
 to ate and dhrink, and whin we kem back from the fields 
 me father tuk pity on him, and axed him to shtay wid 
 us, as he couldn't do betther for himself. So he shtayed. 
 We tuk him to be a desarter from the army, becase he 
 looked like a sojer, but I knew from the beginnin' that 
 he wos a gintleman — " 
 
 "How did you know that," asked the Governor. 
 
 " Be his inside flannels and fine linen whin I was washin' 
 thim," said Debbie with a blush. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "There wor other raysons, too," continued Debbie, 
 "but they were nayther here nor there. At all events he 
 shtayed wid us, workin' a little, ontil about Chrismas, 
 whin wan day, he tuk it into his head to go away. He 
 was goin' out the gate whin I wint afther him and 
 shtopped him, and axed him to come back. He didn't 
 say a worrd, but kem back, an' 'twas well he did, for that 
 night he was down in a ragin' faver. We nursed him, 
 meself and me mother, through that faver," continued 
 Debbie, taking up a comer of her apron, and twisting it 
 around her finger, whilst her tears fell fast at the recollec- 
 tion of those days and nights and all the affectionate 
 attention they had lavished on Maxwell; "we brought 
 him the priesht to console him, although he was not
 
 DEPOSITIONS 279 
 
 belongln' to us, ontil at lasht he got well, and was able to 
 set up. Thin, wan day a gentleman and lady called to 
 see him; an' she put her eyes an him, an' from that day 
 out we got no good av him. But me brother sushpected 
 somethin', an' he watched him. He saw enough to make 
 his hair shtand on ind. Maxle, the man, used to be 
 goin' up be himself to a plantation, or screen up over the 
 house, an' there me brother Pierry watched him. He 
 saw him carryin' on sech antics that he got frickened and 
 axed me to go wid him. 'Twas a moonlight night, an' 
 there was a heavy fog, but we could see ever}'thing. 
 This man came out from the trees into an open place, 
 and began callin' on the sperrit of the girl he killed, an' 
 goin' up an' down, hether and over, ravin' and tearin' 
 hke a madman. I didn't see the ghosht meself, but 
 Pierry, me brother, did. Well, thin, to make a long 
 shtory short, he kep' up this cryin' and moanin' for half 
 an hour and thin he wint through the whole thing agin, 
 murderin' the poor girl and stifiin' her. I wanted to 
 come away, but me brother wouldn't lave me. So we 
 shtopped ontil he kem out agin and began keenin' over 
 the poor corp, an' calHn' on all the divils in hell to blasht 
 an' blow him for all he was worth. Then the cool diAiI 
 lighted his pipe and began to shmoke as if nothin' had 
 happened, an' we kem away dead wid the fright of it." 
 
 "But what was the girl's name?" asked the Governor. 
 
 "How do I know?" said Debbie. "Sure he wasn't 
 goin' to tell us." 
 
 "H'm," said the Governor, musing on the strange stor\'. 
 "And where is this man now?" 
 
 "I'm tould he's over at a place called Brandon Hall,"
 
 28o LISHEEN 
 
 said Debbie. "An' he's galivantin' about with another 
 girl there. I suppose he'll kill her too." 
 
 "Brandon Hall? That's where Mr. Hamberton lives," 
 said the Governor. 
 
 "Yes," said Debbie. "An' 'twas he and some girl wid 
 him that kem over and turned him agin us the day we 
 wor thrun out." 
 
 "Very well, my good girl," said the Governor, rising. 
 "That will do now for the present. I'll just read over 
 your information from my notes, and you can verify 
 them, and afterwards you can make the usual depositions 
 before a magistrate. But I never heard of the murder of 
 any girl in this neighbourhood. Did you, Mrs. Hickson ?" 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Hickson. "Not for years around 
 here." 
 
 "But this man was from DubUn," insisted Debbie. "I 
 tould you he was a gintleman, an' from far away." 
 
 "Oh, very good," said the Governor. "Now Usten, 
 and make any corrections you please." 
 
 He read over the girl's statements from his notes, slowly 
 and emphatically, dwelUng on what he deemed the im- 
 portant points in the narrative. He then asked her 
 whether she was prepared to abide by what she had said. 
 Debbie gave a reluctant answer. The horror of the affair 
 and of its consequences was beginning to smite her with 
 a kind of remorse. She was then asked to sign her name 
 to the paper, which she did with trembling hand. The 
 wardress witnessed it and took her back to her cell. 
 
 Left alone with her own thoughts, and reflecting on 
 what she had done, a sudden flood of feeling swept over 
 her weak mind, and nearly broke down her reason. It is
 
 DEPOSITIONS 281 
 
 always the case with weakened intellects, that they are 
 goaded into sudden and often irremediable courses under 
 the iniluence of passion or emotion, and then sink down 
 into corresponding despondency and dread of the very 
 evil they had been so exultant in committing. The even- 
 ing had come down too, quickly; the darkness was gather- 
 ing around the lonely girl in her whitewashed cell, and all 
 the phantoms of a highly strung imagination began to 
 assemble around her and torment her. The strong affec- 
 tion she had conceived for Maxwell — the tenderness, of 
 which she was unconscious when she called him back 
 from the road, and which grew into a deeper feeling from 
 the sense of the help and protection she had given to the 
 sick man — now revived, as she dwelt on every particular 
 of their Hves. His gentleness, his courage, his unfailing 
 urbanity; the long evenings around the hearth, when he 
 had whiled away the weary hours by stories and such 
 "interesting conversation, his deference towards the old 
 people, his patience with rough food and homely bedding 
 and the hardships of rural life; above all, his demeanour 
 towards herself, treating her with the respect due to one 
 of high rank, and never resenting her practical jokes and 
 stinging allusions, — all came back to the lonely hours, 
 until she paced her cell with long, fierce strides, and 
 something hke madness seemed to mount into her brain. 
 
 She flung herself upon her bed, and tried to calm her 
 agonized brain. In vain she tossed from side to side, 
 rose up, and paced her cell again. Her supper, thin gruel 
 and bread, was passed in through the aperture in the 
 door. She swallowed it half-unconsciously and only be- 
 cause the pangs of hunger were irresistible. At last, when
 
 282 LISHEEN 
 
 the hour for retiring came, she knelt down by her bed 
 and began to pray. The old famihar prayers came to 
 her hps, but now without meaning or unction, and she 
 started up, almost shrieking: 
 
 "Mother of God in Heaven, have pity on me this 
 night!" and commenced pacing her cell again. 
 
 At midnight she lay down undressed, but her restless 
 brain throbbed back over the past, recalling with terrible 
 distinctness all that had occurred, whilst her conscience 
 kept asking. What business was it of hers, if Maxwell 
 had committed murder? Were there not pohce and de- 
 tectives, whose business it was to discover these things? 
 And would she not for evermore be branded as an ap- 
 prover? And how could she stand in a court in her 
 prison clothes, and give evidence? And evermore her 
 brain would keep repeating. Too late! Too late! You 
 have taken a step that cannot evermore be retraced. 
 
 After some hours of such torture, the wearied brain 
 stopped its wild workings for a moment, and she sank 
 into a troubled sleep. But here again all the sub-con- 
 sciousness of her mind became furiously wakeful, and she 
 had some fearful dreams, rushing wildly without sequence 
 or cohesion into each other, — a panorama of horrid and 
 repulsive pictures, broken, distorted, and only uniform in 
 their hideousness, as they glided into each other. In the 
 last, she stood perforce on the drop, side by side with 
 Maxwell. She was to die with him. She saw all the 
 lugubrious preparations that were being made for their 
 execution. She seemed not to care, until she thought 
 she heard Maxwell's voice muffled from beneath the white 
 cap: "Debbie, forgive me!" She tried to catch his hand
 
 DEPOSITIONS 283 
 
 in a farewell, but her hands were tied together, and in 
 the effort to break the ligature she woke. She felt the 
 cold, damp sweat of terror on her forehead, as the gray, 
 silent dawn crept in through the barred window of her 
 cell. 
 
 She rose instantly and violently jerked the bell. The 
 night-wardress appeared. 
 
 "I wants to see the Governor, and immajietly," said 
 the half-frantic girl. 
 
 ''Go back to bed, and keep yourself quiet," said the 
 wardress. 
 
 "No, no, no," said Debbie. "I wants to see him at 
 wanst. I tould him a lot o' hes yesterday, and maybe 
 I'll get an innicent man hanged." 
 
 "Well, he can't be hanged to-day," said the wardress. 
 "You can see the Governor after breakfast. Lie down, 
 an' try to sleep." 
 
 "God help me! There's no more shleep for me," said 
 the poor girl, as the wardress drew out the prison-door 
 and locked it. 
 
 After breakfast she saw the Governor again. 
 
 "I wants to tell you," she said abruptly, "that I tould 
 a parcel of hes yesterday about that man. I was mad 
 jealous, whin I hard he was keepin' company with another 
 girl over there at Cahercon." 
 
 The old man looked at her keenly, but compassionately. 
 He then touched the bell. 
 
 "Send Mrs. Hickson here!" he said. 
 
 The wardress appeared. 
 
 "Mrs. Hickson, has the doctor called yet?" 
 
 "No, sir. He'll be here at eleven."
 
 284 LISHEEN 
 
 "Well, then, let him see this poor girl first. I think 
 she is a case for Infirmary treatment." 
 
 "I'm not sick," said Debbie. '"Tis throuble of mind. 
 Av you tell me that that man — that Maxle won't be 
 hanged, I'll be all right again." 
 
 "I think I may promise that," said the Governor. 
 "But you must see the doctor, and get examined. Please 
 see to it, Mrs. Hickson." 
 
 And Debbie was placed in the Infirmary that evening. 
 
 Meanwhile, the one most interested in this Httle drama 
 was pursuing his own course with a singular degree of 
 success, and some happiness. He soon perceived that 
 the conditions adapted to the social and intellectual resur- 
 rection of the people were here realized, — that is, material 
 comfort and well-being were secured without the nervous 
 dread of being removed or destroyed. This constituted 
 the element of safely, the one element that has always 
 been unhappily absent from nearly every department of 
 social hfe in Ireland. For Hamberton, though a strict 
 disciphnarian over his men, was very just, and even 
 generous with them when he saw there was a disposition 
 to act fairly towards him. Towards Ned Galwey, and 
 such schemers, he was inexorable; and yet, even after 
 Ned's dismissal from the works, Hamberton contrived to 
 perform many a secret act of kindness towards him. 
 
 Here then was the foundation for the very work Max- 
 well had set out to perform, and he threw himself into it with 
 energy. In a short time he had completely gained Ham- 
 berton's confidence, and could count on Miss Moulton's 
 co-operation. By degrees, little shelves of books made
 
 DEPOSITIONS 2S5 
 
 their appearance in the cottages — pretty, little cheap 
 editions of standard authors, suited to the people's capaci- 
 ties; the sounds of accordion and concertina were heard 
 every night through the open doors ; httle dances were got 
 up, and, as the days grew longer, once or twice, little 
 picnics were held away up on Brandon Hill, or out on 
 Brandon Point. Then, one day. Maxwell induced Ham- 
 berton to give him the upper loft of the store, where speci- 
 mens of rare marbles were kept. This he turned into a 
 concert-room with a splendid, wide stage at the end, and 
 here he proposed to give lectures, hold penny readings, 
 and give dramatic entertainments the long nights of 
 winter. 
 
 He, too, became an ever-increasing object of interest 
 to Hamberton and his ward. His gentlemanly bearing, 
 his quiet, unostentatious work, his sohcitude about the 
 men and their famihes, made him not only a useful but 
 most interesting co-operator in their work. Sometimes, 
 under pretext of business. Maxwell was invited to lunch 
 at Brandon Hall, and after Hamberton had discovered 
 what a well-stored mind he had, and what a knowledge 
 of books and men, he often asked him up to spend the 
 evening at the Hall, where they talked over all manner of 
 things, — the world of men, their weakness, their mean- 
 ness, their nobility, the eternal surprises that awaited 
 everyone who made a study of them, — greatness of spirit 
 where one would least expect it, and baseness and brutality 
 where one would look for the highest and loftiest principles 
 of conduct. 
 
 One evening the conversation turned on Gladstone's 
 treatment of Gordon at Khartoum, and Maxwell broke
 
 286 LISHEEN 
 
 through his usual calm manner and flared up against the 
 treatment of the hero. 
 
 "So he is a hero of yours also, Maxwell," said Hamber- 
 ton. "You know Miss Moulton keeps a lamp burning 
 before his picture, as they do before the Eikons of Russia." 
 
 "Yes, he was a rare silent spirit," said Maxwell. "A 
 man who could endure much, who could fight and never 
 lose his humanity, and who had the deepest and most 
 real interest in the very races which he subdued. To 
 have power and not to abuse it seems to me the rarest of 
 all virtues." 
 
 "I wish he were at Lisheen the other day," said Ham- 
 berton. "He would have an object-lesson in Irish land- 
 lordism." 
 
 "Yes," said Maxwell. "I wish Gordon had come to 
 Ireland, and looked at things with honest, unprejudiced 
 eyes." 
 
 "But he was in Ireland!" said Hamberton. "Did you 
 never hear?" 
 
 "Never," said Maxwell. "I should give something to 
 know what he thought." 
 
 "Perhaps Miss Moulton would tell you," said Hamber- 
 ton. 
 
 "I have treasured a letter of his, found and pubhshed 
 after his death," said Claire Moulton, "in which he 
 speaks sympathetically of the Irish." 
 
 "And what does he say about landlords? Tell Max- 
 well. He may use it in one of his charming lectures to 
 the men." 
 
 "Oh! very little! Only that he would sacrifice a thou- 
 sand pounds to see an Irish landlord come down from
 
 DEPOSITIONS 287 
 
 his high estate and live a few months amongst the farmers, 
 and as one of them." 
 
 Maxwell's pale face flushed, and then grew more pale, 
 as he looked questioningly from Hamberton to Miss 
 Moulton. But he saw nothing in their faces to lead him 
 to think there was any subtle allusion to himself. 
 
 "A safe bet, I should say," he murmured at length. 
 
 "And yet where's the impossibihty, or the incongruity?" 
 said Hamberton. "Even as a novelty, or an experiment, 
 it would be worth attempting. Coriolanus tried it, Tolstoy 
 is trying it over there in Russia, there was an al Raschid 
 amongst the Arabs. Why should not Irish landlordism, 
 barren of every other good, produce at least one hero?" 
 
 "You hardly loiow them," said Maxwell, musing. 
 
 "True. I'm afraid Miss Moulton will die an old maid, 
 for she avers she will marry the impossible hero, whenever 
 he comes her way." 
 
 "But I didn't promise to wait for him," said Claire.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE PORPHYRY VASE 
 
 The meditations of Ralph Outram as he stood in his 
 dressing-gown before his glass the morning after the 
 dinner party were not pleasant. Morning meditations, 
 as a rule, are not pleasant. It is only when the blood 
 has begun to course swiftly through the brain, and to 
 shake off the stagnancy where unpleasant visions dwell, 
 that fresher and more exhilarating ideas come upward. 
 But his was not the unpleasantness of anticipations or 
 remorse. Only vexation at having been betrayed into 
 what he called a "tactical blunder." There are some 
 minds to whom tactical mistakes are of far more serious 
 consequence and concern than deadly sin. Outram's was 
 one of these; and, between his teeth, as he performed the 
 duties of his toilet, he cursed that old professor, that 
 treacherous whisky, those opiate cigars, those odious 
 women, for betraying him into what might prove the most 
 serious trouble of his life. For, all the long way home, 
 Mabel, who had recovered rapidly from her swoon, was 
 ominously silent, or answered only in monosyllables; and 
 he knew from her calm, stony face, as she entered the 
 house, and went straight to her room, that she had seen 
 a significance beneath the simple vesture of his story, 
 that was known to no one but himself. 
 
 " those women," he muttered, "you cannot show 
 
 28S
 
 THE PORPHYRY VASE 289 
 
 them a pebble, but they want to build a mountain out of 
 it. With their intuitions, their inspirations, their fancies, 
 their suspicions, one dare not even lift the corner of the 
 veil that every man, from a sense of duty, should keep 
 pegged down over his past life." 
 
 And then he went over in detail all that he could re- 
 member of his story and its suggestions. Suddenly a 
 thought seemed to strike him with startling suddenness. 
 He pulled back the sleeve of his dressing-gown and shirt, 
 and looked long and anxiously at a mark high up on the 
 arm, Hke the cicatrice of an ancient wound, except that 
 instead of being long and narrow, it was a circular blotch, 
 rimmed by a ridge of flesh and sunk down in a pale, 
 flabby skin in the centre. Then he pulled open his shirt- 
 front and stared at his breast in the glass. Yes! There 
 were a few healed wounds, here and there. 
 
 "The marks of Paythan Triangular Knives, we shall 
 say," he murmured. But his face wore a frown of 
 anger and vexation. He dressed leisurely, turning over 
 in his mind a hundred things which he might say to his 
 wife, and debating earnestly with himself what would be 
 the most politic course to pursue, — to make light of the 
 whole thing, to laugh away her anger or her fears, to 
 simulate anger, to fall back upon his usual cold, sneering 
 manner, and then, if the lady persevered in her unpleasant 
 mood, to hiss defiance at her; or — to make a clean breast 
 of all and to commence anew. Alas! no, that cannot be 
 even thought of. It would be sheer madness. The veil 
 must be kept pegged down. All men do it. Society 
 could not otherwise cohere. These little dissimulations 
 are the cement of good society. If all men and women 
 19
 
 290 LISHEEN 
 
 were to lay bare their secrets to the world, what a cata- 
 clysm there would be! It would be just like a West 
 Indian earthquake, when the terrified inhabitants rush 
 out clothed in sheets and towels and counterpanes. 
 
 "I shall He still till the earthquake comes," he said. 
 "I cannot afford to appear in undress before anyone." 
 
 Like all men who amuse themselves by anticipations, 
 he was a Uttle pleased, and yet disappointed, to find that 
 Mabel had not come down to breakfast. The Major 
 was alone, sitting over in his arm-chair near the fire. He 
 was now hardly able to move. His lower extremities had 
 been turned into stone. He was reading a letter, appar- 
 ently with great interest, and not without emotion. 
 
 " Here is a letter from Bob," he said, as Out ram came 
 over and held his hands to the fire. "You remember 
 Bob?" 
 
 "Of course. Maxwell What news?" 
 
 "Strange enough. This is what he says": 
 
 Cahercon, April 30, 18 — . 
 Dear Major: Here is a letter as from the dead. I have had all 
 the experience of a Robinson Crusoe, or Haroun al Raschid for the 
 past seven or eight months; and am just now located as above as 
 farm hand and general overseer or time-keeper over some marble 
 quarries. Most likely you would not hear from me until my term 
 of probation had expired; but I want you to do something for me, 
 and without delay. You know Bernards — Colonel Bernards ? He 
 lives down near Killiney. His agent is Steevens, Maguire and Co. 
 Well, I want him to sell me at once a farm, which is on his estate 
 here, called Lisheen, lately occupied by a family named McAuliffe, 
 whom he has evicted, and who are now lodged in Tralee gaol. The 
 farm is practically worthless to him now, as you know; no one dare 
 take it. And I shall give his own sum, provided he sends me 
 promptly deed of sale, duly signed^ etc. I will explain all after-
 
 THE PORPHYRY VASE 291 
 
 wards, when we meet. How is the old enemy ? I hope he is sparing 
 you. I know almost nothing of the outer world; and am afraid of 
 asking questions. All can wait. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Robert Maxwell. 
 Address as above, and keep strictly private. 
 
 "Quixotism after Quixotism," said Outram. "Some 
 Kerry colleen has bewitched him, or perhaps he is so 
 enamoured of his Robinson Crusoe life he is going to 
 abandon civiHzation for ever, and take up the farm at — 
 what do you call the place?" 
 
 "And get himself shot," said the Major. "Lisheen, he 
 calls it, half mountain, half bog, I suppose, Hke all Kerry." 
 
 "Well, well, wonders will never cease," said Outram, 
 going over to the breakfast table and touching the gong. 
 
 "See is Mrs. Outram coming down to breakfast," he 
 said to the footman. 
 
 "No, sir," was the answer. "Mrs. Outram's maid 
 says that she will breakfast in her room." 
 
 "Very good. Tired after last evening," he said to the 
 Major. "We had a most stupid dinner, and I was bored 
 to death by a professor of something — a short, dumpy, 
 Pickwickian Httle fellow, eyeglass, seals, corpulence, 
 gaiters, — no, he was in evening dress — that was all the 
 difference between himself and the immortal. The fellow 
 wanted to prove," he continued, as he poured out his 
 coffee, "that he, who was never outside Ireland, knew 
 more than an Anglo-Indian, Hke myself, or you — " 
 
 "The — fool," said the Major, who was particularly 
 sore on that point. "What did you say?" 
 
 "Say? Well, what can you say to a fool?" said
 
 292 LISHEEN 
 
 Outram. "His contention was that, that you can get 
 more information out of books than by experience, — by 
 reading about a thing than by seeing it." 
 
 "And what did you say?" 
 
 "I said all I could," said Outram. "I exhausted my 
 knowledge and poured it through the sieve of the fellow's 
 mind, and then I remembered a wise old saying: 'Answer 
 a fool according to his folly.'" 
 
 "How was that?" asked the Major. 
 
 "I invented a story, or rather built up a legend upon a 
 few facts, as novelists do, and poured it through his little 
 brain, as he sipped his whisky and water. He swallowed 
 it all, as easily as he swallowed his liquor. And he was 
 so entranced that he induced me to tell the same story 
 to the ladies in the drawing-room. I shouldn't be in the 
 least surprised if they also believed it, and if it were over 
 half the drawing-rooms in Dubhn in a week." 
 
 "You must tell me that this evening after dinner," 
 said the Major. "Or perhaps Mabel will tell me all 
 about it at lunch." 
 
 "Yes, Mabel will tell it better than I, She quite 
 understands that it was improvised for the occasion — a 
 Httle fact, a lot of fiction like all romances." 
 
 "You're going to the city?" asked the Major. 
 
 "Ye-es," said Outram. 
 
 "Would you mind calling at Steeven's and Maguire's, 
 and say I should Hke to see a representative of the firm 
 to-day, if possible?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly. They are agents in one of those streets 
 off Dame Street, I believe?" 
 
 "Yes, quite so. How do you know them?"
 
 THE PORPHYRY VASE 293 
 
 "Little business matters. I can send them a message, 
 of course, in case I should not be able to call." 
 
 "Yes. But it is urgent. It is all about Bob's letter 
 and his commission. And you see it must be done at 
 once." 
 
 "Of course. I'll see to it. What is his address, by 
 the way?" 
 
 "Cahercon, Co. Kerry." 
 
 "Very good. I hope Mabel will be able to come down 
 early. Nothing else in town?" 
 
 "Nothmg," repHed the Major. 
 
 Mabel came do\Mi to lunch. She looked so pale, so 
 woebegone, so distressed, that the Major was startled. 
 She took her seat wearily at the table, but ate nothing. 
 The Major looked at her with anxious eyes. He was not 
 so entirely engrossed with his gout as to fail to see for 
 some time past that his daughter was not happy. No 
 complaint ever passed her lips, but she went about the 
 house looking after her household duties, dressed, drove 
 out in her carriage, dressed for balls and dinners, went to 
 levees, but in such a mechanical and spiritless way, so 
 dull, so cold, so unemotional, that her father saw clearly 
 there was something wrong, but he forebore asking 
 questions, for he dreaded revelations. 
 
 "She was naturally cold and reserved," he thought, 
 "her mother's disposition, — but this new manner or 
 disposition was something more." 
 
 But this afternoon her features were dragged and dis- 
 torted as by some acute pain, and there was cut deeply 
 upon them the sad sculpturing of sorrow and of woe.
 
 294 LISHEEN 
 
 She turned aside from the table, drew a chair opposite 
 the fire, and with hands folded on her lap continued 
 gazing in silence at the jets of flame that burst from the 
 burning coal. The Major was too deeply impressed to 
 say anything. He shifted uneasily in the arm-chair and 
 was silent. Then he bethought him of Bob Maxwell's 
 letter, and fumbHng for it, he handed it to her. She 
 merely glanced at the superscription and handed it back. 
 Then she said: 
 
 "Father, could we — I mean, you and I — go away 
 somewhere?" 
 
 "Go away?" echoed the Major. "Not now, Mabel, 
 not in the height of the season when no one leaves town." 
 
 "Couldn't we sell out this place and furniture and go 
 abroad — to Spain, to the Riviera, to Algiers, anywhere?" 
 
 "What's the matter with you, Mab?" the Major said. 
 "You're not well!" 
 
 She burst into passionate weeping, and kneeling on the 
 hearthrug by her father's feet, she put her hand on his 
 hand and moaned: 
 
 "Well? I'm too well, God help me! If only I were ill 
 enough to die and be at rest!" 
 
 "Now, now, Mab," said her father. "This is non- 
 sense, or what is worse, hysteria, and you know you must 
 not give way to that. You're too young and too newly 
 married to yield to such weakness." 
 
 "Ah, my God, if I had never married," she moaned 
 piteously. "If only I had the sense to remain with you, 
 and nurse you to old age and the end ! Oh ! what madness 
 possesses girls that they do not know their happiness and 
 must fling it away!"
 
 THE PORPHYRY VASE 295 
 
 And she wept bitterly. 
 
 "Come, now, Mab," said her father. "This won't do. 
 What has come between you and Ralph ? I know you're 
 not happy together. But that often happens. By the 
 way, what was the story he told last night at dinner? 
 Come, tell it all to me. Ralph said you could tell it 
 better than he." 
 
 "Did he tell you that, father?" she cried, with eyes 
 flashing through her tears. 
 
 "He did. It was his last word this morning as he was 
 going to the city. He said he concocted a story last 
 night to please some old duffer of a professor. It was all 
 fancy, or nearly so. But he says it will probably be all 
 over gossipy Dubhn before a week." 
 
 "What a har! What a hypocrite!" she murmured. 
 "It was his own histoiy he told. Men must make a 
 confession of their lives sometimes; and he was excited 
 with drink. Did you suspect that- he was ever addicted 
 to drink, poor old Pap?" 
 
 "I did. God forgive me. I knew it," said the Major, 
 with humble sorrow. 
 
 The two sat silent for a long time watching the flicker- 
 ing fire, and busy with their own thoughts. 
 
 "Ah! if you had only married Bob — poor Bob!" said 
 the Major at length. 
 
 But she put her hand over his mouth and stopped him. 
 Then after another pause she rose up and left the room. 
 As she went upstairs to her room, wearily and with heavy 
 steps, catching at the balustrade to help her, she paused 
 for a moment beneath a lobby window of coloured glass. 
 Here on a pedestal was the porphyry vase which had
 
 296 LISHEEN 
 
 been sent by an unknown hand from India with the 
 Sanscrit letter which her husband refused to interpret. 
 She had passed it a hundred times before without a 
 thought, except the unconscious admiration of its perfect 
 and polishd beauty. Now she stood still and studied it. 
 The great broad cavity shone beneath the coloured glass 
 of the window, here crimson, here blue and yellow. She 
 thought she would give a good deal to know its history 
 — who made it, whence it came. Then her husband's 
 words about the Uttle Hindoo girl came back to her and 
 she remembered, with a kind of vague horror, that he said 
 she never turned out any work of art from her hands, 
 except with some symbol, or symboHc meaning, which 
 sooner or later would be revealed. She argued then — 
 this vase is a symbol — but of what ? She couldn't think. 
 But as she watched it, she thought she saw the coils of 
 the green snake, knotted at the bottom of the vase, shiver 
 and stir, and she shrank back in terror. It was pure 
 imagination, of course. But she took up a heavy paper- 
 weight that lay on the table, — a five-pound solid shell 
 fixed in mahogany, which her father had brought home 
 from India, — and poising it in her hand as in self-de- 
 fence, she looked again. Whether her imagination, strung 
 by sleeplessness and worry, was over-excited, or whether 
 the hghts that flickered and faded from the window de- 
 ceived her, she thought she saw the hideous green reptile 
 stirring again, and in a paroxysm of horror she brought 
 down the heavy paper-weight with all her force upon the 
 snake. The green stone crumbled as if it were glass, 
 and the porphyry vase parted in two, as if cut by a knife. 
 It did not fall to the ground, but remained on the pedes-
 
 THE PORPHYRY VASE 297 
 
 tal, the edges, clean-cut, now an inch apart, and she saw 
 that the thickness of the beautiful vase graduated from 
 three or four inches at the foot to an inch in the centre, and 
 then widened out to greater thickness, where the edge of 
 the vase Upped over. 
 
 Horrified at what she had done, she still felt a strange 
 thrill of exultation, as if the breaking of that vessel sym- 
 bolized some decisive turn of fate for her. "At least," 
 she thought, "it means a change, a rupture of present 
 relations, a new life, and that is a great gain." 
 
 She went to her room and sat down to think. Leaning 
 her weary head on her hand, she looked out through the 
 window where the dreary sun was shivering down the 
 west amidst banks of gray, ashen clouds. She began to 
 review her married life, — her first feehngs of repulsion 
 to her husband which broke on her ambitious schemes 
 and made them seem a sacrilege, committed in what should 
 be the home and sanctuary of pure, unselfish love; her 
 surprise, growing rapidly to indignation, when she dis- 
 covered, at first unwilHngly, then with growing feelings of 
 disgust, her husband's real character; her attempts at 
 secrecy, keeping the hd firmly down on the terrible secrets 
 of her wifehood, her forced dissimulations in society, her 
 feeble efforts to maintain her dignity at home, the revela- 
 tion that she had made the one great blunder of a woman's 
 existence, irreparable, except by the merciful finger of 
 Death — all came up, to weigh her to the earth in re- 
 morse and sorrow. The cold setting sun peeped into no 
 more dismal scene than the boudoir of that beautiful 
 
 girl. 
 The sun went down. The twilight fell. Then the
 
 298 LISHEEN 
 
 night. The shadows darkened round her and wrapped 
 her up in their gloom. But she sat motionless, staring 
 into the night, until she heard the footstep on the stair 
 that she knew to be her husband's; and she felt that the 
 great crisis in her life was at hand.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 FATHER COSGROVE'S DILEMMA 
 
 There was one veiy troubled soul in and around 
 Lisheen during these critical days. Father Cosgrove was 
 one of those strange spirits who could bear with the most 
 perfect equanimity his own troubles, but was weighed to 
 the ground with the thought of the sufferings of others. 
 Humiliations he had patiently borne, poverty was his 
 chosen lot in Ufe, time could have no fate in store for him 
 which he dreaded, and therefore, so far as himself was 
 concerned, he had neither anxiety, apprehension, or re- 
 morse. But, Hke a true priest, he bore the infirmities of 
 others and carried their sorrows. .- 
 
 The eviction at Lisheen was a sore trial to the heart of 
 this tender priest. He had heard nothing about it until 
 the following day. And then he and his pastor did all 
 in their power to alleviate the misery of this little unhappy 
 portion of their flock. But this was not his chief trouble. 
 Strange to say, he was more deeply concerned about 
 Brandon Hall than Lisheen, more apprehensive of the 
 future that lay before Hugh Hamberton than that which 
 seemed already to have created itself for Owen McAuhffe 
 and his family. 
 
 He had conceived a strange hking for Hamberton. 
 Beneath all the cynicism of the latter he had discerned 
 indications of a certain nobility of character which he 
 
 299
 
 300 LISHEEN 
 
 knew to be rare amongst men. When men rage against 
 their kind it is generally from disappointed hopes, or 
 cruel disillusion. The man that can be patient with 
 humanity is a saint, as we have already said, or one who 
 has accepted its baseness as a part of the finite condition 
 of things. Hamberton's verdict on his race was: "You 
 are wholly and altogether beneath contempt; but, such as 
 you are, as I have not the discredit of your creation, I 
 must make the best I can even of you. And then," he 
 might have added, and this was the one thought that was 
 perpetually harassing the mind of his friend. Father 
 Cosgrove, "I shall part company with you as swiftly as 
 I may. I cannot meet worse whithersoever I go." 
 
 Now, there was but one tie, one condition that seemed 
 to bind him to earth, and so far as Father Cosgrove could 
 see, that condition would soon end. For he seemed to 
 understand the moment that Maxwell and Claire Moulton 
 met, that they were destined for each other. It was not 
 foresight, nor calculation, nor worldly wisdom, but some 
 intuition, belonging to such delicate and detached souls, 
 that created the presentiment that in this obscure tramp 
 was to be found the chief actor in the future destinies of 
 Brandon Hall. And when a little later on he found that 
 by a singular chain of circumstances Maxwell was abso- 
 lutely estabhshed in a position of confidence under Ham- 
 berton, nay, was a respected visitor at the Hall, and had 
 been seen with Miss Moulton on her round of visits, on 
 the sea-beach, or out at sea, he became quite distressed, 
 and with the worldly imprudence that characterizes such 
 minds, he thought it time to interfere. He had not the 
 slightest prejudice against Maxwell, he even liked him,
 
 FATHER COSGROVE'S DILEMMA 
 
 301 
 
 but Maxwell had become to his imagination the evil 
 genius of the family, and he felt it his duty to fight against 
 what he knew to be inexorable Fate. 
 
 "I want to say something very particular — very par- 
 ticular to you," he said one day to Hamberton, closing 
 the remark with that curious gesture he had of waving 
 one hand in the air. 
 
 "By all means," said Hamberton. 
 
 "It's a private matter — rather a family affair," said 
 the priest, nerv^ously. 
 
 "Never mind. Go ahead," said Hamberton, who 
 already guessed what was in the good priest's mind. 
 
 "I think — I am almost sure — I ought to tell you — 
 there is a growing intimacy between Miss Moulton and 
 your new steward, and you know it is always well to stop 
 these things in the beginning." 
 
 "Quite right. That is, if they ought to be stopped at 
 all." 
 
 "But," said the old priest, anxiously, "you do not 
 contemplate the possibihty of marriage between Maxwell 
 and your ward?" 
 
 "Why not?" said Hamberton. 
 
 "Of course, of course, of course, why not, why not?" 
 said the old man. "But you know nothing about him." 
 
 "No. Certainly not. So much the better," said the 
 cynical Hamberton. "If I did I should probably have 
 never brought him here, or dismissed him summarily. It 
 is only the men you don't know whom you can trust." 
 
 "I don't understand," said the old priest. "I'm very 
 stupid. I shouldn't have spoken — I shouldn't have 
 spoken."
 
 302 LISHEEN 
 
 "Not the slightest harm done, my dear friend," said 
 Hamberton, gaily. "What I meant was, that I have never 
 met a man yet (except yourself) who improved on ac- 
 quaintance. It is the unknown I trust, because in the 
 case of the unknown you can say. This fellow may he a 
 scoundrel; in the case of those who are known to you 
 you say. This fellow is a scoundrel. Now, I let things go 
 on between my ward and Maxwell, because I haven't yet 
 found him a rascal. I probably shall, and then — " 
 
 "And then it will be too late — too late!" said the priest. 
 
 "Not at all," said Hamberton. "Claire will make the 
 discovery simultaneously, and we shall cashier him." 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 "That is not my experience of such things," he said. 
 "Nay, the greater the — the — offender, the more will a 
 girl cling to him." 
 
 "Claire is made of other metal," said Hamberton. 
 " But make your mind easy, my dear friend. I know Claire 
 well. She will only marry a hero — someone who at least 
 has shown himself made of truer metal than passes in or- 
 dinary currency. She won't marry a divorce, but she won't 
 marry a man who cannot divorce himself from himself." 
 
 "I don't understand," said the old priest. "I am quite 
 stupid about these things. I shouldn't have interfered. 
 I meant well." 
 
 "I know you did," said the gruff man of the world, 
 almost with affection. "You don't want to see any 
 master in Brandon Hall, except its present owner." 
 
 " Not as long as I live," said the priest, courteously and 
 humbly. "When I die, well then — well then — " and 
 he waved his hand in the air.
 
 FATHER COSGROVE'S DILEMMA 
 
 303 
 
 "Then I suppose you will become my Damon — my 
 Guardian- Angel," said Hamberton. "You will watch 
 me night and day, and yet I shall elude your vigilance. 
 And why? Because I have a right to go out of the world, 
 even if I were not consulted about coming into it. When 
 I am tired, I shall He down like a sick child to rest, as 
 some poet has it. I shall sleep on the bosom of Mother 
 Earth, and, for the first time, know what is meant by 
 pax et tranquillitas magna!" 
 
 "You will not know peace," said the priest, "for you 
 cannot go out of Hfe alone, and there is an Avenger beyond 
 the grave." 
 
 "Cannot go out of life alone?" echoed Hamberton. 
 "Oh! but I shall. And as for the rest, doesn't your great 
 poet put Cato in Purgatory?" 
 
 "I don't know! I don't know!" said the priest. "I 
 should not discuss these things. But the good God will 
 guide you, and prevent you. You shall see his hand 
 when he chooses to reveal it." 
 
 "Well, well, say no more," said Hamberton. "But 
 make your mind at rest about Claire. Hers is a strong 
 nature; she cannot be led, or deceived." 
 
 Although Hamberton threw lightly aside the forebodings 
 of Father Cosgrove, he was nevertheless ver}^ much disqui- 
 eted by what he had heard. He Hved only for this young 
 girl, and his one ambition in life was to see her married 
 to some one to whom she could look up with love and 
 veneration. He was too much of a c)Tiic to believe that 
 such sanguine anticipations could be realized — least of 
 all in that remote comer amongst rude peasants and 
 fishermen. But, like all unbelievei-s, there was a strong
 
 304 LISHEEN 
 
 tinge of superstition in his character. He was a firm 
 believer in the existence of those mysterious currents of 
 being that rush together from remotest poles, and seem 
 to converge without any guidance but that of Fate. And 
 when this young fellow, Maxwell, came within his ken, 
 shrouded in mystery, his character but half revealed and 
 yet showing signs of gentle birth and breeding, and when 
 he saw that there was a certain attraction there for his 
 ward, whose feelings had been hitherto undisturbed by 
 contact with the world of men, he began to think that 
 he was watching the prologue to some drama, which 
 might eventuate in circumstances more tragic than agree- 
 able. 
 
 He became suddenly aware, as he walked, with head 
 stooped and slow steps, down towards the beach, of the 
 presence of a stranger. Hamberton disliked strangers. 
 He had a decided objection to forming new acquaintances. 
 Fresh faces, fresh trouble, he thought. The stranger 
 accosted him. 
 
 "Mr. Hamberton, I presume?" 
 
 "Yes," said Hamberton, brusquely. "What may be 
 your business?" 
 
 "It is very brief," said the stranger. "You have a man 
 in your employment named Maxwell?" 
 
 "Yes," said Hamberton. "What of him?" 
 
 "I should like to know his history," said the stranger. 
 "Where he comes from, and his antecedents?" 
 
 "Then why the devil don't you ask himself?" said 
 Hamberton, nettled at the sudden possibilities that seemed 
 to loom up before him. 
 
 "I am a police officer," said the man. "I thought to
 
 FATHER COSGROVE'S DILEMMA 305 
 
 avoid all unpleasantness by asking you to clear up one 
 or two things." 
 
 ''You're on Maxwell's track, then?" said Hamberton, 
 without apology. "In a word, he's wanted?^' 
 
 "Not quite that," said the officer. "But our suspicions 
 have been aroused in a singular manner, and we want to 
 know something about him. If you can give me the 
 desired information we need proceed no further and we 
 shall spare him some pain." 
 
 Hamberton paused for a moment. Then he said : 
 
 "Come along here and we can talk as we proceed. 
 What now do you want to know." 
 
 "First," said the officer, "where this man comes from, 
 his former occupation, and the reason he has adopted this 
 mode of hfe." 
 
 "He came here from Lisheen," said Hamberton. "He 
 was labourer there with a family named McAuHflFe. He 
 has come here at my invitation to act as steward or over- 
 seer on my works." 
 
 "We are quite aware of all that," said the officer. 
 "But his life previous to his coming to Lisheen?" 
 
 "Of that I know absolutely nothing," said Hamberton. 
 "You must question himself." 
 
 And he turned away. 
 
 As if on second thoughts, however, he followed the 
 officer, and said: 
 
 "What do you seek Maxwell for? Is he suspected of 
 crime?" 
 
 "I'm not at liberty to say," answered the officer. "It 
 is possible that it may be serious, or that we may make a 
 grave mistake."
 
 3o6 LISHEEN 
 
 "Very possible, indeed," said Hamberton, turning 
 away. 
 
 Nevertheless he was grievously troubled. It was be- 
 coming pretty clear that his ward was not altogether 
 insensible to the strange attraction that hung around his 
 steward, for though the latter never put himself forward, 
 nor sought his own society, nor that of Miss Moulton, 
 this very restraint argued in his favour. It was that 
 reticence of conduct that belongs to superior souls. 
 Hamberton recognised it, and was himself drawn towards 
 Maxwell, with whom he would have been even more 
 cordial, but for that cynical distrust with which he re- 
 garded all men. He thought it his duty, however, under 
 these circumstances to speak to his ward. 
 
 "Our friend, Maxwell," he said to her in the afternoon 
 of the day on which he was questioned by the poUce 
 officer, "is a puzzle, a mystery, and strange to say, our 
 further acquaintance with him seems to throw no light 
 upon his previous history." 
 
 She flushed at once, and he did not fail to notice it. 
 
 "Most men," he went on, "become communicative as 
 you grow acquainted with them and give them your 
 confidence, but Maxwell seems to gather himself more 
 and more closely within the involutions of his cell." 
 
 " Perhaps, like the needy knife-grinder, he has no story 
 to tell," said Claire. 
 
 "Well, at least we might know whence he came, and 
 what he was before he settled down at Lisheen. I think 
 we agree that he is not peasant-bom or bred." 
 
 "That is quite manifest," said his ward. "But I 
 hardly think we would be justified in probing too closely
 
 FATHER COSGROVE'S DILEMMA 
 
 307 
 
 into his former life. He was employed out of sheer 
 benevolence by you, uncle, and if we made no condition 
 then we should make none now." 
 
 "True, little woman," he said. "But, Claire dearest, 
 take care! Take care! The very mystery surrounding 
 these men is sometimes attractive." 
 
 "Never fear, uncle," she replied. "I shall keep watch 
 and ward over the enemy." 
 
 "You believe in Maxwell then?" he said. "I shall not 
 use a stronger word." 
 
 "Yes," she said firmly. "At least I believe he is a 
 strictly honourable man!" 
 
 "How then do you account for his strange interference 
 against these poor people at Lisheen the day of their 
 eviction ? I could have kept them in their Httle home but 
 for him." 
 
 "Yes. But you believed then, when he spoke to you 
 and the sheriff, that he had no ill motive, and that he 
 would make all right." 
 
 "I did. I don't understand it; but I believed then, and 
 I bcheve now, that he meant well." 
 
 "So do I." 
 
 "Father Cosgrove doesn't hke him." 
 
 "Priests never understand the sheep of another 
 flock." 
 
 "Perhaps so. But, Claire." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Be prepared for a surprise. By the way, when do 
 these Shakespearian recitations come off?" 
 
 "On Thursday evening." 
 
 "And your parts?"
 
 3o8 LISHEEN 
 
 "Lady Macbeth and Desdemona." 
 
 "And Maxwell is Macbeth and Othello, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes. That's the programme." 
 
 "Not a good one by any means," said Hamberton, 
 relaxing into his old bitter cynicism and forgetting his 
 momentary anxiety about Maxwell. "A thoroughly bad 
 selection, I should say. Othello was an impossible fool, 
 and Desdemona an impossible ninny. No woman in the 
 world would have allowed herself to be murdered in that 
 lamb-like way without even an effort to save herself, 
 lago — true to nature, human nature at its worst, almost. 
 But why didn't you select Shakespeare's two greatest 
 plays — Lear and Timon ? There he held the mirror up 
 to nature indeed. Mark you, of Lear's three daughters, 
 two were devils. Quite correct. In his dethronement 
 and madness the mighty king had but two followers — a 
 madman and a fool. Right again. And Timon! Mag- 
 nificent Timon! 'Old Timon with the noble heart, that 
 strongly loathing, greatly broke!' Strongly loathing! 
 Not half enough. No utter hatred, dishke, contempt, 
 loathing could be half strong enough for these base and 
 vile sycophants that battened on him in his prosperity 
 and abandoned him when he fell — fell through his own 
 d — d benevolence. He should have poisoned these 
 wretches at his banquet, and then stood calmly over 
 them, and watched their agonizing deaths. Hot water 
 in their plates? No, that was weak, WilHam, with your 
 permission. Diluted strychnine, or cyanide of potassium, 
 would have been better. But that 'Uncover, dogs, and 
 lap!' is the noblest half-line in all human hterature. 
 Couldn't we have it, Claire? Could Maxwell do it?
 
 FATHER COSGROVE'S DILEMMA 309 
 
 There is no part for ladies in Timon, but could Maxwell 
 do that, do you think?" 
 
 '"Tis too late now, uncle," she said. "Some other 
 time." 
 
 "Yes, if there shall be another time." 
 
 He stopped and paced up and down his hbrar\', musing. 
 Then he suddenly said : 
 
 "N'imporie! If the fellow is a scoundrel, let him have 
 his deserts. Let every miscreant have his halter, say I, 
 or what else is the devil for? But Claire, Claire," he said, 
 coming over and stroking her hair tenderly," take care, 
 won't you ? I cannot have you thrown away, Uttle woman. 
 Watch over the citadel, won't you? Woman's heart is 
 such a traitor." 
 
 "Never fear for me, uncle," she said gaily. "I do not 
 care so much for Maxwell but that I could cut out his 
 image if he proves unworthy." 
 
 "Well and bravely said," cried" Hamberton. "Every 
 woman should have that fortitude, and half the evils of 
 life would be spared. And, if all comes right, if Maxwell 
 is, as you believe, and I think, a good fellow, what then?" 
 
 "Well then," said Claire, "I shall send him to you." 
 
 Hamberton laughed. And then muttering: 
 
 "This is too sudden! Ask papa!" he turned away. 
 He had jested gaily, but his heart was heavy.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 SHAKESPEARIAN RECITALS 
 
 If Father Cosgrove was grievously troubled these days 
 about the fate which hung over Brandon Hall, and the 
 strangers who had become so dear to him, the mysterious 
 agent, as he deemed it, of that Fate was no less grievously 
 tormented. 
 
 Maxwell had heard from the old Major, in reply to his 
 letter about Lisheen. The business details were easily 
 settled. Colonel Bernards was only too glad to get such 
 a troublesome place off his hands, and he sold his entire 
 and unencumbered interest in it to Maxwell for three 
 hundred pounds. But here arose the difficulty. How 
 now could he carry out his hidden design not only to re- 
 store these poor people to their home, but to make that 
 home a wonder and a surprise to them and their neigh- 
 bours for ever ? He had become deeply attached to them, 
 and many a night he remained awake, planning a new 
 farm-house, new furniture, new bams, fences perfect, 
 gates of the most modem pattem, etc. He frequently 
 pictured to himself (and found intense pleasure in the 
 fancy) the wonder, the delight of these poor people, when 
 on emerging from prison, and expecting only to see a 
 mined house and a desolate farm before them, they would 
 find themselves reinstated in a place that would be abso- 
 lutely luxurious by comparison. But how could he do it ? 
 
 310
 
 SHAKESPEARIAN RECITALS 311 
 
 He dared not show himseK at Lisheen. The story of his 
 supposed treacher}' to the McAuliffes had gone far and 
 wide, and he would risk his Ufe if he were seen about 
 the place. He could have written to his agent, but he 
 didn't care just yet to reveal his position, except where 
 his secret could be kept. He thought of consulting 
 Hamberton, but he shrank as yet from the revelation. 
 And, let it be said, he wished to win Claire Moulton for 
 his wife without the adventitious help that would arise 
 from a knowledge of his real position. Yet, time was 
 rushing by. In three months the McAuHffes would be 
 released from prison, and then — his beautiful castle 
 would topple over and fall. 
 
 The good old Major, too, had hinted rather brusquely 
 that Mabel was not happy. Even his old, blind eyes had 
 seen it. And he said little things, expressed httle regrets, 
 with here and there an "Alas I" and an "If," that signified 
 much. Was Maxwell sorry and sympathetic? Hardly. 
 For human pride is flattered when those who have spumed 
 us have had reason to regret what they have done. Some- 
 times he would feel a little savage against the IMajor, 
 against Mabel, but most of all against Outram, whom 
 he had always disliked. 
 
 "The cad," he would mutter between his teeth, "I 
 knew he would break her heart. Poor Mab! Queen 
 Mab!" 
 
 He was in one of these moods when he received a letter 
 from Outram demanding back the talisman — the ring 
 with the strange intaglio, which was to be the pledge, and 
 in some wise the guerdon, of Maxwell's banishment. 
 Outram contended that as Maxwell had not kept his
 
 312 LISHEEN 
 
 engagement to live as a farm labourer for twelve months, 
 he should now resign the talisman and confess himself 
 defeated in his Quixotic scheme. To this Maxwell sent 
 the following reply: 
 
 Cahercon, April 30, 18 — . 
 
 Dear Outram: I beg to acknowledge receipt of your letter. 
 I thought that Major Willoughby would have kept my present 
 position and incognito secret, particularly from you. But quite 
 possibly, the many troubles, domestic and others, that are now 
 pressing on the Major's mind, and disturbing his peace, may have 
 rendered him forgetful for the moment of the prudence that should 
 have guarded my secret, especially from you. You are quite mis- 
 taken in supposing that I have not kept my engagement. I have 
 had some grievous hardships, but I have received much illumina- 
 tion also; and I consider myself much a better man than when last 
 I sat in your company in a Dublin club. I am still employed 
 here as overseer and time-keeper, but also as farm-servant and 
 labourer. I have served six months in much the same capacity, 
 but under lower and more menial conditions. I have suffered 
 much, but made no mistake; and shall continue my probation for 
 a better life until the term agreed upon has expired. And until 
 then, I shall retain the bauble you were good enough to lend me. 
 The Gods will protect you. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Robert Maxwell. 
 
 A letter which made Ralph Outram very uneasy. Cold 
 and brutal and unfeeling, he felt the web of Fate closing 
 around him; and with the intense superstitions that haunt 
 such minds, he placed a hope in that httle ring and its 
 intaglio. 
 
 The night for the Shakespearian recitals came round 
 rapidly. Maxwell had drilled some young village lads to
 
 SHAKESPEARIAN RECITALS 
 
 313 
 
 take subordinate parts in the entertainment, but he re- 
 served the main characters for Claire Moulton and him- 
 self. There were many rehearsals, held in the loft over 
 the marble stores, but now transformed into a theatre 
 with lights, and an improvised stage, drop curtains, side 
 scenes and all. The more Claire Moulton saw of him 
 during these rehearsals, although she studied him closely 
 under the light of a dark suspicion, the more she became 
 convinced that, whatever was his history, two things were 
 clear — he was of gentle birth and had had a liberal 
 education, and he was not only an honourable man, but 
 had a peculiar tenderness in his character which marked 
 him as one of Nature's nobility. For if the hall-mark of 
 nobility in the eyes of the noble is unemotional serenity, 
 the hall-mark of nobihty of Nature is gentleness and ten- 
 derness towards all, even the most humble. Yet she thought 
 sometimes — it is suffering that has made him thus ; but 
 this rather increased than diminished her interest in him, 
 now rapidly growing into something more deep and tender. 
 There was a crowded house, for the people gathered in 
 from all quarters to see the novelty. It would be difficult 
 to conjecture what they expected, but it is to be feared 
 that if they thought the programme was intended to be 
 purely educational, they would not have been too eager 
 to come. ''Fun and frolic," "Pancm et circenses," are 
 still our cry. But nothing was more foreign to Maxwell's 
 intentions. He had a mission of elevation, of pushing up 
 these gifted people, who were, alas, unconscious of their 
 gifts, to higher levels ; and he knew no other way of effect- 
 ing this than by submitting to them the masterpieces of 
 the world's literary master.
 
 314 LISHEEN 
 
 He was delighted beyond measure at his success. The 
 long hall looked well in the lamplight. The rude, bare 
 rafters were wrapped in festoons of ivy and long tendrils 
 of woodbine, just then breaking into leaf. The stage was 
 rude, and the benches were rude, but the former was 
 covered with plants and flowers, the latter were filled 
 with an eager and, as events proved, a most appreciative 
 and intelligent audience. Hamberton sat in the front 
 bench, more moody than cynical, for he knew that behind 
 the mock tragedy on the stage there was a more real and 
 terrible tragedy impending. 
 
 The proceedings commenced with the singing of one or 
 two of Shakespeare's lyrics, and then came the murder 
 scene in Macbeth. The two leading characters were so 
 disguised that the simple peasantry failed to recognise 
 them, and this made the awful scene more impressive. It 
 would have flattered Claire Moulton exceedingly, at least 
 in her dramatic role, could she have heard the comments 
 that were made by this impressionable and emotional 
 audience upon her impersonation of Lady Macbeth. It 
 was simply marvellous how they caught up the thread of 
 the story — the weakness and vacillation of Macbeth, the 
 more than masculine determination of his wife, his despair : 
 
 "She's the divil out an' out," whispered one. 
 
 "She'd do it herself, only she thought she saw her 
 father," said another. 
 
 " Wondher that same shtopped her," said a third. But 
 there was universal contempt for Macbeth. A murderer 
 was bad enough, but a weak murderer, and one who 
 would place the guilt on innocent men, was beyond all 
 human forgiveness.
 
 SHAKESPEARIAN RECITALS 315 
 
 In the last scene of the second part of the programme, 
 the murder of Desdemona, rustic feelings ran very high. 
 The callousness of Othello, and his short, brutal answers 
 to Desdemona's plaintive and piteous appeals for mercy, 
 seemed to wind the people up to a pitch of desperation. 
 Their contempt for the "nigger," their pity for his beauti- 
 ful wife, and the excellent acting of both, infuriated the 
 people, until they quite lost themselves, forgot it was a 
 drama, and thought they were face to face with a real 
 tragedy. The women were moaning and crying, the chil- 
 dren were yelling with fright, and, at the moment when 
 the Moor went over and placed the fatal pillow on the 
 lips of the unhappy woman, there was a general rising of 
 the men, which would have issued badly for Othello had 
 not Hamberton risen and with one motion of his hand 
 quelled the emotions of the people. They sat down 
 quivering with excitement, which was only stilled when 
 Othello drove the dagger into his own breast. This 
 appeared to relieve their feelings. 
 
 "Bad ind to the ruffian. Sure it was only what he 
 desarved." 
 
 "Where's the good of his sorra? They're always sorry 
 whin it can't be remedied." 
 
 "Yerra, shure 'twas only play actin' they won" 
 
 "Yerra, av coorse, didn't ye hear the Masther say so?" 
 
 "Begor thin,' 'twas quare play acthin'. Didn't ye see 
 him smother the poor girl ? An' drive the soord into his 
 own stumac?" 
 
 "Yerra, sure they say 'twas Miss Claire, and that she 
 isn't dead at all." 
 
 "Miss Claire? Be this an' that, av I thought 'twas
 
 3i6 LISHEEN 
 
 Miss Claire, I'd have settled that chap before he sot a 
 wet finger upon her." 
 
 The reahsm, indeed, was but too perfect, and Maxwell 
 became the butt of that truculent amusement with which 
 crowds often pursue a victim who has merely assumed a 
 part. If you wear a lion's skin you must expect a lion's 
 measure of fear or reprobation. And in Ireland, where a 
 witty judge has said, everything is Opera Boufje, a man 
 must suffer for whatever part he assumes in the curious 
 melodrama. 
 
 And so Othello, in his white tunic and red tasselled 
 girdle, was pursued by a hooting crowd to his own door, 
 when the recitals were over. 
 
 " Ss — ss — ss — sh — sh — sh ! Look at him, the 
 dirty nigger, who smothered his wife! Begor, what a 
 beauty you wor that she should take a fancy to you! 
 'Twas jealousy, my dear! Sure he thought no wan as 
 handsome as himself! He'll want another now to settle 
 her agin! Bah! Bah! Ss — ss — ss — ss!" 
 
 More or less terrified and disgusted, and yet half 
 pleased with the unconscious flattery of the mob, he 
 murmured to himself: 
 
 " Clearly, the work of educating these people is no child's 
 play." 
 
 He was hot and fatigued from his exertions and was 
 slowly washing off the burnt cork that disguised him, 
 when Mrs. Donegan, who was his maid-of-all-work, came 
 in and said: 
 
 "There are two gentlemen waiting to see you out- 
 side." 
 
 "Let them wait," he said impatiently.
 
 SHAKESPEARIAN RECITALS 317 
 
 But they didn't. They came in, without fuss or excite- 
 ment, and the foremost said: 
 
 "Your name is Maxwell? Robert Maxwell?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maxwell, brusquely. "What do you 
 want?" 
 
 "I've come to arrest you," said the man, "on a charge, 
 or rather a suspicion, of being concerned in the murder 
 of a girl." 
 
 The thought of Desdemona and the part he had just 
 taken towards her was so uppermost in Max^vell's mind 
 that he was quite sure the officer referred to her, and he 
 said angrily: 
 
 "You d — d fool, don't you know that it was but a 
 Shakespearian dialogue. It's bad enough to be hooted by 
 that ignorant mob outside, but you should know better." 
 
 "It has nothing to do with that," said the officer. 
 "The charge is a more serious one, I regret to say. Come 
 with us." 
 
 "Allow me," said Maxwell, seeing that the thing looked 
 serious. "There is some stupid and abominable mistake. 
 You say I'm charged with murder, or complicity in mur- 
 der. Where, and when?" 
 
 "I'd advise you," said the officer, "for your o\\ti sake 
 to say no more. This is my warrant, if you care to see it. 
 We've been looking for you for some time." 
 
 "I tell you there is some infernal mistake somewhere," 
 said Maxwell. "I never had anything to do with ^•iolence 
 except on the stage. Or is this all a practical joke?" 
 
 " Come, come," said the officer. " We can't delay. We 
 have a car waiting. If you use any violence or show 
 resistance, I shall have to handcuff you."
 
 3i8 LISHEEN 
 
 Utterly dazed and bewildered at the sudden turn in his 
 affairs, yet perfectly conscious of his innocence, Maxwell 
 swiftly made his toilet, and called in Mrs. Donegan, 
 bidding her see after his affairs during a short absence. 
 Then, turning to the officers, he said, coldly, but 
 politely : 
 
 "You are making a serious mistake for which I shall 
 make you pay. But I cannot resist you. Please take me 
 before Mr. Hamberton. I must see him." 
 
 Hamberton was in his dining-room at supper when the 
 visitors were announced. Claire Moulton, still habited as 
 Desdemona, was with him. They were talking over the 
 events of the evening, and laughing at the unconscious 
 flattery of the people towards Maxwell, when the latter 
 entered, accompanied by the officers. 
 
 "You must forgive this unwarrantable intrusion, Mr. 
 Hamberton," he said, in a voice somewhat unsteady from 
 emotion, "but our stage fictions have had a curious ending. 
 These gentlemen charge me with actual murder." 
 
 Hamberton was silent, looking down at the table, and 
 toying with his knife. Maxwell gulped down something 
 and went on: 
 
 "I have not the faintest idea to what they refer, and they 
 refuse to give any information. They seem to think they 
 are conceding a high privilege in not having handcuffed 
 me. There is some stupid mistake somewhere, but at 
 least it has one good result. It solves a difficulty for me, 
 and compels me to make a revelation to you, which 
 otherwise I should have no excuse for doing." 
 
 Hamberton was still silent, but manifested more interest 
 here. Claire Moulton was devouring Maxwell with her
 
 SHAKESPEARIAN RECITALS 319 
 
 eyes. The latter went on, simply and quietly, as if he 
 were telling some one else's story: 
 
 "My name is Maxwell, Robert Maxwell, I am the 
 landlord of this district, and therefore your landlord." 
 
 Hamberton now stood up. Claire Moulton looked at 
 him meaningly, and a smile of pleasure and triumph stole 
 over her features. 
 
 "I am a Trinity man," Maxwell continued, "an M. A. 
 of Trinity, and I have read long and deeply. That's why 
 I am here. I could have done like all my college asso- 
 ciates and compeers, — killed so many foxes, shot so 
 many brace of partridge or pheasants, evicted so many 
 tenants, and remained an honoured and respected member 
 of the aristocracy, but I read and read and understood 
 that life has finer issues than these, and that I was called 
 to a more arduous and lofty mission. I read somewhere 
 that sooner or later every spirit is tested, and an alter- 
 native placed before it, to ascend the summit of being, and 
 find in its cold, clear atmosphere its rightful place, or to 
 remain deep down in the valleys of Paphos, and pursue 
 an easy, voluptuous existence, sanctioned by the usages 
 of society, but condemned by my own conscience. I made 
 up my mind. I was the owner of broad acres, and I held 
 the lives and happiness of many toilers and workers in 
 my hands — " 
 
 "Pardon, one moment," said Hamberton. Then, turn- 
 ing to the officers of the law, he said: 
 
 "You see you have made a grim mistake, my men. 
 Perhaps, however, you would wait outside, until I clear 
 the matter up." 
 
 "If you can guarantee, sir, — I fear there is a mistake.
 
 320 LISHEEN 
 
 aixi that this is the 'mad landlord' some of us have been 
 questing for. But we must do our duty," 
 
 "All right! That's all right," said Hamberton, im- 
 patiently. "But I promise you he won't escape through 
 the window. Don't you see he's a gentleman?" 
 
 And the officers went out. 
 
 " Go on, Mr. Maxwell," said Hamberton. "This grows 
 interesting." 
 
 "I was saying," said Maxwell, flushed and excited, 
 "that I held the lives and happiness of many poor earth- 
 diggers and spade-slaves in my hands, and I could, if I 
 had chosen, unrebuked by the customs of the age and 
 society, have extracted their sweat, and coined it for my 
 own selfish use. But, as I tell you, I had read wisely or 
 unwisely; and I felt I had duties towards these serfs, as 
 well as rights over their wretched labour. I felt that 
 someone was called to raise up this wretched and teeming 
 population above chronic conditions of starvation and 
 ignorance, and I knew this could not be done from outside. 
 They would suspect the motive of the benefaction, and 
 they would have reason to suspect it, and my toil would 
 be in vain. I determined to go down amongst them, to 
 become one of themselves. The idea was floating for a 
 long time before my mind, but only took shape when I 
 was taunted about it in a Dublin club. I took fire. I 
 was challenged to do what everj^one deemed impracticable, 
 and even insane. There was one man especially there, 
 a returned Indian, who was conspicuously contemptuous. 
 I had reason to dislike him and suspect him. He con- 
 tinued to taunt me. He wore a ring — an intaglio, to 
 which he attached superstitious importance. I suddenly
 
 SHAKESPEARIAN RECITALS 321 
 
 conceived an idea. I made a promise to go down and 
 become a day-labourer amongst the peasantry, and to live 
 their liveg for twelve months, but I demanded that ring in 
 return. He would have refused, but he was shamed into 
 it. This is the ring." 
 
 He handed it carelessly to Hamberton, who examined it 
 closely, and passed it on to Claire, who studied it also, 
 and then unconsciously retained it. 
 
 "It is not much," said Hamberton. "One of those 
 talismans which Arabian Mussulmen wear. It is phos- 
 phorescent, is it not?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maxwell. "Well, at last, he consented, 
 and I took up my strange role and came down here to 
 Lisheen. I had tried several farmers for employment, 
 but met refusals everywhere. I was too genteel a tramp, 
 I suppose. At last, footsore and weary and hungry and 
 in despair, I came to Lisheen. The poor old woman was 
 alone in her kitchen when I entered and made the usual 
 appeal of a beggar. She took me in, gave me food and 
 lodging and such sympathy as a poor, starved tramp 
 alone can appreciate. Her husband came in, her son, 
 her daughter. It was all ahke. I asked for work, and got 
 it. Need I say, it was nominal on my part. My limbs 
 ached under a pressure that was merely pleasant to these 
 athletes of Nature. Yet I was not dismissed. They 
 treated me as one of themselves, only that they worked 
 and I was idle. At last, I made up my mind to depart, 
 and had actually gone, when they forced me back. The 
 young girl, Debbie, came after me and ordered me back. 
 It was well for me. That night I was down with rheu- 
 matic fever, and was ill for three weeks, during which
 
 322 LISHEEN 
 
 they nursed me with infinite solicitude and care. Was I 
 grateful? God knows I was. The time has come for 
 proving my gratitude now. You know all. How they 
 struggled against an impossible rent, how Netterville took 
 his revenge — " 
 
 "I understand all," said Hamberton. "But I cannot 
 make out why you prevented a settlement with the sheriff 
 that day. You know they resented it and the whole 
 country-side with them." 
 
 "I do," said Maxwell, smiHng. "But I wanted them 
 to touch the very bedrock of trouble, in order to build on 
 it more permanently, and I wanted to show another 
 example to the world of what an Irish agent can do. 
 And now you have to help me. This unfortunate arrest, 
 or rather ridiculous and stupid blunder, has precipitated 
 matters. So much the better. Here are the title-deeds — 
 the fee-simple of that farm at Lisheen, which I have 
 purchased from the landlord and made over to the 
 McAulififes for ever. I want you, knowing your benevo- 
 lence, to arrange for me, whilst I am away, to have that 
 farm-house rebuilt on the newest and most modem plans 
 of comfort, retaining all its old homely features. I want 
 the byres to have seven cows feeding in them when these 
 poor people come out of prison. I want to have ten 
 sheep on the fields. I want all the fences repaired, new 
 gates hung up, the land tilled and sown. You can get 
 the Land League to do it. They'll do anything for you. 
 They'd shoot me. In a word, I want everything done 
 for them that can be done, down to the pot on the fire, 
 and the hens in the coop, and the pig in her stye, and I 
 rely on you to do it. Need I say I shall bear the expense ?"
 
 SHAKESPEARIAN RECITALS 323 
 
 He stopped. Claire Moulton, though in tears, looked 
 smilingly at her guardian. 
 
 " 'Tis a strange, -weird story," said Hamberton, walking 
 up and down the room. "One of the things that would 
 be impossible out of Ireland, and impossible in Ireland, 
 I would say, if I had not seen it. But my dear fellow, 
 when you have conquered these kingdoms, what do you 
 propose to do?" 
 
 "To sell my property, liberate my slaves, and settle 
 down here to work for humanity with you." 
 
 "Tut, tut, nonsense," said Hamberton. "You could 
 never settle down here alone." 
 
 "Not quite alone, uncle," said Claire Moulton, coming 
 over and standing near Maxwell. Her eyes were red 
 from weeping at the singular tale she had heard, and 
 which Maxwell had already partly revealed to her. "With 
 your consent, I have promised Mr, Maxwell to be his 
 wife." 
 
 "Hallo! is that the way the land lies?" said Hamberton. 
 "Is that how you have kept your promise to me?" 
 
 "I didn't break it, uncle," she said, "until I knew all." 
 
 "Of course, of course," said Hamberton. "The old 
 story, the old story. But I must clear up one thing. 
 Hallo, there!" he cried to the officers. 
 
 They came in. 
 
 "Your prisoner is now ready, and perhaps this young 
 lady may accompany him. But, sergeant, look here. 
 There must have been depositions before a warrant could 
 be issued. On whose depositions have you made the 
 frightful blunder of arresting this gentleman who owns 
 half Kerry?"
 
 324 LISHEEN 
 
 "The young girl's who was arrested at Lisheen at the 
 eviction," said the officer. 
 
 "Debbie McAuHffe?" said Maxwell in amazement. 
 
 "That's her name, I think, sir." 
 
 "But what could have put such an idea in the girl's 
 head?" reflected Maxwell. "I suppose she was angry 
 about the eviction." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Hamberton, looking at Claire. 
 "But her revenge was rather tragic. And how could she 
 have conceived the idea of murder?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Maxwell. "They all took me for 
 an army deserter, except this girl, who from the first 
 maintained a different opinion. However, I had better 
 go on and clear matters up. There's something gained, 
 for they say every decent man in Ireland must go to gaol 
 some time or another. Au revoir!'^ He held out his 
 hand to Hamberton. "You undertake to do all I require 
 about Lisheen?" 
 
 "Ye-es," said Hamberton. "I think it Quixotic, but 
 everything you have done hitherto is so. You only want 
 the pot for a helmet and your equipment is complete." 
 
 "Well, I have found my Dulcinea," said Maxwell, 
 laughing. 
 
 "And Claire has found her hero," said Hamberton. 
 "But what will Father Cosgrove say, I wonder."
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 A LEPER 
 
 When Outram tapped at his wife's door and uninvited 
 entered, he found the room in complete darkness. He 
 could not distinguish Mabel's figure, and said hesita- 
 tingly: 
 
 " Mabel, are you here ? " 
 
 "Yes," she said firmly. "I am here. What do you 
 seek?" 
 
 "Let me ring for a light. There's something wrong. 
 What is it?" 
 
 "You have come into my room," she said, "unasked. 
 You have something to say, or seek! Better say it in the 
 darkness than in the light. What is it?" 
 
 "Mabel," he said, "there's something evidently wrong. 
 This is unusual. Are you coming down to dinner? Or, 
 look here — " he said, as if suddenly struck by a new idea, 
 "will you let me send for Dr. BelHngham? Clearly, you 
 are not well. 
 
 He had come over, guided by her voice and by the faint 
 gleam of pallor from her face, and stood over her, as she 
 sat by the window. 
 
 "Again, I repeat," she said, "you have come here 
 unsolicited. Furthermore, you are acting a part, and 
 acting it badly. You have something to say; say it. If 
 you have naught to say, leave me." 
 
 325
 
 326 LISHEEN 
 
 He still kept a firm hold on his rising temper, though 
 he felt his hands trembling. 
 
 "For God's sake, Mab," he said, "let nothing come 
 between us now. We are too recently yoked to quarrel. 
 There will be misunderstandings, I suppose, for ever, 
 between married people, but as a rule, they are easily 
 cleared up. Now, it is clear, we both have tempers. We 
 can't help that. But, for God's sake, let us give and take. 
 We have to consult for each other's happiness, or at least, 
 peace. And there's the old man, your father, to consider. 
 I know he doesn't hke this kind of thing, and he's 
 troubled — " 
 
 "Yes," she said, "he is troubled, and why?" 
 
 "Why? Because you are giving way to nerves, or 
 temper, or something feminine, which we men don't 
 understand." 
 
 "He understands," she said, "too much, but not all." 
 
 "What then does he understand?" said Outram. 
 "Come, let us have explanations. There's nothing like 
 clearing the air," 
 
 "He understands," said Mabel, slowly, but with terrible 
 distinctness, "that he and I have made the blunder of 
 our Uves. He understands that I have paid, for my partial 
 disobedience to his wishes, a fearful penalty. He under- 
 stands that on the day, I, in my girlish folly and ambition, 
 promised to be your wife, it would have been better if he 
 had seen me dead. He understands that partly for him, 
 altogether for me, there is no more peace or happiness 
 any more for ever." 
 
 "Not very complimentary," said Outram, "but at least 
 you will be pleased to remember that I did not force
 
 A LEPER 327 
 
 myself on you in any undue or unbecoming manner. 
 You are not pleased with me — I, at least, conjecture that 
 to be your meaning — but you married position, and 
 power, and a certain place in society. You still retain 
 them, and you have no reason to complain." 
 
 The words were cutting because they were so terribly 
 true. Mabel dared not deny them. He was encouraged. 
 
 "You could have married," he went on, "that idiotic 
 cousin of yours, and been now a dairy-maid in Kerry, 
 instead of being one of the recognised queens of such 
 society as we have here, but you chose better. Why do 
 you complain?" 
 
 "Because I didn't know," she said with contrition, "the 
 penalty of such pride, the terrible conditions attaching to 
 it." 
 
 "You mean my personahty?" 
 
 She hesitated to say the offensive word. But he per- 
 sisted. 
 
 "It is I who am the horror. Is it not?" 
 
 She muttered a feeble yes. 
 
 "Of course," he said bitterly, "I am not the Adonis 
 you imagined. The Lord didn't make me a Count 
 d'Orsay, a padded creature of stays and corsets to catch 
 the eye of a silly girl. But you have all you anticipated 
 otherwise. Surely, you didn't expect love in the bargain ? " 
 
 She was silent. He knew his advantage, and went on 
 mercilessly : 
 
 "You bartered your happiness dehberately for other 
 things," he said. "But you did no more than every 
 other woman in society. People may read novels, but 
 even the most silly of school-misses doesn't believe in
 
 328 LISHEEN 
 
 them. Their good mammas take care of that. Girls 
 marry in these unpoetical and prosaic days for money, 
 position, a place in society, and they are prepared to take 
 with such things their disadvantages. For Nature is im- 
 partial, ma chirie. Where she gives beauty, she balances 
 it with idiocy, where she gives inteUigence, she retrieves 
 the gift with ugliness or moral malformation. Your 
 Adonis is always a fool. Now, most women beheve and 
 understand this, and are content with a few of the gifts 
 of fortune. You want all." 
 
 " I wanted at least as much as I gave," she said. "When 
 a girl gives up everything she expects some return." 
 
 "Well said, my dear," he cried with a tone of triumph. 
 "Now, we are beginning to understand. You see there 
 is nothing Hke an academic argument, hke this, to throw 
 light on matters, although this seems sUghtly out of place 
 in such Cimmerian gloom. Now, let us pursue this train 
 of thought, which you have so admirably started. You 
 looked on our marriage as a bargain, as a contract, where 
 there should be a fair interchange of goods. Neither of 
 us pretended then, or pretends now, to any sentimentaUty 
 on the matter. Now, it does not reflect credit on my 
 business tact or talent to have to admit that I think you 
 have had decidedly the best of the bargain. You mar- 
 ried for position, ease, social rank, etc., etc., I married 
 that I might have a handsome woman, whom I could call 
 my wife, and who would be known in society as Mrs. 
 Ralph Outram. I obtained that desire. Mrs. Ralph 
 Outram is the queen of fashion, the c}Tiosure of all eyes 
 in the drawing-room, at the theatre, at the ball; and I am 
 rewarded when I hear one eye-glassed idiot say after
 
 A LEPER 
 
 329 
 
 another; 'What a demd handsome woman! Who 
 is she?' And the reply is: 'Mrs. Ralph Outram — 
 Outram, you know, who is aide-de-camp, etc.' It is a 
 poor compensation, I admit, but que voulez-vous? I say 
 to myself. You couldn't have done better. But, my 
 dear Mabel, don't you see the balance is on your side? 
 Position, wealth, social rank, admiration, envy on your 
 side; and, on mine, the poor compensation of being 
 ranked as Mrs. Outram's husband. Now, fie! fie! When 
 a girl has made such a tremendous bargain, why should 
 she rail against fortune?" 
 
 Mabel sat crouched in her sofa under the terrible 
 words. They were uttered so cynically, so coolly, that 
 she could not reply; and, above all, they were truel She 
 sold herself in the marriage-market, and she had no 
 reason to complain of the price. She could only feebly 
 say: 
 
 "When people repent of their bargain, they are some- 
 times allowed to revoke it. Have you any objection ?" 
 
 "The greatest, my dear. I could not think of revok- 
 ing such an important contract, and one so advantageous 
 to you on any terms. You see I am disinterested. I do 
 not consider myself. All the gain is on your side; and I 
 have such a deep interest in you that I should consider 
 myself ungenerous were I to take advantage of your 
 offer. No! my dear wz"/^," he laid terrible emphasis on 
 the word, "we are linked together for good or ill, and 
 must remain so. And now, one little word! You are 
 very innocent if you don't know that these little differ- 
 ences of temperament do exist in all married circles. 
 They do. Men of the world, hke myself, understand
 
 33© LISHEEN 
 
 this well; and, when they see more than the usual demon- 
 strations of affection between married people, they shrug 
 their shoulders, and say something about Mrs. Caudle's 
 Lectures. But they are wise enough to keep their secrets 
 to themselves. Now, this is what I want you to do. 
 Whatever happens, you must understand that the social 
 convenances shall not, and must not, be put aside. In 
 polite circles, emotionalism is a crime. Anything but 
 that. You may be angry, or discontented, or envious, 
 or unhappy; but you must not show it. We do not love 
 each other; and I suppose never shall — ?" 
 
 He stopped as if questioning her. 
 
 "Never," she said solemnly. 
 
 "Very good. Tant mieux. But at least, let us not 
 have scenes. Now, that little scene last night was not 
 quite becoming. It hurts people. And, what is worse, 
 it makes people talk, and conjecture, and form 
 opinions." 
 
 "What do you refer to ?" she asked, feeling at last that 
 he was plunging beyond his depth, out of the region 
 where his cynicism made him safe. 
 
 "I mean your collapse, your fainting-fit, your un- 
 govemed emotion in that drawing-room. It was un- 
 guarded, and unbecoming." 
 
 "I could not help it," she said, drawing him into deeper 
 depths. 
 
 "Oh, yes! you could. There was really no necessity 
 for it." 
 
 "It was a dread revelation to a woman, to a wife," 
 she said. 
 
 "What? You don't mean that any woman would
 
 A LEPER 
 
 331 
 
 regard a little excess as an unforgivable offence in her 
 husband?" 
 
 "Quite the reverse," she answered. "I regarded it as 
 a blessing." 
 
 "As a blessing?" 
 
 "Quite so!" 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Because for the first time you told the truth, and 
 revealed yourself." 
 
 "How? I don't understand," he said. The darkness 
 shut out the sight of pallid lips and whitened face. But 
 Mabel knew that her moment of triumph had come. 
 Yet she hesitated. The truth was too terrible to be 
 spoken. Even to such a callous and unfeeling wretch, 
 it was hard to speak so bitter a word. But she felt it was 
 an opportunity that once lost would never be recovered. 
 She recalled for a moment all his stinging words to for- 
 tify her lest her woman's hearT should fail her. She 
 repeated them, over and over in her mind; and yet so 
 swiftly that the pause seemed unnoticed. The bitter 
 language stung and smote her into a passionate desire 
 for revenge. She yearned to say the one word that 
 would kill him. But, she had discretion enough left to 
 allow him to drag the fatal word forth. 
 
 "You told a strange story," she said. "It was sen- 
 sational enough for a new magazine." 
 
 "Yes, when it made you faint and swoon," he 
 replied. 
 
 "It was well invented," she said. 
 
 "I'm glad to hear you say so," he said. "It reflects 
 credit on my imagination. It so excited the fancy of
 
 332 LISHEEN 
 
 that professor over his whisky, that he should have it 
 again over his tea." 
 
 "It cleared up one or two mysteries for me," said 
 Mabel. 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 "Yes! The Sanscrit writing that came with the 
 porphyry vase." Then she added, as in a tone of un- 
 concern : 
 
 "The porphyry vase is broken!" 
 
 He started back, and muttered in a tone of alarm: 
 
 "Hell! Who broke it?" 
 
 "I," she said. "The green snake stirred in the bottom 
 of the vase, and I thought it might have stung me. I 
 struck it with the heavy steel shell, and the snake was 
 crushed into powder; and the vase parted in two." 
 
 "You have done an evil thing," he repUed. "You 
 have summoned and defied your Fate, and you will rue 
 it. Come now. Let us see the mischief you have 
 wrought!" 
 
 He put down his hand in the darkness, as if to reach 
 her shoulder. He touched her cheek rudely. She 
 sprang instantly to her feet, and flung him aside. 
 
 "How dare you touch me," she said, "you — a leper? 
 How dare you come into a respectable family, that has 
 never had a physical or moral blot or stain for genera- 
 tions on their family history, and bring your loathsome 
 presence there? You, an unknown adventurer, whose 
 secret and awful record is only now being revealed; you, 
 a drunkard and a profligate; you, the companion and 
 confidant of occult and loathsome things over there in 
 India; you, the hypocrite, carrying your shmy ways into
 
 A LEPER 333 
 
 decent society, at which you rail and cry out in order to 
 hide your own moral deformity; and you, once a leper 
 by your own confession, and therefore a leper for ever; 
 how could you have the courage, how could you have 
 the heart, you unclean thing, to steal into our home, and 
 bring with you such moral and physical loathsomeness ? 
 You have given me position, wealth, social position ? 
 Take them! Take them! and give me back my inno- 
 cence, my ignorance. But you cannot. Oh, my God! 
 you cannot. The evil is done, and not God Himself 
 can undo it! And I am betrayed and lost! I, Mabel 
 Willoughby, who couldn't bear on my finger-tips the 
 presence of an ink spot, nor on my garments the pin- 
 point of a speck; I, who would shudder at a prick of a 
 needle, and thought myself polluted if a fly rested on my 
 hand, — I have to bear your presence, to sit with you 
 at table, drinking in the pollution of your presence, and 
 the hateful contagion that you breathe. You unclean 
 brute! there is no punishment on earth sufficient for 
 your crime! But go! Go where you please; and carry 
 with you the curse and the despair of the wrecked and 
 ruined girl you have betrayed!" 
 
 Whilst she uttered this last word, she heard the door 
 opening, and saw by the reflection of the gas-jets outside 
 the miserable creature creeping from the room. Then 
 she threw herself back on the sofa, murmuring: 
 
 "Father! Oh, Father!" 
 
 She was suddenly startled by a fearful crash on the 
 stairs, and the sound of a heavy body falling. She held 
 her breath, divining what it was. There was a rush of
 
 334 LISHEEN 
 
 feet, the stifled screams of servants, the rustling and 
 pushing of people vainly trying to lift something weighty. 
 Then a tap at her door. 
 
 "Mr. Outram has a fit, ma'am, on the stairs. Will 
 you come and see him?" 
 
 She came forth, and her wild pale face startled the 
 servants. She came slowly down into the lobby, shading 
 her eyes from the gas-light, until she stood over the pros- 
 trate body of her husband. The butler and footman 
 were trying to hft the inanimate form, whilst the girl- 
 servants helped. Mabel stood still as a statue, looking 
 down on the wretched creature she had dismissed from 
 her side for ever. They had torn open his collar to give 
 him room to breathe freely. There was a gash on his 
 forehead, where he had struck against some sharp pro- 
 jection when falHng. He was quite unconscious. The 
 dining-room bell was ringing furiously, where the old, 
 feeble, chair-tied Major was clamouring to know the 
 cause of the disturbance. Mabel coldly ordered the 
 servants to take the prostrate and bleeding form into 
 the breakfast parlour on the ground floor. She swiftly 
 ordered the doctor to be sent for; and then went in to 
 speak to her father. 
 
 "Ralph has had a fall or a heavy fit," she said. "I 
 have sent for the doctor." 
 
 "How — how did it happen?" asked her father, 
 watching with some curiosity her white, drawn face. 
 
 "I don't know. I think it was what they call 'a visita- 
 tion of Providence.'" 
 
 "Where was he? Where was he coming from?" 
 
 "From my room. We had some explanations. Father,"
 
 A LEPER 335 
 
 she suddenly cried, "this is the hand of God; and we must 
 flee, flee from this dreadful place." 
 
 "Calm yourself, Mabel," said the old man. "Above 
 all, show nothing to these servants. You know how 
 servants talk." 
 
 "I do. But is it better to have to bear everything in 
 silence, than to be talked about?" 
 
 "Yes, oh yes!" said her father. "Family secrets, you 
 know, family secrets. And then, your own pride! You 
 must never let on that you have made a mistake. That 
 would never do. It would be an admission of defeat, 
 you know. And think of the position you occupy; and 
 how all your friends would exult over your unhappiness." 
 
 "Yes, yes. 'Tis all position, and rank, and secrecy. 
 Oh, if we could only go away somewhere; and be our 
 own natural selves. Father?" 
 
 "Yes, dear!" 
 
 "If anything happens to Ralph — to Mr. Outram, 
 you and I must go away — away — away, anywhere; 
 the more remote the better. We'll take some old castle 
 in Scotland where there's no one within a hundred miles, 
 or go to Brittany, or — somewhere, anywhere out of the 
 world!" 
 
 "Very well, my dear. But I must have some kind of 
 doctor near me. There now, go see after Ralph. The 
 servants will talk if you keep away from him just now." 
 
 She returned to the room where her husband lay in- 
 sensible on the sofa; and, after giving some slight orders, 
 she went upstairs to her room. As she passed through 
 the lobby, she saw that the pedestal on which the por- 
 phyry vase stood had fallen; and that the vase itself lay
 
 336 LISHEEN 
 
 shattered into shreds and fragments on the floor. Clearly, 
 it was against one of the sharp, broken fragments her 
 husband had fallen, after he had stumbled and toppled 
 over the pedestal and vase. 
 
 "There is some horrible mystery in the evil thing," she 
 thought. "I wish I had in my possession, and could 
 read, that girl's letter." 
 
 She took a Hght to her room ; and turned up the gas-jets 
 that hung before her mirror. Then she started back, 
 affrighted at her own appearance. Her eyes were wild 
 and dilated; and her mouth seemed to be drawn down 
 at each side, as if in paralysis ; and the flesh of her cheeks 
 was tightened as if pulled by some hidden agony or force. 
 She shook her head at the apparition. 
 
 "Ah, Lady Clara Vere de Vere," she muttered, "you 
 put strange memories in my head." 
 
 How long she remained in a kind of stupor or ecstasy, 
 staring at herself there in the glass, she could not remem- 
 ber. She was recalled to life and actuahty by a tap at 
 her door and the servant's announcement that the doctor 
 had come. Then she made a few rapid changes in her 
 hair, and went down. 
 
 He had been examining the patient carefully; for 
 Outram's shirt-front was torn open, and his chest was 
 bare. The doctor was bending over him, making some 
 further examinations, when Mabel silently entered. She 
 stood still by the doctor's side. Presently he turned 
 around, and looked at her. 
 
 "Not a fit," he said, "but a fall. He's quite uncon- 
 scious; but he will recover consciousness immediately." 
 
 "He must have stumbled coming down stairs," she said,
 
 A LEPER 
 
 337 
 
 without a trace of emotion, "and thrown down the por- 
 phyry vase and then fallen on it." 
 
 " Very probably. But would you mind leaving me alone 
 for a few moments, until I make a further examination ?" 
 
 He looked at her in a strange way, as if questioning, 
 Can she bear it ? Mabel read his thoughts, and went out. 
 At least this would be a confirmation or a contradiction 
 of her own conclusions. 
 
 Dr. Bellingham leaned over the prostrate form again, 
 gently opened again the shirt-front, and looked long and 
 anxiously at his patient. He then took up the helpless 
 hand and examined it. Then he felt the lobes of the 
 ears. Then Hfted the closed eyelids. 
 
 Ah! those doctors! Grand Inquisitors of the Human 
 Race, from whom there is no secret, because they have 
 their spies in every feature of face, of form; and finger- 
 nails, eyehds, Ups, teeth, babble hke traitors and in- 
 formers the history of the victim, whilst the arch-traitors, 
 the ophthalmoscope and stethoscope, probe into the deepest 
 recesses and whisper to the Grand Inquisitor the terrible 
 secrets of brain and lungs and heart, down even to the 
 last thread of nerve and capillary. And, worse still, they 
 tell what they have no right to tell, of hidden sin, and 
 moral turpitude, and secret vice; and by some terrible 
 system of induction tell too of the hidden history of the 
 dead, — of the father, or grandfather, whose sins were 
 supposed to be buried with themselves. Ah, yes! there 
 is no secret. The very leaves will whisper and tell. 
 
 For a long time Dr. Bellingham watched and felt, and 
 felt and watched, his patient. Then he drew a long sigh, 
 and said, "Poor girl!"
 
 338 LISHEEN 
 
 He touched the bell. Mabel entered. 
 
 "It is as I say, Mrs. Outram," he exclaimed, looking 
 at her with dilated eyes, as if questioning, Does she 
 know? and. Dare I tell? "There is shock and slight 
 concussion from the fall; but the wound has bled freely. 
 He will recover consciousness soon; and the effects will 
 soon pass away. His general health is good, is it 
 not?" 
 
 "I haven't heard Mr. Outram complain," said 
 Mabel. 
 
 "No. He has seen some hard service, I believe. 
 There are cicatrices on breast and arm. I suppose 
 sword-cuts." 
 
 "I never heard my husband say he was in action," 
 said Mabel. 
 
 "No. Perhaps not. It may be something else. But 
 the Major is better, is he not?" 
 
 "My father?" said Mabel, noticing the sudden change 
 in the doctor's words, and divining ill news from that 
 little circumstance. But she quietly said: "No. Not 
 much better. I suppose he will never get better." 
 
 "Hardly. We can only mitigate his sufferings. I 
 had better see him, as I am here." 
 
 Doctor and wife were staring at each other during 
 this brief conversation, doctor asking his conscience, 
 Ought I tell? Mabel asking, Does he know? Both 
 were playing a great part in that ugly drama there in that 
 silent room before that prostrate form. The servants 
 were whispering and tittering outside in the hall. The 
 doctor moved to go. Mabel said : 
 
 "Doctor, I have something to ask you."
 
 A LEPER 339 
 
 "To be sure!" said the doctor, folding up his stetho- 
 scope. 
 
 "About these wounds; these cicatrices!" 
 "Don't!" said the doctor, his eyes filling with tears. 
 "May God help me, then!" said Mabel. 
 "May God help you, child," said the doctor.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 GREAT PREPARATIONS 
 
 Father Cosgrove did not at all like the new develop- 
 ment things were taking. Fate, or the Fates, were rush- 
 ing matters on in a way he decidedly disapproved of. 
 Not that he was what is called in college slang "a safe 
 man." He was one of those imprudent characters that 
 are always doing the very things human foresight tells 
 them they should not do. Nor was he an advocate of 
 that cast-iron conservatism which studies only "the 
 things that are," and whose motto is "Let well alone!" 
 
 He was quite enthusiastic about Maxwell, when Ham- 
 berton told him all. 
 
 "A fine fellow!" he said. "Ah! if we had a few more 
 Hke him!" 
 
 "What would then become of the patience and long- 
 suffering of your people?" Hamberton asked mahciously. 
 "You good Christians are always inconsistent. You 
 say character can only be developed by trial and combat. 
 But you want to avoid trial and evade combat whenever 
 you can. You say adversity is the royal road to Heaven. 
 But you want prosperity by preference, and Heaven into 
 the bargain. You want to catch the two worlds with one 
 hand. Now, if I were anything, I should be a Manichaean. 
 I would like to believe that there is a Spirit of Evil, created 
 specially to prove the good; and an overmastering Spirit, 
 the Over-Soul of things, to reward their fidelity — " 
 
 340
 
 GREAT PREPARATIONS 341 
 
 "That's what we believe!" said Father Cosgrove, 
 faintly. He always felt in the hands of such an an- 
 tagonist as helpless as a babe ; though he knew he had the 
 strength of truth on his own side. 
 
 "Precisely. But you fight the Prince of Darkness by 
 evading him, not by facing and conquering him." 
 
 "Is it all arranged then?" asked Father Cosgrove, 
 anxious to get away from these "foolish controversies." 
 
 "Practically all. You're sorry?" 
 
 "I am. That is — you know — I'm not," said the 
 priest, making circles in the air. "'Twill all come right! 
 'Twill all come right! Providence is guiding all in its 
 own wise way!" 
 
 "There is then a Demiurgos intermeddling in human 
 affairs ?" asked Hamberton. He enjoyed the discomfiture 
 of this simple man, whose faith he admired and envied. 
 
 "No!" said the priest, solemnly. "There is a God, 
 and you will — " he stopped, lest he should say anything 
 harsh, "know it!'' 
 
 " Perhaps ? The great Perhaps ! " muttered Hamberton. 
 
 "Does Mr. Maxwell know all?" asked the priest. 
 
 "All what?" said Hamberton. He was actually get- 
 ting vexed, losing his philosophical equanimity at the 
 reiteration of the word "God." 
 
 "All about everything?" said the priest. 
 
 "Of course!" said Hamberton. "What has he to 
 know?" 
 
 "Oh, of course not," said the priest, inconsequcntly. 
 "I mean all your generous treatment of Miss Moulton's 
 father?" 
 
 Hamberton was struck silent. He watched the pale,
 
 342 LISHEEN 
 
 placid face before him for a long while, trying to read 
 hidden meanings beneath the words. He thought he 
 discerned a subtle arraignment of his own conduct in 
 this simple guise of language. Did this priest mean 
 something else? Did he say, although not in as many 
 words, "You are concealing from this honourable man, 
 Maxwell, the fact that his future wife is the daughter 
 of a felon" ? 
 
 But that pale face was impenetrable. Hamberton 
 would have liked to be angry or cynical; but he couldn't. 
 And his honesty told him that he had made a very 
 serious mistake in not having told Maxwell all before 
 matters reached their crisis. He said gently: 
 
 "You don't want the marriage to take place, good 
 father; and I should be the last to complain, for I know 
 your motives, your generous motives, towards myself. 
 But it must go on. It is fate. And you may trust my 
 honour. Maxwell shall know the whole history of Claire 
 and her father, if he has not already heard it from her 
 own Ups." 
 
 "Quite so! quite so!" said the priest. "You are 
 always so honourable." 
 
 "And now," said Hamberton, "you must give me all 
 the help in your power towards rebuilding Lisheen Cot- 
 tage and putting things in order. You have great in- 
 fluence with the Land League — " 
 
 "You have much greater," said the priest. "They'll 
 do anything for you; and this will make you a hundred 
 times more popular." 
 
 "But I must tell them it is all Maxwell's generosity," 
 said Hamberton.
 
 GREAT PREPARATIONS 343 
 
 "Not yet!" said Father Cosgrove. "That would spoil 
 all just now. They would hardly beheve such an ex- 
 traordinary story; and you know that just now there is a 
 strong feeling against him." 
 
 "I suppose they're not sorry for his arrest?" 
 
 "Indeed no. It was just what they expected," they 
 say. 
 
 "Human nature again, always gloating over mis- 
 fortune. The instinct of the beast everywhere. The 
 same fury that drives a terrier into a rat-hole, or a ferret 
 into a rabbit warren, is dominant in the human heart. 
 And your religion hasn't expelled it. The fisherman on 
 the river bank, plying his 'gentle craft' of murder, the 
 fowler on the hillside with his gun, the hunter on his 
 horse, the prosecutor in a court of what is called justice, 
 the minister plotting war in his cabinet, the mob around 
 a gallows, are all alike. The same brute instinct of 
 destruction is everywhere; and neither religion, nor 
 education, nor progress, nor civilization, can root it out. 
 We are a hopelessly lost race — " 
 
 "There are good men in the world, too," said Father 
 Cosgrove, faintly. 
 
 "A few," said Hamberton. "There would be a good 
 many more, if they would only adopt the maxims and 
 follow the life of that gentle prophet that appeared in 
 Judaea some centuries ago. But all that is dead, dead! 
 Nature has again asserted itself against Christ, and has 
 won all along the line. And human nature is hopelessly 
 bad." 
 
 His head had sunk down upon his chest, as was always 
 the case when he was deeply moved and disturbed.
 
 344 LISHEEN 
 
 Then he flung aside the depression, and said, in a chuckle 
 of delight: 
 
 "Won't it be rare fun deceiving those fellows? What 
 a revelation to those hounds who would hunt Maxwell 
 down? I'll make them cheer themselves into a kind of 
 aphasia, the day I shall be able to reveal to them that 
 there is one man alive. Won't it be dramatic; and won't 
 it be a revenge?" 
 
 "They don't mean it; they are ignorant!" said the 
 priest. 
 
 "Of course, of course. So is the hawk when he has a 
 sparrow in his talons; so is the hound when he has his 
 white teeth in the neck of the hare. Yes: you are right. 
 They are ignorant. It is all blind instinct — that terrible 
 blind force that evolves everything, and then selects, by 
 a cunning process of selection, only those things that are 
 fit to live. But, now, we must commence at once. The 
 time runs by. When does the mighty — the almighty 
 League meet?" 
 
 "On Sundays at the school-room." 
 
 "Then we shall make a beginning next Sunday. It is 
 a good work, is it not ? and therefore no violation of the 
 Sabbath!" 
 
 There was a shght commotion the following Sunday 
 at the Land League, when in the midst of a full house, 
 and in the thick of a hot debate, Hamberton was an- 
 nounced. 
 
 There was instant silence; and all angry feelings were 
 hushed in his presence. He entered with that calm 
 assurance that marks the EngHshman the wide world
 
 GREAT PREPARATIONS 345 
 
 over, — in the hotel, in the dining-hall, in the picture 
 gallery, under the dome of St. Peter's, under the shadow 
 of the Pyramids. Other races assume an air of depreca- 
 tory politeness as if claiming a privilege ; the Enghshman 
 owns the whole world, and claims it as a right. He took 
 the chair offered him obsequiously, and sat down. 
 
 "I just called in to say," he said, without apology or 
 excuse, "that the McAuliflfes are to be reinstated in their 
 homestead the moment they are hberated from prison — " 
 
 There was a mighty cheer and many an exclamation: 
 "God bless yer 'anner, we wouldn't doubt you," etc., etc. 
 
 "And under circumstances that will effectually prevent 
 them from being disturbed again." 
 
 Here there was a wide gape of curiosity and surprise. 
 
 "Their farm has been purchased — " 
 
 There was a scowl and the men closed up. 
 
 "For them." 
 
 There was another mighty cheer. The excitement 
 became almost painful. 
 
 "I hold the deed, granting them fee-simple in Lisheen 
 for ever." 
 
 It was only the natural fear of the "gintleman" that 
 prevented them from lifting up Hambcrton on their 
 shoulders, and chairing him around the room. 
 
 "And now," he continued calmly, "I want you to do 
 this. The friend who has bought this place, and made 
 it over for ever on the McAuUffes (" God bless him, and 
 spare him long") wants to give these poor people a little 
 surprise. He wants them to come into a farm, ready- 
 stocked, — the cows in the byre, the pigs in the sties, the 
 fowl in the yard; he wants the house rebuilt, but main-
 
 346 LISHEEN 
 
 taining all its ancient features ; he wants the fields ploughed 
 and harrowed and sown; the drills full of potatoes, the 
 grass-corn springing from the soil. He wants all the 
 fences repaired, new gates erected, hedges trimmed; and 
 he wants you, the Land League of Lisheen, to do it all." 
 Their faces fell. Where could they get money to do all 
 that gigantic work? 
 
 ''I'm afeard, sir, the 'frind' is playing a joke an us," 
 said the Chairman. "What you're afther spakin' about 
 would cost about two hunner' pound, and where's that 
 to come fram?" 
 
 "Thrue, begor," said a joker. *"Tis like the man that 
 promises a tousand poun's to build a chapel, if every wan 
 else will give a tousand poun's too!" 
 
 Here there was a general and most sarcastic laugh. 
 
 "The friend,^' said Hamberton, with cold sarcasm, 
 "doesn't propose to do things half-way, and leave them 
 there. He is prepared to pay all the expenses of the 
 improvements I have suggested — all ! He simply wants 
 the Land Leaguers of Lisheen, who, I presume, are 
 patriotic, and ready to die for their country, to give the 
 labour. Or, to put it plainly and categorically, he will 
 defray all the expenses of building the house, — masons', 
 carpenters', and all tradesmen's wages; he will pay for 
 gates, and seeds, and manures and everything. He 
 simply wants to know will you plough the field, trim the 
 hedges, put in the seed-com and potatoes — do, in a 
 word, the agricultural labour, and — " he added with 
 some bitterness, "if you require it, he will pay you." 
 
 The bitter words cut them deeply; but they could not 
 resent it.
 
 GREAT PREPARATIONS 347 
 
 "Well, then, as your honour has been so magnanimous," 
 said the Chairman, "it would be a quare thing if we did 
 not second you. I'll guarantee that my plough will be 
 in the field to-morrow at six o'clock — " 
 
 "And I—" 
 
 "And I—" 
 
 "And I — " said a dozen voices. 
 
 "Well, then," said Hamberton, "I leave the labour 
 details in your hands. I go on now to Tralee to see a 
 contractor about the house. I shall see after everything 
 myself; and, when I am not able to be on the spot, my 
 steward will take my place." 
 
 He was turning to go; but they stopped him at the 
 door. One of them came forward sheepishly, and said: 
 
 "Is it the desarter, you mane, yer honour? For, if 
 it is, the divil a wan of us will work ondher him." 
 
 "Yerra, no! Sure he's in gaol, and Ukely to remain 
 there," said another. 
 
 "What objection have you to Maxwell?" said Ham- 
 berton. 
 
 "He interfered the day of the eviction," said the Secre- 
 tary, "and previnted a settlement." 
 
 "And according to all accounts, he's likely to have 
 other occupation," said another. 
 
 "Oh, all right," replied Hamberton. "I won't force 
 him upon the workers. And probably he won't care to 
 have anything to do with it. But — " 
 
 He stopped, and looked around calmly on the excited 
 faces. 
 
 "It would be well for you, good people, not to be too 
 quick at your conclusions about things in general. It is
 
 348 LISHEEN 
 
 not pleasant to have to change your opinions too 
 often." 
 
 And he left. 
 
 Meanwhile, Maxwell had passed through the little 
 trial that was but a prehminary to his release. And 
 leaving the police ofi&ce, where there was no little confu- 
 sion and shame and recriminations for their blundering, 
 he made his way southward, in the warm, sunny weather 
 to his beloved hermitage above Caragh Lake. Of course, 
 now, when he had neither Aleck, nor his tent, he had to 
 put up at the hotel; but as there were only half-a-dozen 
 visitors there, mostly silent Englishmen, he felt no in- 
 convenience. 
 
 The day after his arrival, and when he had posted to 
 Brandon Hall an account of his adventures in Tralee, he 
 set out in the early morning, to visit the mountain hollow 
 where he usually pitched his tent. The place, of course, 
 was quite unchanged, except that, as he approached, a 
 hare jumped from her form right in the very spot where 
 his tent was usually erected. He sat down on a clump 
 of dry heather, lit a cigarette, and began to muse on the 
 strange events of the past few months. That scene in 
 the Dubhn club, the forfeiture of the ring, his own weary 
 journeys in search of employment, his welcome at Lisheen, 
 the tenderness and gentle courtesy of the poor people 
 with whom he lodged, their attention to him during his 
 sickness, his meeting with Hamberton and his niece, his 
 betrothal, his arrest, — and all in a few months — 
 
 "I can't say," he muttered aloud, "'to-morrow, and to- 
 morrow, and to-morrow. Thus creeps our petty pace
 
 GREAT PREPARATIONS 
 
 349 
 
 from day to day.' 'TIs dramatic enough for a two-cent 
 novel. But, there, I shall have to give up my Shakes- 
 pearian renderings. Theyhavegotme into trouble enough." 
 
 And he did not quite know whether to laugh at, or be 
 angry with, the midnight espionage of Debbie and her 
 brother, and their interpretation of his moonlight solilo- 
 quies, as revealed in her depositions. 
 
 "I suppose the time will come," he thought, "when 
 these poor people and their kind will not be such strangers 
 to Macbeth and Othello. But it appears far distant, far 
 distant." 
 
 He rose up, and looked down along the valley to the 
 lake. There was a sKght golden haze suspended over 
 vale, and woodland, and water, and all was still beneath 
 its gauzy folds, unless where, from far thicket or copse, 
 the blackbirds and thrushes were pouring out their flute- 
 like melodies. Down along the ravine, as far as he could 
 see, the sides were clothed with yellow gorse, and the air 
 was heavy with the cocoanut perfume that exhales from 
 the essential oil of the golden petals; and beneath the 
 gorse, the hedges were carpeted thickly with yellow 
 primroses and purple violets, until the whole valley was 
 a mass of colour and light. The air, up there on the 
 hills, was so light and pure it was a physical pleasure 
 even to breathe ; and the deep azure canopy above seemed 
 to hang like a great blue dome, flecked with silver, over 
 the peaceful temple of the earth. 
 
 Maxwell watched the scene eagerly; and somehow he 
 felt that that pungent tobacco odour was a desecration 
 of such sweetness and purity; for he flung his cigarette 
 impatiently away, and strode slowly up the mountain.
 
 3SO LISHEEN 
 
 When he had leaped the little bum that ran sparkling 
 across the road in front of Darby's cottage, he stood still 
 for a moment to admire the new coat of thatch that lay, 
 warm and snug, over the cabin. Altogether there was a 
 decided improvement in the appearance of the place, 
 although the ducks still quacked melodiously as they 
 wallowed in the green, stagnant, compost-lake before 
 the door. 
 
 He entered gaily, with the usual: "God save all here!" 
 He had now adopted the manners and language of the 
 country. 
 
 The old woman was bending over the fire in that calm, 
 meditative attitude so characteristic of our people. Darby 
 had, as usual, tilted back the sugan chair, and had his 
 red shins almost in the blaze that shot up from the wood 
 and turf fire on the hearth. He nearly lost his balance, 
 as he jumped to his feet, recognising the old, familiar 
 voice, although now disguised beneath the Irish saluta- 
 tion. The old woman never stirred, but only muttered: 
 
 "An' you too, sir!" 
 
 "Yerra, 'tis the masther," said Darby, giving his 
 mother a poke. And then he turned round, his face 
 beaming with pleasure and excitement, and his white 
 teeth showing beneath the grin. 
 
 "Well, Darby, how are you? And how is mother?" 
 
 "Begor, as well as yer 'anner 'ud wish," said Darby. 
 "Sure, it does our hearts good to see you." 
 
 "Yerra, is it the masther, Darby?" said the old woman, 
 rising slowly from her seat. "Yerra, why didn't you 
 tell me ? Oh, cead mile faille, a thousand times over, yer 
 'anner. Sure you're welcome to our little cabin."
 
 GREAT PREPARATIONS 351 
 
 "Well, I see you've got the new coat of thatch," said 
 Maxwell. "Does it keep out the rain?'*- 
 
 "Oyeh, that it does, sure enough. If it was peltin' cats 
 and dogs, not a dhrop 'ud come in now. An' sure you 
 have our prayers night and day, for that same." 
 
 "I'm afraid Darby doesn't kill himself with the prayers," 
 said Maxwell. "Tell the honest truth now, Darby. 
 Would you be rather saying your prayers, or snaring a 
 rabbit?" 
 
 Darby grinned, and blurted out: 
 
 "Begor, yer 'anner, I'd rather be snarin' the rabbit. 
 Cos why, me mudder keeps me too long on me knees 
 with all the prayers she do be sayin'." 
 
 "I thought so. Well, look here! I'm comin' up 
 again next month for a day or two, and I'll send on the 
 tent. I won't bring Aleck this time, as it will be too 
 short. But I'll leave it in your care, whilst I'm away." 
 
 Darby was in Heaven. 
 
 "I have another bit of news for you. I'm afraid my 
 tenting-days will soon be over. I'm getting married 
 in the autumn." 
 
 "Ah, thin, wisha, may you be happy, and may your 
 ondhertakin' thry with you ; and may you get the sweetest 
 and best young lady widin the four says of Ireland," said 
 the old woman. 
 
 "Have you nothing to say, Darby, you scoundrel?" 
 said Maxwell. 
 
 But Darby was silent. He had suddenly fallen to 
 earth. His face was a picture of misery. 
 
 "An' must you give up the tint, yer 'anner, an' the 
 fishin', an' the shootin' ? Oh, tare an' ages," said he,
 
 352 LISHEEN 
 
 breaking into tears, "to tink of giving up the gun, an' the 
 rod, an' the boat, an' the dog, an' all the fun! Oh, 
 wisha, mavrone, mavrone, sure 'twas the bad day she 
 crassed yer 'anner's path." 
 
 And Darby turned away weeping. The idea of any 
 man giving up the mountain, and the lake, and the grouse, 
 and the whirr of the partridge, and the pull on the rod, 
 for the tame felicities of married Hfe was incredible. 
 
 "Never mind. Darby," said the master, "some day 
 you'll be getting married yourself; and you and the old 
 woman can come down with me, and I'll get you a lodge; 
 and maybe," he added, "we'll have a crack at the wood- 
 cock, or a pull on the lake again." 
 
 Darby's face brightened. The old woman's was 
 clouded. 
 
 "Wisha, thin, yer 'anner," she said, "you shouldn't be 
 puttin' thim thoughts into that omaddn's head. What a 
 nice father of a family he'd make, wouldn't he ? Betther 
 for him aim his bread, an' mind his ould mother, so long 
 as she's wid him. An' sure, me time is short!" 
 
 "Never mind, never mind!" said Maxwell, who felt 
 he was treading on dangerous ground. " But come along. 
 Darby, and let us look around." 
 
 They descended the hill together. Darby evidently 
 was preoccupied vdth deep thought. He tried to keep 
 behind the master in the old way. He felt he was pre- 
 suming too much in walking side by side. 
 
 "Is there anything the matter. Darby?" said Maxwell 
 at last. "Are you sorry I'm coming back again ?" 
 
 "Oh, wisha, thin, 'tis I'm glad, yer 'anner. It lifts the 
 cockles av my heart to see you in the owld place. But — "
 
 GREAT PREPARATIONS 353 
 
 "Out with it, man," cried Maxwell. "Say anything 
 you hke." 
 
 "Well, thin, yer 'anner," said Darby, blushing till his 
 face was as red as his bare chest, "were you in aimest, or 
 only makin' game of me, whin you said, 'Maybe you'd 
 be married too' ?" 
 
 "Oh, is that the way the land lies, you villain?" said 
 Maxwell. "Come now. Who are you thinking of?" 
 
 "Well, thin, yer 'anner, there's a purty little shhp of a 
 colleen down there in the village, an' sure — " 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Maxwell. "Your eyes are burnt 
 out of your head looking at her?" 
 
 "Begor, they are, yer 'anner," said Darby, scratching 
 his red locks. ' 
 
 "I suppose, now," said Maxwell, "you do be looking 
 oftener on her than on the priest at Mass on Sunday?" 
 
 " Whine ver he does be sayin' the hard words that I 
 can't undershthan'," said Darby, "sure I can't help 
 turning round." 
 
 "I see. What's her name?" 
 
 "Noney Kavanagh," said Darby, "as purty a Httle — " 
 
 "All right," said Maxwell. "We take that for granted. 
 Now what can I do for you ?" 
 
 "I was thinkin' — maybe, yer 'anner — " 
 
 "Out with it," said Maxwell. "What do you want?" 
 
 "I was thinkin', if I had a new pair of corduroy breeches, 
 yer 'anner, an' brass buttons — " Darby stopped. 
 
 "Yes, I see. The corduroys would fetch her. Is that 
 it?" 
 
 "Well, you see, yer 'anner, she do be making game of 
 me sometimes about these 'sthramers'; and since Phil 
 23
 
 354 LISHEEN 
 
 Doody got a new shirt wid money his sisther sint him 
 from America, she won't look at me at all, at all." 
 
 "Well, then, we'll beat that fellow hollow. Darby," 
 said Maxwell, "What would you say to a whole new suit 
 of tweed?— " 
 
 "Oh, tare an' ages, that would be too much intirely, 
 yer 'anner. An' sure if I turned out so grand, the nabours 
 are bad enough to say I killed or robbed some wan." 
 
 "Well, then, I'll tell you what," said Maxwell. "We'll 
 get the corduroys — and maybe they'd be more service- 
 able than the tweed up here; and we'll also get a new 
 frieze coat with the biggest buttons that can be got for 
 money; and, look here, Darby, you'll have to get some 
 shirts—" 
 
 "Yerra, for fwhat, yer 'anner?" asked Darby. "I 
 don't be a bit cowld." 
 
 "I know that," said Maxwell. "And probably I'm 
 putting you in for an attack of pneumonia, that may end 
 in consumption. But you see, Darby, I'll have to intro- 
 duce you to my wife; and when you come down to the 
 lodge, you'll be meeting people that are hampered by 
 civilization, and — somehow, you know, they like to see 
 — well, — a shirt-front." 
 
 "Do they thin?" said Darby, in surprise. "Well, 
 whatever yer 'anner Hkes. Sure, I'd do more than that 
 for yer 'anner." 
 
 Maxwell smiled. 
 
 "I know you would," said he. "AUhough I admit 
 you are making a sacrifice now. But, tell me, what about 
 the wedding? Won't you want a gallon of whisky, and 
 something to give Noney, and — "
 
 GREAT PREPARATIONS 355 
 
 " Oh, begor, yer 'anner is too good intirely," said Darby, 
 who began to fear that this generosity was too excessive 
 to be genuine. "Maybe, it 'ud be as well to ketch the 
 hare fust?" 
 
 "Oh, never fear that," said Maxwell. "To make a 
 long story short, I calculate you'll want about five pounds 
 to win Noney, to furnish a little house, and to have a 
 decent wedding. I'll give it to you — " 
 
 "Oh, yer 'anner, that's too much out an' out. Yerra, 
 what 'ud I be doin' wid all that money ? An' sure Noney 
 tould me, that her mudder 'ud give her a feather-bed, an' 
 blankets, an' half the chickens in her yard the day she was 
 well married." 
 
 "So ye'er been talking it over," said Maxwell. "That's 
 right. I tell you. Darby, we'll settle Doody. We'll 
 leave that fellow without a feather in his cap. Now, will 
 you take the money now, or shall I send it?" 
 
 "Oh, begor, yer 'anner, I wouldn't tetch it for the 
 wurruld. Where the divil could I hide it? The ould 
 'uman 'ud search me high and low for it." 
 
 "You couldn't hide it?" said Maxwell. 
 
 "Av I swallowed it she'd see it," said Darby. "She'll 
 sarch every bit av me now whin I goes in to see did I get 
 anythin' from yer 'anner." 
 
 "Can't you hide it outside, you omad^ ?" said Maxwell. 
 "Aren't there a hundred holes where you could put it?" 
 
 "Yerra, but, yer 'anner, sure I'd never have a wink of 
 shleep agin, thinkin' that somewan would shtale it. Oh, 
 Lord, no! 'Twould never do at all, at all." 
 
 "Well, thin, I'll tell you what I'U do. I'll give the 
 money to the priest to keep for you until the day you're
 
 356 LISHEEN 
 
 married; and then you can snap your fingers at the old 
 woman." 
 
 "The very thing, God bless yer 'anner. But — " his face 
 fell, as a new difficulty presented itself. "Father Tom 
 is the divil himself agin the dhrink. Av he thought we 
 were goin' to have a sup of whisky at the wedding, he'd 
 pull the chapel down an us." 
 
 "Well, I'm not going to tell him; and sure you needn't 
 say much about it. When 'tis all over, he can't do much 
 harm." 
 
 "N — no," said Darby, doubtingly. Then a bright 
 thought struck him, and he cheered up. 
 
 "'Twill be worth a power an' all of money," he said, 
 "wid the priest whin yer 'anner spakes for me; and 
 maybe — " 
 
 "Maybe what?" said Maxwell. 
 
 "Maybe, if you axed him, he'd put in a good word for 
 me wid Noney." 
 
 "I will, to be sure," said Maxwell, "though perhaps 
 he won't care to be a matchmaker. Anything else?" 
 
 "Maybe yer 'anner 'ud give Jack Clancy, the tailor, 
 the ordher for the corduroys?" 
 
 "All right. And the coat? But what about the 
 measurement?" 
 
 "Ah, he needn't mind about that," said Darby. "Sure, 
 yer 'anner can tell him make the shuit for a bye of eighteen ; 
 and sure, av it is a couple of inches aither way, 'twill 
 make no matther." 
 
 "All right, Darby. 'Twill be all right. Meantime, 
 I'll send up the tent. I'm only sorry I can't dance at 
 your wedding. But, we'll settle Doody, won't we?"
 
 GREAT PREPARATIONS 357 
 
 "Begor, we will, yer 'anner. Long life to yer 'anner; 
 and may you reign long." 
 
 The two conspirators parted, Maxwell for Brandon 
 Hall, and Darby for home. But before he reached it 
 he executed many a pas seul on the mountain road, to the 
 astonishment of sundry rooks and jackdaws, who gravely 
 cawed their disapprobation. But he couldn't help it. 
 His heart was as light as a feather; and now and again 
 he stopped, whistled "The wind that shakes the barley," 
 or "The top of Cork Road," and danced to his own 
 accompaniment, flicking his fingers in sheer deUght above 
 his head. 
 
 But when he entered the cabin he was as serious as an 
 owl. 
 
 "Is the masther gone?" said his mother. 
 
 "He is," said Darby, sulkily. 
 
 "What did he give ye?" 
 
 "Divil a copper. Not a thraneen of a, sixpence even!" 
 
 "Don't be decavin' me, ma bouchal! I know the 
 masther better. Come here, an' lemme thry you!" 
 
 "Here, thin," said Darby, "as you won't believe me 
 worrd ! " 
 
 The good mother felt his pockets, and his tattered 
 sleeves, and his trousers. She then made him open his 
 mouth and show his teeth and gums. She found 
 nothing. 
 
 "Lift up yer feet, you omadan!" 
 
 Darby raised his broad feet, the soles of which were as 
 thick as leather. There was nothing there. She went 
 back to her seat, grumbling. 
 
 "'Tis quare," she said. "I suppose he's getting close."
 
 358 LISHEEN 
 
 "Didn't you hear his 'anner sayin' that he was goin' 
 to be married ?" said Darby. 
 
 "I did. I suppose he's saving up for the wife ?" 
 "Av coorse he is," said Darby, winking softly at him- 
 self.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 A BAPTISM OF TEARS 
 
 Into the eyes of all vanquished and despairful things, 
 human or other, there comes a wistful look, that seems 
 to denote the end of the struggle, and to say: "Do what 
 you will now! I am conquered." You see it in the 
 poor speckled thing that has been dragged from its ele- 
 ment, and lies gasping on the wet grass above the river; 
 you see it in the fiercest brute that has fought and bit, 
 and trampled for hfe, and now lies still at the feet of his 
 conqueror, awaiting the final blow. The great artist 
 put it in the stone eyes of the " Dying Gladiator," and the 
 suppliant look of "Laocoon"; the mightier Artist puts it 
 in the eyes of every dying and conquered thing, to win 
 mercy perhaps from his conquerer. 
 
 Even such was the look that fell on Mabel Willoughby's 
 face from the eyes of her husband, when late in that 
 eventful night, after weary watchings, he recovered con- 
 sciousness, looked up, closed his eyes to collect his 
 thoughts, remembered all, and looked again. He had 
 been removed to his own room after the Doctor's visit; 
 and Mabel, with a certain love and m.uch loathing, had 
 gone in and out during the night, watching and fearing 
 the moment when his soul would come back again. 
 She didn't know what to think, or what to do. She 
 could only hope in a vague, inarticulate way, which she 
 
 359
 
 360 LISHEEN 
 
 would not express to her own mind, that he might pass 
 away in that sleep or coma, and solve the dread problem 
 that now confronted her. For the Doctor's words left 
 no room now for doubt. She had expressed her terrible 
 suspicions; and they had been confirmed. Yes, she had 
 been inveigled into marriage with a man who had been 
 a leper. What other loathsome things lay behind that 
 revleation she dared not conjecture. She knew enough 
 to understand that the disease was ineradicable; and the 
 sense of the horrible injustice done to her, and the sense 
 of terrible despair, fought, side by side, for the mastery 
 of her soul during the long watches of the night. The 
 gas-jet was singing over her head; now and again came 
 the sound of the muffled tread of the servants on the soft 
 carpet outside her door. Now and again, too, night noises, 
 the barking of a far-off dog, or the rumbling of a waggon, 
 came to her ears. But she sat Hke one petrified, staring 
 bhndly at nothing; and sometimes going to the mirror to 
 ask the white face shown there whether she was not in 
 reality mad. Like one in a dream, or a sleep-walker, 
 she stepped from time to time from her room, and passed 
 into her husband's where some maids were replacing and 
 wetting, wetting and replacing, the brown paper saturated 
 with toilet vinegar, that was supposed to reheve the fore- 
 head of the unconscious man. The injured woman 
 would look down on the white face and watch the laboured 
 breathing; then return to her own room to resume the 
 posture of statue-like immobility, until the desire of 
 breaking the horrible spell came upon her again. Once, 
 when looking over the past, and recalUng all that hap- 
 pened prior to her marriage, the remembrance of the
 
 A BAPTISM OF TEARS 361 
 
 Indian letter smote her. She went over to her escritoire, 
 and took it out, and turned up the gas-jet to read. 
 
 Oh! It was so prophetic — that Indian letter! How 
 every word seemed to rise out of the note paper, and 
 smite her with its deadly truth! 
 
 "Ah, yes, that 'Nevermore!' It means you cannot go 
 back to the stalls or the box again — never again be a 
 spectator of the mighty drama. Only an actor." 
 
 "Tme, true," she thought, as she held the letter in her 
 lap. "Nevermore! nevermore! There is no going back. 
 There is no unlearning the one terrible lesson of Hfe!" 
 
 She read on. 
 
 "Who wants to be happy? No one. At least, I see 
 half the world throwing happiness to the winds." 
 
 "How true," she thought. "I, even I, how have I 
 wasted and squandered my years ? I was happy, at least, 
 comparatively so, because I had no horror, no dread; 
 only a craving, which I should have suppressed. But I 
 didn't know; I didn't know. My God, if there be a God, 
 why is there no test for souls, no means of knowing the 
 awful spirits with which fate insists on uniting us?" 
 
 She took up the letter again, and read : 
 
 "Yes, yes! These poor benighted papists, wrong in 
 nearly everything else, are right in holding the marriage 
 tie inviolable. Nay, there should be a strict law that 
 marriage shall not be dissolved even in death, because it 
 is enough for each human being to have one world re- 
 vealed, and no more." 
 
 "Very true, dear Edith," was Mabel's comment, "so 
 far as contracting new ties is concerned. God knows 
 I have had enough of the experiment. And surely, if
 
 362 LISHEEN 
 
 this — this — man would dare drag another unhappy 
 girl into such a frightful union, no hell could be deep 
 enough to punish him! But why inviolable? We shall 
 see. If there be law or justice in this country, Mabel 
 Outram will be Mabel Willoughby again before many 
 months. The doctor knows all, and he can testify. 
 And what is drink, or cruelty, or infidehty, or incom- 
 patibiUty of temperament to this?" 
 
 But as her thoughts ran over the dread possibihty of a 
 divorce with all its shame and public exposure; and, as 
 the poor girl thought: "If I dared bring the matter into 
 court, what a dread sentence I should pass on myself — 
 a leper's wife, and therefore, herself, a possible leper," 
 her heart shrank. She was beaten back from the only 
 loophole of escape into the dread slough of misery 
 where she found the actual even less dreadful than the 
 possible. 
 
 "I close it with a few bitter tears!" ran the last para- 
 graph of the letter. 
 
 "Oh, Edith, Edith," sobbed the poor girl, as her tears 
 fell fast upon the letter. "So do I! But why, oh why, 
 didn't you speak more plainly to me?" 
 
 After a while, she folded the letter and laid it aside; 
 and went in again to see the man who had decided her 
 fate for Kfe in such a brutal and unscrupulous fashion. 
 He seemed easier in his breathing; and the maid said: 
 
 "Don't take it too much to heart. Ma'am. I think he 
 is coming round. He was moaning now, and he muttered 
 something. I think he was calling your name." 
 
 What terrible, if unconscious, irony! she thought. 
 
 "I wish you could have some sleep, Kate," said the
 
 A BAPTISM OF TEARS 363 
 
 unhappy woman. "If you would lie down for a few 
 hours, I could watch." 
 
 "You want sleep more yourself, Ma'am," said the girl. 
 "If you cry and give way to your grief for Mr. Outram, 
 you'll make yourself sick. Try and lie down; and I'll 
 call you, if there's any change." 
 
 And Mabel went back to her lonely watch again. 
 Sleep? There was no sleep, she thought, for her ever- 
 more. 
 
 She then did a fooHsh thing — foolish for any one ; 
 thrice foolish for one in her condition of mind. She 
 wanted to know, — forgetting that "he who addeth to 
 his knowledge, addeth also to his sorrow." She crept 
 like a guilty creature downstairs, passed into the dining- 
 room, opened a little comer bookcase, and took out a 
 volume of a certain Encyclopaedia, marked LAV — PAS. 
 With a certain feeling still of guilt, or rather with the 
 nervousness with which one plunges into . a dangerous 
 course of action, she took the heavy volume upstairs, and 
 with trembling fingers opened it at the dread word: 
 LEPROSY. Fearful, yet covetous of knowledge of the 
 dreadful thing, she read down the long, dismal column, 
 read of its probable causes, which made her shudder, its 
 symptoms, its consequences, its different species with all 
 their dread manifestations of putrid flesh, and rotting 
 limbs, and swollen features, and dropping joints — the 
 living death, which is so much the worse than death, 
 inasmuch as it is accompanied by the dread crucifixion 
 of an acute consciousness and an incurable despair. 
 It was all more horrible than she had imagined; and to 
 make the horror more terrible and tragic, she read of the
 
 364 LISHEEN 
 
 dread but infallible contagion, and how the disease 
 may lurk unseen for years, but was certain to manifest 
 itself in the end. And so the governments of the world 
 had decreed that whoever once placed foot on an infected 
 island or other leper enclosure was thenceforth ostracized 
 from his kind for ever; and the laws of the world, consider- 
 ing always the safety of the majority, heeded not the suffer- 
 ings of the few, but made them the victims for the race. 
 
 It was all sad, terrible. Mabel looked at her white 
 fingers, as if she already beheld them swollen by disease; 
 touched her ears, as if she foresaw the time when these 
 tender little lobes would drop away in dread decomposi- 
 tion. She had not the grace to pray : My God ! Thy will 
 be done! She loathed herself for the fate which her 
 imagination assured her was inevitably hers. But lo! 
 in the very climax of her agony, there came a voice, 
 though but a word, of reUef. 
 
 She had read down to the end of the article, and was 
 about to close the book, when a further paragraph: 
 ''Leprosy in the Middle Ages" caught her eye. She read 
 on, read the many ceremonies, some awe-inspiring, some 
 consolatory, with which the Mother- Church sequestrated 
 the victims of the dread disease from their kind, and yet 
 surrounded them with that Christhke pity and love 
 which made them not so much the victims, as the victors, 
 of the awful malady. She read of great things done by 
 lepers in the depths of their exile from humanity; of 
 saints, canonized by the Church, who had been lepers; 
 of great poets, whose songs resounded throughout Ger- 
 many, whilst they toiled away in the leper-hut, and rang 
 the leper-bell; and — her heart stood still as she read:
 
 A BAPTISM OF TEARS 365 
 
 "In the great majority of cases, we are assured that the 
 wives of these unhappy victims elected to go with them 
 into the tombs and leper-haunts, rather than be separated 
 from those they so deeply loved." 
 
 Her white pure hand lay open on the page, as she 
 looked up, and tried to picture to her imagination what 
 that meant. 
 
 She saw the stricken creature rise up from the funereal 
 ceremonies in the Church, which were so regulated as to 
 assume that leprosy was a kind of social death, and 
 which therefore resembled in the prayers, the exorcisms, 
 the enshrouding the leprous body in a black pall, etc., 
 the ExequicE, or burial rites of the actual dead. She saw 
 him go forth, sounding his leper-bell, as a warning to all 
 healthy and sane creatures to step aside from his path, 
 and avoid the contagion that exhaled from his diseased 
 body. She saw him go forth from the haunts of men, 
 into remote and sohtary places, amongst the wild things 
 of field and forest. She saw him excommunicated from 
 his kind, and sentenced to a banishment where no hu- 
 man voice would greet him, no human presence cheer 
 him ever again. And she saw those brave, loving women, 
 allowed by a merciful dispensation to share such awful 
 sorrows, cheerfully electing to give up home and kindred, 
 and all the sweet, wholesome surroundings of life, to bury 
 themselves in those desert places, to wait upon, and watch, 
 and tend those stricken wretches, with no help but their 
 great, all-conquering love, and their subhme faith in the 
 Invisible Powers that had inspired it. And for them no 
 hope of return to friends or children, even after the death 
 of the leprous victim. By that subUme act of renuncia-
 
 366 LISHEEN 
 
 tion they sentenced themselves to perpetual and solitary 
 banishment from their kind. 
 
 "It was magnificent — appalling; heroic — insane; 
 madness — glory; subHmity — folly" ; thought Mabel. 
 Then: 
 
 "These things were for other ages than ours," she 
 reflected. "These were ages of faith and chivalry, of 
 greatness and heroism, though they were Dark Ages. 
 We have changed all that." 
 
 "But," the thought would recur, "surely a woman is a 
 woman; and love is love. Can I tear it from my heart, 
 feeble though it be? And am I not called to bear, not 
 expatriation, not soHtude, but only patience and tolera- 
 tion? If I go into open court, and expose him and my- 
 self to the curious and dehghted gaze of the pubHc, what 
 do I gain ? Social ostracism. I proclaim myself a leper. 
 If I slink away with father into some remote and solitary 
 place, shall I not carry with me the fatal consciousness 
 that I have shirked my duty? No, Mabel, there is 
 nothing for thee, as for most mortals, but to endure. Let 
 me examine, have I as much love left for Ralph as will 
 help me to do so?" 
 
 Then she went over the period of her courtship, her 
 marriage, his Uttle acts of courtesy, the deference, amount- 
 ing to worship, that he always showed her in society; his 
 little presents from time to time, "the little, nameless, 
 unremembered acts of love"; and gradually she felt her- 
 self softening towards the stricken creature; and some- 
 thing, if not love, at least bearing a resemblance to it in 
 the shape of duty, came uppermost, and revealed her to 
 herself as something superior to a mere queen of fashion.
 
 A BAPTISM OF TEARS 367 
 
 She began to feel for the first time a woman; and to 
 recognise that that sacred aspect of her nature and charac- 
 ter was higher and holier than she had yet conceived. 
 
 The night was now wearing to the dawn, when she 
 arose, closed the book, and knelt. She knew then that 
 she had never prayed before. She had been to church, 
 had read the service, had joined her voice in hymn and 
 anthem, had studied the intonations of the preacher; 
 but she had never prayed. She had never realized the 
 supernatural — the powers that lie hid beyond the senses, 
 and yet exercise so marvellous an influence on human 
 life. But now, as she knelt, there in the silence of the 
 dying night, with the faint dawn creeping through the 
 unshuttered window, she prayed against herself, and for 
 herself. Against herself, — against her pride and pas- 
 sion so fearfully revenged and humihated; against her 
 revolt from obligations deliberately contracted; against 
 the cowardice that would make her break sacred ties, 
 even under so tremendous a provocation. And she 
 prayed for herself, for strength and endurance and love 
 to enable her to conquer all physical re\ailsion, all her 
 loathing and her fear, and be to the wretched and afflicted, 
 if dishonest creature, who is called her husband, a help 
 and a solace during the bitter remainder of their Hves. 
 
 Then, fortified by the effort, she rose up, and passed 
 into his room. 
 
 "I think, Ma'am," said the maid, "that Mr. Outram 
 is coming round. He seemed to open his eyes, and look 
 around as if seeking someone; and then closed them 
 again." 
 
 They watched and waited; and after an interval the
 
 368 LISHEEN 
 
 eyes of the sick man opened, and, as we have said, rested 
 on the face of his wife. And he seemed satisfied. He 
 only stared and stared and stared; and, when she drew 
 aside, and went over for some cordials, he followed her 
 with the same wistful, yearning look. It seemed to ask 
 for mercy and compassion; for forgiveness, and forget- 
 fulness of aught that could be remembered against 
 him; for a plenary absolution and a wiping out of the 
 dread past. 
 
 And Mabel, haunted and touched by that look, and 
 by all her recent thoughts, came over, and bent down, 
 and touched with her Hps his forehead and his mouth; 
 •and then, as if the pent-up feeUngs of her soul had swelled 
 and laboured, and burst their barriers, she broke out into 
 hysterical sobbing, and a baptism of hot tears rained 
 down on her husband's face. 
 
 Kate, the maid, said to her fellow-servants in the course 
 of the afternoon, that there is no knowing people at all, 
 at all. She thought that Ralph Outram and his wife 
 cared not much for each other, as far as her lynx eyes 
 could judge. And behold, this accident, she said, re- 
 vealed everything. 
 
 "An' who would ever a' thought that Mrs. Outram 
 could cry? Yet, she did, cried Hke a child," said Kate. 
 
 But the others expressed their increduhty. It was 
 play-acting, they said. 
 
 And Kate waxed indignant, not for her mistress; but 
 for the imputation that she had been taken in so easily.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 LISHEEN 
 
 The three months swiftly swung round; and the time 
 for the liberation and triumph of the evicted owners of 
 Lisheen was at hand. Immense preparations were made 
 on all sides for the great event; and it was decided that 
 the occasion was one that demanded a great public 
 demonstration. 
 
 Pierce and Debbie McAuHffe had been dismissed from 
 prison a week prior to the Hberation of their parents; but 
 they were detained by friendly hands in the city, on the 
 plea that all should go home together. But they were 
 kept quite ignorant of all the important events that had 
 occurred during their imprisonment. They didn't know 
 they had a home to go to; and Pierce was speculating 
 about employment in Tralee. 
 
 When at length the great day arrived, the town was 
 thronged with cars and vehicles of every description — 
 side-cars, country-carts, covered cars, traps; and the 
 whole country-side seemed to have poured in its popula- 
 tion to take part in the great ovation that was to be given 
 to the now triumphant victims of landlordism. A depu- 
 tation was drawn up outside the prison gate; and the 
 moment the poor old people appeared there was a mighty 
 shout of welcome; and to their infinite confusion, an 
 address was read by the Secretary of the League, lauding 
 24 369
 
 370 LISHEEN 
 
 their valour to the skies. But not a word about the 
 triumph and surprise that awaited them. 
 
 A few times Pierce tried to get through the impenetrable 
 secrecy that seemed to surround everything connected 
 with their liberation; and he began to ask impatiently: 
 
 "What is it all about? Where are we going? Sure, 
 we have no home now?" 
 
 But he was always met with the answer: 
 
 "Whist, ye divil! Can't ye wait, and see what the 
 nabours have done for ye?" 
 
 At most, they expected the shelter of a Land League 
 hut. 
 
 After much colloguing, and congratulations and toasts 
 pledged twenty times over, yet still with the impenetrable 
 veil of secrecy hanging over everything, the triumphant 
 cavalcade got under weigh. First came the local Lisheen 
 Fife-and-Drum Band in a wagonette, over which a green 
 flag, faded but unconquered, was proudly floating. 
 Next came a side car with Owen and Mrs. McAuhffe, and 
 two intimate friends. Then a succession of cars, every 
 occupant waving green boughs. Here and there was an 
 amateur musician, with a concertina or accordion, play- 
 ing for the bare life, and in an independent manner; for 
 whilst the Band thundered out "God save Ireland!" the 
 minor instrumentaHsts played "The Wearing of the 
 Green," or "The Boys of Wexford." In the centre of 
 the procession there was another waggonette, in which 
 Pierce and Debbie had prominent places ; and the remain- 
 ing mile or two was occupied with all the other vehicles, 
 each smothered in a little forest of decorations.
 
 LISHEEN 371 
 
 Now and again, the old couple, or Pierce or Debbie, 
 would ask wonderingly: 
 
 "What is it all about? Where are we going at all, at 
 all?" 
 
 But the answer was: 
 
 "Nabocklish! or "Bid-a-hust,"^ or some English equiv- 
 alent. 
 
 At last they came to the old familiar place, where 
 formerly a rickety, tumbled-down old gate, swinging on 
 creaking hinges, opened into the boreen that led to the 
 house. Here the cars drew aside, so that the McAuliffes 
 might come up and enter their home together. The old 
 people drew aside, refusing to recognise in the cemented 
 and chamfered pillars, and in the blue, iron gate, the en- 
 trance to their home. But they had to dismount, and walk 
 up the stoned and gravelled passage,, under the trim haw- 
 thorn hedges bursting with foHage, and already showing 
 the autumn haws, into the yard that fronted their dwelling. 
 
 "Where are ye bringing us to at all, at all?" the poor 
 old woman would ask. "Sure this isn't Lishcen!" 
 
 "Whist, will you ? Can't you wait till the play is over ?" 
 was the reply. 
 
 But when they came into the yard, and saw instead 
 of the fragrant manure heap a plot of grass neatly laid 
 out and bordered with huge stones, limewashed and 
 irregular; and when they saw the old thatched bams no 
 more, but well-built stone and slated houses, where seven 
 rich cows were stalled; and when they saw a high, well- 
 
 ^Na bac /m = Don't bother me! Brod do /mi// = Shut up! 
 Silence!
 
 372 LISHEEN 
 
 thatched home before them, with large windows instead 
 of the wretched holes that formerly let in, or were sup- 
 posed to let in, light and air, then astonishment knew no 
 bounds. 
 
 All the neighbours had congregated in the yard and 
 stood on the ditches, to see the "coming home" of the 
 victims of landlord greed, and as they entered the yard 
 there was a mighty cheer that rent the heavens, and a 
 chorus of "Cead mile failtes" and "Welcome home!" 
 that stunned the poor people with its heartiness and 
 sympathy. 
 
 Then Hugh Hamberton and his ward came forward 
 and stood beneath the hntel of the door, and the former 
 putting up his hand to command silence, and drown the 
 tremendous cheer with which his presence was hailed, 
 there was an instant hush — the hush of great expectation 
 and dehght. 
 
 Hamberton looked around slowly and contemptuously 
 on the multitude that was thickly wedged together, and 
 his silence made theirs the deeper. Then he spoke in the 
 calm, even way that Englishmen affect, and although he 
 was good-humoured and genial, he could not restrain a 
 certain tone of disdain that accompanied his words. 
 
 "My friends," he said, "a certain English statesman 
 has declared his behef that the Irish are a race of lunatics, 
 and that this country is one huge but not well-protected 
 asylum (great laughter); and another English statesman 
 has registered his opinion that the Irish are a race of 
 grown-up children (much laughter, but not so great). To 
 this latter opinion I am disposed to incline. You're a 
 wonderful people for seeing around a corner or watching
 
 LISHEEN 
 
 373 
 
 what is occurring at the poles, but you can't see straight 
 before you, or what is under your eyes. {Slight tittering 
 and rising expectation.) For example, you have rushed 
 to the conclusion that the reinstatement of this poor 
 family in their farm and home is my work. {Cries of 
 *' So it is, yer 'anner; Hwas you did it! God bless yoiiT') 
 You were never more mistaken in your Uves. All that I 
 did was to act as a kind of agent or supervisor for the 
 man that, in a spirit of unbounded generosity, has brought 
 about this happy event. I am pleased to be able to claim 
 that much for myself, but no more. {Cries: " You^d do it, 
 if you could. 'Twasn't from want of the le/ilir^) That's 
 all right. But now let me explain, and the best way to 
 do so is in the form of a story." 
 
 The great crowd pushed up, as they do at the sermon 
 at Mass on Sunday in the country chapels, and hung upon 
 his words. 
 
 "In a certain club in DubHn," Hamberton said, "not 
 many months ago, there were grouped together a number 
 of landlords, who had met to settle how they should deal 
 with their tenantry during the coming winter. They had 
 almost unanimously agreed that the good, old system of 
 grinding and crushing the tenantry should be kept up 
 {cries of "Bad luck to them!'' "We wouldn't doubt them" 
 etc.), that there were to be no reductions and no sales. 
 Well, one young gentleman ventured to protest. He had 
 been reading and thinking a good deal about things in 
 general. And he had come to the conclusion, which you 
 will agree with me was utterly absurd, that he had some 
 business to do on this earth besides squeezing the last 
 farthing from tenants, and squandering it on horses and
 
 374 LISHEEN 
 
 dogs. (Cries oj '^Oyeh! Begor, that was the quare land- 
 lord! We wish we had more like him!") He also main- 
 tained that it was not quite true that the farmers lived 
 better than the landlords, that they had fresh meat 
 three times a day {great laughter), that there was a piano 
 in every cottage, and that each farmer's wife had a 
 sealskin coat, and silver fox furs (redoubled laughter). 
 Well, he was contradicted and refuted, and then — " 
 
 Hamberton paused for effect, and the silence became 
 painful from the suppressed excitement of the people. 
 
 "Then," he continued, "this young gentleman was 
 challenged to prove it, he was challenged to go dovm 
 and live amongst the peasantry for twelve months, as a 
 common farm-hand; to share their labour, their food, their 
 hardships. Strange to say, he consented. He put aside 
 everything that belonged to him as a gentleman, and he 
 went down and became an ordinary farm-hand." 
 
 Here there was a great commotion in the silent crowd, 
 for Mrs. McAuliffe was crying and sobbing, and trying to 
 say something which her tears wouldn't allow. Debbie 
 had turned quite pale. Hamberton sternly commanded 
 silence. He knew the secret was leaking out and that 
 would never do. He could not allow his dramatic ending 
 of the story to be anticipated. But he was almost discon- 
 certed by the fierce, anxious look which the girl now 
 fastened on him. 
 
 "After tramping around here and there," continued 
 Hamberton, "the farmers naturally refusing to employ 
 such a white-handed, white-faced labourer, he came to a 
 certain place where he was at last taken in. He was 
 footsore, hungry, tired, and heartily sick of his job, but
 
 LISHEEN 375 
 
 he got food and drink and a welcome there, and there he 
 remained for some months, not doing much, as you may 
 suppose, because these landlords, whilst they reap the 
 profits, are not much used to the labour. Then he fell 
 sick and was nursed as carefully as by his mother. At 
 last, owing to one cause or another, the poor family with 
 whom he was housed were flung upon the world. His 
 heart was bleeding for them, but it was too soon to show 
 himself, and besides, he wanted to see all that landlordism 
 could do, and again, he wanted to be able to build up the 
 fortunes of that poor family so that they could never be 
 disturbed again. The day of the eviction he interfered 
 for that purpose, and, as is usual in Ireland, he was 
 misunderstood. He got more curses than thanks, more 
 kicks than halfpence. It is a little way you have in this 
 country of rewarding your friends." 
 
 Here old Mrs. McAuliffe got in a word: 
 
 "I never misdoubted him, yer 'aimer. I knew he was 
 good, and I said, 'Good-bye, and God bless him!'" 
 
 This interlude excited now the greatest interest in the 
 crowd. They were on the eve of great revelations evi- 
 dently, and they crushed in and around the speaker, their 
 mouths wide open in expectation. 
 
 "Hold your tongue, ma'am," said Hamberton, sternly, 
 "till I am done. Then you can talk your fill." 
 
 "Well," he continued, "the strangest thing remains to 
 be told. This young gentleman, for amusement sake, 
 was in the habit of going up alone into the hills, and 
 there giving out aloud, or as they call it, declaiming, 
 certain passages from an obscure and legendary writer, 
 called Shakespeare. Some of those were murderous and
 
 376 LISHEEN 
 
 bloodthirsty, and some were soft and pleasant. The 
 bloodthirsty ones were overheard by a certain boy and 
 girl whose names I won't mention, but who acted as spies 
 on his movements, and, in a moment of passion, informa- 
 tions were sworn against this young gentleman on the 
 ground of murder, and he was arrested. I hope that 
 young lady is sorry for her action now, but it led the way 
 to the revelation. He was obUged now to throw off the 
 mask and show himself, and besides, the time had come 
 to accomplish the work on which he had set his heart." 
 
 Hamberton paused, to emphasize the end of his dra- 
 matic story, and there was the deepest silence now in the 
 vast crowd. 
 
 "That work was this. He purchased the farm on 
 which he had lived as farm-labourer for so many months, 
 and made over by deed, solemnly executed and witnessed, 
 the fee-simple in that farm for ever to the people who 
 had so well treated him; he has spent a sum of eight hun- 
 dred pounds besides on the place, and made it a worthy 
 residence for ever for these poor people. I suppose I 
 need hardly add that the farm is Lisheen, that it was the 
 McAuhffes that sheltered this gentleman in his hour of 
 need, and that that gentleman who came down in dis- 
 guise from his position to see and alter the fortunes of 
 the people is Robert Maxwell, Esq., J.P., and D.L. for 
 this County, late farm-hand at Lisheen, and still steward 
 at Brandon Hall." 
 
 There was silence during the revelation. Then a faint 
 cheer. Hamberton was disappointed. He expected an 
 earthquake. 
 
 "You don't understand, I see," he said.
 
 LISHEEN 377 
 
 They looked at one another, uncertain what to think. 
 The truth was, that the story was so strange as to be 
 almost incredible. It seemed to block the avenues of 
 their minds and they could not take it in. They continued 
 staring at one another and Hamberton irresolutely. 
 Then he took out the deed, and calling Owen and Mrs. 
 McAuHffe over to where he was standing, he read out 
 the deed of transfer slowly and solemnly. And then 
 he led them into their new house, theirs for ever and ever- 
 more. 
 
 At this juncture there was a wild burst of cheering, 
 which was repeated when Hamberton again came forward, 
 and took in Pierce and Debbie. 
 
 Once again he came forth and said to some peasants 
 standing near: 
 
 "Do you understand me? I say it was Maxwell, my 
 steward and landlord, who has done this sublime and 
 magnificent act towards his friends." 
 
 "We do-o-o," said the men, hesitatingly. The fact 
 was, they could not, all of a sudden, get over their feeling 
 of hostility towards Maxwell. 
 
 "Then, damn you, why don't you give one decent cheer, 
 or yell for him?" 
 
 "Why don't ye cheer?" said a peasant. 
 
 "Yerra, yes, why don't ye cheer?" said another. 
 
 But they couldn't. And Hamberton, turning to his 
 ward, said: 
 
 "You see Maxwell was right in not coming hither. 
 They'd have stoned him." 
 
 But he said, with a gesture of contempt towards the 
 crowd :
 
 378 LISHEEN 
 
 "There. There's two or three tierces of black porter 
 in the bam. Perhaps ye'll cheer now." 
 
 They laughed at his eccentricity and said to one another: 
 
 "Begor, he's the funny man intirely!" 
 
 It was somewhat different in the interior of the cottage 
 when they re-entered to say good-bye to the occupiers. 
 
 "You understand, I suppose," he said, "that this place, 
 and all things on it and belonging to it, are yours for 
 evermore, and that no landlord or agent or official of any 
 kind can ever interfere with you again?" 
 
 The men looked too stupefied to say anything. They 
 couldn't realize it. The change from the direst poverty 
 to affluence, from a prison to such a home, was too stu- 
 pendous to be immediately understood. But the old 
 woman grasped the situation at once. 
 
 "We do, your 'anner," she said. "An' sure the grate 
 God must be looking afther us to sind us such a welcome." 
 
 "We-ell, yes, I suppose," said Hamberton, not quite 
 understanding where supernatural influences came in. 
 "But you know, you understand, that it is Mr. Maxwell, 
 — the boy that was here, do you understand ? — that has 
 done all this. These stupid people outside can't grasp it. 
 But you do, don't you?" 
 
 "Oyeh, av coorse we do," said the old woman. "And 
 may God power his blessings down an him every day he 
 lives, and sind him every happiness, here and hereafther." 
 
 "Nice return you made him for all his goodness," said 
 Hamberton, turning suddenly on Debbie. "You wanted 
 to hang the man who was restoring to you and yours all 
 you had lost." 
 
 This was the first time that her parents had heard
 
 LISHEEN 379 
 
 of Debbie's depositions against Maxwell. They looked 
 amazed. Hamberton saw it. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I'm not going to heap coals of fire 
 on your head to-day. You can make your own apologies 
 to Mr. Maxwell, when he calls. But people should be 
 careful of their passions." 
 
 "I did it in a hurry an' a passion," said Debbie, hanging 
 down her head. Then, feeling the eyes of Claire Moulton 
 resting on her with curiosity, she exclaimed with sudden 
 energy : 
 
 "I wish to the Lord he had never darkened our 
 dure!" 
 
 She affected to be busy about some trifles, but soon 
 added : 
 
 "An' av I had. me way, we wouldn't be behoulden to 
 him now." 
 
 It gave food for reflection to Hamberton as he drove 
 homeward. 
 
 "There is no understanding this mysterious people," 
 he said. "x\nd imagine EngHshmen, who do ever}'thing 
 with rule and compass tape, attempting to govern them 
 for seven hundred years." 
 
 "I can understand that girl's feelings," said his ward. 
 
 "Well, yes. But such awful pride would be unimagi- 
 nable amongst the peasants of Devon or Somerset." 
 
 "I suppose so," she replied. " But I can understand it. 
 These are the things that make criminals." 
 
 "Bot what beats me," he said quite aloud, as he flicked 
 the flanks of his horse with his long whip, "out an' out, 
 and altogether, and intirely, as they say among themselves, 
 is that I couldn't get a cheer for Maxwell from those dolts.
 
 380 LISHEEN 
 
 They didn't seem to understand it, and yet they say they 
 are a clever and quick-witted people." 
 
 "I think I understand," she said. "Mr. Maxwell was 
 playing a certain part, and they only knew him in that 
 part. Their imagination, which is very limited, cannot 
 conceive him just yet under any other aspect. Perhaps, 
 in three months or six months, they will grasp it." 
 
 "But they are said to be so quick — " 
 
 "Yes, in matters concerning their own daily lives. But 
 you see they are now carried beyond their depth. Mr. 
 Maxwell was quite right in not coming. He would have 
 had a hostile reception at first, an indifferent reception 
 even after you revealed his goodness." 
 
 " Goodness ? That's not the word, Claire. 'Tis great- 
 ness, generosity, magnanimity beyond fancy. How Gor- 
 don would have grasped his hand!" 
 
 "Yes, it was very grand," she said. "Do you know, 
 from the moment I saw him in that wretched cabin, I felt 
 he was a hero." 
 
 "Then you kept your mind very much to yourself, 
 young lady. I thought it was a feeling of repulsion you 
 experienced, from some remarks you made." 
 
 "And so it was," she repUed. "But, I knew he was 
 great. Probably that was the reason I disUked him." 
 
 "I give it up," said Hamberton, after a pause. 
 "Woman's mind and the Irish nature are beyond me. I 
 suppose it is because they are so much aHke." 
 
 "I wonder is that a compliment," said his ward.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 A DOUBLE WEDDING 
 
 In the early autumn Robert Maxwell and Claire 
 Moulton were wedded. The affair was very quiet and 
 unfashionable. But there were solid festivities at Brandon 
 Hall, and gala times for those employed by Hamberton. 
 
 There was but one sorrowful soul and that was Father 
 Cosgrove. He loved them all. But now the great trouble 
 of his Hfe was passing into an acute stage. Would Ham- 
 berton now carry out his grim intention and whilst con- 
 cealing the infamy of it from the world for the sake of his 
 ward, end his life in the Roman -fashion ? The thing 
 seemed inconceivable in the case of a man surrounded by 
 every happiness that wealth and benevolence could obtain. 
 But Hamberton was a philosopher who had ideas of life 
 and death far above and removed from the common 
 instincts of humanity. And there was no knowing whither 
 these fantastic ideas might lead him. He was a great 
 Pagan, and no more. 
 
 With the exception of this one care corroding the breast 
 of the good priest, all things else were smihng and happy. 
 Maxwell was genuinely glad that his severe probation was 
 over and that he had obtained his heart's desire as a 
 reward. And Claire had found her hero. 
 
 But why should we linger on such commonplace things 
 when the greater event of Darby Leary's wedding demands 
 
 381
 
 382 LISHEEN 
 
 our attention as faithful chroniclers ? Let the lesser events 
 fade into their natural insignificance before the greater 
 and more engrossing record. Let the epithalamium yield 
 to the epic. 
 
 There was something like consternation in the mountain 
 chapel the second Sunday after the conspiracy between 
 Maxwell and Darby had been hatched. For there was 
 an apparition — of a young man with red hair and a sun- 
 burnt face, but clothed as no man had seen him clothed 
 before. For Darby, habited in a new suit of frieze and 
 corduroys, and with his red breast covered by a linen 
 shirt with red and white stripes in parallel Hnes, did 
 actually make his way to the very front of the congrega- 
 tion, and stand at the altar rails facing the priest. It was 
 unheard of audacity, but Darby, with keen, philosophical 
 insight, had made up his mind that it is audacity that 
 entrances and paralyzes the brains of men, and that if he 
 would escape endless chaff and jokes on his personal 
 appearance, the way to do so was to brave pubhc opinion, 
 and run the gauntlet with open eyes and head erect. 
 
 There certainly was a good deal of nudging and pushing 
 one another amongst the boys and girls in his immediate 
 vicinity, but it was all more or less hushed and concealed 
 whilst the priest was reading the Acts and the Prayer 
 before Mass. For his eagle eye was upon them and upon 
 the chart, and woe to the boy or girl who was otherwise 
 then recollected and devout. 
 
 But I am sorry to say that when the priest's back was 
 turned to the congregation there were many "nods, and 
 quips, and wreathed smiles," and when at last the people 
 arose at the time of the sermon, and the tall, angular
 
 A DOUBLE WEDDING 383 
 
 figure of Darby occupied a prominent place right at the 
 altar rails, there was some whispering and smothered 
 smiles that made the young priest who was addressing 
 them pause, and look around with some severity. This 
 was all the greater because he was speaking to them on 
 a solemn and mournful subject, and he had hopes of 
 touching their sympathies, and even beholding the tacit 
 expression of their feehngs in a few tears. Instead of 
 this he was shocked to see grave men smiUng, girls tittering, 
 boys whispering behind their hands; but he went on 
 slowly, watching the opportunity of setting free the flood- 
 gates of his anger. At last he stopped, and the old and 
 venerable verger, who was hardly second in importance to 
 the priest, and who was even more dreaded, alarmed by 
 the sudden silence of the preacher, came forth in an angry 
 and inquiring mood from the vestry. He cast an eager 
 glance around, under which many an eye quailed, and 
 then hobbled over to the rails, and bending down, he 
 whispered angrily to a group of girls: 
 
 ''What's the matter wid ye, ye parcel of gliggeens?" 
 
 "Yerra, shure, 'tis Darby, sir!" said one of the girls, 
 stuffing her shawl in her mouth. 
 
 The mystery was explained ; and hmping over to where 
 Darby was standing defiant and indifferent, he hissed at 
 him: 
 
 "Kneel down, or sit down, you omddan!" 
 
 Darby instantly obeyed; and the old man, turning to 
 the priest, said with an air of condescending affability: 
 
 "You may continue yer discoorse, yer reverence!" 
 and then hobbled back to the sacristy. 
 
 Strange to say, the little incident saved Darby from
 
 384 LISHEEN 
 
 much worry outside. The public exposure satisfied the 
 desire of humbling him; and when the congregation was 
 dispersing, he only got a few smart slaps on the back, 
 and a few hurried questions: 
 
 "Well wear, Darby; and soon tear, and pay the bever- 
 age!" 
 
 "Will be lookin' out for the young wife now, plase 
 God!" 
 
 "What blacksmith made thim breeches, Darby? I'll 
 want a new shuit meself soon." 
 
 But Darby was indifferent. He gave back joke for 
 joke, and hngered behind, with one idea uppermost in 
 his mind. He seemed to be looking straight before him; 
 but he had eyes only for a Httle figure in a faded shawl, 
 that was mixed up with a lot of others as they crushed 
 through the outer gate. 
 
 It is hard to discern, or define, the secret laws that 
 guide the currents of our fives, and bring together the 
 individuals that are to be mated for good or ill. If you 
 stand near a stream that has been vexed into foam by 
 rocks or sands, probably you would guess for ever before 
 telfing what specks of foam or air bubbles would meet 
 far down the river and coalesce in their journey to the sea. 
 And we fail to tell how it was that the many members of 
 this Sunday congregation fell away as they passed down 
 the hillside, and left Darby and Noney together. The 
 two were silent for a while, and then Darby, opening his 
 new frieze coat to show his magnificent shirt front all the 
 better, said, in a loud whisper: 
 
 "Noney?" 
 
 "Well," said Noney, looking steadily before her.
 
 A DOUBLE WEDDING 385 
 
 "Noney, did ye see me the day?" said Darby. 
 
 "I did," said Noney. "It didn't want a pair of spec- 
 tacles to see you." 
 
 "And what did ye think of me?" said Darby, quite 
 sure of himself. 
 
 "I think you were nicer kneehn' than standin'," said 
 Noney. 
 
 "Wisha, now," said Darby, a little abashed, "I shup- 
 pose 'twas bekase me back was turned to ye." 
 
 There was an awkward pause of a few seconds; and 
 then Darby, getting on a different tack, said: 
 
 "I have a grate secret for ye, Noney." 
 
 "Indeed?" said Noney, quite unconcerned. 
 
 "Yes," repHed Darby; "me and you are made for 
 life." 
 
 "Me and you?" repKed Noney, saucily, "And what 
 have we to do with wan another, may I ax?" 
 
 "Oh, very well!" said Darby. "Maybe, thin, Phil 
 Doody will tell you." 
 
 "An' what have I to do wid Phil Doody?" said Noney, 
 in feigned anger. "Phil Doody is nothin' to me more 
 nor to any wan else!" 
 
 "Say that agin, Noney," replied Darby, ecstatically. 
 
 "I say that there's nothin' betune me an' Phil Doody, 
 more than any other bhoy!" said Noney. 
 
 "I thought there was thin," said Darby. "But people 
 will be talkin'. Nothin' can shut their mouts." 
 
 "Phil Doody is a dacent enough kind of bhoy," said 
 Noney, after an awkward pause. "I believe his sisters 
 are well off in Ameriky." 
 
 "So they do be sayin'," replied Darby, who did not like 
 25
 
 386 LISHEEN 
 
 the allusion at all. "I suppose they'll be takin' him out 
 wan av these days." 
 
 "I don't know that," answered Noney. "They say 
 he's got a new job at home; an' I suppose he'll be settling 
 down next Shrove." 
 
 **I suppose so," said Darby, innocently. "I hear there's 
 a good many looking after him." 
 
 "Is there thin?" said Noney. "I think he's made his 
 chice." 
 
 "But shure you said this minit," said the tormented 
 Darby, "that there was nothin' betune you," 
 
 "Naither there isn't," said Noney. "Shure he could 
 make his chice widout me." 
 
 Darby felt he was not making much headway here, 
 so he tacked. Affecting great lameness, he sat down on 
 a hedge, where he crushed many a pretty flower and wild 
 shrub, and said: 
 
 "Noney, these boots and shtockins are playin' the divil 
 intirely wid me feet. Bad luck to the man that invinted 
 thim. Sure there's nayther luck nor grace in the coun- 
 thry since the people began to wear them." 
 
 And without further apology, Darby removed them, 
 and breathed more freely. 
 
 "Who gev 'em to you. Darby?" asked Noney, full of 
 curiosity. "They're rale fine brogues." 
 
 "Ah, thin," said Darby, sighing, "the man who'd give 
 us much more, an' make us the happy couple av you'd 
 only say the word, Noney." 
 
 "Indeed," said Noney, pouting, "an' who is he?" 
 
 "The masther," said Darby. Then after a pause, he
 
 A DOUBLE WEDDING 387 
 
 continued: "Listen, Noney, an' I'll tell you what I 
 wouldn't tell morchial alive, not even me mudder. The 
 masther was up the other day at the house, an' when he 
 was goin' away, he winked at me, unbeknown to the ould 
 woman, to come wid him. So I did. And then he tould 
 me that he was gcttin' married himself to a grand, out an' 
 out lady, wid lashins of gowld and dimons, nearly as 
 much as the Queen of England herself. Oh, I'm all 
 bUsthered from thim dom boots," he said suddenly. 
 "Bad luck to the man that invinted ye!" 
 
 And Darby began to chafe the foot that appeared to 
 be most troublesome. Noney was on the tiptoe of ex- 
 pectation, and Darby, the rogue, knew it. 
 
 "I think we'd betther be goin' home, Noney," he said, 
 glancing sideways at her. 
 
 "Betther rest yersclf," said Noney. "You could never 
 walk home wid dem feet an ye." 
 
 "Thrue for you," said Darby, gaining new confidence. 
 "Bcgor, ye'd have to be carryin' me, Noney; and wouldn't 
 it be a nice 'lady out of town' ye'd be playin'." 
 
 "But what about the wedding?" said Noney, who lost 
 her diplomacy in her curiosity. 
 
 "Is it our weddin' ye mane?" said Darby. "Shurc, 
 whine ver ye Uke. Ye have only to say the worrd." 
 
 "I didn't mane that," said Noney, angrily, "an' you know 
 it you omddan, you! I meant the masther's weddin'." 
 
 "Ah, shure, 'tis all the same," rephed Darby. "Be- 
 kase the masther sez, sez he: 'I'll never get married, 
 Darby, onless you're married the same day.'" 
 
 "Did he say that?" asked Noney, who began to have 
 larger conceptions of the "Bhoy."
 
 388 LISHEEN 
 
 "Pon me sowl," said Darby, "an' more'n that. He 
 said, sez he: 'There's a purty little lodge at the grate 
 house. Darby, as nice as iver you saw, wid httle windeys 
 like dimons, and a clane flure, an' a place for the hins 
 and chickens; and whin you're married to Noney Kava- 
 nagh,' sez he ('I'm tould she's the rale jewel of a girrl 
 out an' out, and there isn't her likes in the barony for 
 beauty,' sez he) 'you can come here. And sure you can 
 have lashin's and lavin's from our own kitchen,' sez he, 
 'an' you won't be wantin' for a bit of fresh mate,' sez he, 
 'for we haves fresh mate every day,' sez he, 'and some- 
 times two kinds of mate the same day. And sure, Noney, 
 whin she's Mrs. Darby Leary,' sez he, 'can kum up, and 
 help the missus,' sez he, 'an' sure we can be all wan,' sez 
 he, 'and whatever's mine is yours, Darby,' sez he; 'and 
 whatever's yours is mine,' sez he." 
 
 Darby here drew a long breath, but watched Noney 
 steadily out of the comer of his eye. He was evidently 
 making a deep impression on the girl. He went on: 
 
 '"But, mind you. Darby,' sez he, 'I'm not puttin' any 
 spancils on you. You may tink you're too young a bhoy 
 to marry,' sez he; 'or yer mudder mightn't hke it,' sez he. 
 ' But that makes no matther at all, at all. Only I'd like 
 us to be married the same day,' sez he. 'But,' sez he, 
 ' av you don't feel aiqual to it now, you can come,' sez he, 
 'and get into the Lodge all the same; an' there are some 
 little colleens,' sez he, 'up at the Great House,' sez he; 
 'and maybe afther a while,' sez he, 'wan of them would 
 be lookin' your way; and sure,' sez he, 'av Noney wants 
 to marry Phil Doody,' sez he, 'lave her — '" 
 
 "I don't want to marry Phil Doody, nor anybody else
 
 A DOUBLE WEDDING 389 
 
 but you, Darby," said Noney, putting her apron to her 
 eyes ; and — 
 
 The day was won. 
 
 When the priest called afterwards at Mrs. Kavanagh's, 
 and told the good mother what a fancy Mr. Maxwell had 
 taken to Darby, and how he had given him five real gold 
 guineas for the immediate wants and necessities of that 
 young man, with an implied promise of much more in 
 future, Noney nearly fainted at the thought that she was 
 very near losing such a chance and for ever. 
 
 She snubbed poor Doody badly. For Phil was a pro- 
 fessional joker; and he couldn't help cracking a joke 
 about Darby. 
 
 "Wasn't he the show to-day?" he said, in an incau- 
 tious moment. "Bcgobs, 'twas as good as a circus. I 
 thought the priesht would fall off the althar." 
 
 "Who was the show?" asked Noney, saucily. 
 
 "That cawbogue from the hills. Darby," he said. 
 "Who the divil did he kill or rob to get such clothes?" 
 
 "Darby Leary is no cawbogue," said Noney. "I 
 think he's a clanc, dacent bhoy enough; and sure what 
 he wears is his own." 
 
 "He was the laughin'-stock of the congregation to-day," 
 said Phil. 
 
 "They had betther be mindin' their prayers," said 
 Noney. "Some people soon may be laughing at the 
 wrong side of their mout'." 
 
 Doody looked keenly at the girl. 
 
 "Begor, wan would think there was a somethin' betune 
 ye," said Phil, "the way you stand up for him." 
 
 "And what if there is?" said Noney.
 
 390 LISHEEN 
 
 "Oh, nothin', nothin','' said the abashed Phil. "Good- 
 bye, Noney, and may yer ondhertakin' thry with you!" 
 
 Of course, there were troubles. Nothing is worth 
 having without trouble. Noney wavered in her allegiance 
 when people spoke of Darby as a fool, as an omadan, as 
 a half-idiot. Noney relented when she visioned the 
 pretty lodge, and had from the priest's own lips the testi- 
 mony of the deep interest Maxwell was taking in Darby. 
 The great trouble was with Darby's mother. 
 
 That good woman fumed, and swore, and asseverated 
 that no daughter-in-law should ever darken her door, 
 and dethrone her. She broke the bellows across Darby's 
 back when he entered unsuspectingly his cabin, where 
 the news had preceded him. She poured out upon him a 
 torrent of contempt and scorn in the too accommodating 
 Gaelic, which would have withered up and annihilated 
 any one else. Darby only winked at nothing, and held 
 his tongue. Then she went to the priest, and asked his 
 reverence would he have the conscience, or put the sin 
 on his sowl, to marry such an imbecile as Darby. 
 
 "I don't think Darby is a fool," said his reverence. 
 "I think he's more of a rogue; and the Canon law of the 
 Church makes no provision for that. At least, I never 
 heard of an impediment in that direction." 
 
 "Wisha, thin, yer reverence," she said, "he isn't a 
 rogue, but a poor gommal, who desn't know B from a 
 bull's-foot." 
 
 "H'm," said his reverence. "It seems to me that a 
 young man who has nobbled his master, and secured 
 such a girl as Noney Kavanagh for his wife, is not the 
 innocent you take him to be."
 
 A DOUBLE WEDDING 391 
 
 "Wisha, thin," said the old woman, giving in, "I sup- 
 pose your reverence is right. But may God help him and 
 her. 'Tis a cowld bed she's makin' fer herself." 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that," said the priest. 
 
 So matters went gaily forward; and, as a matter of 
 fact, the same autumnal sun that shone on the nuptials 
 of Robert Maxwell and Claire Moulton lent his radiance 
 to the humbler but more demonstrative bridals of Darby 
 Leary and Noney Kavanagh. 
 
 Noney had stipulated with the good priest that, in the 
 fear of a great popular demonstration, it would be more 
 compatible with her humbler ideas to have a very private 
 ceremony in the vestry-room, unknown to all but the two 
 witnesses required by the Council of Trent. But the 
 profoundest secret will leak out in these inquisitive days; 
 and long before the hour appointed for the marriage, 
 suspicious groups began to gather around the comer of 
 the street where stood the rural chapel. 
 
 The marriage was celebrated quietly enough; but when 
 the happy pair emerged, and had got beyond the friendly 
 shadow of the priest, they were met by a tumultuous 
 crowd, who cheered and whistled and chaffed the young 
 pair good humouredly; and accompanied them to the 
 discordant music of tin-whistles to the maternal home. 
 
 Darby was subhmely unconcerned. He did not say 
 so, for his vocabulary was Hmited, but he felt, as many 
 a wiser man should feel under similar painful circum- 
 stances, that it was a mere "incident" in the happy life 
 that was opening up before him, and therefore not to be 
 noticed. Noney was annoyed at this demonstration,
 
 392 
 
 LISHEEN 
 
 which, if it was friendly, was also more or less disrespect- 
 ful; but Darby whispered: 
 
 "Hould up, Noney! Think of the lodge and the two 
 sorts of mate." 
 
 And Noney bore the humiliation; and only determined, 
 deep down in her woman's heart, on a subtle revenge; 
 and how she would invite some of these grinning girls to 
 see her over there at Brandon Hall, and show them all 
 the glories of the lodge, and kill them with envy. 
 
 But, as the night wore on, all these ugly feelings dis- 
 appeared, and there was nothing but real ceol at the 
 Widow Kavanagh's house. And Darby danced, his 
 bare feet (for he wouldn't have any more to do with 
 shoes and stockings) making soft music to the sounds of 
 the fiddle. And Noney danced "over agin him" at 
 the other side of the door that had been laid as a plat- 
 form on the floor. And somehow, people began to come 
 round from their contemptuous and critical attitude, as 
 they always do when you keep on never minding them; 
 and before the night was over it was unanimously agreed 
 that a gayer or a handsomer pair had never left the parish.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE ROMAN WAY 
 
 Why did Cato leave that dread example to the world 
 of opening of his own free will and accord the door of Hfe 
 that leads out into the night of eternity? And why did 
 so many of his fellow-countr}^men, who had not the 
 excuse of dripping skies and modem nerves, follow that 
 example; and calmly open the veins of the life-current in 
 their gilded baths, or sUde from life even under more 
 gruesome circumstances? The emperor is displeased; 
 and Petronius goes down to his Villa at Paestum, calls 
 his friends together, gives them a glorious Lucullan sup- 
 per, makes a pretty speech, ending with Vale, Vale,longum 
 Vale! lies down on his couch, his favourite slave by his 
 side, and closes his eyes on the world-drama by opening 
 some little hidden chamber in the casket of his body. Or 
 Symphorianus is a little tired of this comical and unin- 
 teresting world, and wants to see what is at the other 
 side of things; and — goes to see! Or, Lydia is weary of 
 being told for ever Carpe Diem, weaiy of all these un- 
 guents and bathings and cosmetics, and in sheer weari- 
 ness of spirit she mns through her breast that \Qxy stylus 
 with which she pricked the bare arms of her slaves. Or 
 Leuconoe has seen one gray hair, and decided that life 
 is no longer bearable; and the Httle reptile will just kiss 
 her arm, and she will pass into the dreamless sleep. 
 
 393
 
 394 LISHEEN 
 
 Now, Hamberton had read a good deal, knew all about 
 these Roman methods, was an artist and had taste; was 
 refined and hated a mess; and yet, strange to say, he 
 elected first to make his bow to the human auditorium 
 in a vulgar and unclean manner. He had none of the 
 excellent Roman reasons for leaving Hfe, absolutely none. 
 He simply made his choice, just as he would purchase a 
 ticket for London, and then set about accompUshing his 
 design. 
 
 Maxwell and his ward had not been long married, and 
 the former was down at Caragh Lake for a few days 
 fishing, when Hamberton one night, on entering his bed- 
 room, thought he would experiment a httle with his 
 weapons, and toy a Httle with Death, before finally em- 
 bracing him. 
 
 He had kist' ">od-night to Claire, and she had entered 
 her own re had been some time in bed, when 
 
 Hamberton,',. nng donned his dressing-gown, went over 
 to a large maliogany wardrobe, opened a drawer at top, 
 and took out a small, silver-chased revolver. He handled 
 the deadly toy with ease, and fitted in the httle cartridges, 
 each snug in its own cradle. He then went over to his 
 dressing-table, and sat down. 
 
 There was no sound in the house. The hoarse wash 
 of the sea came up through the midnight darkness and 
 that was all. He hstened long to catch the faintest sound 
 that would show that his niece was sleeping; but he 
 heard nothing. He laid the revolver on the table, and 
 began to think. 
 
 "If now I were to use that deadly weapon on myself, — 
 just a short, sharp shock — no pain, — how would it be
 
 THE ROMAN WAY 395 
 
 with me?" And his stifled soul seemed to sob out: 
 "Silence, darkness, rest for evermore! And for them? 
 Horror, shame, despair!" 
 
 "Pah," he cried, in his own cynical way, "I would be 
 forgotten the day they had buried me. These young 
 people are engrossed in one another too much to heed 
 a poor suicide." 
 
 And for the world? A newspaper paragraph to-day! 
 To-morrow, oblivion as deep as that which sleeps above 
 an Egyptian sarcophagus! 
 
 He leant his head on his hands, and looked long and 
 earnestly at the face that stared at him from the mirror. 
 It was a strong, square face, somewhat pallid, and pursed 
 beneath the eyes. But it was a calm face with no trace 
 of anything morbid or nervous o^ ^erical. "They 
 cannot say: 'Temporary insanit}, bought. "Al- 
 
 though the Irish will sometimes ji^re themselves 
 through their damned poHteness." 
 
 He took up the weapon, examined it, and raised it 
 carefully and slowly, placing the tiny mouth of the muzzle 
 against his right temple, and pressing it so that it made 
 a little circle of indentation on the flesh. He kept it 
 steadily in this position for a while. Then he stole his 
 index-finger slowly along until it touched the trigger. 
 Very gently he moved the soft papilla of the finger along 
 the smooth side of the steel, thinking, thinking all the 
 while : Only a little pressure, the least pressure — and all 
 was over! Then, suddenly as if for the first time, the 
 thought struck him that he would make a dirty mess of 
 blood and brains in this way; and how the servants would
 
 396 LISHEEN 
 
 find him thus in the morning and handle him rudely, 
 and hft him with certain scorn from his undignified posi- 
 tion; and how the rude doctor, that detestable Westropp, 
 the drunken dispensary physician, whom he would not 
 let inside his door, would paw him all over, and talk about 
 his well-known insanity; and how a jury of his own 
 employes would sit on him with Ned Galwey in the 
 chair — 
 
 He laughed out with self-contempt and loathing, and 
 in his own cynical way, he muttered : 
 
 "The Romans had this advantage over us — they 
 folded their togas around them as they died; and no vile 
 hinds and idiots dared disturb their dignity in death." 
 
 And he threw the weapon down on the table. There 
 was a flash of fire, one little tongue of flame, and a puff 
 of smoke, and Hamberton fell backwards, not stricken, 
 but in affright. 
 
 "That Httle pellet was not fated," he thought, "to find 
 its grave in my brain." 
 
 And then, as another idea struck him, the strong man 
 grew pale and trembled all over, and the sweat of fear 
 came out and washed all his forehead with its dew. 
 
 For as he looked he saw that the still smoking muzzle 
 of the revolver pointed straight to the wall, or rather thin 
 partition, that screened Claire Moulton's room from his; 
 and a dreadful thought struck him, as he gauged the 
 height at which the bullet struck, that just at that height, 
 and just beyond that partition, was the bed on which his 
 ward was sleeping. His heart stood still, as he held his 
 breath, and Ustened. No sound came to reassure him 
 that she had been startled, but not hurt. What if that
 
 THE ROMAN WAY 397 
 
 bullet with which he had been criminally experimenting 
 had pierced through that lath and paper, and found 
 its deadly berth in the heart of the only being on earth 
 whom he really loved ? How could he explain it ? What 
 excuse could he give? How would he meet Maxwell? 
 And the words of Father Cosgrove came back, and smote 
 him: 
 
 "You cannot go out of Hfe alone!" 
 
 He stood still, and listened. If only Claire had 
 screamed, he would have been reassured. But no! 
 Not a sound broke the awful stilbiess, only the hollow 
 thunder of the sea in the distance. The strong man sat 
 down weak as a child. 
 
 Then, he thought, he should solve the mystery, or die 
 just there. So he crept along the carpet of his room, 
 softly opened the door, and passed down the corridor 
 towards his ward's room, where he Hstened. No, not a 
 sound came forth. She is dead, he thought, killed in her 
 sleep and in her innocence. He tapped gently. No 
 answer. He tapped louder. No answer still. He then, 
 trembling all over at the possibiHty of finding his worst 
 fears confirmed, opened the door, and said in a low shaky 
 tone : 
 
 "Claire!" 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 Then, in despair, he almost shouted the name of his 
 ward. 
 
 The girl turned round, and said in a sleepy voice: 
 
 "Yes! Who is it? What is it?" 
 
 "It is only I," he said. "I thought you might be 
 unwell!"
 
 398 LISHEEN 
 
 "Not at all," she said. "What time is it?" 
 
 "Just midnight," he repUed. "I'm so sorry I dis- 
 turbed you. Go to sleep again." 
 
 And he drew the door softly behind him, and re-entered 
 his room. There, he did an unusual thing with him. 
 He flung himself on his knees by his bedside and said : 
 
 "I thank Thee, God Almighty, Father of heaven and 
 earth, for this mercy vouchsafed Thy unworthy servant." 
 
 He buried his face in the down-quilt, and heard himself 
 murmuring : 
 
 " There is a God ! There is a God ! " 
 
 Then he rose up, took the dangerous weapon, drew the 
 remaining cartridges, and placed them and the revolver 
 in the cabinet, undressed, and laid down. But he had no 
 sleep that night. 
 
 The dread horror of the thing accompanied and haunted 
 him for several weeks; and then, as is so usual, it died 
 softly away, and the old temptation came back. But 
 now he had determined that, if he should succeed in pass- 
 ing away from life, it should be in such a way that the 
 most keen-eyed doctor or juryman should see naught but 
 an accident. Because, for several days after that dread- 
 ful night, he was distrait; and often, he caught Claire's 
 great brown eyes resting mournfully upon him, and as if 
 questioning him about the meaning of that midnight 
 visit. And he found himself perpetually asking, does 
 she know? Does she suspect? until somehow a deep 
 gulf seemed to yawn between them of distrust and want 
 of confidence; and he said: "It is the new love that has 
 ejected the old!" And she thought: "Does uncle fear 
 that I have forgotten him in Robert?"
 
 THE ROMAN WAY 399 
 
 But it seemed to accentuate his desire to be done with 
 things — to pass out to the dreamless sleep that seemed 
 to be evermore the one thing to be desired. 
 
 One evening, late in the autumn, he was out on the sea 
 in Ned Galwey's fishing boat. He enjoyed with a kind 
 of rapture these Uttle expeditions; and the more stormy 
 the weather, and the rougher the elements, the greater 
 was his esctasy. Ned always steered, for he was an 
 excellent seaman; and Hamberton used to watch, with 
 mingled curiosity and admiration, the long, angular 
 figure, the silent, inscrutable face with the red beard 
 hanging like so much tangled wire down on the deep 
 chest; and the care and watchfulness with which the man 
 used handle his boat, despite his apparent forgetfulness and 
 silence. He seemed always to rest in that humble posture 
 of silence and quiet, as if dreading to disturb Hamberton; 
 and he never dared speak, except to answer some question. 
 
 Hamberton on calm seas would rest in the prow of the 
 boat, half recHned on a cushion, reading or watching the 
 play of the waters. When the weather was rough, he 
 stood on the thwarts, supporting himself with his arm 
 around the mast; and swaying and dipping with every 
 plunge of the boat. 
 
 This autumnal evening was black and lowering as if 
 with brewing tempests; and the sea was heavdng fretfully 
 under a strong land-breeze that made the breakers smoke 
 near the shore. 
 
 Keeping the boat's head steadily against the rush of the 
 incoming tide, Ned managed to avoid the dangerous 
 troughs of the seas, and there was no inconvenience,
 
 400 LISHEEN 
 
 except for the shipping of a few seas that left but tiny 
 pools which Ned soon bailed out with his free hand. 
 Hamberton, this evening, stood up on the very last thwart 
 near the bow, yet so that he could support himself against 
 the mast; and the old temptation came back with terrible 
 force. 
 
 "Only a Httle shp of the foot; only a momentary loss 
 of grasp; and all is over. There, there beneath these 
 sweet salt waves is rest, if anywhere." 
 
 He began to dream of it, as he watched the waters 
 swirhng by the boat, or the fissure in front where the 
 prow cut the waves, and sent the hissing sections aft: 
 until he felt himself almost mesmerized by the element. 
 The continuous watching of the green and white waters 
 seemed to obliterate and confuse his sight; and with the 
 dimness of sight came dimness of perception, until at last 
 he began to think that he had accomplished his dread 
 design, and that he was actually beneath the waves. 
 Again and again the delusion returned, each time with 
 more force, until at last reason and imagination became 
 merged together, and the former was about to topple over 
 even as he loosed his hold, when he was recalled to exist- 
 ence by the harsh voice of Ned Galwey: 
 
 "For the luv of God, yer 'anner, come down out o' 
 dat! If you fell over, nothin' on airth could save my 
 nick from the hangman!" 
 
 For a moment, Hamberton did not understand him. 
 Then he laughed with grim humour, and silently sat 
 down. Presently, he asked: 
 
 "How is that, Ned? If I toppled over, what is that 
 to you?"
 
 THE ROMAN WAY 401 
 
 "Everything," said Ned. "On account of our dis- 
 sinsions, you know, the whole say wouldn't wash me 
 clane before a judge and jury!" 
 
 Hamberton saw the truth of the observation at once ; and 
 at once realized again the truth of Father Cosgrove's words: 
 
 "You cannot go out of Ufe alone!" 
 
 But he said ; 
 
 "It wouldn't make so much difference, Ned, to the 
 world, if you were hanged, and I was drowTied." 
 
 A remark that convinced Ned fully that the "masther 
 was tetched in his head"; and made him doubly eager 
 to steer for that Httle Ught that burned far away across 
 the tumbling seas in his Httle cabin. 
 
 But the spell of the temptation was broken for Ham- 
 berton. He sat very still, and said no more, not even 
 when the boat had touched the side of the pier, and both 
 sprang ashore. 
 
 But now, like an oft-expelled and conquered disease, 
 that comes back with greater fur}-, and gathers fresh 
 strength at each return, the terrible idea recurred more 
 frequently, until it became an obsession. The great 
 question now was, how to accompHsh the evil design, 
 and make the world believe it was an accident. He knew 
 he could count on Father Cosgrove's silence. He turned 
 over many means in his mind of meeting Death ; but there 
 was always some difficulty. He had quite abandoned 
 the thought of a sea-death, as he saw it would certainly 
 compromise either Ned Galwey, or any other boatman; 
 and, if he went out alone on the sea to his death, it would 
 be a manifest suicide. 
 26
 
 402 LISHEEN 
 
 At length, the occasion rose up with the temptation. 
 For one evening, as he walked slowly along the edge of 
 the sand-cliff that fronted, and was gradually fretted away 
 by, the sea in the vicinity of the village, he saw far down 
 beneath him some children playing. There were a few 
 grown girls, and two or three httle ones, amongst whom 
 he recognised one for whom he had a curious affection, 
 because her mother was an outcast from the society of 
 men. As he passed, the child shouted up to him to come 
 down and play with them; and the invitation from the 
 child woke a strange dead chord in his soul, and a certain 
 spirit of tenderness seemed to possess him. He waved 
 back his hand, and shouted down: 
 
 "All right. I shall be down soon!" 
 
 And he went on, musing on the possibihty of falHng 
 gently from the cHff, and meeting an easy death beneath. 
 All would say it was an unhappy accident. But clearly, 
 he dare not throw himself among those innocent children, 
 whose Hves he would thus imperil. 
 
 He walked along, thinking over the dread thought, 
 until suddenly he heard a shout from a fishing boat in the 
 bay, and looking around, he saw the men, who were far 
 out, wildly gesticulating. He ran back, and watched 
 where their fingers pointed. Then, when he came quite 
 opposite to where the children were, he saw the danger. 
 They were nearly surrounded by the incoming tide, for 
 here the shore dipped suddenly, and the frothing waves 
 came up with a hiss and a rush. The elder girls had run 
 away, and were screaming at a safe distance; and the two 
 little ones, one of whom was his favourite, were standing 
 paralyzed with terror. For here there was a hollow in
 
 THE ROMAN WAY 403 
 
 the cliff, and two barriers of rock hemmed in the sands. 
 He looked, and saw the children vainly trying to mount 
 the jagged stones, and follow their companions. He 
 saw them run backwards screaming, while the angry 
 waves leaped in and swept around their feet. Forgetting 
 Death, and now moved by the desire of saving Life, 
 Hamberton stepped forward, and trod a narrow goat- 
 path that ran down the side of the cliff. But the screams 
 of the children became more importunate. He left the 
 path, and leaped forward to a ledge of sand that seemed 
 to slope down to the chasm where the children were 
 imprisoned. But the impetus of the fall was too great, and 
 he felt himself driven forward by his own weight and 
 unable to save himself. In that perilous moment he 
 could not help thinking: 
 
 "I have had what I desired. Yea, there is a God!" 
 and the next moment, he was huddled up on the sands, 
 having barely escaped involving in his ovm ruin that of 
 the children he had bravely determined to save.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 NEMESIS 
 
 No woman, mother or maiden, ever utterly loathes that 
 which she has once loved. Her usually flexible nature 
 seems to be hardened by that passion into a shape which 
 cannot be bent backward or broken. There may be 
 anger, jealousy, hate, under which her soul will vibrate 
 painfully. But, at length and at last, it settles down into 
 one fixed poise, which seems as unchangeable as the 
 earth's axis towards the sun. 
 
 Hence, Mabel Willoughby, after her baptism of tears, 
 took the regenerated soul of her husband unto her own, 
 and settled down into a calm attitude of resignation and 
 affection. The effect on Outram was almost startling. 
 The unavowed forgiveness of his wife for his deadly 
 deception touched unto better purposes and larger issues 
 a spirit that had grown old in duplicity; and he came to 
 worship, with a kind of doglike uplook, the woman whom 
 he had betrayed and who had so nobly absolved him. 
 Hence, during these fleeting summer and autumnal 
 months, he lost all his cunning, all his cynicism; and went 
 about a humble and deferential follower of his wife, 
 asking for and obeying her commands; whilst she, in turn, 
 seemed to regard him with a kind of respect for his mis- 
 fortune and forgiven fault. 
 
 But, where men forgive, Nature, and her handmaid, 
 404
 
 NEMESIS 405 
 
 Nemesis, are sometimes relentless; and certainly, in some 
 mysterious manner, the magnanimity of men is not imi- 
 tated by that hidden and masked executioner, called 
 Fate. And so it happened that one day, Outram, who 
 was fleeing from Fate, fell into its arms; and expiating 
 his sin, liberated at the same time the woman who had 
 been his victim and pardoner together. 
 
 One autumn day, unHke autumn, however, in a strong 
 breeze that curled the waters down in a Kerry fiord, 
 which had also become a fashionable watering-place, a 
 curious picture could have been seen. 
 
 There was a strong sunlight on the beach, where chil- 
 dren were building sand-castles; and the old were sitting 
 musing; and the young were gaily emerging from the 
 bathing boxes for the afternoon dip in the sea. This was 
 commonplace enough; but what reheved it was a strange 
 figure of a girl, evidently an Oriental or a quadroon, 
 clothed all in white, except for the red sash that bound 
 her waist, and the red turban, with a gold tuft or crest 
 that hardly bound her black and glossy hair. Her feet 
 were bare, but were ringed with silver anklets. Her 
 arms too were covered with some kind of bracelets in 
 chased silver. And she stood motionless as a statue, 
 except that the wind caught, from time to time, her white 
 skirt, or her red sash, and swung it around, and threw it 
 back again. But there, against the background of the 
 sea, green and white, and on the level gray sands, she stood, 
 statuesque and imposing; and many a curious eye watched 
 her, and many a curious guess was made about her nation- 
 ahty and her presence in this obscure and remote place.
 
 406 LISHEEN 
 
 Just a little inkling of her position might have been 
 given by the presence also of a lady and gentleman, who 
 sat about twenty or thirty yards behind her on a little 
 sand-hill where sea-thistles grew. They were both 
 silent, sketching furiously the figure before them; and 
 occasionally dabbing in some bright colours from a palette 
 that lay between them. 
 
 After about three quarters of an hour, during which 
 the white figure never stirred from its position, the lady 
 and gentleman rose; the latter said something aloud so 
 that the girl might hear; and instantly, just touching her 
 turban and her black hair with her fingers with a gesture 
 of feminine coquetry, she turned aside, and walked with 
 a stately and dignified step towards the only hotel this 
 remote watering-place could boast of. Many eyes fol- 
 lowed her; many stared at her rudely; but she looked over 
 all with a certain calm grace and dignity that made the 
 rude and the insolent and the curious lower their gaze 
 as she passed. 
 
 That evening, the only passengers that stepped from 
 the stage-coach, which plied between the village and 
 Killamey, were Outram and his wife. 
 
 They had come to spend a week or two of the closing 
 autumnal hoUdays here and there on the loveUest sea- 
 coast in the world; and Outram, who had been always 
 fond of society and excitement, now sought the most 
 secluded and hidden places, as if he dreaded the faces 
 of strangers, or was jealous of aught but the companion- 
 ship of his wife. 
 
 He had said to Mabel, just as they approached the hotel :
 
 NEMESIS 407 
 
 "Here we can manage, I think, a quiet week or two. 
 I understand the season has been a poor one; and we 
 shall be almost alone." 
 
 And he stepped from the coach with the agiHty of one 
 who just then was reheved from some apprehension, and 
 had sought and found a respite or a rest. And they were 
 fortunate in securing the two best rooms in the hotel, — 
 those overlooking a tiny strip of laurelled garden, over 
 whose fohage could be seen the green wastes of the sea. 
 
 Yet, next morning after breakfast, to Mabel's intense 
 surprise, Outram came to her and said, in a pitiful way, 
 that closed all questioning: 
 
 "I think we had better clear out from here, Mabel. 
 I have had a wretched night, full of all kinds of appre- 
 hensions and fears. I wish I had that ring from Max- 
 well." 
 
 And he looked so ill that she forbore asking questions. 
 
 The hotel proprietor was alarmed and disturbed. He 
 had counted on such ehgible guests for a fortnight at least. 
 
 "Anything wrong with the room? We can easily get 
 you another. Perhaps, you would like your meals alone," 
 etc. 
 
 To all which anxious interrogatories, Outram could 
 only say: 
 
 "No, no. All is right. But—" 
 
 And they departed. Mabel mused all the way in 
 silence, until they came to their old quarters on Caragh 
 Lake. High up on the hills was the bell-tent of Maxwell, 
 with the httle red permant fluttering in the breeze. 
 
 "I hope Maxwell is here," he said. "I shall demand 
 my ring."
 
 4o8 LISHEEN 
 
 "He cannot be here," said Mabel, wishing it were so. 
 "You know he's married to some English girl along the 
 Dingle coast; and I heard they have gone abroad." 
 
 The sudden hope died away from Outram's face, and 
 left it dark and gloomy as before. 
 
 They had rooms in the hotel; and the unhappy man, 
 hunted by Fate, had one night's rest. But the next day 
 he looked fearful and unhappy and apprehensive, watch- 
 ing in a furtive manner the guests at table or on the 
 corridors, and hiding behind curtains when the great 
 stage-coaches came with their burden of passengers, and 
 went. 
 
 His wife could not help noticing it, and his dread be- 
 came contagious. Both felt now the shadow of a great 
 fear looming down on them; the meshes of Fate closing 
 in around them. But by common consent they agreed 
 that this fate was to be met in silence. Mabel asked no 
 questions; and Outram proffered no suggestions. 
 
 The second day passed quietly over them, Outram 
 having spent the greater part of it alone on the lake; 
 and even there seeking the shadows and sequestered 
 places rather than the open waters, where eyes, them- 
 selves unseen, might rest upon him. In the evening he 
 was in excellent spirits, and said after dinner to his wife: 
 
 "I think, after all. Maxwell may be here. At least, I 
 imagine I saw that young barbarian who used accompany 
 him, and whom once, you remember, I nearly drowned 
 at the pier. I must make inquiries." 
 
 He did. Yes! Maxwell was here for a few days' 
 fishing, before the close of the season. He Hved alone 
 in his bell-tent up there in the valley of the hills, and saw
 
 NEMESIS 409 
 
 no one. He had been married to a great English heiress, 
 who would now inherit untold wealth, for look! here is 
 a paragraph in the Sentinel to the effect that Hugh Ham- 
 berton, Esq., J.P., Brandon Hall, was killed by a fall from 
 a cliff in the neighbourhood of his home last Monday, 
 whilst endeavouring to save the hves of two children who 
 had been suddenly surrounded by the incoming tide. 
 
 "Lucky dog!" said Outram. "He was always lucky, 
 except — when he lost you, Mabel." 
 
 And Mabel smiled sadly. 
 
 Another day rolled by, and after breakfast Outram 
 again recurred to the matter. 
 
 "I'll go up this afternoon or to-morrow and interv-iew 
 him," said Outram. "It will be interesting to hear of 
 his adventures as a farm-labourer, and I must have that 
 ring. Will you come, Mabel? We can drive up after 
 lunch." 
 
 And Mabel shook her head, and said nothing. Outram 
 did not go to seek Maxwell. He spent the day again on 
 the lake. 
 
 After dinner that evening, he strolled through the 
 grounds of the hotel, smoking, and seeking, as was now 
 his wont, seclusion in the deep thickets and shrubberies 
 that almost made night of day in the place. He seemed 
 to have no fear now, as he walked in deepest solitude to 
 and fro, thinking, thinking of many things, and yearning 
 for that strange taHsman to which he attached such su- 
 perstitious importance. The day was declining; but red 
 clouds hung in masses above his head. 
 
 Once, as he was turning in his walks, he thought he saw 
 a glint of colour amongst the trees; but concluded that it
 
 410 
 
 LISHEEN 
 
 was a mistake; and he gave himself up again to imagina- 
 tion, ending each strophe of his fancy by wishing he had 
 that ring once more in his possession. He despised him- 
 self for attaching such importance to so paltry a thing; 
 but a spell was upon him, which he could not shake aside. 
 
 Suddenly, a low voice, scarcely raised above a whisper, 
 broke on his startled ears, and made his heart stand still 
 in terror. It came from behind the thick bole of a huge 
 sycamore, and was chaunting as if in a soHloquy the 
 following words in Sanskrit: 
 
 " Salutations to thee, O my Father! Salutations to thee, 
 O thou giver of boons! Why hast thou hidden thy 
 face from thy slave, and made night of her Ufe ? Behold 
 Brahma has brought me to thee across seas and moun- 
 tains. I have found thee; and shall not let thee go!" 
 
 Outram stood still as one suddenly paralyzed. The 
 voice of the girl went on in a similar dreary, moaning 
 recitative, relating her love for her benefactor, her pur- 
 suit of him through India and Europe, and hither; her 
 protestation of fideUty, her determination never to leave 
 him again. Well he knew the terrible scorn and irony 
 that were beneath her words; and her grim purpose that 
 he should not escape her. He thought to fly; but knew 
 at once that she would follow him, and reach him in un- 
 expected places. There was nothing for it but to face 
 at once his evil genius, and ask her what she required. 
 
 He waited for a moment to steady his nerves, threw 
 away his cigar, and stood opposite the girl. 
 
 She seemed to be taken aback for a moment ; but looked 
 at him with that air of deprecation and that moistening 
 of the eyelids that he knew well concealed a purpose not
 
 NEMESIS 411 
 
 to be shaken — a character not to be angered or frightened 
 — a grim resolution to follow, and follow, and follow to 
 the end. 
 
 "Satara!" he said sternly, and as if asking a question. 
 
 "Yes, my Lord! Your slave and bondswoman!" 
 
 She held her hands hanging down clasped before her, 
 and her great eyes wandered over his face. 
 
 "What has brought you hither? Why have you come 
 to disturb my peace?" 
 
 "Why does the moon hang round her mother. Earth?" 
 she replied in the same calm monotone. "Why do the 
 rivers run to the sea? Why do the tides come and go at 
 a secret biddance?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "I know all that 
 jargon. But what do you want? I have but Mttle 
 money — "he put his hand in his pocket, and drew out 
 some loose silver, — " and cannot promise you more. 
 You have a situation, have you not? I saw you v^dth 
 some persons over there at Waterville." 
 
 She put aside the money proffered, gently, but with 
 some disdain, and looked at him with brimming eyes. 
 
 He got angry at this. It was an unreasonable thing, 
 and therefore an invincible thing. 
 
 "You know I'm married," he said, "and you should 
 also know that the past is past, and to be forgotten utterly; 
 that European ways are not the same as those of India; 
 and that I cannot allow you to follow me here!" 
 
 "My Lord is angry with his servant," she said. "What 
 has his servant done to create anger? The past is not 
 past; for there is no past nor future for the children of 
 Brahma, the Eternal."
 
 412 
 
 LISHEEN 
 
 She waved her hand, as if to brush away any objection, 
 
 "Look here, Sdtara," he said, "that jargon is all right 
 beyond the Red Sea. But we cannot listen to it here. 
 Again, I tell you that this is Europe; and that our ways 
 are not yours. You cannot come into my house. That's 
 impossible. I cannot receive you. Why can't you re- 
 main as you are ? Are the people kind to you ?" 
 
 "Kind? Yes. But they are also kind to their dog. 
 What is kindness ? Will the gleaner take an ear of com 
 when he can get a sheaf? Will my lord drink water 
 when he can have the grape-juice of the vineyard?" 
 
 Outram was sorely puzzled what to do. How to get 
 rid of this girl with her brimming eyes, her deadly and 
 tenacious purpose, her Eastern fanaticism, he knew 
 not. 
 
 "Satara," he said, lowering and softening his voice, 
 until it became almost caressing, "you once cared for me? 
 We were once friends?" 
 
 "Nay, nay," she said, "not friends. The slave is not 
 the friend of her master; the worshipper is not the friend 
 of Brahma." 
 
 He saw it was useless. But now the evening had deep- 
 ened down. The hghts were twinkling in the hotel 
 beyond. He must soon return; and — with such a com- 
 panion! He made a final effort. 
 
 "Come!" he said, and he led the way through the 
 shrubbery by a by-path down to the pier, where the httle 
 punt was moored. 
 
 When the girl, walking by his side, saw him unloose 
 the boat, and invite her towards it, she stepped back. 
 But he used gentle words of command, and represented
 
 NEMESIS 413 
 
 to her that here alone could there be the solitude neces- 
 sary for the explanations that he deemed it necessary to 
 give, because she was so slow to understand. Yet she 
 was fearful; and watched him with her large eyes open, 
 and studying every feature and play of his face to see 
 what was his design. 
 
 At last, impatiently he coiled up the rope in the boat, 
 and sitting down, drew away from the pier. Then, in 
 despair, at the thought of his escaping her, she cried to 
 him, and stretched out her hands. He drew back gently; 
 and gently helped her into the boat. Then when she had 
 seated herself he pulled out into the lake. A wet and 
 smoky half- moon rose in the south, and threw its silver 
 over tree and lake and mountain; and the white dress of 
 the girl shone above the darkling waters beneath. The 
 clouds, now a dark slate-colour, hung threateningly down- 
 wards; and certain black pines, like watching sentinels, 
 signalled to each other across the lake. 
 
 Darby Leary, in the free hour after his master's dinner, 
 had come down to the lake, and, with the view of catching 
 a few trout or pike for Noney, had set his night-lines 
 amongst the sedges, and was calmly enjoying the fra- 
 grance of a cigarette. He had now advanced beyond 
 brown paper, and could smoke as many deadly cigarettes 
 as his master. Once, unfortunately, he had the chance 
 of a cigar; and this mined his taste; so that, under the 
 influence of that experience, there was always a Uttle 
 contempt and sense of disappointment under the more 
 modest and less dangerous cigarette. But Darby was 
 not one to quarrel with fate. He took his pleasures as
 
 414 LISHEEN 
 
 they came; and only dreamed sometimes of better things 
 He lay coiled up in a bunch of heather and ferns, and was 
 sinking into a kind of deHghtful coma, when the hollow 
 sound of the sea and the light splash of water aroused 
 him. 
 
 "Who the d ," thought Darby, "could be out at 
 
 this hour except a poacher hke meself ? The gintry are 
 at their dinner. I hope they won't pull up my night- 
 lines." 
 
 He drew further back, took the cigarette from his 
 mouth, lest the smoke should betray him, and watched. 
 Presently, he saw clearly in the moonhght, about a hun- 
 dred yards from shore, the white gHnt of a lady's dress, 
 and then the dark form before her, leaning forward and 
 backward at the push and draw of the oars. A breeze 
 sprang up, and curled the waters of the lake, blurring the 
 shadow of the woman's dress, and swinging the tree- 
 tops above Darby's head. 
 
 "I didn't hke the look of the sky to-night," thought 
 Darby, "If I were thim, I'd go home." 
 
 And then he saw the punt draw into the shadows, and 
 she stood still, swaying and rocking on the hght waves. 
 Darby leaned down his head trying to catch a word of the 
 conversation. Not a sound reached him; but he saw 
 clearly the man gesticulating, and once a Httle scream 
 from the woman crossed the waters, as she clutched the 
 edge of the boat, when it rocked too wildly. 
 
 "They're gintry, begobs," thought Darby. "But what 
 a quare thing to come out on sich a night. They have 
 their own ways, hke common people ; and I misdoubt but 
 that there's some mischief there."
 
 NEMESIS 415 
 
 This made him think of his own little wife at home; 
 and he couldn't help saying: 
 
 "Ah, Noney, sure 'tis you're the jewel intirely." 
 
 A half-hour passed by. The breeze died out, sprang 
 up again in fiercer gusts, died away again, and then 
 swept down in a hurricane that threw seething waves at 
 Darby's feet. 
 
 "Begobs, I must warn them," thought Darby. "If 
 they don't shtop their cnofshauHn' and codrauHn', they'll 
 be cool enough before morning, I'm thinkin'!" 
 
 He put his hands to his mouth, and shouted across the 
 tumbling waters: 
 
 "There's a big wind comin' down; an' ye'll get 
 swamped." 
 
 Apparently, they didn't hear him. He again shouted, 
 in a superior accent, borrowed for the occasion: 
 
 "Hallo, there, in the punt!" 
 
 A faint Hallo! came back. 
 
 "They're dhrunk, or mad," thought Darby. 
 
 "Get home out 0' dat," said Darby, again shouting 
 through his hands. "Don't you see the wather? Cull 
 in, or ye'll be drownded!" 
 
 This at last seemed to awaken the rower; for he drew 
 his punt around, and pulled shore wards. 
 
 But when he got out of the sheltered waters, and 
 found the boat rocking dangerously, he tried to get back. 
 But this was not easy. 
 
 "Keep her head to the north," shouted Darby, "and 
 pull in here." 
 
 The rower, now alarmed, tried to do so; and with a few
 
 4i6 LISHEEN 
 
 strong pulls he sent the punt driving through the seeth- 
 ing waters. But wind and wave were too much for him. 
 These autumn tempests, which rise so suddenly on moun- 
 tain lakes, and as suddenly subside, raise dangerous and 
 choppy waves, in which very often six-and eight-oared 
 boats perish. The hght punt had no chance there, 
 although just now driven by a man rendered desperate 
 by a double terror. He struggled furiously, feeHng that 
 his only chance was to cut through the waters, and not to 
 leave the frail Httle skiff at their mercy for an instant. 
 But Nature and, as he now thought. Nemesis, were too 
 much. The thought of this girl, who had travelled half 
 the globe to avenge Jiis desertion or cruelty, and the 
 thought that his taHsman would now have been in his 
 possession, had he not neglected the opportunity, smote 
 him together; and with a kind of groan, or cry of despair, 
 he threw up the oars, and folded his arms in defiance. In 
 an instant the boat was swung round, Ufted up, and 
 capsized; and Outram and the girl were in the trough of 
 the waves. 
 
 He made no attempt to save himself or her. He flung 
 up his hands, and went down Hke lead. Satara's dress 
 kept her floating even on the turbulent waves for a while; 
 but her courage too was departing, and she was beginning 
 to see Fate in the coincidence of meeting Outram and 
 her death, when a rough form clove through the waves, 
 and a rough voice shouted, whilst he spat the water from 
 his mouth: 
 
 "Hould on; an — for — the life — of ye — don't 
 ketch me!" 
 
 With her Eastern stoicism, she compUed.
 
 NEMESIS 417 
 
 "Now," spluttered Darby, "jest lay yer hand — on 
 me — shoulder — but don't ketch me for yer life." 
 
 She calmly obeyed him; and Darby towed the girl 
 ashore. 
 
 When he had pulled her up amongst the sedge, and 
 set her on her feet, and got back his breath, he was the 
 most thunder-stricken man on this planet. The dark 
 face, the black hair now tossed wildly down on breast 
 and shoulders, the white dress and red sash, completely 
 bothered him. She stood panting, and staring at him, 
 and then got breath to say: 
 
 "Tank you! Ver' much tanks!" and strode away, 
 leaving Uttle rivers of water as she moved. 
 
 Darby was too much surprised to follow, or ask a ques- 
 tion. He went home to dry himself, and in reply to the 
 astonished queries of his little wife, he only said mys- 
 teriously : 
 
 "The quarest thing ye ever hard. But whisht, till I 
 see the Masther!" 
 
 27
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY 
 
 When Darby did see the "masther," he wrapped him- 
 self up in that cloak of mystery that used to be exaspe- 
 rating, but was now only amusing to Maxwell. He had 
 learned much, and profited wisely. 
 
 "Where were you last evening, Darby?" he said. 
 "You never returned home after dinner." 
 
 "Sich a thing!" said Darby. 
 
 "I suppose the attractions of home life and Noney are 
 too much for you?" said Maxwell. 
 
 "The quarest thing yer 'anner ivir hard of," said Darby. 
 
 "Well, I'll dock you a quarter's wages in future if you 
 don't mind your business," said Maxwell. 
 
 Thus recalled to practical life. Darby commenced his 
 narrative. 
 
 "I wos goin' down the hill," said he, "sayin' me prayers, 
 bekase Noney do be complaining that I do be so long at 
 'em that I keeps the supper cooling, whin, lo! and behold 
 you, I saw the punt on the lake. 'Who the divil are out 
 cooUn' their selves at this hour of night?' sez I to meself. 
 'They must be the quare people out an' out to be boatin' 
 at sich an hour.' So I watched 'em; an' begobs I aimed 
 me watchin' well." 
 
 Maxwell grew attentive. It was so like something he 
 had formerly seen, and which had changed the whole 
 course of his life. 
 
 418
 
 AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY 419 
 
 "Here!" he said, flinging a cigarette to Darby, who 
 now got into the full swing of his narrative. 
 
 "There wos a lady an' gintleman, he puUin' an' she 
 steerin' the boat, ontil they got out of the rough wathers 
 and pulled into the shallows where we hooked the salmon." 
 
 Maxwell nodded. 
 
 "Well, there they wor, talkin' an' codraulin', an' they 
 nivir see the wind comin' down from the hills, and risin' 
 the lake like mad. Thin I halloed to 'em; an' they didn't 
 hear me, they wor so occupied wit' aitch other. I halloed 
 agin. Thin, the jintleman saw his danger; an' he pulled 
 out. But the wind was too much for him, and the wathers 
 wor too shtrong. Have you a Hght about, you yer 
 'anner?" he cried, suddenly stopping, and addressing 
 Maxwell. 
 
 Maxwell flung him a box of wax vestas, and waited. 
 He knew from experience there was no use in hurrying 
 Darby. 
 
 Darby smoked placidly; and then resumed, pausing 
 between each puff of smoke. 
 
 "But, begobs, he could handle the oar well. 'Twas a 
 pity, out an' out ... I tould him hould her head to the 
 says ... for she was bobbin' Hke a cork . . . An' he 
 did . . . But thin ... a gusht of wind as from a smith's 
 bellows ... hit him ... an' he flung up his hands . . . 
 an' wint down Uke a cannon-ball." 
 
 Maxwell had to wait a long time; but he was afraid to 
 show much impatience or interest. 
 
 "The lady floated just hke a wather-lily with her white 
 gownd spreadin' out all round her . . . And begobs, I 
 couldn't help it ... in I went, clothes an' all, more
 
 420 LISHEEN 
 
 betoken ... I got the divil an' all of an atin' from 
 Noney about them ... an' shwam to her . . . Begor, 
 she was as cool as a cucummber . . . bobbin' up an' 
 down , . . 'Hould up,' sez I, 'an' don't tetch me fer the 
 life of ye' . . . bekase, these wimmen put the glaum on 
 you, whin they're drownin' . . . an' pull you down wid 
 'em . . . But, begobs . . . this wan puts her hand . . . 
 on me showlder ... as cool as if we wor goin' out for a 
 dance . . an' I pulled her safe and sound . . . from the 
 wathers." 
 
 Maxwell was now almost excited ; but he dared not say 
 a word; and after a long pause for admiration, Darby 
 resumed : 
 
 "Thin kem the quarest thing of all . . . bekase . . . 
 when I confronted her ... I saw . . . that av it wasn't 
 the Ould Bye himself in the shape av a woman . . . an' 
 they say he appears that way sometimes ... it was the 
 Ould Bye's wife . . . She wos as black as the ace of 
 shpades . . . she had big gowld rings in her ears, an' on 
 her arrums. 'Tank you,' sez she, 'tank you very 
 kindly,' and off she walked, like the Queen of Shayba 
 . . . You could knock me down wid a fedder!" 
 
 "You must get a leather medal for this, Darby," said 
 Maxwell. "Only you're after telling a danmed pack of 
 lies. You were poaching, you ruffian, and you fell in." 
 
 "Pon me sowkins," said Darby. "An' more betoken, 
 I tink— " 
 
 He stopped suddenly. 
 
 "What do you think?" asked Maxwell, impatiently. 
 
 "I think," said Darby, "but I ain't sure and sartin,
 
 AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY 421 
 
 that the gintleman wos the same as give me a cowld bath 
 in the lake before. His turm have come now." 
 
 Maxwell jumped up. 
 
 "Outram? Do you mean Mr. Outram?" 
 
 "Begor, I don't know his name or address," said Darby. 
 "But I think 'twas the same." 
 
 "Why? What makes you think so? You couldn't 
 see him?" asked Maxwell. 
 
 "The moon wos shinin'," said Darby, "but that 'ud 
 make no differ. But I think 'twas the way he dhrew 
 himself back and forrard. I knew his shtroke; an' a 
 good shtrong shtroke he had." 
 
 "And the woman? The lady? You never saw her 
 before?" 
 
 "Oh, begor, no! I can take me Bible Oath on that," 
 said Darby. "If she wasn't a furriner, or a wild Injun, 
 she blackened her face a purpose." 
 
 The thought was opportune; and struck Maxwell 
 silent, although he still but half beheved all that his 
 henchman said. He said at length: 
 
 "How many have you told of this affair?" 
 
 "Divil a wan, but yer 'anner!" said Darby. 
 
 "Not even Noney?" 
 
 "Oyeh, ketch me! You can't tell the thruth to a 
 'uman. You'd never hear the ind of it." 
 
 "You're quite sure?" 
 
 "Shure and sartin," said Darby. 
 
 "Then keep it close," said Maxwell. "If all you say 
 is true, there's a mystery somewhere, and you may get 
 involved. By the way, did you ever tell anyone about 
 the ducking Outram gave you?"
 
 422 LISHEEN 
 
 " Divil a wan," said Darby. " Oyeh, what am I sayin' ? 
 Yarra, sure I tould half the parish; and tould 'em too 
 that I'd be even wid him wan day." 
 
 "Precisely. Now, take care, and keep a silent tongue 
 in your head; or that may come against you. Many a 
 man has been hanged for less." 
 
 And Maxwell knew that he had closed Darby's tongue 
 on that subject for ever. 
 
 He called down to the hotel in the afternoon, inquired 
 and found that Outram and Mabel were registered as 
 guests, asked to see them, and saw Mabel alone. 
 
 She was anxious and terrified enough; and made no 
 secret of the cause, Outram had dined, and gone out 
 and had not been seen since. He had been much fright- 
 ened and disturbed these last days, — why, Mabel could 
 not conjecture. He had been anxious to change from 
 place to place; and appeared to be haunted by some 
 fear; and she didn't know. She feared to utter what she 
 thought. 
 
 The hotel was in commotion. The shadow of a great 
 fear was over the place. Something had happened. 
 There was one being at least in terrible distress; and she 
 the proudest and haughtiest, who would not deign to 
 speak to anyone. It was interesting, and the guests 
 gathered here and there in little knots and nooks, and 
 whispered, and pointed, and conjectured, as is the way 
 with these creatures, when one of their class is in 
 trouble. 
 
 Then a search-party was organized, with Maxwell 
 at their head. And they had not gone far when they 
 found the shattered punt amongst the sedges that lined
 
 AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY 423 
 
 the lake, and later on, the oars floating, and later on, a 
 man's felt hat, which was unquestionably Outram's. 
 And Maxwell had to tell Mabel the sad news there in the 
 very portico of the hotel, where barely twelve months 
 ago Outram was showing his tahsman to an admiring 
 group, and he himself knew that it was all over between 
 himself and his fair cousin for ever. 
 
 He was uttering the usual commonplaces, "the vacant 
 chaff well meant for grain," that are said on such occa- 
 sions, when a lady appeared, and just behind her came 
 a perambulator, pushed by a dark young girl, clothed in 
 white but for a red sash around her waist, and a red fillet 
 in her hair. The lady stopped to speak a word of sym- 
 pathy to Mabel; the perambulator stopped also; and 
 Maxwell had an opportunity of studying the dark, im- 
 mobile features of Satara. The girl looked around her 
 in a cool, impassive way, resting her great eyes solemnly 
 on Mabel, and just glancing incuriously at Maxwell. 
 He was so absorbed in his study of her that he was quite 
 oblivious of the conversation between the ladies, until 
 he heard the words : 
 
 "Yes! it was a sudden and dangerous squall. My 
 ayah was out also for a walk, and came home drenched. 
 I feared she would be ill, as she is not used to this change- 
 able climate." 
 
 Satara smiled, showing her white teeth, and passed on 
 with the perambulator. 
 
 "Who are these?" asked Maxwell. 
 
 "Anglo-Indians," said Mabel, with a little shudder. 
 "They came on here only yesterday." 
 
 "And that is a native, I suppose?" he asked.
 
 424 LISHEEN 
 
 "Yes. A native nurse, who has become attached to 
 them." 
 
 "I suppose you will return home at once, Mabel," he 
 said kindly. "I fear there is but little use in your re- 
 maining here." 
 
 "I should like to remain," she said, "while there is 
 still a Httle hope." 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 After a pause, she said : 
 
 "Ralph was about to visit you yesterday afternoon, 
 partly in courtesy, partly on business. Can you imagine 
 what it was?" 
 
 "I suppose about that wretched ring. Outram at- 
 tached a superstitious importance to the thing." 
 
 "I wonder would it have saved him?" she said mus- 
 ingly. "He often said: 'I wish to have it back! I wish 
 I had it back! I should not have parted with it.'" 
 
 "I don't know!" said her cousin. "Perhaps I should 
 have sent it to him. It was useless to me. But you 
 loiow, Mabel, he had a way of setting you up against him 
 by the manner in which he asked, or demanded a favour. 
 He was so peremptory. I suppose it was his Indian 
 training." 
 
 "I suppose so," she said meekly. 
 
 "Well, in case you decide to leave for home, that is 
 when you are assured that all hope is abandoned, you'll 
 send for me, won't you?" 
 
 "Certainly. I shall claim your help." 
 
 Then, after a pause: 
 
 "I haven't asked after your wife. She's well?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed. But I haven't heard for a few days."
 
 AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY 425 
 
 "Then, there was no truth in the newspaper report 
 about your father-in-law?" 
 
 "What?" he cried. "What report?" 
 
 "I shouldn't have mentioned it. But there was a 
 paragraph a day or two ago in the paper that Mr. Ham- 
 berton — is that the name — was killed in a heroic 
 attempt to save some children from drowning!" 
 
 "My God! I never heard it. This comes from my 
 hatred of newspapers. What paper was it, Mabel? 
 Wonder Claire never wrote me." 
 
 "I think it was some local paper," she replied. "I'm 
 sorry I told you. There seems to be some Fate pursuing 
 us." 
 
 Horrified at the thought of Hamberton's death, Max- 
 well soon forget all about Outram. He had to make his 
 own preparations for leaving immediately for home; and 
 gave orders to have his tent struck, and all arrangements 
 made for departure. 
 
 All that weary day, Mabel kept her room, venturing 
 out but once or twice to see a messenger, take a telegram, 
 or send a message to her father. She was quite prepared 
 to see in the catastrophe the hand of Fate. It did not 
 come quite unexpected. Strange histories end strangely; 
 and a career of duphcity, if not of crime, could only ter- 
 minate consistently in a weird and tragic manner. Yet 
 the new-bom love that Mabel bore towards her husband 
 made his unhappy death doubly painful. The woman's 
 soul was disappointed of its ambition to consecrate and 
 make happy a life that she had rescued from worse than 
 -death. It was a sense, therefore, of noble sadness that
 
 426 LISHEEN 
 
 weighed her down, a sense of lost opportunities, — of a 
 life, which she might have ennobled, just snatched from 
 her hand by Death. Fortunately, she thought, it was all 
 natural and honourable. Outram had not gone down in 
 disgrace, nor by his own hand, nor under dark circum- 
 stances. A sudden mountain squall, unforeseen and 
 unimagined; a frail boat; and that was all. At least, the 
 lynx eyes of society could see nothing there. There 
 could be no room for scorn in the pity that met her from 
 so many eyes. 
 
 One thing seemed to embarrass her, as the evil day 
 wore on towards night. She found that she never left her 
 room but that dark Indian girl was somewhere in her 
 path. In the corridor, on the stairs, everywhere she went, 
 there was that strange girl, sometimes playing with the 
 children, sometimes alone and crooning some old Indian 
 rhyme about her gods; sometimes knitting, as those 
 dreadful tricoteuses on their three-legged stools under the 
 guillotine in the Terror; but always there, and always 
 rolling round her great eyes, and letting them fall and 
 bum on the white, beautiful face that was trying to con- 
 ceal its grief. During the day, Mabel became gradually 
 uneasy. Towards night, she became fascinated and 
 alarmed. She didn't know what to make of it. Once, in 
 the course of the evening, she was- coming down the stairs 
 as Sat^ra was going up. The latter stood aside and 
 stared. A strong Hght fell from a window on the face of 
 the girl. Mabel noticed that she looked old, strangely 
 old, — that she was a woman, although at a distance she 
 seemed hardly more than a child. And there was always 
 that strange, inquiring, half-triumphant stare as of one
 
 AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY 427 
 
 who could be despised, but could not be put aside; as of 
 one who seemed to claim a co-partnership in the agony 
 of the woman, although her position would not allow her 
 to presume to express it. 
 
 As the evening advanced towards night, the idea sprang 
 up in Mabel's mind that in some mysterious manner this 
 girl was connected with her husband's death; and it was 
 almost with a gasp of pain that she remembered the 
 words: "My ayah, too, was out for a walk, and came 
 home drenched." 
 
 What could take that girl, who shivered under the sun- 
 shine, out under the evening's chills? 
 
 But then the idea of connecting her husband with this 
 Indian servant was preposterous; and Mabel began to 
 fear that, owing to sleeplessness and anxiety, perhaps 
 her own imagination was conquering her reason. But 
 there is that curious subter-reason, or intuition, or what- 
 ever you wish to call it, in some minds that anticipates all 
 kinds of revelations, and jumps at its own conclusions 
 with a sure and certain foot. And Mabel could not 
 shake aside the fear that, if the mystery of her husband's 
 death were ever unravelled, it would be found that this 
 girl was not altogether unconnected with it. 
 
 Haunted by the thought, she was proceeding slowly 
 upstairs, just about eleven o'clock, as the oil-lamps in 
 the hotel-corridor were about to be extinguished, when, 
 on turning a narrow step, she almost stumbled against 
 the girl. She drew back with a certain loathing, which 
 the girl was not slow to notice; and just then a door 
 opened on the next corridor, and a lady's voice cried, 
 in a suppressed way:
 
 428 LISHEEN 
 
 "Satara! Satara! be quick! The lights are being put 
 out; and you must make your way back in the darkness!" 
 
 Mabel clutched the balustrade with one hand; and 
 placed the other over her beating heart. The girl saw the 
 gesture and smiled, showing her white teeth, and also 
 two deep lines around the mouth, which made her, to 
 Mabel's eyes, an old and haggard witch. 
 
 She had barely strength to reach her room, and fling 
 herself, in a kind of paralysis of fear, on an arm-chair. 
 
 The next morning, Maxwell had a tiny note to say that 
 his cousin had all preparations made for her journey to 
 Killamey to catch the up-mail to DubHn. He promptly 
 obeyed the summons, as all his arrangements had been 
 made, merely warning Darby that, as he valued his life 
 and his future prosperity, he should keep a closed mouth 
 about all that he had witnessed. 
 
 They travelled by the stage-coach to Killamey, scarcely 
 exchanging a word by the way. And without a word 
 Maxwell saw his cousin into her compartment, provided 
 all necessaries for her personal comfort, ordered dinner 
 at 6 P.M. in the dining-car, etc. Then, as he said 
 good-bye, his eyes hngered a moment on the stony, 
 impassive face. He was not surprised to see the tears 
 silently gather and fall. And he knew that the tears of a 
 proud woman are tragic tears. 
 
 They never met again. 
 
 After a few weeks of suffering, and longing once more 
 to see the face of "Bob," "Poor Bob," the old Major, 
 half-petrified, was gathered unto his rest.
 
 AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY 429 
 
 Mabel went abroad. And, sometimes, in the great 
 hotels at Vevey, Montreux, Cap Martin, etc., the guests 
 amused themselves by watching the stately, silent figure 
 of the girl, whose hair was prematurely gray, and who 
 walked so silently and gravely from the dining-room, 
 never exchanging a word with themselves. And it helped 
 to pass pleasantly the winter evenings, when someone 
 proposed, as a kind of charade, the conjecture as to 
 whether she "had a story."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVni 
 
 QUASI PER IGNEM' 
 
 Hugh Hamberton was not killed by his fall from 
 the cliff. But when the fishermen, who had pulled in 
 furiously to save the children, had leaped from their 
 boat, and placed the girls in safety, they found much 
 trouble in raising him from the waters that now were 
 seething around him. He was quite unconscious; and 
 all that they could do was to raise him up, and take him 
 beyond the reach of the waves, until his carriage would 
 arrive from Brandon Hall. But they lifted him tenderly 
 and reverently, as a hero, who had probably given his 
 life to save little children from a terrible death. 
 
 And when the news of the event had reached the 
 village, all hands struck work, and hastened to assist 
 in every way the brave man who was now, and for 
 evermore, enshrined in their hearts. Around the cottage 
 fireside for many a night, the tale was told, and every 
 circumstance gone over again and again, as the custom 
 is amongst this story-loving people — the call of the 
 child to come down and play, the cheery response of the 
 grave Englishman, whom no adult dare approach or 
 address without deference, the cry of the fisherman, the 
 screams of the girls, the gallant manner in which Ham- 
 berton had attempted to rescue them, his fall, etc., all 
 were narrated with some poetical exaggeration that only 
 enhanced his reputation, and sent it far and wide. 
 
 430
 
 "QUASI PER IGNEM" 431 
 
 Claire Maxwell was terribly shocked and grieved; but 
 kept her feelings to herself under an appearance of calm 
 composure. She would have written or wired to her 
 husband ; but waited to obtain the doctor's verdict. That 
 was soon ascertained. No danger to Hfe, but probably 
 hopeless paralysis from spinal injury. It was terrible, 
 but it might be worse ; and then — it was noble, as of 
 wounds taken in battle in some glorious, if impossible, 
 enterprise. 
 
 After some days, Maxwell returned, and Hamberton 
 recovered consciousness. For some time his recollection 
 of things was hazy; then the whole succession of ideas and 
 events ranged themselves solemnly before him, and gave 
 him much food for thought during the weary houi-s that 
 dragged themselves along through the sick man's 
 chamber. 
 
 Father Cosgrove was one of the first to call and offer 
 his sympathies. He was elated at the idea that his friend, 
 who was always denying and protesting against Father 
 Cosgrovc's estimate of him, had betrayed his own better 
 self in this glorious manner. Father Cosgrove had 
 preached to his own congregation a sermon on the event, 
 taking for his text: 
 
 "Greater proof of love no man can give, than that a 
 man should lay down his life for his friend." 
 
 And he drew tears from the eyes of his people by his 
 picture of the glorious unselfishness of this man, rich, 
 powerful, and with all the accessories of happiness at his 
 disposal, sacrificing all freely to save the lives of little 
 children. And a mighty torrent of love and admiration 
 surged around the lonely couch in Brandon Hall, where
 
 432 LISHEEN 
 
 the invalid was now and for many a long day to be im- 
 prisoned. 
 
 The interview between Father Cosgrove and his friend 
 was very touching. They silently grasped each other's 
 hands, and said but httle; the little on Hamberton's part 
 being a deprecation of all the popular applause and 
 tumult about nothing. 
 
 ''Look here," he feebly stammered, holding up the 
 many newspaper notices that had been written about 
 him, "see what fools men can make of themselves. Now, 
 there is how reputations are made. It is the entirely 
 hopeless imbecihty of men — the eternal tomfoolery of 
 the world." 
 
 But Father Cosgrove would only shake his head. 
 
 "I'm sure now," Hamberton would continue, "if all 
 the great names and great deeds of the world were ex- 
 amined, it would be as easy to prick the air- bubbles as 
 this. No one knows a man but himself; and unless he 
 is a fool no one has such a poor opinion of a man as him- 
 self." 
 
 "That is quite right!" Father Cosgrove would say. 
 "That is what all our saints are never tired of repeating." 
 
 "Pah! I don't want your saints with their fastings, and 
 haircloth, and nonsense! It is common sense! The 
 confessional of every honest man is his own bedroom 
 and his looking-glass. There he admits everything to 
 himself; and a sorry estimate he makes of his little god- 
 head." 
 
 "You are incorrigible!" his friend would say. "But 
 you are a hero! Nothing now can change that." 
 
 "Even you do not know me," Hamberton would reply
 
 "QUASI PER IGNEM" 433 
 
 in a kind of despair. "Look, some day I'll command 
 you to tell the tmth to the world. I can't stand this 
 horrible mask of hypocrisy." 
 
 But one day, after he had railed at everything and every- 
 body in this way, just as Father Cosgrove was leaving 
 the room, he called him back, and said: 
 
 "Don't be too proud at what I'm going to say." 
 
 Then, after a pause, he added: 
 
 "After all, there is a God!" 
 
 When the first shock was over, and all that medical 
 skill could effect, was done for Hamberton, Maxwell 
 thought the time had come when he might visit his old 
 friends at Lisheen. He was safe now. The report of 
 his munificence and generosity towards these poor people 
 had been wafted far and wide; and by degrees, the imag- 
 ination of the people, so slow to disentangle itself from 
 its preconceived ideas, began to revolve around and 
 finally settle down on the fact that verily, and indeed, 
 and without doubt, Robert Maxwell, Esq., was the man 
 who had served as swineherd and labourer in their midst; 
 and this for the noble and humane purpose of ascertaining 
 their condition with a view to its betterment. It was hke 
 a fresh dawn of hope in the growing dusk of a nation's 
 despair; for as yet the many acts of the legislature, that 
 have revolutionized the condition of the tenant farmers 
 of Ireland, had not been placed on the statute-book. 
 
 If Maxwell were one of those dwarfed souls that love 
 
 popular applause, and the sound of futile drums and still 
 
 more futile cheering, he could have had an ovation that 
 
 would have made any of the leading poHticians green 
 
 28
 
 434 LISHEEN 
 
 with envy. But he shrank from such things as indeli- 
 cate and somewhat absurd; and he felt even a kind of 
 shyness at the thought that he would have to face these 
 poor people, and receive their honest thanks. 
 
 They had seen that everything that could conduce to 
 the comfort and ease the loneliness of the poor invahd 
 had been done, and in a quiet hour of a still autumn 
 afternoon Claire and Maxwell drove over, after luncheon, 
 to Lisheen. 
 
 They chose the road which Maxwell had travelled the 
 night that he quitted in shame and remorse the humble 
 roof that had given him shelter; and as they went he 
 pointed out to his wife the places where he had stopped, 
 the thoughts that passed through his mind ; the very spot 
 where he was going to throw all up in despair, and creep 
 in amidst the bracken, and he down and die; the lake 
 that gUnted in the starhght, the river that murmured on 
 his right hand and directed his course, the labourer's 
 cottage where he had obtained a Httle food. It is a 
 pleasant thing in prosperity to retrace the footsteps of 
 adversity, and recall, with all the dehght of the contrast, 
 the mournful thoughts that seemed to make these foot- 
 steps in blood. 
 
 It was five o'clock when they turned in from the main 
 road, and drove slowly up along the boreen that led to 
 the dwelHng-house, Maxwell still pointing out each spot 
 with its own association. 
 
 "I can tell you I was footsore and weary and hungry 
 enough the evening I came along here," he said, "and I 
 had received so many rebufifs that I thought the dog 
 would be set loose on me here. Look, there I lay
 
 "QUASI PER IGNEM" 435 
 
 down to gather myself together, and pluck up a little 
 courage." 
 
 They reached the yard; and a great brown collie 
 came out to challenge them, and demand their busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Maxwell whistled, and the angry dog came whining 
 and whimpering and fawning upon him. 
 
 "You remain here a moment, Claire," he said, dis- 
 mounting, "I should like to enter alone." 
 
 Claire remained on the trap, holding the reins loosely, 
 and Maxwell entered with the old salutation: 
 
 "God save all here!" 
 
 Exactly the same as twelve months ago, there was no 
 one there but the old vanithee, and she was crouching 
 half-asleep over the wood and turf-fire, that was now 
 dying down into white ashes, although the pungent 
 fragrance of it filled the entire kitchen. 
 
 "God save you kindly!" she said, rising up, with that 
 air and tone of respectful welcome that belong to these 
 Irish homes. 
 
 "Where's Owen, and Pierry, and Debbie?" he asked, 
 coming near. 
 
 "Wisha, thin, yer 'anner, I suppose they're up among 
 the praties still. The days are drawin' in, an' they must 
 hurry." 
 
 "You don't know me?" he said, anxious to break the 
 spell of mystery that hung around him. 
 
 "Wisha, thin, yer 'anner," she replied, peering closely 
 at him through the dusk of the kitchen, "you have the 
 advantage of me, but sure you're welcome, whoever you 
 are!"
 
 436 LISHEEN 
 
 "You said the same words twelve months ago to a poor 
 tramp that came to your door?" he said. 
 
 "I did thin; an' sure 'twas God brought him our way; 
 and sure 'twas well he repaid us!" 
 
 "'Tis a quare thing," he repHed, dropping into the 
 country patois, "that a man could be six months under 
 your roof, and that you don't recognise him!" 
 
 "Oh, holy mother o' God! An' it's yer 'anner that's 
 shpakin' to me? Oh, wisha, thin, a thousand welcomes; 
 and 'tis well you deserve it, for shure all we have is yours." 
 
 And rubbing her hand in her check apron, she timidly 
 held it out to him. 
 
 He grasped it in his own; and something hke a sob 
 came into his voice, as he said: 
 
 "You were more than a mother to me! And how could 
 I forget it for you? But run out, and call in Owen and 
 Debbie and Pierry. My wife is here in the yard." 
 
 She went out, set the great dog barking; and shouted 
 with her feeble voice to the workers. One by one they 
 dropped in, Debbie first. 
 
 The girl drew back the moment she saw Claire in the 
 trap, and would have run away, but it was too late. 
 When she entered the cottage, she flushed crimson, and 
 then turned deadly pale when Maxwell held out his hand. 
 She barely touched it with her fingers, holding her head 
 aside ; but he grasped her hand firmly, and said : 
 
 "Now, Debbie, we must be friends again. I am not 
 going to forget so easily all that you did for me, when I 
 needed it most." 
 
 The strong, fierce pride of the girl kept her silent. 
 She found it impossible to conquer her rage at the thought
 
 "QUASI PER IGNEM" 437 
 
 that they should be under such supreme obligations to 
 him. She disengaged her hand, and went and hid her- 
 self in her bedroom. 
 
 When Owen and Pierry came in, the former greeted 
 Maxwell with that air of humble deference that showed 
 how wide he deemed the gulf that separated them. And 
 the remembrance of his rude words the evening of the 
 eviction was a perpetual source of remorse. 
 
 "I suppose," he said, in the tone of exaggeration that 
 seemed to him most fit to express his feehngs, "if we lived 
 for ever and ever, we could never thank yer 'anner enough 
 for what you done for us!" 
 
 "Don't speak of it now," said Maxwell. "But, look 
 here, Mrs. McAuliffe, will you put down the kettle, and 
 let us have a cup of tea after our long drive ? And Pierry, 
 run out and put up the pony, and let Mrs. Maxwell 
 come in." 
 
 This broke the ice completely. The appeal to the old 
 woman's hospitaUty touched her deeply, and she said, 
 bustling about: 
 
 "Yerra, thin, yer 'anner, with a heart an' a half I'll 
 get you the tay; an' if the missus 'ud come in — " 
 
 "She's coming," Maxwell said. "And, look here, get 
 some slices of your own home-made bread — no one can 
 make bread hke you — I often told my wife so; and 
 some of your salt butter. We are as hungry as wolves; 
 and we have a long drive before us." 
 
 And Pierry went out, and handed down, Hke a gentle- 
 man, the lady from her trap; and, when the tea was ready, 
 the two. Maxwell and his wife, sat down and talked and 
 talked and. talked; and ftsked questions all about the
 
 438 LISHEEN 
 
 farm, and the crops, and the cattle, and wanted to know 
 what else could be done? 
 
 "Done? Oh, Lord, what else would we want, if we 
 didn't want the wurrld?" said Owen. "Sure, sometimes, 
 we say 'tis all a dhrame; an' somebody has put the come- 
 ther on us. And thin we have to go out an' see everythin' 
 agin all over — the new house, the bams, the shtock, the 
 crops, the walls an' hedges an' ditches; an' thin we comes 
 back to go on our knees and thank the Lord and ax him 
 to pour down blessings on yer 'anner an' on yer 'anner's 
 wife all the days of yere hves." 
 
 And so with all mute and spoken deference and grati- 
 tude, these poor people poured out their souls to their 
 benefactor; and Maxwell felt that he had been more than 
 amply recompensed for his outlay, just as he felt that he 
 had grown in all mental and moral stature by reason of 
 the sharp experience he had passed through there in that 
 humble home. 
 
 "I suppose I could hardly keep it up," he thought, 
 "nor would I care to repeat it. But it was a gift of the 
 gods. I feel that I am moving on higher levels now." 
 
 The one drawback was Debbie's stubborn refusal to 
 make friends. And yet Maxwell was not sorry. He 
 pitied the girl; but he knew well that far down beneath 
 her rustic rudeness and apparent dishke was the mis- 
 placed love for himself. 
 
 "Only one thing is wanting now to your happiness," 
 said Maxwell, as they rose to go, "you must get Pierry 
 here married as soon as possible. No house is rightly 
 blessed unless the faces of little children are there. Isn't 
 that true, Owen?"
 
 QUASI PER IGNEM" 439 
 
 "'Tis thrue, yer 'anner; and I begs and prays the 
 Almighty to bless our ould age with the sight of young 
 faces. But," — he dropped his voice to a whisper, and 
 pointed with his thumb to the room where Debbie was 
 hiding, "she's thinkin' of goin' over to her sisters in 
 America in the spring; and thin — " 
 
 "I don't Hke that American business at all," said Max- 
 well, angrily. "Why can't Debbie come over to us, and 
 we'll settle her there for Ufe?" 
 
 The old people shook their heads. They knew 
 better. 
 
 Pierry had got out the trap, and was stroking down the 
 pony and handhng the fresh brown harness with all an 
 Irish boy's love for such things, and they were instantly 
 getting under way. 
 
 The old man came out to say good-bye, but drew 
 Maxwell aside. Then gulping down his emotion and 
 nervousness, he said: 
 
 "I said a hasty word to yer 'anner the day of the evic- 
 tion. God knows it is breakin' me heart, night an' day, 
 since, an sometimes I can't shut me eyes on account of 
 it — Av' yer 'anner could manage to forget — " 
 
 "Now, look here, Owen," said Maxwell, grasping the 
 rough, homy hand, "if I hear any more of that nonsense, 
 I'll recall all that I have done for you. Don't I know 
 what a hasty word is as well as any man ? and to tell the 
 truth I gave reason enough for it. Here, come and say 
 good-bye to my wife. Pierry, my boy, I have someone 
 in my eye for you. It must not go beyond Shrove at any 
 cost!" 
 
 "All right, yer 'anner; God bless you!" said Pierry.
 
 440 LISHEEN 
 
 Then, in his unbounded admiration of the trap and har- 
 ness and pony, he subjoined: 
 "Isn't she a beauty?" 
 
 They drove merrily homewards, chatting gaily, about 
 the people, their ways, their gratitude, their trials. Their 
 hearts were hght, because they had the consciousness of 
 having done noble work. Every sacrifice for humanity 
 reaps its reward even in this world. 
 
 "What utter and unforgivable idiots we Irish land- 
 lords have been!" said Maxwell. "Here, at our feet, 
 were the most loyal, generous, faithful people on earth, 
 who would follow us to death with joy. And we have 
 trampled them into sullen and disloyal slaves, with hate 
 and vengeance storming their hearts against us. Talk of 
 'lost opportunities.' We have flung to the winds our 
 dearest interests, — our countiy, our race, our happi- 
 ness!" 
 
 "Is it too late?" asked Claire. 
 
 "Yes," her husband said, "in the sense that things 
 never now can be what they might have been. But there 
 may be a chance of redress as yet. The people are for- 
 giving and generous. But can the leopard change his 
 spots?" 
 
 They had mounted the hill, beneath which the lake 
 shone in the starlight, and the river ran down to the sea, 
 when Claire suddenly started, and pointing to the hori- 
 zon, said: 
 
 "That cannot be the rising moon, down there in the 
 southwest. I have been watching it for a few minutes, 
 and it seems not to change."
 
 "QUASI PER IGNEM" 441 
 
 "'Tis a big blaze," said Maxwell, alarmed, pushing 
 on the pony. 
 
 "It seems in the direction of Cahercon," she said. 
 
 "No, it is more southward," he said, though he did not 
 beheve it. " I expect some farmer's rick is on fire. Those 
 threshing machines sometimes throw out sparks, and are 
 dangerous." 
 
 But he whipped the pony onward; and with eyes fixed 
 on the far-off blaze, which showed so terribly against the 
 darkness of the night, they both fell into silence. When 
 they dipped into the valley, the hills shut out the view of 
 the fire. But in a quarter of an hour they reached the 
 level plain again; and soon perceived to their horror 
 that it was not a rick of hay or straw, but houses, perhaps 
 the whole village of Cahercon that was being wiped out 
 by the terrible element.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 "one of us?" 
 
 When Maxwell and his wife turned the comer of the 
 road leading to the village, the full horror burst upon 
 them. Brandon Hall was in flames. The roof had fallen 
 in; and the fierce fires were leaping up amidst the vast 
 clouds of lurid smoke, which they turned into blood-red 
 shadows that came and went, as the wind shifted the dense 
 black volumes that poured fiercely as from the mouth of 
 a furnace. With aching hearts and darkest forebodings 
 of evil they tore madly through the village street; and 
 when Maxwell pulled up, and threw back his pony on 
 his haunches, the animal was covered vdth the white 
 foam of its sweat. He flung the reins carelessly aside, 
 jumped down, and tore his way through the helpless and 
 wondering peasantry. He was afraid to ask the question 
 that was on his lips, as he came in front of the mansion, 
 and saw that it was gutted from roof to cellar, and that 
 only the walls were standing. But he was swiftly an- 
 swered: 
 
 "He's all right, sir! The masther is all right! He's 
 up at Donegan's Cottage! Ned Galwey saved him!" 
 
 Thus reassured he ran back to his wife, but she had 
 already heard the news; and when Maxwell entered his 
 labourer's cottage, he found her there. 
 
 Hamberton was badly shaken and unnerved : but other- 
 
 442
 
 "ONE OF US?" 443 
 
 wise had suffered but little. It appears that after Max- 
 well and Claire had left for Lisheen he had sunk into a 
 doze in his arm-chair, from which he was rudely awakened 
 by the cry of "Fire!" Unable to help himself or to rise, 
 he was thinking of the dread possibiHty before him, 
 when one of his servants entered his room, and said, in 
 his calm, English way: 
 
 "The 'ouse is afire, sir! I think we 'ad better be 
 amoving hout!" 
 
 "Certainly. Get some help," said Hamberton. 
 
 The man vanished, and did not return. 
 
 Hamberton, now thoroughly dismayed, made an effort 
 to save himself, but fell back helplessly. He was now 
 face to face with the Fate he had so often wooed. 
 
 As yet, no trace of the fire was visible in his room; but 
 he heard that deep, distant rumbling of the terrible ele- 
 ment, and the cries of the frightened serv^ants, and the 
 crash of furniture and heavy timbers, and the gathering 
 of the crowd outside, and their awestricken exclamations. 
 And then, a tiny brown cloud gathered in beneath his 
 door, and soon the room was filled with the choking 
 vapour; but he lay helpless, as if bound with chains, 
 awaiting the final stroke, that would come, he thought, 
 at any moment. 
 
 Presently, a frightened maid burst in, and cried: 
 
 "Fly, sir, fly for your life! The whole house is in 
 flames. Nothing can save it!" 
 
 Hamberton smiled sardonically. He could only sit 
 still and listen to the ravages made by the conflagration; 
 and wonder, would the floor where he sat fall in, and cast 
 him into a furnace of fire; or would the smoke, ever grow-
 
 444 LISHEEN 
 
 ing thicker and thicker, suffocate him. He hoped so. 
 He had read that this was always the case in deaths by 
 fire. The victim was always unconscious before the 
 flames actually reached him. And then, it was only 
 cremation of his corpse; and surely this was only his own 
 last instruction to his executors. 
 
 "Not thus, though," he thought, whilst the thickening 
 fumes choked him, and made him cough. "Clearly, 
 there is a God guiding things : but not always in our way. 
 And he is a mocking God, who plays with us Uke puppets. 
 I wonder what would he do, if I spoke to him?" 
 
 He bent his head, and spoke strange things, that are 
 not to be found in any ordinary Prayer-book. And then 
 he laughed, whilst his cough grew painful; and there was 
 a growing Constriction in his chest, that seemed to make 
 breathing impossible, and to set his heart wildly throb- 
 bing. And ever and ever came that terrible rumbling, 
 as of a great earth-upheaval, and crash after crash, as 
 the heavy timbers of the house seemed to rip asunder, 
 and to fall into the sea of fire. Then he became conscious 
 of the carpet smoking beneath his chair, and presently 
 little jets became visible between the boards. 
 
 "It is the end!" he said, closing his eyes, when the 
 door was burst violently open, and a great, gaunt figure, 
 its head wrapped in a sheet, broke into the room. 
 
 "Where are ye? Where are ye, yer 'anner?" it cried. 
 "Quick, quick, for the luv of God!" 
 
 "Here!" said Hamberton, faintly, whilst he felt his 
 eyes painfully throbbing, and he could hardly breathe. 
 
 In an instant, a strong hand had wheeled his bath- 
 chair towards the great window that faced the west.
 
 "ONE OF US?" 445 
 
 There was a crash of glass, where Ned Galwey, leaping 
 on the sill, drove his foot again and again through the 
 framework of the window; and whilst the smoke broke 
 through the aperture, Hamberton felt a delicious breath 
 of cool night air on his forehead; and he braced 
 himself to make one last fight for Hfe with his brave 
 rescuer. 
 
 But the terrible problem now confronted them how, — 
 could Hamberton, heavy and helpless, be removed ? 
 Galwey had shouted down through the smoke to bring 
 the ladders around ; and this was speedily done. But the 
 window was fifteen or twenty feet from the ground, 
 Hamberton was a helpless log, the fire had gained from 
 beneath, and the floor and carpets were smouldering in 
 some places, blazing in others. It was only a matter of a 
 few minutes for that floor to fafl in and bury them both 
 in the furnace beneath. Hamberton saw it all; and, re- 
 vived to consciousness and a sense of sight by the night- 
 wind that sometimes conquered the fierce volumes of 
 smoke, and made a pleasant draught in the burning 
 room, he shouted: 
 
 "Jump down, Galwey! Jump dowTi, and save your- 
 self! You have a wife and family, remember!" 
 
 Galwey pulled by main strength the helpless form onto 
 the broad window-sill, and there for a moment they both 
 rested. They could see, sometimes, as the smoke hfted 
 or cleared, the faces of the crowd, reddened by the light 
 that shone from the burning room beneath them. There 
 was a great cheer, when the ladders having been placed 
 against the window-sill, the faces and forms of the two 
 helpless men were seen; and, as is usual in an Irish crowd,
 
 446 LISHEEN 
 
 there were sundry suggestions, uttered in all keys of 
 excitement, none of which was really practicable. 
 
 Again Hamberton ordered Galwey to leave him to his 
 fate and save himself. 
 
 "There's no use, Galwey," he cried, with a choked 
 voice, "we cannot both go down. Quick, while there's 
 time, and save yourself." 
 
 "You wance did me a wrong, yer 'anner," said Ned. 
 "I want to show you now how I can repay it." 
 
 A terrible suspicion crossed Hamberton's mind. All 
 the old prejudices against these truculent Irish seemed 
 to flash up in an instant. He is going to take a terrible 
 revenge, he thought. But the next instant, he dismissed 
 the base suspicion. And Galwey, coolly taking off the 
 wet sheet that had already shielded his eyes and face 
 from the flames, threw it around Hamberton's head. 
 Then slowly creeping out, he planted one foot on the 
 first rung of each ladder, shouting to the people beneath: 
 
 "Hould hard for yere Uves there below, and throw all 
 ye re weight against the ladders." There were plenty 
 volunteers to do the work. 
 
 Then he drew the helpless form of Hamberton head 
 foremost through the window, and never lost nerve, 
 although they shouted from beneath : 
 
 "Hurry, Ned, the fire is breaking through the window, 
 and will ketch the ladders." 
 
 It was a moment of supreme anxiety, when the whole 
 dead-weight of Hamberton's body, freed from the sup- 
 port of the window, fell on the devoted fellow. But, 
 accustomed to great emergencies and trials of muscular 
 strength in his daily avocation as labourer and fisherman.
 
 "ONE OF US?" 447 
 
 he was equal to the call. And bracing himself carefully 
 against the two ladders, he bore the first shock with 
 safety. Then carefully feeling downwards with his feet, 
 he held the helpless burden safe with his strong shoulders 
 and arms. The flames breaking from the room beneath 
 through the shattered window caught both sometimes, 
 and burned their hands and clothing. But at length 
 they reached the ground, and within the help of friendly 
 hands, and fell into the arms of an exultant and trium- 
 phant crowd. 
 
 When Maxwell, therefore, entered Donegan's cottage, 
 after a few inquiries had been made, Hamberton ordered 
 him to go at once and see after the condition of his brave 
 deliverer. This was worse than was supposed. Ned 
 had been badly burned before he had reached Hamber- 
 ton's room. The left sleeve of his coat had been com- 
 pletely destroyed in his fight with the flames, as he tore 
 bHndly, and with covered head, through the hall and up 
 along the stairs; and the flesh from shoulder to arm was 
 badly scorched. Yet he made nothing of it. Maxwell 
 was dumb before such heroism. He could say nothing but : 
 
 "Keep it well covered; and above all, let no water 
 touch it, until my wife comes up!" 
 
 "Is the masther all right?" asked Ned, heedless of 
 himself. 
 
 "He is, my poor fellow, except for some slight bruises. 
 This night won't be forgotten, you may be sure!" 
 
 " He done good to the people," said Ned. " He desarved 
 a good return." 
 
 "And he has got it," said Maxwell. "You'll have no 
 reason to regret what you have done."
 
 448 LISHEEN 
 
 "I want nothing," said Ned. "But, maybe, yer 
 'anner " 
 
 He stopped suddenly. 
 
 "Well?" said Maxwell. 
 
 "Maybe yer 'anner would ax the masther not to say 
 anny more about the 'Ghosht' or the 'praties' ?" 
 
 For this was the eternal jest of Hamberton, who, in the 
 boat, on the road, — everywhere, never ceased nagging 
 poor Ned about the famous adventure; quite unconscious, 
 we may presume, how his words galled and burned the 
 heart of his victim. 
 
 "All right, Ned!" said Maxwell. "I promise you you'll 
 never hear of them again!" 
 
 " God bless yer 'anner," said Ned. 
 
 They talked over the matter, Claire and Hamberton 
 and Maxwell, during these days, when the destruction 
 of Brandon Hall, and all its treasures, gave them plenty 
 of leisure to think. They came to the conclusion that 
 just as in the Army the Irish soldiers may break the 
 hearts of their officers in barracks, and the heads of their 
 enemies in the field, so in civil hfe, if their little ways are 
 tantaHzing, and quite opposed to English ways and 
 methods, they can always be depended on in a great 
 crisis, where their loyalty and fidelity are in question. 
 
 "I'll never have an English servant in my house again!" 
 said Hamberton. "Damn them. You saw how they 
 ran that night!" 
 
 And when Father Cosgrove, proud of his people, called 
 to offer his condolence to his friend, he was at once shut 
 up.
 
 "ONE OF US?" 449 
 
 *'I don't want to make you too conceited," said Ham- 
 berton, "but I must make another admission. You re- 
 member, I said there was a God!" 
 
 "Yes," said the priest. 
 
 "I wish to add something else." 
 
 The priest waited. 
 
 "Men are not all bad!" 
 
 Slowly but majestically a beautiful chateau in the 
 Louis Quatorze style, faced with red and white brick, 
 arose from the ruins of the burned house, and fronted 
 the ever-heaving and tossing and restless sea. Slowly 
 but surely new works were erected, and cottages built, 
 and larger enterprises opened. Slowly but surely a 
 happy and thriving and industrious population grew up 
 around the "Great House": a population knitted in the 
 firmest bonds of loyalty to those who were protecting and 
 helping them. 
 
 And any one of these fine days you may see a bath- 
 chair, in which is an invahd gentleman, rolled slowly 
 along the beach by a one-armed man. A soldier? Well, 
 yes! Had been under fire ? Yes, again. And wounded ? 
 Yes, once more! It is our friend Ned. The arm had 
 to be amputated in Cork. But no matter. He need 
 work no more. And the old man is very gentle and 
 patient ; and has never again even whispered to Ned about 
 the "Ghosht" or the "praties." 
 
 But Darby Leary? Have we forgotten Darby? By 
 
 no manner of means. Darby is all right. Down there 
 
 in the lodge, built also in Louis Quatorze style, I sup- 
 29
 
 450 LISHEEN 
 
 pose, to suit Darby's tastes, is the neatest little snuggery 
 of a home within the four seas of Ireland. Red and white 
 brick facings, diamond window-panes, riotous and volup- 
 tuous creepers without; and within, such neatness and 
 comfort and snugness that sometimes Noney says it is all 
 a "dhrame," an Arabian Nights' Entertainment, from 
 which some day she will wake up to see the old thatched 
 roof over her head, and the pit of green and yellow slime 
 before her door. 
 
 But this cannot be. Because that lovely brick fireplace 
 is a reality; and that tiled floor is a reahty; and those 
 white beds there in the Httle recess are reahties ; and — • 
 here is a young Noney, her father's treasure and delight, 
 a reaUty in yellow curls, and blue eyes, and pink cheeks; 
 and greatest reahty of all, here in the cradle are the Im- 
 mortal Twins. They are the torment of Darby's Hfe. 
 Noney is all right; and, when hoisted in Darby's arms, 
 she plucks with her little pink fingers Darby's moustache, 
 (for Darby has now a red, bristling moustache, fierce as 
 that of a French sabreur), he shrieks out, but tolerates it, 
 because Noney is the Hght of his eyes. But those twins! 
 "Dang them!" Darby says, but always beyond his wife's 
 hearing. They were duly christened Jeremiah and 
 Daniel. Here comes in another question. Why have the 
 Irish selected these two of the four major prophets as 
 patronymics so popular that every second boy in Ireland 
 is Jerry or Dan? But Isaiah and Ezekiel are nowhere. 
 And if any unhappy boy sported these names, his Hfe 
 would be evermore a torment. But to return, Jeremiah 
 and Daniel emerged from the baptismal waters good 
 Christians with respectable names; but alas! they rapidly
 
 'ONE OF US?" 
 
 451 
 
 descended into the more prosaic and humble forms of 
 Jerry and Dan. Now, here is Darby's great trial. He 
 cannot distinguish the twins. He can no more tell which 
 is Jerry and which is Dan than he can distinguish 
 Castor and Pollux in the heavens. 
 
 Noney has not the slightest trouble about the matter. 
 With absolute unerringness, she can distinguish her 
 boys, although she admits that "they are as alike as two 
 pays"; and she waxes indignant when Darby comes home 
 to his dinner, and Noney happens to have Jerry in her 
 arms, and Darby affectionately, but foohshly, strokes the 
 boy's head, and asks, how is his Danny to-day? 
 
 "This isn't Danny, you fool! This is Jerry. Anywan 
 can see that!" 
 
 "Oh, of coorse," Darby would say. "Of coorse, it is 
 Jerry. Shure anywan would know that!" 
 
 But to-morrow the same mistake occurs; and Danny is 
 taken for Jerry, and Jerry for Danny, promiscuously. 
 
 It is in the cradle, however, the great trouble arises. 
 It is an understood thing that Jerry occupies the place of 
 honour on the right and Danny is relegated to the left. 
 One would suppose there could be no mistake here. 
 But Darby, though he knows his right hand from his left, 
 and boasts of the knowledge, is sorely tried to know 
 which is the right-hand side of the cradle, and which the 
 left-hand side. And the trouble is aggravated because 
 the cradle happens to be but a fiat soap-box, with no 
 canopy, or other distinguishing characteristic; and, as 
 Noney slews it around to every point of the compass, poor 
 Darby is in an ecstasy of anxiety every time he comes 
 home and is called upon to distinguish them.
 
 452 LISHEEN 
 
 "Av coorse," he says, "Jerry is to the right. That's 
 there!" pointing to his own right hand. "An' Danny is 
 there!" pointing to the left. 
 
 "Well, you're the biggest omadhaun the Lord ever 
 made!" his wife remarks. "Didn't I tell you twinty 
 times that that's Jerry, and that that's Danny?" 
 
 "Av coorse, av coorse," says Darby. "Shure anywan 
 would know that. Shure 'tis Darby, me own namesake, 
 that have such purty curls an his forehead." 
 
 "'Tisn't then," his wife replies, "that's Danny, that 
 have the curls. But Darby is growing them too!" 
 
 "Av coorse, av coorse!" Darby replies. "But I 
 wouldn't give the two av 'em together for Noney. Come, 
 Noney, come! There, acushla!" as the child nestles in 
 his arms, and mingles her silken curls in her father's 
 carrotty locks; ^'acushla machreel us two agin the world! 
 What do we care for thim ould twins? Aren't you me 
 own little Cailin Ban? Aren't you the pulse of me 
 heart, m'ainim no shtig! m'ainim machree! Phew! 
 There, look, you're hurtin' me. Phew! There! We'll 
 throw out thim ould twins, an' keep thegither always, 
 won't we, alanna?" 
 
 And the original Noney takes up the dialogue, and 
 talks back to the twins; and the atmosphere waxes warm, 
 and Darby is glad to get out into the cool sunlit air, and 
 talk all his love nonsense to Noney undisturbed. 
 
 And sometimes Claire comes down, wheeling gaily her 
 own perambulator up to Noney's cottage, and compares 
 her own brown baby with the twins; and they talk in the 
 motherly dialects that are as old, I suppose, as Eve; 
 and almost invariably, after these little interchanges of
 
 "ONE OF US?" 453 
 
 compliments, certain little baskets come down from the 
 "Great House"; and Darby has the pleasure of seeing 
 on his kitchen table the "two kinds of mate" that were 
 ever and always to his mind the outward and visible sign 
 of that mighty gift of the gods — prosperity. 
 
 Robert Maxwell has one misgiving. He knows his 
 happiness, and, Hke a sensible man, enjoys it. He knows, 
 too, that he has chosen the better part, when he compares 
 his present position with that of the club-frequenting, 
 fox-hunting, rack-renting, mindless, and ' godless class, 
 whose days must be filled with ever-increasing, ever- 
 changing excitement, to save them from suicidal mania. 
 Life to him is Duty. But, sometimes, he thinks he has 
 earned his honours too cheaply. True, the remembrance 
 of those awful nights which he spent staring into the 
 darkness, until the faint pencils of the dawn drew be- 
 neath the hideous thatch the white canvases of the 
 cities of the spiders; of the days that went by, in fog and 
 mist, so slowly that he thought they would never again 
 darken into night; of the aches and pains that racked his 
 feeble muscles under the unaccustomed exercise of work; 
 of the loneliness that filled his soul, cut away from all 
 famihar associations with his own class; of the loathing 
 of rough food, and coarse raiment; of that awful sickness 
 with its deHrium, when he cried: Eloi, Eloi, lama sa- 
 hacthani! Of his mistakes, his humiliation, his anguish 
 under misconception, his separation from those he re- 
 spected and loved; of their contempt; of public hatred 
 and dishke; of imputed crimes of which he was never 
 guilty; finally, of the gaol, the white- washed walls, the 
 shame of arrest, the desecration of a policeman's hands on
 
 454 LISHEEN 
 
 his shoulder; — all this, of course, made him feel that he 
 had passed well through his novitiate of sorrow, and had 
 borne well the "Test of the Spirits." 
 
 Nevertheless, and most of all in these sweet summer 
 evenings when all were gathered down there on the beach, 
 and the spent seas came fawning in, and skies were daf- 
 fodil in the west ; and when he looked around and saw his 
 people made happy by his benevolence, and sharing with 
 a noble and reverential equality, the society of their 
 benefactors; when his eyes fell on labourers resting from 
 their toils, and happy mothers crooning over their children, 
 and the young people dancing in fairy rings to the sound 
 of flute or fiddle; and above all, when his thoughts came 
 back, and he remembered the sad fate of Outram, and 
 the banishment of his cousin, and saw in the place she 
 should have occupied the companion of his cares and of 
 his triumphs, he thought, with that strange depression 
 that comes in the hour of success, that, after all, there 
 might have been something even better — the farewell to 
 a world he would have served, not under the glitter and 
 glamour of triumph, but in the very agony of crucifixion. 
 For then, he thought, he might have had a claim to 
 the red robe and palm of martyrdom, which after all, 
 are more glorious than the laurels and regaHa of one 
 who has fought, and suffered, and triumphed. There is 
 some hidden nobility in failure, when the cause itself is 
 great."
 
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 "This is an interesting and, at times, highly dramatic book. It is 
 superior, even, to 'Under the Red Robe' and 'A Gentleman of France,' 
 which are reckoned the two most striking of his novels. A marked and 
 skilful feature of ' The Abbess of Vlaye ' is that it rises constantly towards 
 a chmax; indeed, the last part of the book is notably stronger than the 
 earUer part. . . . One of the charms of Mr. Weyman's writing, empha- 
 sized in this, his latest book, is its comprehension of detail in a few sen- 
 tences. . . ." — Evening Post, New York. 
 
 "... Mr. Weyman demonstrates once more that not only can this 
 kind of romantic novel be made conspicuously fascinating, but he estab- 
 lishes himself anew as easily the foremost writer of this kind of fiction. 
 He has imagination and in unusual degree the art of investing a period 
 with atmosphere. This gallant tale has color, movement and spirit, and 
 is well told, with deft touches and dramatic situations, adroitly \ in- 
 aged." — Times, Brooklyn. 
 
 "... The scene in the next to the last chapter, in which the abbess 
 and her captain sit at table together, considering their plans, is developed 
 by the author with all his art, and we count it among his most brilHant 
 achievements. 'The Abbess of Vlaye' is a first-rate piece of romantic 
 narrative. Its heroine is a type true to history, true to himian nature, 
 and, in a sinister way, altogether fascinating." — Tribune, New York. 
 
 ". . . As in other romances based on French history, Mr. Weyman 
 displays a thorough understanding of the time, the place and the people 
 of which he writes. 'The Abbess of Vlaye,' indeed, is worth more as a 
 picture of the time than simply as a romantic story. Either phase, how- 
 ever, offers much of absorbing interest even to the most jaded reader of 
 historical fiction." — Transcript, Boston, 
 
 ". . . the most interesting that he has written for several years. . . ." 
 — Republican, Springfield, Mass. 
 
 "... There is the charm of the unusual love story and abundance of 
 exciting adventures, all wrought into a dramatic unity. The author is 
 entirely at home, and makes us at home, in the story of the period. Since 
 'A Gentleman of France' he has given us no better example of his 
 talent." — Congregationalist. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
 
 IN KINGS' BYWAYS 
 
 By STANLEY J. WEYMAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF " K GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE," " COUNT HANNIBAL," ETC., ETC. 
 
 With a Frontispiece by George Varlan. Crown 8vo, cloth, 
 ornamental, S1.50 
 
 " Capital short stories of France, written in Mr. Weyman's well-known 
 vein.'" — Outlook, New York. 
 
 ■' . , . The tales and episodes are all so good that it is hardly fair to 
 Mr. Weyman to say some are better than others."' — Times, Boston. 
 
 "... About this author's stories there is a dash, and a nerve, and a 
 swing, and a 'go " that no other surpasses though he has many imitators. . . . 
 The opening story, ' Flore," is marvelously intense in plot, and its execution, 
 with a play of action and incident and thrilling situation that is incessant. Every 
 Story in the book, for that matter, is a masterpiece."" — Commercial, Buffalo. 
 
 "The twelve stories . . , are full of that romantic charm which he has 
 communicated to his more elaborate works of historical fiction. . , . His 
 historical portraits are never overdone, they are always sketched with equal 
 restraint and precision. The book is abundantly entertaming. " 
 
 — New York Tribune. 
 
 " Stanley Weyman was the leader in the general revival of the historical and 
 romantic novel, and he is still one of the best writers in this field. . . . ' In 
 Kings' Byways * are stories of different periods, but Mr, Weyman is always at 
 his best when dealing with Henry of Navarre or the generation just before. In 
 his hands Old France lives again, picturesque and absorbing. All these stories 
 . . . are finished, artistic and gracefully told. The novelette ' For the 
 Cause' is probably the most powerful thing Mr. Weyman has ever written." 
 
 — New York World. 
 
 "... Mr. Weyman's latest book, ' In Kings' Byways,' is inevitably of 
 the class that entertains. And that it does entertain is sufficient justification lor 
 its writing." — Transcript, Boston. 
 
 "It is unnecessary to say that these tales are worth the reading. They re- 
 late with a quality that cannot be denied the highest praise, tales of love and 
 war and court and highway. Not one of them is dull, not one to be passed over 
 as not worthy of attention. All are dramatic, all good in form, and if one must 
 be selected from out the rest as best, 'The House on the Wall' is chosen."' 
 
 — Courier-Journal, Louisville, Ky. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
 
 STELLA FREGELIUS 
 
 A Tale of Two Destinies 
 By H. RIDER HAGGARD 
 
 AUTHOR OF "king SOLOMON'S MINES," "SHE," ETC. 
 
 Crown 8vo, $1.50 
 
 "... while Stella Fregelius is a wide departure in style it is of»e of 
 the most interesting books Mr. Haggard has ever given us . . . the 
 struggles of the young inventor to perfect the aerophone are only incidental to a 
 story of remarlcable psychological force. Queer it may be called in a sense, 
 but certainly this is one of the most absorbing narratives that IVIr. Haggard has 
 overwritten, . . ." — Chronicle-Telegraph, Pittsburgh. 
 
 "... The story is full of the charm of expression that made Haggard 
 so popular. It is full of human interest throughout. There is nothing dull 
 about the story, and the whole world of literature will read it with interest and 
 be entertained by it."— The Worcester Spy. 
 
 "... It is, in fact, radically different in scheme and treatment from 
 Mr. Haggard's previous stories, but for all that it bears the stamp of his genius 
 and will prove fascinating to all readers. It is called a ' tale of three destinies,' 
 and is at once mystical, philosophical, and full of ' human interest." There are 
 touches of humor, also, and altogether the story is worthy of Mr. Haggard." 
 — Democrat and Chronicle, Rochester. 
 
 '• . . . The story is of absorbing interest. Like most of this author's 
 novels the style is brilliant, easy, and clear. The narrative will of necessity be 
 follov/ed with breathless interest from beginning to end. The plot is well con- 
 structed. Mr. Haggard controls the evolution of the story with the true art that 
 leaves an impression of absolute naturalness." — New York American. 
 
 "... To give even the complete outlines of his new story . . . 
 would require many columns for the simple catalogue of the varied experiences 
 of the splendidly portrayed characters. The story is of absorbing interest. 
 Like most of this author's novels, the style is easy, brilliant, and clear." 
 
 — Mail, Halifax, N. S., Can. 
 
 " The main idea of this new story by one of the most daring inventors of the 
 modern tale of adventure is a novel one, the enlistment of the services of science 
 in the search for a knowledge of the hereafter, the employment of an instrument 
 for the transmission of one of the earthly senses in the opening up of communi- 
 cation with the spirit world . . . the invention which serves him in these 
 pages is that of a wireless telephone, which is to call back the departed across 
 the chasm. . . . Mr. Haggard has written a story that is much of a nov- 
 elty from him, and, truth to tell, it is far more interesting than would be another 
 tale of Jerusalem or South African wonders from his pen." 
 
 — Mail and Express, New York. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
 
 PEARL-MAIDEN 
 
 A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem 
 By H. RIDER HAGGARD 
 
 With 26 Full-page Illustrations by Byam Shaw 
 Crown, 8vo, cloth, ornamental, $1.50 
 
 "... The story is of absorbing interest. It is very seldom 
 that one runs across an historical novel, the plot of which is so ably 
 sustained. Something interesting happens in every chapter. There 
 are some delightful love passages, for no novel can be considered 
 perfect without a little of that. The story has zest and is full of 
 adventure. The style is brilliant, easy and clear. The narrative 
 will be followed with breathless interest. The book is beautifully 
 Vrinted, handsomely bound, and profusely illustrated. . . ." 
 
 — Eau Claire Leader, Wis. 
 
 ' . . . It is one of the best books that Mr. Haggard has 
 written for several years. ... It contains two or three scenes 
 of uncommon strength; the arena scene, with the Christian martyrs, 
 ^n the opening pages, the sale of Roman slave girls, near the close. 
 It is not a book which can be read through in a brief half hour or 
 two, and it does not permit tlie attention to wander. Altogether it 
 is a book which deserves a wider notice." 
 
 — Commercial Advertiser, New York. 
 
 " . . there is vigor, charm, and doubtless historical value 
 
 in the pictures which Mr. Haggard draws of dramatic events and 
 splendid pageants that will never lose interest and significance to a 
 world yet shaken by their influence." — Outlook, New York. 
 
 "... 'Pearl Maiden' must be ranked among his bes* 
 books. It is full of adventure, of terrible dangers met on the battle- 
 field and elsewhere ... is from beginning to end absorbing. 
 Never has Mr. Haggard been more inventive or more skilful. His 
 plot is well constructed, and he controls the evolution of the story 
 with the art that leaves an impression of absolute naturalness. We 
 must add a good word for the numerous illustrations by Mr. Byam 
 Shaw. They are cleverly drawn with the pen, but they are even 
 more to be praised for the freshness and variety with which they 
 have been designed." — New York Tribune. 
 
 " . . . ' Pearl Maiden ' is a more convincing story than any 
 he has written about imaginary kingdoms . . . there is no 
 reason why it should not rival the popularity of 'She' and 'King 
 Solomon's Mines,' and in any event it will be sure to find many fas- 
 cinated readers. ... It is the best story Mr. Haggard has 
 written in recent years." — Republican, Springfield, Mass. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVE.. NEW YORK
 
 LUKE DELMEGE 
 
 p. A. SHEEHAN, Parish Priest, Doneraile, Co. Cork 
 
 AUTHOR OF "MY NEW CURATE** 
 
 Crown 8vo, $1.50 
 
 " This is an exceedingly powerful and absorbing book. Beginning with the 
 true artistic quiet and restraint, it strengthens and broadens in power and inter- 
 est until it moves on like a great procession. . . . It is a novel but it is more 
 than that. It is a great sermon, a great lesson, almost a great drama. . . . 
 We cordially commend ' Luke Delmege ' for its lofty purpose and thought, its 
 adequate diction, and its high incentive . . . there is in it an occasional 
 touch of humor which is very welcome and which is truly Irish in its nature. 
 Altogether we consider ' Luke Delmege ' the most notable religious novel that 
 has been written within a year. " — The Sun, Baltimore, Md. 
 
 " One of the triumphs among the works of fiction. . . . It is an extremely 
 interesting tale of Irish life, full of profound erudition, and withal replete with 
 incident and pathos. " — Monitor, St. John, N. B. 
 
 " ' Luke Delmege ' is in some respects a greater accomplishment than its 
 predecessor. If it has not such exuberance oi humor, its theme is more vital 
 and the work itself more substantial. It is a book which philosophers and se- 
 rious students will enjoy almost as thoroughly as the chronic novel-reader. . . 
 No other author has given us such a series of clerical portraits ... a story 
 oi which Catholics may well be proud. It is of classic quality, and generations 
 hence it will be read, enjoyed, and lauded as one of the masterpieces of English 
 fiction. "—Ave Maria, Notre Dame, Ind. 
 
 " This is loftier work than ' My New Curate,' and its influence will be stronger 
 and grander. It is a wonderful story, with something in its passionate pleading 
 for the supremacy of the mystical that recalls a mediaeval saint emerging from 
 his solitude to denounce the world and to summon the few elect to the business 
 of their salvation. . . . We freely pass upon the book the judgment that it 
 is worthy to live with the very best we have of noble and uplifting fiction." 
 
 — Catholic News, N. Y. 
 
 " Father Sheehan's latest work is in many respects his best. It is a more 
 pretentious literary effort and a more finished work than ' My New Curate.' 
 . . . . His characters are strong and lifelike. All things considered ' Luke 
 Delmege ' is one oi the best things that have been published lately." 
 
 — Rosary Magazine, N. Y. 
 
 " We have just read ' Luke Delmege," and of all the books of the year, ser- 
 mon or song or story, we put it first. ... In this new work he adds a new 
 glory to his fame— a place in the hearts of his countrymen forever." 
 
 — Freeman's Journal, N. Y. 
 
 LONGMANS, GEEEN, & 00., 91-93 IIPTH AVENUE, NEW YOEK
 
 GLENANAAR 
 
 A NOVEL OF IRISH LIFE 
 By the Very Rev. P. A. SHEEHAN, of Donertae 
 
 AUTHOR OF " MY NEW CURATE," " LUKK DELMEGB," BTC 
 
 Crown 8vo. SI. 50 
 
 " It is a beautiful story, full of the pathos and wit which, like mist and 
 sunshine, so aptly combine to produce the rainbow glories of the Irish 
 character." — American Ecclesiastical Review. 
 
 "... Is a good story of Irish life, with a fine thread of romance running 
 through it. . . . If you like a good, strong, clean humor, and your heart still 
 thrills to the tune of simple love, you will do well to read it." 
 
 — St. Louis Republic. 
 
 "... Will especially appeal to those who know and love Irish life upon 
 its native heath, though the well-told tale is so full of humor, pathos, and 
 romance that it cannot fail to win the interest of every reader. . . . Into the 
 story are written many of the most beautiful and characteristic traits of 
 the Irish — their inextinguishable love of country, their devotion to family, 
 their generosity, their courage, their purity of life, and, withal, their hatred 
 of 'an informer,' even unto the third and fourth generations. . . .The 
 book will awaken many a responsive chord, and will prove illuminating as 
 well as interesting to those who have but a misty apprehension of things 
 Irish. It is an illustration of the value of a book written from within, 
 and coming hot from the heart." — New York Times. 
 
 "... It is a well- written tale. . . . Canon Sheehan gives his readers a 
 strong vital and intimate picture of the social life of the people in the two 
 decades before the great famine. In several ways ' Glenanaar ' is as good 
 as anything that has come from this author's pen." — Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 " This is probably the best book that Father Sheehan has yet written, in 
 its pictures of Irish scenes; its portrayal of Irish character; and the pathos 
 and tragedy which everywhere crowd its pages, relieved at times by flashes 
 of true Irish humor. . . . " — The Messenger. 
 
 "... A splendid story full of humor and pathos. — New Yorker. 
 
 " Canon Sheehan has given us an excellent picture of Irish life in his 
 novel. ... In this, as in others of Canon Sheehan's works, there is a close 
 intimacy with the life of the Irish peasantry, and every side of the versatile 
 Irish nature is so well depicted that we see the characters as they exist on 
 Irish soiL It is a good book." — Public Ledger, Phila. 
 
 LONGMANS, GKEEN & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
 
 BARHAM OF BELl ANA 
 
 By W. E. NORRIS, 
 AUTHOR OF "matrimony/' "mLLE. DE MERSAC/' ETC. 
 
 Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 
 "The man who gives the book its title, a rich Tasmanian with a grievance 
 against the world, has certainly about as disagreeable a way with him as could 
 be imagined. But Mr. Norris seems to have made up his mind on this occasion 
 to tell a beguiling love story, and to let it go at that. . . . For the rest, this 
 book is occupied with the most persuasively romantic transactions. . . . The 
 result is a capital story, written, moreover, with a literary finish which we have 
 long been accustomed to expect from this novelist. It is the kind of story to 
 win popularity, and we hope that the success it is pretty likely to achieve will 
 convince him of the wisdom of continuing in his present mood." — N. Y. 
 Tribune. 
 
 "The reader is genuinely sorry when the last page is reached. . . . The 
 book has an added charm from the novelty of its locality. ... is a thor- 
 oughly enjoyable book. Mr. Norris must 'do it again,' and the next time he 
 must permit us to tarry longer with him in that fascinating, topsy-turvy Eng- 
 land lying south of the equator." — New York Times. 
 
 • _ . . We have a story that is quietly effective without indulging in 
 dramatic extravagance. . . . The characters are few in number, but they 
 are exceedingly well drawn. . . . It is just the one to entertain during a 
 quiet hour after the cares that infest the day have departed." — Beacon, Boston, 
 
 ORRAIN 
 
 By S. LEVETT-YEATS. 
 AUTHOR OF "the CHEVALIER d'aURIAC/' "tHE HONOR OF SAVELLI," ETC. 
 
 Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 
 "... it is one sure to be read from cover to cover, if the light hold* 
 out to burn. . . . One is irresistibly led on through the crowding dangers 
 of a troublesome time, to that final general duel which ends the work. It is a 
 tale of France with a Huguenot heroine, as lovely as she is fearless, while the 
 invincible hero belongs to the Old Faith. . . . Altogether, an unusually 
 cliarming and absorbing historical romance." — Kansas City Star. 
 
 " .... is well told and thrilling. So, too, are various incidents and 
 passages that precede and lead up to this effective climax. And not the least 
 evident art of 'Orrain' makes some of the participating characters, notably the 
 queen, the vidame and the king's favorite, so real that they arouse sharp dis- 
 taste or sympathy and linger in the memory long after the book has been 
 closed. It is a stirring story, well prepared, well considered, well written It 
 may be warmly commended to those who are pleased with fire, action and 
 romance." — Record-Herald, Chicago. 
 
 "One of the new novels of the present publishing season which is justly dis- 
 tinguished above nearly all of its fellows. ... It possesses universal merit 
 both as a story and as literature, being a well-told tale which attracts interest 
 at the outset and holds it through a series of exciting adventures." 
 Courier, New York. 
 
 "... Into the details of the plot, of which there are many, it is not 
 necessary or advisable^ to go, for this could not be done without spoiling the 
 pleasure many will find in reading an exceptionally good story. . . . It is 
 safe to say that anyone who has enjoyed 'Marguerite de Valois,' 'Chicot, the 
 Jester,' or 'The Forty-five Guardsmen' will enjoy 'Orrain.' " — Public Opinion. 
 
 LONGMANS. GREEN & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVE.. NEW YORK.
 
 LOVE'S PROXY 
 
 A NOVEL OF MODERN LIFE 
 By RICHARD BAGOT 
 
 AUTHOR OF "CASTING OF NETS," "DONNA DIANA," ETC, 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50 
 
 "Mr. Richard Bagot has already won a high reputation as a novelist, and 
 his new book will certainly help to maintain it." — Daily Mail, London. 
 
 ''A novel of modern society, by a writer who guides a keen and incisive 
 pen, and who is an artist in delmeating character . . . The theme is strongly 
 handled and the unobtrusive moral makes for righteousness." 
 
 — Detroit Free Press. 
 
 "Cleverly conceived and told in the true comedy vein of well-balanced 
 humor and pathos. The dialogues are perfectly natural. This is of the very' 
 best in the art of novel-writing. A more pleasant and evenly interesting book 
 it is not often one's lot to read." — Punch, London. 
 
 "... A person loses much pleasure who has not known the charm of 
 ' D inna Diana,' ' The Casting of Nets,' and now ' Love's Proxy,' which is to my 
 mina the most fascinating of them all. This time Mr. Bagot has left his beloved 
 Italy, which he knows by heart . . . and betaken himself to England and 
 English society, and here as well as there he makes a marked success. . 
 The story is cleverly conceived and brilliantly executed. Mr. Bagot is an artist, 
 and one has an intense and quiet enjoyment of his plot, his philosophy, and his 
 knowledge of human nature and the world." — Portland Daily Advertiser. 
 
 "... He has portrayed several types of character with unerring skill, 
 and has written a novel that is well worth while." — Press, Philadelphia. 
 
 "... The story herein is well wrought: its style distinguished without 
 fulsome resort to epigram ; its setting is that of English politics and high life. 
 Its heroine is scathless and enigmatical, her husband is rich and good, her lover 
 never forgets himself till the denouement, and even then recovers in time, while 
 she is always stanch, both frank and politic. Her manner of treating other 
 women is a lesson in fine behavior. . ." — Literary World. 
 
 " . . . The characters introduced are mainly from the higher walks of 
 English society, and they are skillfully delineated and effectively contrasted. 
 The heroine is fascinating, but not very lovable until near the conclusion of the 
 story. , ." — The Beacon, Boston. 
 
 " A knowledge of human nature and a powerful gift of portraying it is observed 
 in ' Love's Proxy. . . " — Boston Herald. 
 
 "... a story out of the well-worn track, well told and interesting. . ." 
 
 — Times, Gloucester, Mass. 
 
 "The real story has to do with a woman who can't love her husband . 
 Mr. Bagot's talent is versatile. He has a broad humor for one page and a tear- 
 compelling touch for another. Time given to the reading of ' Love's Proxy* 
 is not time that is lost." — The Chicago Evening Post. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
 
 DONNA DIANA 
 
 By RICHARD 6AG0T 
 
 AUTHOR OF " CASTING OF NETS," " A ROMAN MYSTERY," ETC 
 
 Crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top, $1 .50 
 
 *• Richard Bagot's fiction has always striking qualities, and his latest nov(^ 
 Donna Diana,' is by far his best . . . as a story it is sure of success.'' 
 
 — The Living Age, Boston. 
 
 •* The story is well told, full of color and vivid scene." 
 
 — St. Louis Republic. 
 
 "Whether Mr. Richard Bagot has really penetrated the recesses of Roman 
 Catholic consciousness we may not know, but certainly if what he writes is not 
 true, it has a marvelous appearance of it. . . . Of the story, as a story, we 
 have space to say only that it is well told, and holds the interest for its own sake 
 unflagging to the end." — Churchman, New York. 
 
 " A brilliant and charming romance." — Scotsman. 
 
 " , . . A Roman story with a vigorous and powerful setting and an 
 abundance of plot and intrigue. It is a mighty good story, well told, and there 
 are very few books of this season that will have as large and delighted a circle 
 of readers." — Herald, Saratoga Springs, N. Y. 
 
 "... Equals Marion Crawford's books in the capable and certain 
 handling of his characters in the picturesque but tortuous highways of the 
 Roman world of to-day. He gives a detailed view of the domestic customs and 
 social life of the aristocracy and tells at the same time an absorbing love story." 
 
 — Item, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 " . . . It is an absorbing story, containing a constant conflict between 
 bigotry and open-mindedness, between evil and good. Mr. Bagot takes his 
 readers into the homes of his Roman friends, and with much care and detail 
 describes their domestic and social life, such as is rarely given to a foreigner to 
 observe. " — Eagle, Brooklyn, N. Y. 
 
 " . . . There is not a particle of let-up in interest from cover to cover. 
 As one enters the city gates via the first chapter, he is loth to quit the interest- 
 ing company of friendships he makes, both secular and churchly, until he knows, 
 as far as the author reveals it, the destiny of each of the personages who par- 
 ticipate in the making of a capital story." — Transcript, Boston. 
 
 "... Mr. Bagot's substantial knowledge of Roman life has contributed 
 a great deal toward giving vitality to the social groups depicted in the pages of 
 ' Donna Diana,' and there is much else that gives the romance considerable 
 \iuman and artistic effect." — Baltimore Sun, 
 
 LONGMANS. GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE. NEW YORK
 
 THE MANOR FARM 
 
 By M. E. FRANCIS (Mrs. FRANCIS BLUNDELL) 
 
 AUTHOR OF " PASTORALS OF DORSET," " FIANDER'S WIDOW," ETC 
 
 With Frontispiece by Claud C. Du Pre Cooper. Crown Bvo« 
 cloth, ornamental, $1.50 
 
 " Quaint humor of the richest quality is written in the pages of Mrs. Blun> 
 dell's new book. . , . When two great and well-to-do cousins plan the 
 welfare of their names needs the marriage of their children, the trouble begins. 
 No one has yet shown greater skill than our author in weaving the green and 
 gold pattern of young life. The growth of these two young people from child- 
 hood, the betrothal, the almost necessary hitch in affairs, for such is human 
 nature, the very natural solution, Mrs. Blundell has made delightful, humorous, 
 and wholly artistic. It is the finest of character drawing, for the men and womea 
 are not too proud to be human, nor bad enough to be uncompanionable." 
 
 — Living Church, Milwaukee. 
 
 "A real treat is in store for the readers of ' The Manor Farm.' . . . It is 
 a r. we and picturesque story of English country life, with just enough dialect 
 to show that the people are genuine country folk." 
 
 — Churchman, New York. 
 
 "... A delightful story, told in a delightful way. It is what you may 
 call a complete story . . . giving you quaint, rich and wholesome descrip- 
 .■jon of men and things on an English farm. It is one of the few novels of the 
 jear worth passing around the family — or, perhaps, better yet, reading in the 
 assembled family." — Unity, Chicago, III. ' 
 
 '* Wholesome and sweet as the scent of growing clover is the atmosphere of 
 this charming pastoral tale of English yeoman life Written in the easiest and 
 most unaffected style it narrates with much animation and humor the fortunes 
 of two branches of a certain family of farmer folk. . . . The ' love interest ' is 
 as artless and innocent as it is engaging." — Independent, New York. 
 
 " A pretty rustic love story . . , The story is thoroughly readable and 
 clean." — New York Sun. 
 
 "... The story is excellently written. The English peasants who figure 
 in it speak an odd local dialect that gives originality, never unnaturalness to the 
 style ... the story ends pleasantly, as such an idyl should. The book 
 rings true, and deserves a cordial reception." — Record-Herald, Chicago. 
 
 " This is a wholesome romance of the Dorsetshire country. It concerns the 
 endeavors of two farmer cousins to bring about the marriage of their son and 
 daughter for the welfare of the old manor farm. 1 he plot, which is a simple on-:, 
 is developed with naturalness and humor . . . her pictures of the homely 
 life among the farms and dairies are delightful." — The Outlook, New York. 
 
 LONGMANS. GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE. NEW YORK
 
 FIANDER^S WIDOW 
 
 By M. E. FRANCIS (Mrs. FRANCIS BLUNDELL) 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE DUENNA OF A GENIUS," "YEOMAN FLEETWOOD,'" ETC 
 
 Crown 8vo, ornamental cover, $1.50 
 
 " Is an altogether delightful story. ... If more of such novels were 
 written, pure, wholesome and bracing, redolent of everything that is pleasant 
 to the senses, the world would be all the better. "—Bristol Mercury. 
 
 " An idyll of Dorsetshire life, as natural and fresh and wholesome as the old 
 stone dairy in which some of the scenes take place. . . . The book is redo- 
 lent of the charm of English country life, pure and sweet, as it were, with the 
 scent of the gorse and the breath of the kine, of all things that are wholesome 
 and homely and good. " — Commercial Advertiser, New York. 
 
 " One of the most charming of recently published works of fiction. . . . 
 The plot has an appetizing freshness about it, and more than once the unexpected 
 happens." — Chicago Evening Post. 
 
 " Here is a story of life in rural England well worth reading, because of the 
 curious social conditions it describes, and yet these, though well set forth, are 
 only incidental to the main theme, which is a delightful study, involving much 
 humor and no tragedy, of the belated coming of love to an earnest, warm- 
 hearted woman. It is brightly, lightly done, and yet holds the attention and 
 contains sufficient to provoke thought." — Public Ledger, Phila. 
 
 "A truly delightful bucolic comedy. The theme might almost be called 
 farcial, but the treatment is delicate, quaint and graceful. Old Isaac, the rustic 
 bachelor who narrowly escapes matrimony from a sense of duty, is a Dorset- 
 shire original and deserves to rank with the best rustics of Hardy, Blackmore, 
 and Philpotts. The story is prettily told and is wholesomely amusing. Mrs. 
 Blundell is always careful in her literary workmanship ; this tale will add to the 
 popular appreciation of her work. " — Outlook, N. Y. 
 
 " An altogether charming tale. . . . There is not a dull page in it, and 
 there are continuous pages and chapters of the brightest humor." 
 
 — Living Church, Milwaukee. 
 
 "A beautiful little story. One is at a loss for an epithet adequate to its 
 charm, its simplicity, its humor, its truth." — Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 " A bright little pastoral comedy. . . . The widow is a rare combination 
 of business sense and sentiment, a combination which insures her both prosper- 
 ity and happiness. Reversing the usual order of love and life she postpones 
 romance until she is able to entertain her Prince Charming in truly royal style. 
 The sly efforts of one Isaac Sharpe to rid himself of the burden of matrimony 
 are genuinsly amusing."— Public Opinion, N. Y. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 LYCHGATE HALL 
 
 A Romance 
 By M. E. FRANCIS (Mrs. FRANCIS BLUNDELL) 
 
 AUTHOR OF " FIANDER'S WIDOW," "PASTORALS OF DORSET," "THE 
 MANOR FARM," " CHRISTIAN THAL," ETC. 
 
 Crown 8vo, $1.50 
 
 "The pleasant merrymakings, the romantic duel-fighting lovers, the intro- 
 duction of highway robbery as a minor theme, and the ruined priory as setting 
 for the whole -all these things read with a reminiscent quality that is attractive. 
 The story is told in a pleasant, narrative style, which reads with delightful ease. 
 The descriptions of tlie English countryside will charm the reader with the 
 fresh, exquisite beauty they represent so adequately. ... A book in which 
 there is nothing to criucise and much to praise. . . ." 
 
 — Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 
 
 "... Mrs. Blundell is an adept in holding her readers' interest to the 
 last page. Dorothy's mystery remains unsolved until the last chapter, and at 
 no point can one guess which of her suitois will win the pr'ze. In the meantime 
 we are getting a spirited, historically accurate view of English country life two 
 hundred years ago, and are constantly amused by side-lights on the perennial 
 human drama. The character drawing is unusually good for a romance, and 
 the atmosphere of the times is skillfully sustained. . . ." 
 
 —Record-Herald, Chicago. 
 
 "... Remarkable for its charming descriptions of rural life and of 
 nature. . . ." — The Churchman. 
 
 "Mrs. Blundell is always entertaining. Her plots are well contrived, she 
 has understanding of character and deftness in exploiting it ; she has humor, 
 moreover, and unfailing good taste. In ' Lychgate Hall' she has gone back 
 for her material to the days of Queen Anne, and has succeeded in reproducing 
 much of the spirit of the period, as well as much quaintness of phraseology. 
 She recounts a romance of the countryside, one full of mystery, with a high-born 
 girl posing as a dairywoman in the heart of it. Many of its situations are 
 dramatic — witness the scene where the beautiful Dorothy is stoned as a witch 
 by the villagers — and it ends with an agreeable distribution of rewards to the 
 deserving." —New York Tribune. 
 
 "A well-written book, with quite a Charlotte Bronte flavor to it. . . ." 
 
 — Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 "A well-sustained romanc. of English life. . . . A delightful storv. . . ." 
 
 — The Outlook. 
 
 "A mysterious and beautiful young woman, who is passionately loved by a 
 mysterious stranger and a rural nobleman, are the principals of this stirring 
 romance of the ' good old times' in England . . . one of the comparatively 
 few novels which create a desire to read it through without stopping, the story 
 being so well told that interest is aroused at the very outset and maintained 
 until the ending." —Chronicle-Telegraph, Pittsburg. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
 
 WILD WHEAT 
 
 A DORSET ROMANCE 
 By M. E. FRANCIS (MRS. FRANCIS BLUNDELL) 
 
 Crown 8vo. SI. 50 
 
 "It has more of passion aud sorrow in it than most of her romances 
 but it is all the stronger for this, while there is enough of the humorous 
 and cheerful to balance the whole. The love story is sweet and whole- 
 some," — The Outlook. 
 
 " . . . There are many dramatic passages in the story, and some 
 strong character drawing ; aud it is set against a background of English 
 country lite that is drawn in with real feeling and unusual picturesqueness." 
 
 — Evening Post, Chicago. 
 
 " This is an excellent story of rural life in England . . . one lays the 
 book down feeling that one has read a pure love story that is really worth 
 while. The character drawing is admirable, especially in the two chief 
 figures of Peter and Prue, who really stand before one as human beings." 
 
 — Transcript, Boston. 
 
 SHAKESPEAEE'S OHKISTMAS 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 By A. T. QUILLER-COUCH ("Q.") 
 
 Crown 8vo. With 8 Illustrations. Si. 50 
 
 •' A new volume by ' Q.' is always a delight. Somehow, there is more 
 'heart ' to his stories than In those of most writers. His pathos as well as 
 his fun seem more sincere, and to have their roots down deeper in human 
 nature." — The Globe, New York. 
 
 "We recommend those who like entertaining yams to read 'Shake- 
 speare's Christmas.' " — New York Tribune. 
 
 " . . . As good a collection of stories as its title promises , . . 
 told in the author's most humorous and ingratiating style." 
 
 — New York Times. 
 
 " In the title story we have a tale that is inimitably told and one that 
 rings with merriment. We have here stories of adventure, a romance 
 that is worthy of more space to its tellings and a bit of a love story. A 
 first-class collection of short stories in this latest book of ' Q.' " 
 
 —Sun, Baltimore. 
 
 LONGMANS, GKEEN & CO., 91-93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOKK
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW. 
 
 Series 9482
 
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