iANON SHEE
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 "-^.^
 
 By canon SHEEHAN, 
 
 D.D 
 
 
 Luke Delmege: A Novel. 
 
 
 
 Lisheen: or the Test of the Spirits. A 
 
 Novel. 
 
 
 Glenanaar: A Novel of Irish Life. 
 
 
 
 The Blindness of Dr. Gray; or, The 
 
 Final Law. \ 
 
 A Novel of Clerical Life. 
 
 
 
 Miriam Lucas: A Novel. 
 
 
 
 The Queen's Fillet: A Novel. 
 
 
 
 The Graves at Kilmorna: A Story of 
 
 '67. 
 
 
 Parerga: a Companion Volume to 
 
 "Under 
 
 the 
 
 Cedars and the Stars." 
 
 
 
 The Intellectuals: An Experiment in 
 
 Irish Club- \ 
 
 Life. 
 
 
 
 Tristram Lloyd: An Unfinished Novel. 
 
 Edited 
 
 and 
 
 completed by Rev. H. Gaffney, O.P. 

 
 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 OR 
 
 THE FINAL LAW
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 
 
 55 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
 
 221 EAST 20TH STREET, CHICAGO 
 
 88 TREMONT STREET, BOSTON 
 
 128 UNIVERSITY AVENUE, TORONTO' 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. Ltd. 
 
 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, E C 4, LONDON 
 
 6 OLD COURT HOUSE STREET, CALCUTTA 
 
 53 NICOL ROAD, BOMBAY 
 
 36A MOUNT ROAD, MADRAS
 
 
 
 'I'he 
 
 
 Blindness 
 
 ; of Dr. 
 
 Gray 
 
 
 
 OR 
 
 
 
 'l"he 
 
 Kinal T .aw 
 
 BY 
 
 CANON SHEEHAN, D.D. 
 
 Author of 
 
 "My New Curate,"'' "Luke Delmege" " Glenanaar,'" 
 " Lis keen" etc. 
 
 New Impression 
 
 L. 
 
 LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 
 NEW YORK • LONDON • TORONTO 
 
 1932
 
 SHEEHAN 
 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1909 
 BY THE DOLPHIN PRESS 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1909 
 BY LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO, 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 First Edition, October 1909 
 Reprinted, October 1910 
 
 April 1915, May 1919 
 
 October 1922, May 1928 
 
 March 1932 
 
 • ** • • k 
 • •• . 
 
 MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 
 5=? 
 
 5 '5 b 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 '^^ BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. An American Letter 3 
 
 j» II. A Change of Curates 14 
 
 III. A Strange Accompaniment 26 
 
 J*) IV. A Deputation 35 
 
 - , J V. ROHIRA 48 
 
 VI. The List of Improvements 57 
 
 VII. Raptures and Remorse 65 
 
 VIII. A Christmas Gift 77 
 
 IX. A Question in Theology 86 
 
 X. DuNKERRiN Castle 95 
 
 XL A Challenge and Its Answer 105 
 
 XII. His Sister's Story 117 
 
 XIII. Unexpected Visits 126 
 
 XIV. A Great — Artist 135 
 
 XV. A Peace-Offering 146 
 
 XVI. RosLEiN Roth 156 
 
 XVII. A Lowly Saint 168 
 
 XVIII. Rejected by the "Powers" . .... 176 
 XIX. A Lucullan Banquet ... .... 184 
 
 XX. A Visit and a Prophecy . . .... 199 
 
 XXI. Comments and Confidences . .... 209 
 
 XXII. The Beast and the Man . . .... 218 
 
 XXIII. Reminiscences .... 227 
 
 XXIV. The "Ghost" in Hamlet ... ... 236 
 
 V
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXV. Partings 253 
 
 XXVI. And Prophecies 263 
 
 XXVII. A Stern Chase 271 
 
 XXVIII. A School Inquiry ^ . . . 278 
 
 XXIX. A Reverie and a Night Call 290 
 
 XXX. A Contested Election 298 
 
 XXXI. The Great Renunciation 306 
 
 XXXII. A Full Confession 315 
 
 XXXIII. Conspiring 325 
 
 XXXIV. The Sea-Spirit Vanishes 332 
 
 XXXV. Uncle and Niece 343 
 
 XXXVI. Cora Bewitched 351 
 
 XXXVII. A Dread Ordeal 360 
 
 XXXVIII. Nature and Law 368 
 
 XXXIX. The Great Artist Again 378 
 
 XL. The Brothers Meet 387 
 
 XLI. A Question and its Answer 399 
 
 XLII. A Red Sunset 413 
 
 XLIII. The Amabele Valley 422 
 
 XLIV. A Farewell Sermon 433 
 
 XLV. The Moonlight Shroud 445 
 
 XLVI. The Trial 453 
 
 XLVII. An Apparition 464 
 
 XLVIIL "It is the Law" 476
 
 BOOK I
 
 Who trusted God was love indeed 
 
 And love Creation's final law — 
 
 Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 
 With ravine, shriek'd against his creed. 
 
 — In Memoriam, LVL
 
 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 An American Letter 
 
 The Very Reverend William Gray, D.D., Parish 
 Priest of the united parishes of Doonvarragh, Lackagh, 
 and Athboy, came down to breakfast one dark, gloomy 
 December morning in the year of our Lord 18 — . He 
 had risen early, like all the old priests of his generation, 
 made his half-hour's meditation according to his rigorous 
 rule and habit, made his quarter-hour's preparation for 
 Mass, celebrated the Holy Sacrifice, and with the burden 
 of years and the cares which the years will bring, came 
 slowly down the softly-carpeted stairs, and glancing with 
 an ominous shrug of the shoulders at the pile of letters 
 which lay on his writing desk, he sat down to table, broke 
 his egg, looked out on the gloomy wintiy landscape, 
 shuddered a little, pushed aside the egg, ate a crust of 
 toast rather meditatively than with any appetite for such 
 things, drank a cup of tea, and pulled the bell. His aged 
 domestic made her appearance. 
 
 "Has the paper come?" 
 
 "No," she said. "The boy is always late these times." 
 
 " These times? " he asked sharply. " Why these times? " 
 
 "Near Christmas," she replied, rubbing her hands in 
 her check apron, "everything is late. Everybody is in 
 a hurry." 
 
 "What has that to do with the daily paper?" he said. 
 "That might be an excuse for a late post. But what has 
 that to do with the paper? Remove those things." 
 
 He turned to his pile of letters. There were the usual 
 
 3
 
 4 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 rolls of bazaar tickets, red and yellow, offering fabulous 
 prizes for sixpence; bulky letters, containing more bazaar 
 tickets, but accompanied with pitiful appeals for help to 
 clear off debts from £500 to £5000 on convent chapels, 
 monastic schools, etc. There were circulars from Dublin 
 merchants offering new kinds of tea, or new brands of 
 wine, at moderate prices. There were circulars from 
 new companies, promising immense dividends at low 
 stock prices. 
 
 All these he promptly flung into the waste-paper 
 basket, muttering: 
 
 "What a lot of idle people there are in this world!" 
 
 Then, he took up what m.ay be called his personal 
 correspondence. Some of these shared the fate of the 
 circulars. He put three aside for further consideration 
 or possible reply. 
 
 The first was an anonymous letter written in lead pencil 
 and very imperfect in its orthography, informing him that, 
 unless he promptly dismissed an assistant teacher from 
 his school at Athboy the parishioners would know the 
 reason why ; and teach him that " they might be led, but 
 would not be driven." The gravamen in this case was 
 that the young teacher, who had been selected for the 
 school on account of his ability and perfect training, had 
 the misfortune to be the nephew of a man who had taken 
 a derelict farm, for which he had paid a handsome sum 
 of money to the tenants who had been evicted, and who 
 were doing well in America. Dr. William Gray put that 
 letter aside, pursed his lips, and said: "We'll see!" 
 
 The second was from his Bishop, informing him that 
 he had made a change of curates for the united parishes 
 of Doonvarragh, Lackagh, and Athboy; and was sending 
 him a young priest, named Henry Liston, who had been 
 for some months chaplain to a convent in a large town 
 in the diocese. 
 
 "Humph!" said Dr. William Gray. "He might have 
 given me more notice, or consulted me. There's no 
 Canon Law in the Church to-day. A parish priest is
 
 AN AMERICAN LETTER 5 
 
 a nobody. Liston! I don't care for him. A priggish 
 little fellow, although he had a decent father and mother." 
 
 He sat musing for a while. 
 
 "This poor fellow," he murmured at length, alluding 
 to his departing curate, " is no great loss. A perfect 
 minus habens, without an idea of Theology in his head!" 
 
 He placed the Bishop's letter in a rack for further use. 
 
 The third letter was from America. There was the 
 familiar head of Lincoln on the dark-blue stamp, and 
 there was the postmark: Chicago, 111. 
 
 " Who can this be? " he said. " More trouble, I suppose ; 
 or a baptismal certificate for some old pensioner of the 
 Civil War!" 
 
 He slit it open, and read: 
 
 Chicago, III., 
 24 November, 18 . . . 
 Very Rev. dear Father, 
 
 I regret to have to announce to you the sad tidings of the death 
 of your sister, Mrs. O'Farrell, at the Consumptive Hospital, in this 
 city. She had been in failing health for some time; and had some 
 idea of returning to her native climate. But her disease had so 
 far progressed that this became impossible. She had every pos- 
 sible attention, medical and otherwise, during the last weeks of 
 her illness; and had received the Last Sacraments from my hands. 
 She was patient and resigned, her only anxiety being the future of 
 her little daughter, Annie, whom she committed to your paternal 
 care. When her affairs are wound up, and her property realized, 
 I shall let you know how her circumstances stood, and the date 
 on which the child can leave America for her future home. 
 I am, Very Rev. Father, 
 Yours in C*- 
 
 Gekald Falvey, Rector. 
 
 Dr. William Gray did not place that letter on the rack. 
 He held it open in his hands; and turning his chair toward 
 the fire, he remained for a long time silently musing. 
 Did a tear gather and fall from those stern, gray eyes 
 under their penthouses of white, shaggy eye-brows? Did 
 his hands tremble a little, with their thin, red veins, 
 through which the life-blood now ran sluggishly after
 
 6 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 its three-score years and three of labour? Did he dwell 
 on their boyhood and girlhood up there in the hills where 
 the solitary yew-tree still stands guarding the old place 
 where the Grays had lived for generations? Did he think 
 of her sweet looks, her bright, girlish face, half-gypsy, 
 half-saintlike in its perfect contour, and the dark hair 
 that framed it irregularly, and tossed riotously across 
 her forehead without restraint of net or bodkin? And 
 her homecomings, when she came back from the boarding- 
 school in Dublin, and he returned on his holidays from 
 Maynooth; and he wondered and was glad when people 
 turned around on Sunday morning and riveted their eyes 
 upon her? Perhaps so! But if the tear fell, and the 
 thin, bony hand trembled — and I do not aver that they 
 did — it might have been from another recollection, 
 when on a certain day he had said, when others' opinions 
 were wavering for and against her: 
 
 "Yes! She must go. It is the law!" 
 
 And it was no great crime that Helena Gray was guilty 
 of — no violent rupture of Divine or human law that 
 demanded the ostracism of her kind. Only some youth- 
 ful indiscretion — some silly letters that had been found 
 in her trunk, revealing a little girlish frivolity, but nothing 
 more. Yet, the honour of the Grays was tarnished there- 
 by; and they were a stern race, with the family pride that 
 dominated them accentuated by some hundred years of 
 such rigid and stainless virtue, that a breath would now 
 blot and tarnish it. Motherly affection had struggled 
 against paternal pride, and angry debates had been heard 
 up there in the cottage where the black yew-tree flung 
 its ominous shadow, until at last the girl herself declared 
 that life was intolerable and she would go to her aunt in 
 America. Then the young priest was called in. 
 
 He came. He was still a young curate, but he had 
 already acquired the reputation of strength bordering 
 upon harshness, and of an inexorable adherence to law, 
 which amongst an easy-going and flexible population 
 made him feared, and almost hated. In his own home
 
 AN AMERICAN LETTER 7 
 
 he was also an object of dread. His stem, clear-cut, 
 pallid features, never illuminated by a smile, were to 
 them but the index of a cold, hard, unfeeling nature, 
 which might be respected, but could not command the 
 reverence of great love. His dignity of bearing and his 
 Doctor's distinction added to the solemnity of his char- 
 acter. Probably his mother alone loved him; and next 
 after her supreme affection, was the more pallid and sis- 
 terly affection of her on whom he was now called to utter 
 judgment. 
 
 He did so with all the calm indifference of one accus- 
 tomed to legislate or act under a criminal code. The 
 letters were placed in his hands. 
 
 He read them over carefully, a certain contempt for 
 girlish frivolity showing itself in his stern face. When 
 he came to the expressions that had challenged criticism, 
 his thin lips drew together; his nose drew down like a 
 beak; and two deep furrows gathered between his eyes. 
 
 When he had finished reading, he folded the incrim- 
 inating letters slowly and carefully, and without handing 
 them back to his mother, he said quietly: 
 
 "Helena wishes to go abroad?" 
 
 " She says so," said his mother. " But she is so young, 
 barely sixteen." 
 
 "She is old enough to know the meaning of such lan- 
 guage as this," he said, shaking the letter. 
 
 "The words are not very ladylike," said his mother. 
 " But they are not sinful." 
 
 "They are coarse and vulgar," the young priest replied. 
 Then, after a pause, he added: 
 
 "Let her go! It is better!" 
 
 The mother murmured something about such punish- 
 ment for mere indiscretion and levity. He stopped her. 
 
 "Every violation of law is punished," he said, "errors 
 and mistakes as well as sins. It is the law." 
 
 Then he hastily added: 
 
 " Her sentence is her own, is it not? It is her own wish 
 to go away?"
 
 8 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 " Yes ! " said his mother hesitatingly. 
 
 "Then let her go!" he said. 
 
 Some weeks later, the young exile wrote a pitiful letter 
 to her brother asking for a farewell interview. She had 
 no resentment toward him. She admired him too much. 
 He was her idol — her God. He could do no wrong. It was 
 only she, poor frail girl that could do wrong. She wanted 
 to see him, to kneel for his blessing, to-throw her arms 
 around his neck in a farewell embrace, to implore pardon. 
 
 He thought it over judiciously, formed one or two syl- 
 logisms, and decided it were better not to see his sister. 
 He was unwell for some days after; and, when he resumed 
 work, some people noticed that his hair had turned gray 
 over the ears. 
 
 From this it will easily be conjectured what manner of 
 man was Dr. William Gray. A hard, proud, domineer- 
 ing disposition had been doubly annealed under the 
 teaching of a rigorous theological system, that approached 
 as closely to Jansenism as orthodoxy might. The natural 
 bias of his mind toward rule and discipline had been 
 strengthened beneath the teaching of a school where the 
 divinity of law predominated ; and he had come by degrees 
 to believe that of all other human certainties, this was 
 the most certain, that Law was everywhere, and was 
 everywhere paramount and even supreme. The Law of 
 Nature, so unfeeling, so despotic, so revengeful; the 
 Natural Law guiding human conscience, so inflexible 
 toward lower instincts and desires; the Law of the Realm, 
 with its fines and punishments; Canon Law, with its 
 interdicts and excommunications; Ecclesiastical Law, 
 national, provincial, diocesan, that bound as with gos- 
 samer threads, but was as rigid as iron when you tried 
 to break through — yes! Law was everywhere, and the 
 slightest infraction of it was followed by a stern retribu- 
 tion. There was no escape. We might murmur, but 
 must obey. And all lower feelings and instincts had to 
 be marshalled and summoned and drilled into absolute 
 submission to universal and inexorable Law.
 
 AN AMERICAN LETTER 9 
 
 And yet? As the tall form bent down almost double 
 over the peat and wood fire in the grate this gloomy- 
 December morning, was it a tear that stained the white 
 page of the American letter? Did his bony hand tremble 
 and shake as he stirred the white ashes and kindled a 
 fresh flame amongst the charred embers that lay at his 
 feet? We know not. 
 
 He rose up at length from his stooping posture, and 
 walked up and down the dining-room, a favourite exercise 
 of his whenever he was in a gloomy and anxious condi- 
 tion of mind, his hands folded tightly behind his back, 
 grasping that ill-omened American letter. He was agi- 
 tated with remorse for the past, and with anxiety for the 
 future. The words of that letter — " hospital," " con- 
 sumption," "only child," "your sister," seemed to rise 
 out of the page and smite him, each with its own deadly 
 blow; and the strong man trembled beneath their sug- 
 gestions, as a lordly oak trembles beneath the strokes of 
 an axe swung by a pigmy beneath its branches. Sad 
 reminiscences woke up that had been hidden away and 
 buried beneath the debris of the years; and he became 
 aware of the fact, that should never be forgotten, that 
 the human heart, however seared and shrunk, holds a 
 terrible vitality unto the last. 
 
 Then the question would arise about this child. Accus- 
 tomed to a solitary life and the deeper solitude of his own 
 thoughts, he had always shrunk from any invasion on the 
 privacy of his home. He had grown into the habit of 
 neither giving nor accepting invitations to dinner, except 
 with his own curates; and the idea of having a visitor 
 in the house to be watched, and tended and fed and enter- 
 tained was alwaj^s intolerable. He had to put up with 
 such things on the occasion of a visitation; and once or 
 twice, when he had a mission in his parish. But it was 
 a time of uneasiness and trouble, which he terminated 
 as speedily as decency would permit; and then resigned 
 himself to the delightful luxury of being alone again. 
 And now, here comes a cool suggestion from a priest, of
 
 10 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 whom he had never heard before, to take into his house, 
 permanently, a girl of unknown age and disposition, and 
 to keep her and be responsible for her during her lifetime. 
 The idea was simply appalling. He even laughed at it. 
 But then the letter would rustle in his hands; the dread 
 words "your sister," "consumption," "hospital," "only 
 child," would repeat themselves with the;r suggestion 
 that now was the time and opportunity to redress and 
 atone for the past, until the man was almost half dis- 
 tracted with remorse on the one hand and nameless 
 terrors on the other. 
 
 He stopped suddenly in his walk, and touched the bell. 
 When the housekeeper appeared, he ordered his horse to 
 be brought around. It was his refuge in all cases of per- 
 plexity. The exercise, that drove the stagnant blood of 
 old age bounding to the brain, cleared his faculties, and 
 enabled him to think with calmness, judgment, and force. 
 
 His way lay along a narrow but perfectly level road, 
 bordered on both sides by deep bogs or marshes, where 
 some attempts had been made at drainage, for there 
 were deep cuttings filled with water, and edged with 
 rushes and sedge, their sides lined with the black peat 
 that gave fire to the villagers. The sea had conquered 
 all human efforts to restrain it; and there far out were 
 black pools of seawater left by the receding tide, and 
 bordered with dreary sand-heaps, where a coarse and 
 tufty grass was waving in the wind. And just beyond 
 was a wider reach of sand, where no grass grew, and here 
 the gray wastes of the sea commenced their dreary stretch 
 toward the horizon. 
 
 When the horse's feet touched the firm wet sand, his 
 rider pushed him into a trot, thence into a rapid canter, 
 and then into a gallop, which he held steadily for the 
 three miles of sandy beach that lay level before him. At 
 the end where the red sandstone cliffs closed the beach, a 
 tiny forest of upright timbers, sea-beaten and covered with 
 a green slimy weed, looked like the naked ribs of soma 
 submerged and dismantled ship. Here he dismounted.
 
 AN AMERICAN LETTER 11 
 
 and flinging his bridle over one of these upright posts, 
 he sat down on one of the redstone boulders that kept 
 the timbers, originally intended as a breakwater, in their 
 place; and looking out over the sad and lonely wastes 
 of the sea, he took up his problems again. They took 
 this form: 
 
 "Only yesterday, I had flattered myself with the 
 thought that my worries had ceased. That wretched 
 money affair, that cost me nights of sleepless agony, 
 settled itself in its own way at last. That Income Tax 
 surveyor appears to be satisfied that I am not defrauding 
 his wretched Government. Mulcahy has settled his ques- 
 tion by ' leaving his country for his country's good.' Last 
 night I slept a few hours — the first I had free from the 
 petty worries of men for months. And now! here are 
 three more worries just when I was assuring myself 
 that I should have peace, peace. Of course, the first 
 is easily settled. There is a principle at stake there. 
 That makes matters easy. Fiat justitia, mat coelum. I 
 meet these fellows with a Non possum. They may go 
 further; but I shall not care. Liston is a fellow I don't 
 care much for. But he may turn out better than I 
 hoped. But this girl!— !" 
 
 He stood up, and found to his surprise that the anguish, 
 remorse and anxiety of the morning were suddenly swept 
 aside. The dread words "hospital," "consumptive," no 
 longer stabbed him with pain; and he found himself 
 laughing at the absurdity of entertaining even for an 
 instant the idea of taking his niece into his house. 
 
 "I'll write to that fellow to-night," he said, "and tell 
 him to mind his own business. And if he presumes to 
 send that girl over here, I'll pack her back by the next 
 boat. The idea!!!" 
 
 He remounted his horse and rode back by another 
 road, that led by the outskirts of a little hamlet, consist- 
 ing of two or three houses. Apart from these, and just 
 at the angle of the road that skirted a demesne wall, was 
 a cottage quite different from ordinary builduigs of the
 
 12 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 kind, inasmuch as it was gabled and the Gothic windows 
 were filled with diamond panes of glass, bedded in lead. 
 It seemed as if built for a lodge for some mansion, yet 
 it was isolated and apart. It was occupied by an old 
 woman, over ninety years of age, who had been stone- 
 blind and bed-ridden for years, and her granddaughter, 
 who supported both by washing. Here tKe priest drew 
 up his horse, and shouted. There was no answer. He 
 then came nearer, and knocked on the open door with 
 the handle of his whip. The strong voice of the old 
 woman rang down the stairs: 
 
 "Who's there? And what do ye want?" 
 
 "It is I, the parish priest, Betty," he said, in a loud 
 voice. 
 
 "I beg your Reverence's pardon; but what do ye 
 want; and where's Nance?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know where's Nance," he shouted 
 back. " But I want to tell you that I am coming in the 
 morning to say Mass for you, and give you your Christ- 
 mas Communion." 
 
 "God bless you!" she said. "But only on the ould 
 conditions." 
 
 "Of course," he replied, "the old conditions. And I 
 want your advice, too. Is it all right?" 
 
 " Av coorse it is," she said. " I'll tell Nance, and she'll 
 have everything ready." 
 
 "Very good!" he said. "I'll have the basket sent 
 over to-night." 
 
 He cantered away; and after dinner he sat down to 
 his desk and wrote a very emphatic letter to the priest 
 in Chicago to the effect that, although he regretted deeply 
 the demise of his sister, and was gratified to learn that 
 she had received all the rites of the Church, Canon Law 
 and all other laws forbade him peremptorily from enter- 
 taining even for a moment the idea of opening his house 
 to his orphan niece. It was against all precedent. He 
 would be happy, although poor, to subscribe something 
 toward her maintenance and education in America, if
 
 AN AMERICAN LETTER 13 
 
 her own means were not sufficient. But on no account 
 whatsoever was she to be deported to Ireland. He added 
 a brief but pregnant postscript to the effect that sometimes 
 priests suffer from overzeal; and that it would always be 
 wise to consider a little and take into account the feelings 
 and circumstances of others before presuming to trespass 
 on their domestic affairs. 
 
 This letter he posted, and dismissed that subject as 
 one with which he had no further concern.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A Change of Curates 
 
 If the good pastor of Doonvarragh, Lackagh, and 
 Athboy was much disturbed on that gray December 
 morning in the year of our Lord 18 — , his future curate, 
 Father Henry, or Harry, Liston (as every one called him) 
 cannot be said to have been much elated on his 
 promotion. 
 
 Of course, it was promotion, inasmuch as he passed 
 thereby from the condition of a chaplain to that of curate ; 
 and it was rapid, and therefore honourable promotion, for 
 he had been but a few years ordained. Yet, he was not 
 happy. The change meant for him the translation from 
 town-life, to which he had been born, to country-life, 
 with which he was quite unacquainted. But that would 
 have been but a slight cause for depression. The major 
 cause, that which drove his spirits below zero, was the 
 reflection that he was now to be brought into intimate 
 relationship with a parish priest to whom he had always 
 looked up with a certain kind of reverential dread. 
 
 As he poised the episcopal letter in his fingers and 
 wondered what strange mental operations must pass 
 through episcopal minds to move them to such singular 
 actions, he remembered with a cold shudder the day 
 when the tall, gaunt, black figure of his future superior 
 suddenly stood by him, as he waded through some propo- 
 sition in the Sixth Book of Euclid; he remembered the 
 hard rasping voice, demanding abruptly why the angle 
 ACB was equivalent in value to DEF and GHO even 
 though they clubbed their forces together; and the unkind 
 sentence : 
 
 14
 
 A CHANGE OF CURATES 15 
 
 " You know nothing at all about it, I suppose," which 
 was passed on his silence. 
 
 He remembered, too, the shiver of dread with which 
 he raised the chasuble on the same gaunt figure at the 
 elevation of the Mass; and how he cast down his eyes, 
 not daring from his seat on the altar steps to look up at 
 the terrible apparition with the keen eagle face, and the 
 thin lips that uttered such startling and terrible truths 
 to the silent and awed congregation. 
 
 He remembered his first meeting on his summer holi- 
 days from the seminary, the abrupt question, "What 
 are you reading?" the shy answer, "Greek and Mathe- 
 matics"; the second question, "What is the Paulo-Post- 
 Future of TUTTTw?" his own silence; the subsequent ques- 
 tion: "How do you construct a perfect oval, and what 
 proportions do its diameters bear to each other?" his 
 own repeated discomfitures; and the final verdict: 
 
 "You know no more of these things than you do of 
 Hebrew." 
 
 The reminiscences were not enlivening; nor were they 
 made more pleasant by the rumours that pervaded the 
 diocese that the Very Rev. Dr. Gray was a harsh, crabbed, 
 sour misanthropist; and that his reputation as "a great 
 theologian" hardly mollified public opinion and softened 
 it into deeper charity for social imperfections. 
 
 Above all, he had heard that his future pastor was not 
 only a rigorist in theology, but a rigid disciplinarian, 
 who never knew what it was to dispense in a law either 
 for himself or others. He had heard that this grave, 
 stern man fasted, like an ancient anchorite, the whole of 
 Lent, and never took or granted a dispensation; that he 
 was inflexible in the observances of statutes, national, 
 provincial, or diocesan; that he came down with the fury 
 of a revengeful deity on any infraction of law, or any 
 public scandal; that he was a kind of Christian Druid, 
 with a sacrificial knife in one hand and the head of his 
 victim in the other. And yet, he had a dim suspicion 
 that with all the brusqueness and abruptness that this
 
 16 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 great man had showed toward himself, there was some 
 concealed tenderness, some deep interest, ill-shown but 
 deeply felt. And in his own heart, vibrating under emo- 
 tions of fear for the future, there was also a hidden sense 
 of worship for the greatness of the man to whom his 
 future destinies were now being entrusted, and some 
 kind of hidden, unspoken, unrevealed affection, which 
 he dare not avow even to himself. 
 
 Their first meeting was not propitious. 
 
 " Sit down ! " said Dr. WiUiam Gray. " So the Bishop 
 has thought right to send you here!" 
 
 "Yes, Sir!" said his curate demurely. 
 
 "You must have some excellent influence at work to 
 induce his Lordship to promote you so rapidly." 
 
 The curate was silent. 
 
 "Why, it seems only yesterday when I put the Latin 
 Grammar in your hands." 
 
 The Latin Grammar was an ancient volume, bound in 
 ancient calf, written in ancient type, and composed by 
 some ancient school-master. Henry Liston remembered 
 it well, because he had never returned it to its owner. 
 He had been too much afraid to approach him. He was 
 silent now. 
 
 "Well," continued the grim man, as he stood on the 
 hearthrug, his back to the fire, and his eyes looking out 
 as if challenging some far-off antagonist, and not the 
 humble curate at his feet, " your duties here will be simple, 
 and not embarrassing. You will say Mass at ten o'clock 
 every Sunday and holiday at Lackagh, and at Athboy 
 at twelve. You will preach at every Mass. The ser- 
 mons need not be long, and must not be transcendently 
 foolish. No silly eloquence or tawdry rhetoric, but plain, 
 catechetical discourses to the people on their duties. You 
 will take up the two collections, and render me an exact 
 account of them when required. Do you follow me?" 
 
 The curate murmured something. 
 
 "Confessions," the grim man went on, holding his 
 right-hand forward, a pinch of snuff between the thumb
 
 A CHANGE OF CURATES 17 
 
 and index-finger, and the other fingers stretched apart 
 and outward threateningly, "every Saturday at twelve 
 o'clock sharp, alternately at Lackagh and Athboy, and 
 the first Saturday of every month here at Doonvarragh." 
 
 " I guess I'll be welcome here," thought the curate. 
 
 "You will visit every school in your district at least 
 once a week, and catechize the children; and you shall 
 never leave the parish without permission." 
 
 Here Henry Liston bridled up. 
 
 "The statutes give permission to a curate to be absent 
 twenty-four hours by merely notifying his parish priest," 
 he said. 
 
 "Statutes?" shouted Dr. William Gray. "Yes! but 
 remember, young man, that it is quite competent for a 
 parish priest to make his own parochial arrangements, 
 independent of, or ancillary to, the statutes of the dio- 
 cese; and that is my regulation." 
 
 He took a pinch of snuff, half of which fell down on 
 his waistcoat, already dyed brown, and then he con- 
 cluded : 
 
 "You will dine with me at five o'clock every Sunday, 
 without fail." 
 
 Henry Liston started up. 
 
 "I'm blessed if I will," he cried. "No amount of 
 Canon Law can interfere with the personal liberty of a 
 man — " 
 
 "Sit down!" ordered his pastor peremptorily. 
 
 Henry sat down. 
 
 " What rubbish have you been reading? Not your 
 Theology evidently, still less your * Selva' or ' Challoner.'" 
 
 "I don't fail to study Theology at proper times and 
 places," said the curate. " I don't think a man is bound 
 to sleep with a folio under his head." 
 
 "N— no," said the pastor, looking at him admiringly, 
 "but," he drawled, as if in mockery of his curate, "at 
 proper times and places. Now, what author are you 
 reading — say in Moral Theology?" 
 
 "Lehmkuhl!" said his curate, confidently. 
 3
 
 18 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Limekiln!" echoed Dr. William Gray, "I never heard 
 of such a writer." 
 
 "Oh! he is well known," said Henry airily, "everybcJdy 
 knows the distinguished German Jesuit. He has put 
 your Gury's and Ballerini's on the shelf." 
 
 The pastor glowered at him for a moment, then took 
 a pinch of snuff and smiled. 
 
 " Very well ! " he said, " we'll see more about it. Finally, 
 it sometimes happens that young curates, when they 
 come into a parish, think they have a right to fit up the 
 curate's house at parochial expense, and in a manner more 
 suitable to some coxcomb of a doctor or lawyer than a 
 priest. Now, mark me! You shall not spend one penny 
 on that house without previously submitting the items 
 to me. Do you understand?" 
 
 His curate nodded. 
 
 "Write down a list of necessary repairs if any are 
 necessary ; and let me see them. I shall mark off all that 
 I think may be dispensed with, and shall give you an 
 order for the remainder. Have you seen the house? 
 No! Well, go and see it. I suppose that angashore 
 is there yet." 
 
 Nothing loth, Henry Liston escaped from the lion's 
 den, and rode down to see the curate whom he was re- 
 placing. He found the latter toiling hard amidst a heap 
 of huge boxes and cases, his coat and hat off, and his 
 hands as black from the dust of books as if he had been 
 handling coal. 
 
 " Hallo ! " he cried. " You here ! You've lost no time ! " 
 
 "No," said Henry Liston. "I've been up to see the 
 parish priest and get directions." 
 
 "And — you got them!" said the other significantly. 
 
 "Yes. Curt and sharp, cut and dry! I say, what 
 kind of a place is this?" 
 
 " Come here," said the coatless curate. " Look and 
 see!" 
 
 It was a dreary landscape enough in all conscience, 
 A vast marsh, cut up by drainage or irrigating canals.
 
 A CHANGE OF CURATES 19 
 
 seemed to stretch interminably before them, the sedges 
 and bushes waving dismally in the wind; and, as if to 
 emphasize the loneliness and desolation, a solitary heron 
 stood on one leg by the side of a sea-lagoon intently 
 watching for its prey. All was silence, solitude, desola- 
 tion. Afar off, where at last there appeared to be habit- 
 able land, a few farmers' houses, embedded in trees, gave 
 a shadow of civilization to the desert; and the little 
 white-washed chapel on the hill, its solitary bell-tower 
 emerging from the wasted trees around it, spoke at least 
 of some kind of population to be summoned Sunday 
 after Sunday to Mass. 
 
 "It is not very inviting!" remarked Henry Liston. 
 
 "No!" said the departing curate. "What did you do 
 to be sent here?" 
 
 "The pastor is after asking me what tremendous 
 influences did I set to work to secure such a prize!" said 
 Henry. 
 
 "Ah! the pastor!" said the other, mournfully and 
 sententiously. 
 
 "By the way," he continued, after a pause, during 
 which he deposited several grimy volumes in the bottom 
 of a case, "did he examine you in Theology?" 
 
 "N-no!" said Henry. "He was beginning; but I shut 
 him up!" 
 
 "Shut him up?" cehoed the other, admiringly but in- 
 credulously. 
 
 "Yes!" said Henry. "I mentioned Lehmkuhl, the 
 German Jesuit who has come out in two volumes, you 
 know He had never heard of him, but thought I said 
 Limekiln, and then he went no further!" 
 
 " By Jove, that's the best joke I have heard for many a 
 long day. Look here, Liston, I'll send that on the wings 
 of the wird far and away across the diocese. It won't 
 extinguish him, though. You can't extinguish him!" 
 
 His voice dropped from a tone of exultation to one of 
 sadness and despair. 
 
 "When I came here," he continued, taking down
 
 20 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 book after book from the shelves, but talking over hia 
 shoulders at Henry Liston, "I managed for a time, too, 
 to shut him up. I found he knew all about Lugo and 
 Suarez and Petavius — every line of them and eveiy 
 opinion they ever expressed. He had the greatest con- 
 tempt for the Salmanticenses, and I flung them at him 
 on every occasion, although I never saw a volume of 
 these interesting novelists in my life. He used to get 
 awfully mad; but these little fits were only moonlight 
 unto sunlight, when I quoted Sa. The first time I men- 
 tioned Sa, I thought he'd go for me. He glared and 
 glowered at me without a word for fully five minutes; 
 and then he said with his rasping, contemptuous voice: 
 'Sa! Sa! Who's Sa? And what do you know of Sa?' 
 'Why,' I said, 'every one knows Sa — Emmanuel Sa, 
 the greatest theologian that ever lived.' 'The greatest 
 theologian that ever lived?' he shouted. 'Greater than 
 Suarez, greater than Vasquez, greater than Lugo?' 'Cer- 
 tainly,' I replied, ' greater than all, except Aquinas.' ' Oh, 
 then, you've heard of St. Thomas?' he said sarcastically. 
 'A little,' I replied, waving my hand in the air, as if it 
 were of no consequence. 'But I'd recommend you to 
 read Sa. Sa and the Salmanticenses would make a man 
 of you.' He was too stupefied to say more, except one 
 word: 'You read Sa of course, nocturna versans manu, 
 versans diurna?' 'Yes!' I said calmly and solemnly, 
 'Sa is on my dressing-table in the morning; Sa is my 
 pillow at night.'" 
 
 "You had tremendous courage," said Henry Liston 
 admiringly. "Did he say any more?" 
 
 "He said no more," said the toiling curate, stopping 
 in his work, and turning round, "but a few days after- 
 wards he came up here on some pretext or another, and, 
 after a little while, he came over here and soon began 
 to examine my books, talking about indifferent matters 
 all the time. I knew what he was looking for, but I 
 wanted to see the play out. After he had probed and 
 examined every shelf, he was about to go away, and had
 
 A CHANGE OF CURATES 21 
 
 reached the door. Then, as if suddenly remembering 
 something, he wheeled round, and said: 'By the way, 
 that Spanish theologian you spoke of, would you let me 
 see him?' 'I'm afraid,' I said, 'I can't issue a Habeas 
 Corpus into eternity to evoke the immortal spirit of Sa; 
 but I keep his works in my bedroom, as I told you. Just 
 one minute, and I will deliver the immortal part of him 
 into your hands.'" 
 
 "But you haven't Sa?" said Henry Liston. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I have," said his comrade, producing a thick 
 ancient volume, red-edged, and bound in boards, or 
 stamped leather that had the consistency of boards, 
 "here you are!" 
 
 "By Jove!" said Henry Liston, "this is a surprise!" 
 
 " Not much greater than our good pastor experienced," 
 continued his friend. " You never saw such consterna- 
 tion in your life as was depicted on his face. And when 
 he opened the interesting volume, and saw it all dog- 
 eared and marked and underlined, I thought he'd get 
 a fit. And he would, only that he fell in love with the 
 ugly thing in an instant, and wanted to know would I 
 sell it. I said 'No! I am not a bookseller; and besides, 
 I could not live without Sa. He is meat, drink, food, 
 clothing, and lodging to me. Take anything else you 
 like, but don't take Sa.' All the time he was turning 
 and fondling the book, just like a girl with her first doll, 
 thumbing the leaves, running back to the index, study- 
 ing the date, feeling the consistency of the leather, until 
 at last I was beginning to relent. But I drew myself 
 together, and was firm. Finally, he handed back the 
 book with a sigh, and I thought his soul would go out 
 in the effort. I took it from him affectionately, as one 
 would take a lost treasure; but, do you know, Harry, 
 I'm going to give it to him now." 
 
 "No?" said Henry Liston, incredulously. 
 
 " Yes, I am, and I'll tell you the reason presently. 
 But I've never asked you to take something, as we say 
 in these parts. I can't give you a decent dinner — "
 
 22 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 % 
 
 Henry Listen protested. 
 
 " But I'll get you a substitute for one in five minutes. 
 What would you think of a few chops and eggs and a 
 cup of tea?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no," said the new curate, "you're upset; 
 and I won't be long getting home." 
 
 But the good man persisted, and ordered the eatables. 
 And meanwhile Henry Liston was taking stock of the 
 disordered place. 
 
 "I guess," he said, when his friend came back, "I'll 
 have a large order on the pastor for repairs." 
 
 "You will," said his friend, "and remember, the 
 larger the better. The best way to deal with this man 
 is to daze him, to mesmerize him by audacity. He has 
 two pet objects of detestation — a stupid man, and a 
 timid man. Now, whilst we are waiting, let us see! 
 Have you a bit of paper about you, — an envelope or 
 something? " 
 
 "Here's the Bishop's letter, which I presented this 
 
 morning!" 
 
 "The very thing," said his friend. "You see the 
 Bishop is considerate. He always leaves a blank page 
 for such things. Take thy pen, or pencil, and write 
 down quickly, thou son of Mammon!" 
 
 "Where shall we begin?" said Henry. 
 
 "Here, of course. Write: Dining-room — to be newly 
 papered in maroon; window-shutters, doors, and all wood- 
 work to be painted in faint pink, panels in rose-colour. 
 Have you that down?" 
 
 "I have!" said Henry faintly. 
 
 "Very good. Now! Drawing-room — by the way, 
 you may expect a little characteristic sarcasm there. 
 'Drawing-room,' he'll say, 'no! boudoir! that's a better 
 word.' But you mustn't mind. Go on! Drawing- 
 room — to be papered white, with chrysanthemum 
 leaves in gray. All the woodwork to be painted white; 
 panels in pale blue or green. All right?" 
 
 "AU right!" said Henry.
 
 A CHANGE OF CURATES 23 
 
 "Two front bedrooms," continued his friend. "First 
 to be papered in French gray, woodwork to be painted 
 in same colour; panels and architraves in lavender. He'll 
 like that! Second room, to be papered in sage-green, 
 all woodwork to be painted white; panels, sea-green. 
 All down?" 
 
 "All down!" said Henry. 
 
 "Now, write: Back bedrooms, hall and staircase — to 
 be left to the option of pastor ! " 
 
 "Look here!" said Henry Liston, despairingly. "This 
 would never do. He'd murder me!" 
 
 "Never fear!" said his friend. "That last hint will 
 fetch him completely. ' Left to option of pastor ! ' By 
 Jove! won't he stare? But, mark me, young man, 'tis 
 your first and greatest victory. Come along now, and 
 eat something. Oh, by the way, I was near forgetting. 
 Write down: New range, and floors of stables to be tiled 
 in small pattern, and chamfered, with channels, drains, 
 etc. That's all, I think. But we may remember some- 
 thing else as we get along!" 
 
 When they parted, Henry said to the curate: 
 
 " You said you were going to give Sa to the pastor, 
 and that you'd tell me the reason." 
 
 " Yes, I will," said his friend, laying his hand on Henry's 
 arm, and speaking slowly and solemnly: 
 
 " I've been chaffing a good deal. We must, you know, 
 to keep off the blues sometimes. But I am going to 
 make a present of Sa to the pastor, because he is a great 
 and good man — one of the greatest men I have seen as 
 yet. Others, who find fault with him, are like choughs 
 or sea-gulls, wheeling round a granite cliff. He is not 
 only a great thinker, but a great man — " 
 
 " I'm better pleased than if I got a five-pound note 
 to hear you say that," broke in Henry. " Do you know 
 that is the opinion I always had of the pastor." 
 
 "And you were right," said his friend. "Now, for 
 example, you have often heard how hard he is about 
 money?"
 
 24 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Yes! he certainly has that reputation," said Henry. 
 
 "And he has got that name," said the other, "from 
 the very persons who received the greatest benefactions 
 from him. For example, he is strict at the stations about 
 the dues, and people who hear him thundering around, 
 say he is avaricious. They don't know that he gives that 
 Station-offering to every poor crofter and cottier in the 
 bedroom or parlour before he calls the list. He has an 
 awful name about marriages. Yes! he insists on being 
 paid. But his own share goes back again into their 
 pockets, if they are poor. And, mind you, he knows 
 that he leaves people under false impressions about 
 himself; but he doesn't care. The man is utterly indif- 
 ferent to human opinion. He believes uhat all human 
 judgments are infallibly wrong. But, when you get 
 inside that awful manner of his and his insistence: 'It 
 is the law ! ' you find a man whom you are forced to respect 
 and even to love. That's why I am leaving him with 
 regret and giving him this wretched thing." 
 
 "By Jove! you and I agree there," said Henry Liston 
 enthusiastically. " Do you know that although I grew 
 up in fear and trembling before him, somehow I felt I 
 had a warm corner in my heart for him; and do you know, 
 I think he has some interest in me." 
 
 "Well, all's for the best, I suppose," said his friend. 
 "And this old place is not so bad as it seems. This is 
 the worst of it. Around the corner here the cliffs run 
 along a mile or two, and there are the prettiest little 
 coves in the world. The people, too, are good. A little 
 turbulent sometimes. The pastor has a row on his hands 
 just now about a school assistant here. It is only a 
 diversion. There'll be a lot of bad temper and bad 
 language; but he'll come out all right in the end. These 
 things break up the monotony of life. There are a good 
 many Protestant families; but they are all friendly and 
 nice. There's an old gypsy here behind on the cliffs, 
 who's no great things. Doesn't go to church. Mass or 
 meeting, and she'll some day assassinate the pastor for
 
 A CHANGE OF CURATES 25 
 
 denouncing her off the altar. But all the rest is smooth 
 and nice. Do you know, Henry, you're a lucky fellow. 
 I'll come around to see you sometimes, and get a glimpse 
 of the old place. Good-bye ! If there are any old things 
 here that would be useful to you, seize on them at once. 
 There's a lot of turf, and wood from an old ship, and things 
 of that kind. Good-bye!" 
 
 Henry Listen thought there were tears in that voice 
 that mocked so freely.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A Strange Accompaniment 
 
 When Dr. William Gray entered the house of old 
 Betty Lane and began to ascend the crazy stairs, the 
 first thing he heard was the voice of the old blind woman, 
 challenging her granddaughter Nance: 
 
 "Is he come yet?" she shouted. 
 
 "Not yet!" said the girl. "He'll be here presently." 
 
 "What a long time he takes to dress himself," she 
 said in the same high key. "The ould priests usedn't 
 take all that time with theirselves." 
 
 "Whist, he's here now," whispered Nance. 
 
 "Tell him, he must hear my confession," said the old 
 woman, "before he begins Mass. I mustn't appear 
 before me Lord and Saviour with all these sins upon me 
 sowl!" 
 
 The sight that met his eyes when he entered the little 
 chamber was one that would touch a harder heart than 
 his; and, as we have seen, there was by no means a hard 
 heart beneath the black coat of Dr. William Gray. 
 
 The table, on which he was to celebrate Mass, was 
 pulled over near the old woman's bed, and had its spot- 
 less cloths already arranged by the little acolyte. There 
 were a few sprays of flowers upon it, and the two candles 
 allowed by the Rubrics. But the rest of the room was 
 a blaze of light. In a glass case, to shield them from dust, 
 were two gorgeous statues, shining in red and gold, and 
 before these, six large candles were blazing. Here and 
 there, in presence of little eikons or sacred pictures, other 
 candles were alight, and fairy lamps of every colour shone 
 resplendent before every picture of Our Lady. There 
 
 26
 
 A STRANGE ACCOMPANIMENT 27 
 
 was a subtle perfume in the room from a few bunches 
 of violets, which the piety of this poor girl had purchased 
 from a neighbouring gardener. 
 
 The old woman's confession having been heard, the 
 priest proceeded to vest for Mass; and then commenced 
 and continued the Holy Sacrifice to the strangest accom- 
 paniment that was ever heard. For Catholics, as a 
 rule, attend the celebration of the Divine Mysteries in 
 reverential silence, and no sound breaks the stillness 
 except a sob or a cough ; but this morning the prayers of 
 the Church were almost stifled by the loud and fervent 
 and emphatic prayers of the blind creature who lay there, 
 her head on her pillow, and her sightless eyes straining 
 after Heaven. Hers, too, was no beautiful face, trans- 
 figured by age into that strange pallor of loveliness, that 
 seems to many more attractive than youth. It was a 
 strongly-marked, rugged, wrinkled, and furrowed face 
 that had been burnt by the suns, and whipped and 
 battered by the storms of ninety years; and into which 
 old Time had driven his chisel too freely. Nothing 
 seemed to remain of her early strength, except her voice, 
 which was coarse, resonant, and masculine. 
 
 "Where is he now?" she shouted to her granddaughter, 
 although the priest was not three feet away from her 
 bed. 
 
 " He's at the Glory in excelsis," cried Nance. 
 
 "Glory be to You, my God, in the highest," shouted 
 the old woman, whilst her sightless eyes seemed to kindle 
 with the internal vision, "and pace on airth to min of 
 good will. We praise Thee — we bless Thee — we 
 adore Thee — we glorify Thee — we give Thee thanks 
 because of Thy great glory. Lord God! Heavenly King! 
 God, the Father Almighty! O Lord Jesus Christ, only- 
 begotten Son! Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the 
 Father! Thou, who takest away the sins of the world, 
 have mercy on us!" 
 
 Here she struck her breast so violently that the bed 
 shook beneath her.
 
 28 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Thou, who takest away the sins of the world, receive 
 our prayer!" 
 
 Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she shook her head 
 from side to side. 
 
 "Thou, who sittest at the right-hand of the Father, 
 have mercy on us!" 
 
 She struck her breast fiercely again. 
 
 "For Thou alone art Holy!" 
 
 She shook her head from side to side. 
 
 "Thou alone art Lord!" 
 
 She shook her head again. 
 
 "Thou alone art Most High!" 
 
 She flung out her old wrinkled arms toward the ceiling 
 of the room. 
 
 "Jesus Christ! who with the Father, and the Holy 
 Ghost, livest and reignest for ever and ever, Amen!" 
 
 The tears were running down her cheeks, and she 
 wiped them aside with a handkerchief, and seemed to 
 relapse into silence, turning over the beads in her hands. 
 
 Then, after a pause, she shouted: 
 
 "Nance?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am!" 
 
 "Where is he now?" 
 
 "At the Offertory, ma'am!" 
 
 "We offer Thee, O Lord," she cried out, "this bread 
 and wine, which is about to become the Body and Blood 
 of Christ, that Thou mayst accept it a clane oblation 
 for us, and for the whole wurruld. And I, Thy poor 
 crachure, offer Thee my poor body, soon to be dust an' 
 ashes in the grave, an' me poor sowl, which Thou wilt 
 save from everlasting damnation, to do with wan an' the 
 other whatever may be plazing to Thy most Holy Will!" 
 
 She relapsed into silence again. When the faint 
 tinkling of the bell, however, warned that the Consecra- 
 tion of the Mass was at hand, she shouted louder than 
 before : 
 
 "Nance?" 
 
 "Yes. ma'am!"
 
 A STRANGE ACCOMPANIMENT 29 
 
 "Where is he now? Is that the bell for the rismg of 
 the Host?" 
 
 "It is!" said Nance. 
 
 "Thin, come here and lift me up," she cried. "How 
 dare a poor crachure, like me, to be lying on the flat of 
 me back whin the great King of Kings, and Lord of 
 Lords, is coming down widin a few feet of me?" 
 
 She was lifted up with some trouble, and she stared 
 before her in a half-frightened manner, her ears bent 
 down to catch the first sound of the Elevation bell. Then, 
 when its faint tinkle struck her senses, and her fancy 
 pictured the white Host raised above her head, she 
 broke out into a rhapsody of praise; this time in the 
 Gaelic language, which seems to have been formed to 
 make prayer into poetry, and poetry into prayer. And 
 every stanza of this sublime prayer, sung as it were in 
 rhythmic assonance, concluded with that first verse of 
 "The Lay of the Sacred Heart," probably the most beau- 
 tiful sacred poem, after the Hebrew melodies, that was 
 ever chanted by the human heart. 
 
 The Love of my heart is Thy Heart, O Saviour dear, 
 My treasure untold is to hold Thy Heart in ray fond heart here. 
 For, ah! it is known that Thine Own overflows with true love for 
 me: 
 Then within the love-locked door 
 Of my heart's inmost core 
 Let Thy Heart ever guarded be I 
 
 This rhythmical rapture went on up to the time of 
 receiving Holy Communion. When she heard the bell 
 ringing as the priest turned around with the Sacred 
 Species in his hands, she almost lost herself in an agony 
 of penitence and humility. Again and again she put up 
 her withered left-hand, as if to ward off her God from 
 coming nigh her, while she smote her breast, muttering 
 with a tone of heart-breaking compunction: 
 
 " Lord, I am not worthy Thou shouldst enter under my 
 roof; but say only the word, and my soul shall be healed."
 
 30 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 At last, crying out "0 Thierna! O Thiema! 
 Thierna!" she received the Holy Communion, and then 
 sank back, silent and happy, on her pillows. 
 
 What the thoughts and emotions of the grave, stem 
 theologian were, whilst the poor, illiterate woman poured 
 out her soul in such accents of fear and love and holy 
 hope, it might be difficult to conjecture, but the follow- 
 ing Sunday at first Mass he seemed to have the scene 
 described above in his mind, when he said, with more 
 feeling than he ever manifested before: 
 
 "They are going, my dearly-beloved brethren, they 
 are going — this mighty race of men and women, who 
 lived by faith, and their vision of eternity. Like some 
 old weather-beaten oaks that have survived a hundred 
 years of storms, or like those solitary cairns on your 
 mountains that mark the graves of kings, a few remain, 
 scattered, here and there, in lonely hamlet or village, to 
 remind us, a puny race, of what our forefathers were. 
 We have amongst us a good many pretty pieties; in fact 
 we are bewildered by all these luxuries of devotion. But 
 where — oh! where is the mighty faith, the deep heartfelt 
 compunction, the passionate love, the divine tenderness 
 of these old Irish saints? You have nice prayer-books 
 now, in velvet and ivory bindings; but have you 
 the melodious and poetic prayers of men and women 
 who never learned to read a line? You have silver- 
 mounted rosaries rolling through your kid-gloved fingers. 
 Give me the old horn or ivory beads, strung upon a thread, 
 and fondled by fingers roughened, hardened, and conse- 
 crated by honest toil. You bow down your hats and 
 bonnets at the Elevation. I'd rather see one gray head 
 bending in salutation to the King of Kings, and Lord 
 of Lords. For, beneath those old silvered heads were 
 brains that knew and penetrated, by divine Faith, into 
 every mystery of our Holy Religion; and beneath those 
 shawls, frayed and worn, beat hearts that were true to 
 God, true to His Church, true to His priests and true 
 to their country. Aye," he cried, as he remembered his
 
 A STRANGE ACCOMPANIMENT 31 
 
 own trials, past and present, amongst them, "you are 
 not as your forefathers were! You are a superficial, 
 cunning, selfish, and tricky race, and in your lust after 
 gold, you are traitors to your fellow-men, and liars before 
 God. You are no more like your forefathers than the 
 cawing rook, that steals and screams above the elm trees, 
 is like the lordly eagle that scales the mountain-sides, 
 and looks fearlessly into the eyes of the everlasting 
 sun!" 
 
 They shrugged their shoulders, and going out put up 
 their new French parasols, and smiled angrily, and shook 
 their heads, and said: 
 
 "No wonder we hate him! He has never a good word 
 to say to us!" 
 
 The first time Dr. William Gray said Mass in that 
 humble home, the old woman insisted on two conditions 
 being observed — he was to stay to breakfast, and to 
 receive a half-sovereign, nothing less, from the grand- 
 daughter. When she tried to force money on him, he 
 blazed out into a sudden fury: 
 
 "How dare you?" he cried, "how dare you offer me 
 money? You, a poor girl, slaving and toiling from morn- 
 ing to night for a pittance — you, who stay up to one 
 o'clock in the morning to earn two-pence for a shirt, and 
 a half -penny for a collar, to offer me — gold — yes, gold ! 
 Now, mark, I like to come here. It does me good! But, 
 if you ever dare to offer money again, I shall quit this 
 house for ever!" 
 
 Frightened and abashed, the girl began to cry. 
 
 " My grandmother will kill me," she said, " if she hears I 
 didn't give it to you!" 
 
 "Well, then, give it to me," he said. 
 
 He took the coin and handed it back. 
 
 " Now you can say with truth you gave it to me. 
 You're not bound to say that I returned it. And now, 
 I'll stay for breakfast to make friends again with you; 
 but this must be the first and last time."
 
 32 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 She had a breakfast fit for a king — roast chickens, 
 ham, cold tongue, toast, cakes, tea. She had invited a 
 few of the neighbours to "discoorse the priest"; but they 
 fought shy of the honour. They probably thought they 
 would have better appetites at home. 
 
 This morning, old Betty Lane put the usual questions 
 to her granddaughter, which were answered with equivo- 
 cations. Then she said: 
 
 "Is the priest gone yet?" 
 
 "No!" he said. "I'm here. I want to ask you a few 
 questions." 
 
 " Yerra! is it me?" she said. 
 
 "Yes!" he said. "I want your advice." 
 
 " Advice? " she cried in her harsh, strident voice, " Yerra, 
 what adwice could a poor angashore like me be giving to 
 the minister of the Lord God?" 
 
 "Never mind!" he said. "But just listen, and hear 
 what I have to say." 
 
 "Go on!" she said in her usual abrupt manner. 
 
 "I had a sister, Helena," he said, "much younger than 
 myself. She went to America, many years ago." 
 
 "Yerra, what took her to America?" shouted the old 
 woman. " Sure, ye wor always a dacent family, and well 
 off!" 
 
 "It was I that sent her!" he replied. "I found some 
 fault with her — it wasn't much; just as a flighty, but 
 innocent young girl would commit, and I judged her 
 harshly!" 
 
 "Ah, yes!" interrupted the old woman, "your tongue 
 is worse than yer heart. And you're hasty. That's 
 what sets the people agin you so much." 
 
 "Well," he continued, "she died lately in America; 
 and she left it in her will that I should take charge of her 
 child — a girl!" 
 
 "Begor, that was quare," said the old woman, "but I 
 suppose she had a tie in you still; and she thought you 
 would make up for your thratement of herself." 
 
 "Probably," he replied. "But now, I want to know
 
 A STRANGE ACCOMPANIMENT 33 
 
 what am I to do? It is one of those cases where two 
 heads are better than one!" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "when wan is lighter than the other. 
 But what did you do?" 
 
 " I wrote straightaway to the priest who had written 
 to me, to say that a priest's house was no place to bring 
 up a young girl in. Let her go to some convent, or 
 orphanage, and I would pay for her." 
 
 "Well, an' then?" she said. 
 
 "Well, you see," said the stern man, with a break in 
 his voice, which she did not fail to notice, "the image 
 of my poor sister will come up before me — her face the 
 day I last saw her in my mother's house, because I refused 
 to say good-bye in my own; her sickness in America in a 
 public hospital, her wasting away in the fever of con- 
 sumption, her looking with her dying eyes across the 
 water to me to protect her child, her last words — " 
 
 Here the strong man broke down, and could not go 
 further. The old woman, in her deafness, was aware of 
 it all. 
 
 "Praise be to You, the Father of all," she said, "an' 
 they say this man has a hard heart!" 
 
 Presently, he pulled himself together and proceeded: 
 
 "On the other hand, you know, Betty, that I am a 
 solitary man, accustomed to be alone, hating the face 
 of visitors; and I see what an upset it will be to me if I 
 bring a young girl with all her little wants and troubles 
 into my house. And then I have trouble enough with 
 cross and venomous parishioners without bringing on 
 fresh anxieties. And," he added, as a final stroke, "I 
 am not young now ! " 
 
 There was silence in the room for fully five minutes 
 before the old woman spoke. She was rolling her beads 
 between her fingers, and looking out into the darkness 
 that surrounded her, trying to pierce those white barriers 
 that stopped the light of Heaven from penetrating through 
 the little narrow tunnels of her eyes. Then she spoke : 
 
 "You said you wrote to that priest?" 
 4
 
 t 
 
 34 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Yes!" he replied. "On the spur of the moment I 
 wrote, and refused to accept the responsibiHty of caring 
 for that child." 
 
 " And you wor right," she said, emphatically. " Haven't 
 you your own childre' to mind, the people that God 
 gave you? Aren't you their father, and aren't they your 
 childre'? Av coorse, they are bad and good, cross and 
 quiet, idle and lazy and industhrous; but they are yours, 
 yours; an' you can't throw 'em over for the sthranger." 
 
 "Just my own view," he said, rising up to depart, and 
 wondering at the spiritual and supernatural view which 
 this poor, illiterate woman took of a matter that had only 
 presented itself to him in a material light. 
 
 "Av coorse, they say," she continued, "that blood is 
 thicker than wather, but there's another sayin', 'A priesht 
 once is a priesht forever'; and don't you ever forget it." 
 
 "Good-bye!" he said, grasping her bony fingers in his 
 strong palm. 
 
 "Good-bye and good luck!" she cried. "An' thry an' 
 keep your face always turned to the Lord. Don't mind 
 anny wan else!"
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A Deputation 
 
 During all his years as curate Dr. William Gray had 
 been looking forward to the time when, emancipated 
 from the ordinary drudgery of missionary life, he would 
 have abundant leisure to devote to those beloved studies 
 that were to him more entrancing than the lightest litera- 
 ture is to the modem reader. He used to dream of a 
 snug library or study, with a southerly aspect, for, like 
 all highly strung and nervous temperaments, he sought 
 for the exaltation of sunshine, and dreaded the depression 
 of a dark room with a northern window, never warmed 
 or hallowed by a blessed sun-ray. That room should bo 
 warmly carpeted, its walls lined with books, leather- 
 bound, denoting the strength and stress of thought that 
 lav within. There should be a desk, on which writina: 
 materials might lie, ready to hand, for although he had 
 never written anything as yet, he hoped to overcome 
 that dread or shyness of print which seems to be the 
 damnosa hereditas of the Irish priesthood. And it should 
 be well warmed in winter, particularly at night, when 
 he could shut out all aspect of human things and bury 
 himself in the luxuries of free and unfettered thought 
 about the vast mysteries of religion and humanity. Above 
 all, this library was to be sound-proof and care-proof, 
 that is, not a single worry or care that might stretch a 
 nerve too tightly was to be allowed to pass the threshold 
 of that door. For Dr. WiUiam Gray had found that care 
 and worry stretch the dura mater of the brain much more 
 seriously than speculations upon the Trinity; and he 
 wisely argued that it is not only a criminal waste of brain 
 
 35
 
 36 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 tissue, but also a futile and fruitless waste, to worry with 
 feverish anxiety about such wretched human trifles, which, 
 as a rule, manage to settle themselves into some harmony 
 by the simple process of being let severely alone. 
 
 But this was a dream of youth; and alas, how few of 
 our youthful dreams are realized! True, here was the 
 library with its southern aspect, through whose windows 
 the level wintry sun was now shooting cold and ghastly 
 streamers of pale light. And here were his books, a 
 goodly number, some calf-bound, some new and haughty 
 with their vellum and gold bindings, and disdaining the 
 companionship of their antique and plebeian comrades. 
 And here was the writing-desk, just as he had imagined it, 
 solid in Spanish mahogany, with a massive ink-stand and 
 a goodly array of pens and large sheets of white and blue 
 foolscap; but alas! these last were virgin pages still. Be- 
 cause the chamber was not sound-proof, nor shadow- 
 proof, nor care-proof; and the stately priest had to admit 
 that he had used up more brain-power in worry than in 
 work, and that that long line of white that lay on the 
 carpet from wall to wall across the room represented 
 not syllogisms, but suggestions, mostly futile, to disen- 
 tangle himself from those horrid webs of circumstance 
 that will weave themselves around the most lonely lives. 
 
 And if all those walls could speak, and echo back, like 
 the modern phonograph, the words that escaped the lips 
 of this haughty and irritable and honourable man, as he 
 dwelt betimes on some fresh instance of human perversity 
 or depravity, what a strange tale would they tell! For 
 the overcharged brain or heart must speak to some one, 
 or break; must put into the dress of speech the naked and 
 turbulent thought, which will burst its barriers if im- 
 prisoned. But, perhaps the most poignant of all the 
 sounds they would utter, would be the Woe! Woe! over 
 lost time; over the opportunities for sound study and 
 scholarship wasted; over the little wounds inflicted, very 
 often in mere wantonness or thoughtlessness, by a people 
 whose nerves were steeled against sensitiveness by the
 
 A DEPUTATION 37 
 
 hardships they had to face. For though they feared 
 him, they knew that there are ways to fret the Hon and 
 exhaust him ; and every harsh word he uttered was repaid 
 by some subtle annoyance that fell and struck its barbs 
 into his soul. And his vast learning and reputation as 
 a theologian, and his more secret repute as at heart a 
 kind and generous and honourable man, had but little 
 effect. These things do not count for much when nerves 
 are raw under a castigation, and hard things are uttered 
 from lip to lip — the echo of hard words uttered in the 
 holy place. 
 
 Of course, these things were not universal, nor even 
 general. They were limited to one or two families, with 
 whom he had come into contact at first, and who with 
 the old Pagan pertinacity of their race refused to forgive 
 or forget. The vast body of his parishioners were humble, 
 not too devout people, whose eyes were so accustomed to 
 search the earth for what it would yield them that their 
 sight failed when they looked too much toward Heaven. 
 But, as is usual everywhere, these kept aloof. They 
 stood on the ditch and watched. What was it to them 
 if the pastor chose to say a hard thing sometimes? And 
 what was it to them if a few turbulent and sullen peasants 
 stood aloof from him, and threw their little poisoned 
 darts into the very sanctuary itself? 
 
 But I am only proving that a care-proof house has not 
 yet been patented. Science has not invented such; and 
 although our good physicians are fond of instructing 
 their patients not to worry, I am not aware that any 
 skilful chemist as yet has discovered the secret of getting 
 the acids and alkalies of life together without hissing at 
 each other. 
 
 This morning, however, as Dr. William Gray rode 
 slowly homeward from the house of Betty Lane, he felt 
 some singular relief from the load of pain and anxiety 
 that generally weighed upon him. His own prompt 
 action, so emphatically endorsed by the spiritual fore- 
 sight of that holy^ if ignorant woman, had settled at
 
 38 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 once, and without putting to too much trial that exercise 
 of judgment which he so much feared, the question of 
 his niece. He was quite determined now to close down 
 the doors of his mind on any repetition of that problem. 
 He would dismiss it. That was all. 
 
 The exercise of riding in the clear, frosty air, the relief 
 of mind he experienced, seemed to give him quite an 
 unusual appetite, and he greatly astonished his old house- 
 keeper at dinner by saying that he thought he would try 
 a second egg. It was so unusual, so portentous a request, 
 that the good woman was alarmed. It looked like the 
 approach of death, or some fatal disease, like cancer or 
 consumption, or perhaps that wolf, which, in the minds 
 of the Irish peasantry, is supposed to inhabit the inside 
 of any delicate person who develops an unusual appetite. 
 Then he took up the morning paper; and in reading of 
 the follies and woes of the world outside, he almost forgot 
 his own, and experienced that glow of satisfaction which 
 comes from a sense of security, or immunity from the 
 graver cares that seem to beset and waylay humanity. 
 
 Suddenly a series of shadows, flung on the wall before 
 him, struck him with a sense of impending evil. He 
 heard the loud, single knock that generally does not 
 prelude mere visits of ceremony; he heard his house- 
 keeper whispering in the hall, and he knew she was 
 marshalling the unknown visitors into the parlour at the 
 opposite side. Then she came and told him with the 
 happy indifference of those who are not concerned with 
 such troubles that " he was wanted." 
 
 "Who wants me?" he said brusquely. 
 
 "Some people from the parish," she said. 
 
 "Ask them their business," he ordered, and tried to 
 resume his reading of the paper. 
 
 In a minute she returned with the message: 
 
 "They says, yer Reverence, they must see yerself !" 
 
 He rose up unwillingly, thought a little, took a pinch 
 of snuff, made a gallant attempt to control his rising 
 temper, and crossed the hall.
 
 A DEPUTATION 39 
 
 There were six men of the peasant class, and two 
 women in the room. They had arranged themselves in 
 a semicircle; and their mud-covered boots had already 
 left their brown and yellow stains on the carpet. The 
 priest stood in front of them without saying a word. He 
 was fully a head above the tallest man present; and as 
 he craned his neck forward, and ran his gray eye along 
 the line of faces, their eyes fell down before him, and the 
 men twirled their caps in fright. After a pause, he said: 
 
 "Well? You want me?" 
 
 There wasn't a word spoken. The women at last 
 nudged the men, and whispered: 
 
 "Can't ye spake?" 
 
 "Come," said the priest. "I cannot wait. My time 
 is precious. If you have no business to transact, you 
 had better go!" 
 
 "'Tis about the schoolmaster at Athboy," at length 
 one found his tongue to say. "We wants your Rev- 
 erence to remove him." 
 
 "Do you refer to the principal teacher," he asked 
 ominously, "or to the assistant?" 
 
 "'Tis the young man we don't want," was the reply. 
 "'Tis Carmody we want sent away." 
 
 "Very good," said the priest. "Now specify your 
 complaints against him." 
 
 "We has no complaints agen himself," was the reply. 
 " 'Tis on account of his uncle." 
 
 "The grabber," said another of the deputation, sotto 
 voce. 
 
 "Now, Murphy," said the priest, turning sharply on 
 the delinquent, " I shall put you outside the door, if 
 you won't conduct yourself." 
 
 *'I again repeat the question," said the priest, his 
 brows contracting still more sternly. " Specify your 
 charges or complaints against the assistant-teacher." 
 
 "We have nothin' to say agen the young man hisself," 
 the spokesman repeated, "but we won't have the nephew 
 of his uncle in our schools."
 
 40 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 " In your schools? " echoed the priest. " And, when and 
 how, pray, did they become ijour property? " 
 
 "They're the property of the parish," said the man — 
 
 "Yes! and I'm parish priest," repeated Dr. WilHam 
 Gray. " Yes, do you understand, I am the parish priest, 
 and therefore legal Trustee, Owner, and Manager of these 
 schools, so long as I remain here. Furthermore, I shall 
 appoint and dismiss my teachers, according to their 
 agreements, without consulting you or anybody else in 
 this parish. And" — he added with slow emphasis — 
 " I shall not dismiss Mr. Carmody, until he gives me 
 righteous reason for doing so. Now, go!" 
 
 He waved his hand toward the door, and they filed 
 out, one by one, in silence. As he closed the door, he 
 heard some muttering: 
 
 "He'll hear more of this, begor!" 
 
 He knew it. But he cared not. After all, it is a great 
 matter to know that, when you have to fight, your back 
 is against the wall of some great principle. 
 
 The next evening the principal of the school came to 
 say that the school was deserted, except for the presence 
 of six or seven Protestant boys. 
 
 Dr. William Gray rode over the next morning to study 
 the situation. He was annoyed and grieved over this 
 new assertion of popular rights; but he was not anxious, 
 because he saw clearly before him down along the path 
 of duty, and there was none of that balancing of judgment 
 that is the worst element in mortal wear and tear. It 
 is very trying to be perplexed. It costs nothing to 
 endure. And, if sometimes the thought of such baseness 
 and perfidy as were now at work in his parish, sent the 
 hot blood leaping up to the brain of the priest, he put 
 his finger on the arteries and bade them stand still, for 
 human perversity and depravity were, alas! now to be 
 taken as part of the programme of life. 
 
 When he entered the long low room, where usually 
 $at some seventy or eighty pupils, the sense of the desola- 
 tion smote him. Here was half his parish in open rebel-
 
 A DEPUTATION 41 
 
 lion; and here was the practical instance of the foul 
 teaching that was given to the rising generation. 
 
 There were six boys present. Two of these were the 
 sons of a Doctor Wycherly, a retired naval surgeon, who 
 had a small property in the parish. The elder of the two 
 was a tall, fine lad about sixteen years old. His fair 
 handsome face was freckled; but the browning and burn- 
 ing of summer suns and seas had yielded to the blanching 
 of winter, and there was an ominous whiteness under 
 the eyes that seemed to hint at some delicacy of constitu- 
 tion. His brother was a more robust lad of thirteen or 
 fourteen years, a bright, alert figure already foredestined 
 by Nature and Fate to find his fortune on the seas. 
 
 The other boys were children of coast guards, whose 
 flagpole, mast and yards and pennon could just be seen 
 rising over the chine of the hill behind the school, although 
 very far away. 
 
 The principal came forward when the priest entered, 
 and saluted him. The latter briefly acknowledged the 
 salutation, and then asked where was Mr. Carmody. 
 
 Mr. Carmody had been down at the end of the school 
 behind the blackboard. He felt that he, in some uncon- 
 scious manner, was a delinquent, not a victim — the in- 
 voluntary cause of much trouble -in a dangerous place. 
 When called, he came forward. 
 
 In his abrupt, imperious manner. Dr. Gray interrogated 
 him. 
 
 " Your uncle took this evicted farm? " 
 
 "Yes, sir," he said. "I know very little about him. 
 He never wi'ote to my father the whole time he was in 
 America; and we have seen little of him since he came 
 home. But the Slatterys, who were evicted, and whose 
 passage was paid to America by their children, came and 
 implored him to take the place off their hands and let 
 them go away." 
 
 "Well?" said the priest. 
 
 "He gave them," continued Carmody, "as well as we 
 can understand, the full value of their interest, four
 
 42 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 hundred pounds, I believe; and they gave him up all 
 rights. He had some trouble with the landlord, who 
 wanted him to pay up all arrears of rent before giving 
 possession; but this he refused." 
 
 "Well?" said the priest. 
 
 "The Slatterys cleared out; my uncle went in; and 
 instantly the cry of 'Grabber' was raised." 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "By the Duggans, who have the next farm to this, 
 and who were watching night and day, till they could 
 get the Slatterys away." 
 
 "Did they offer for the place?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. My uncle can prove that the Duggans 
 wanted to purchase the interest for a hundred pounds 
 — a quarter of what the farm was worth; but the Slat- 
 terys wouldn't give up. Then the Duggans hoped to 
 tire them out, or starve them out; but the unfortunate 
 people held on until my uncle came to the rescue." 
 
 " I see it all now," said the priest. " I had heard some- 
 thing of all this; but I wanted to see it confirmed." 
 
 "There's one thing more, sir," said Carmody. "You 
 were good enough to appoint me here as assistant. Now, 
 I don't want to give you trouble, or to be the occasion 
 of dissension in this parish. If you like, I shall resign 
 my place here; and perhaps — " 
 
 " You are at perfect Hberty, Mr. Carmody," said the 
 priest sternly, "to send in your resignation at any time 
 you please; but, mark me, I shall never ask you to do 
 so, until you give personal and adequate cause. I am 
 here to maintain two principles, — one, my rights, as 
 manager, to appoint and dismiss my teachers, altogether 
 independent of public opinion; the other, to do ordinary 
 justice to you. If you wish to run away, the gap is 
 open." 
 
 He turned away, and accosted the principal teacher. 
 
 "Do these young Wycherlys possess any brains?" 
 
 He was well known to have no love for Protestants, and 
 he had never noticed the boys before.
 
 A DEPUTATION 43 
 
 "The older boy, Jack," the teacher said, "is a lad of 
 promise. Dion is idle, except when he's in a boat." 
 
 "Call up the elder boy!" the priest said. 
 
 Jack Wycherly came up in an easy, lounging way, and 
 stood before the priest, looking up into his face in that 
 calm fearless manner which these young lads possess. 
 There was just one little patch of pink on his cheek, 
 sent there by the unusual emotion excited by the unusual 
 summons. 
 
 "What book are you reading?" said the priest gruffly. 
 
 " Sixth book," said the boy. 
 
 "Bring it here!" 
 
 The boy brought the book, after exchanging a smile 
 with his companions, who were staring and wondering 
 with all their might. 
 
 "Open, and read anywhere you please!" 
 
 The boy opened the book, and read on fluently and 
 with intelligence. 
 
 "Do you see that word 'colossal'?" said the priest. 
 "What does it mean, and what is the derivation?" 
 
 The boy promptly gave both. 
 
 "That'll do! How far have you gone in Euclid and 
 Algebra?" 
 
 " Sixth Book of Euclid and Quadratic Equations," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " You're nearly finished here," said the priest. " What 
 do you propose to do then?" 
 
 "Father says I'm to go to the Queen's or Trinity," 
 said the boy. 
 
 "But you can't matriculate in either without Latin 
 and Greek," said the priest. 
 
 "No, sir," said the boy. "Father says I must go to a 
 grinder in Cork." 
 
 " Would you rather leani Latin and Greek at home? " 
 
 "Certainly," said the boy. "I'm sure father would 
 prefer my remaining here to taking lodgings in Cork." 
 
 "All right then. I'll teach you Latin and Greek. 
 You'll matriculate quite easily next term. Come down
 
 44 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 to my house to-night, and bring your brother with you. 
 You need no books. I'll supply them. And tell your 
 father that your religion will not be tampered with." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said the boy, who was flattered, 
 although he was not too well pleased at the invitation. 
 
 When the Rev. Dr. Gray reached home he found his 
 young curate before him in a white flame of indignation. 
 Father Henry Liston was a young man who wasted no 
 time, but when he had a certain thing to do, he did it with 
 all his might. Hence, the very moment his predecessor 
 had got his little household goods under weigh Henry 
 installed his belongings. And it was whilst he was busy 
 in breaking open cases, and unloosing the ropes of crates, 
 and hauling in furniture of divers sorts, that he fully 
 realized what had been said to him about a certain row 
 that was just then engaging the attention of his parish 
 priest. Bit by bit, as he gathered the information from 
 the people about the place, he soon realized the infamy 
 of the whole proceeding. It would have had a depressing 
 effect on a more selfish mind, which would forebode 
 unhappy things from such an initial trouble. But Henry 
 Liston was stiU young and generous. He had not learned 
 the caution and selfishness of age. He only saw what 
 seemed to him an affair of perfidy and malice; and he 
 flamed up with all that righteous indignation that such 
 minds feel before they have learned to bank the fires of 
 youth with the ashes of experience. His indignation 
 completely overbore his dread of his pastor, as he said: 
 
 "This is a shocking thing, sir, I have just heard about 
 these scoundrels. I never heard anything like it before. 
 I got a hint of it ; but never dreamed these fellows would 
 take it so far." 
 
 "Sit down," said his pastor, secretly pleased at such 
 sympathy. "What have you heard?" 
 
 " Simply that these ruffians — Duggans, I think — 
 want to stir up the parish against you because you won't 
 dismiss Carmody. And it appears that these ineffable
 
 A DEPUTATION 45 
 
 scoundrels actually moved heaven and earth to get that 
 place which Carmody's uncle paid the highest price for," 
 
 "You appear to be surprised!" said the pastor, hand- 
 ing him his snuff-box, a token of friendship and admira- 
 tion. 
 
 "Surprised?" said Henry, sneezing violently. "I 
 should say I was. And a good deal more than surprised. 
 Why it is the most base and dastardly thing I ever heard 
 of." 
 
 "It only shows your inexperience," said his pastor. 
 "In a few years more, when you have seen a little of 
 missionary Hfe, you will be surprised at nothing." 
 
 "But, surely," said Henry, shuffling in his chair, and 
 trying to keep back that abominable sneezing, "surely 
 these scoundrels cannot have such a following in the 
 parish. Surely, every decent man would condemn and 
 repudiate sympathy with such fellows!" 
 
 " You visited the schools? " said the pastor. 
 
 "Yes, I did," said Henry. 
 
 " How many boys were present? " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," said the curate. "But I suppose 
 the people don't understand. They are misled and de- 
 ceived by this parrot-cry of ' Grabber.' " 
 
 The pastor shook his head. 
 
 "They are misled by their own base cowardice and 
 pusillanimity," he said. "There's not a single man 
 amongst them capable of a manly action." 
 
 "Well, all I know is this," said Henry, rising. "I'll 
 meet them for the first time on Sunday next; and if the 
 old walls of Athboy Chapel don't reverberate with such 
 a philippic on their baseness and cowardice as they never 
 heard before, call me Davy!" 
 
 "You intend to denounce them?" said his parish priest 
 gravely. 
 
 "Denounce them? It isn't denouncing, but such a 
 blistering, blinding tornado of vituperation that they'll 
 remember it long after Henry Liston has left them for 
 ever!"
 
 46 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Sit down!" said his pastor, taking a huge pinch of 
 snuff and stretching his broad fingers out like a fan. 
 
 "Now, next Sunday, you'll preach on the Gospel of 
 the day. And — not one word — not even one — that 
 could be construed into the slightest allusion to this 
 wretched affair. Do you quite understand me?" 
 
 "I do, of course, sir," said Henry Liston, gasping. 
 " But you don't mean to muzzle me in that way? I can 
 quite understand that you mightn't care to lower yourself 
 to their level, sir. But, surely, I can do it with impunity, 
 as I am not immediately concerned." 
 
 "That's all very good," said his pastor gravely, "but 
 you'll take my orders, and that ends the matter. Not 
 one word, mind, that can even be construed into an 
 allusion to this affair. Not one word, do you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 " I do, of course, sir," said his curate. " But 'tis hard 
 lines to have to leave these scoundrels go scot-free." 
 
 " Leave that to me!" said his pastor. " I think I know 
 how to deal with them. Are you settling down?" 
 
 " Yes!" said the curate. " I've got over my few sticks 
 to-day, and am pushing them up as quick as I can." 
 
 " I should have asked you to remain here until you had 
 finally settled down," said his pastor. "But I thought," 
 he said with a smile, " that you mightn't feel comfortable." 
 
 "Oh! I am all right over there," said Henry gaily. "I 
 rigged up a bed last night and slept like a top." 
 
 He didn't say that his mattress was on the floor, and 
 that a crate of books was his washing-stand. 
 
 "Well, perhaps it is just as well," said his pastor. 
 "You are making some improvements and alterations, I 
 suppose. All young men do. They find infinite room 
 in a parish for all kinds of material and spiritual ameliora- 
 tions. Nothing was ever done right before they came; 
 and everything will go to the dogs when they leave. But 
 have you made up your mind as to what you'd require 
 in the curate's house?" 
 
 Henry had been turning over in his mind during those
 
 A DEPUTATION 47 
 
 few minutes the possibility of being thus challenged ; and 
 the probability that never again would there come a more 
 propitious moment for the furtherance of his claims. 
 And yet so tender was his instinct of honour that he shrank 
 from placing before his pastor the list of improvements 
 he had drawn up. He dreaded the possible suspicion 
 that his pastor might think that all his new-born zeal 
 was influenced by base and sordid motives. 
 
 "I have drawn up a list, sir," said he. "But I don't 
 intend to present it now. There is abundance of time 
 later on." 
 
 The old man watched the young face eagerly. Then 
 he said: 
 
 "Have you the list about you?" 
 
 With his face crimsoned with blushes, Henry drew 
 forth with trembling hand the list of improvements he 
 had devised, and put it before his pastor. The latter 
 took it, laid it on a writing-desk, took an enormous 
 pmch of snuff between his fingers and began to read.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ROHIRA 
 
 Whilst this interview was in progress, there was an 
 earnest debate going on at Rohira, the home of the 
 Wycherlys. Rohira was a plain, two-story building, 
 with unusually large, high windows, and it swept into a 
 semi-circular apse where it rested on the outer edge of 
 a rather abrupt and precipitous terrace (that had been 
 artificially raised behind the hill that commanded the 
 swamps and sea-marshes of Athboy), and on a slope of 
 fields and gardens that gently undulated toward the sea. 
 It commanded a magnificent prospect, for the broken 
 coast swept outward in huge cliffs toward the ocean, and 
 the house could be seen for miles, its white walls shining 
 against the hill behind it, and the great sweep of upland 
 throwing it into greater relief in front. 
 
 Dr. Wycherly was a retired naval surgeon, who had 
 dipped in his ocean voyages into every kind of quaint 
 and picturesque bight and bay across the world; and had 
 now come to settle down on a few ancestral acres that 
 were worth but little from an agricultural standpoint, but 
 were dear because they were ancestral, and because they 
 bore the magical name of "property." The huge hall 
 held many indications of the past history and tastes of 
 its owner. Great dried skins of snakes festooned the 
 walls, where these latter were not covered with Oriental 
 tapestries; and every vacant coign and nook had hung 
 beneath it quaint old-fashioned rifles and muskets and 
 swords, gathered from natives in mart and market from 
 Corea to Ceylon. Each had its own label, in parchment, 
 indicating its use or history; and sometimes the owner 
 
 48
 
 ROHIRA 49 
 
 would expatiate to visitors about such things, and bring 
 to his aid all the vast experience he had acquired by deal- 
 ings with the more exclusive and therefore more intelli- 
 gent denizens of the East. On the right of the large 
 hall was the drawing-room, which of late years had become 
 rather a library. This, too, was stocked with Oriental 
 curiosities; and cases of books, ancient and ponderous 
 in heavy dark bindings, contested for place with long 
 narrow portraits in oils of soldiers and sailors, presumably 
 the ancestors of the present owner. On the left was 
 the dining-room. A heavy massive mahogany dining- 
 table; massive dining-room chairs; a few horse-hair sofas 
 and a large oak dumb-waiter were the only furniture 
 here. 
 
 Dr. Wycherly himself, a tall, straight, angular man of 
 sixty years or more, had more the aspect of an artist 
 than of a doctor. And in his library, when he wore his 
 rather faded black velvet jacket, his keen, sharp features, 
 long gray hair, well-trimmed beard, and easy, voluptuous, 
 undulating movements, took hold of the imagination and 
 transferred this remote and reserved man into a society- 
 artist on his holidays. 
 
 He was very popular in the neighbourhood for many 
 reasons. First, because he had come of an ancient family 
 in that district; and here and there were retainers or 
 children, or grand-children of retainers, who kept up the 
 traditional devotion and respect even for families that 
 had decayed. Then, he was veiy kind, gave gratuitous 
 services to the poor, pulled troublesome teeth, cured 
 white swellings and consumption, blistered for colds, etc. 
 And it was whispered that he had a cure for cancer which 
 he had brought back from the East, — a decoction of 
 certain "errubs," which he alone knew, and which he 
 had to gather under moonlight, and only when the first 
 faint sickle of the moon appeared, and unseen by human 
 eyes. The local doctor was very mad about it all; and 
 talked of quacks and charlatans and madmen, roaming 
 about strange, uncanny places at night, and holding: 
 5
 
 50 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 nocturnal conferences with people whose past was mys- 
 terious and present more than suspicious. 
 
 There were some slight grounds for these allusions, 
 uncharitable as they were. The Doctor was eccentric. 
 Some went further and said that at the death of his wife 
 he had grieved so much that he had become temporarily 
 insane. And a slight remnant of that mental revolution 
 still clung around him in the shape of a delusion that his 
 wife would come back some day and remain with him; 
 and that in the meantime she did accompany him in 
 her spirit-form everywhere, occasionally revealing her- 
 self to him in one guise or another. This illusion was 
 increased by a singular discovery he had made some years 
 after the death of his wife. 
 
 Far down along the coast-line, where the sea-cliffs 
 rose abruptly, a fiord, narrow and sinuous, cut deep into 
 the land, sometimes broadening into yellow sands, some- 
 times narrowing into gloomy fissures, which a stag might 
 leap; and two high rocks, hke the Calpe and Abila of the 
 ancients, guarded the entrance, and tried to break the 
 huge seas that came on laughing and revelling in their 
 strength, and swept through the grim portals, and felt 
 all round the walls of the fiord, and broke in anger on 
 the sands, and passed up to the furthest limits, where 
 they sometimes leaped their barriers, and took a trophy 
 from the moss-covered summit. 
 
 On the very outer spur of one of these guardian rocks 
 there was perched a tall and stately ruin of an ancient 
 castle. Unlike most of these ruins, the upper stories 
 still remained, and here and there projecting battlements 
 were sustained by heavy buttresses, whilst the lower 
 parts of the castle were still quite integral in door and 
 sunken window and limestone courses that ran all around 
 the walls marking off the different landings. It was 
 known far and wide as Dunkerrin Castle; and there was 
 a tradition that it was not so long uninhabited; but had 
 been within the century at least the eyrie of a gang of 
 sea-rovers, or half-pirates, which had only been broken 
 
 I
 
 ROHIRA 51 
 
 up when English war-vessels skirted the coast on the 
 look-out for Hoche and his invading fleet. 
 
 In this gloomy, wind-swept, and sometimes sea-lashed 
 castle, Dr. Wycherly, immediately after his wife's death, 
 and when he was no longer under restraint, spent his 
 days. He said the place was haunted by his wife's spirit; 
 that there she met him, and revealed herself to him; and 
 that there finally they would be reunited and would 
 live happily together for evermore. A rather singular 
 discovery accentuated this delusion. He was prowling 
 around one of the lower rooms of the old castle one dreary 
 winter day. The wind was howling through the open 
 windows, and occasionally a flake of foam, or a spurt of 
 sea-spray was lifted up from beneath and deposited on 
 floor or window-sill. It was just the day he thought 
 when his wife's spirit would come in from the sea and 
 seek shelter there. So he roamed around, dreaming, 
 watching, hoping, until, tired of seeking for spirits, his 
 mind came back to earth, and he noticed a strong, oaken, 
 iron-knobbed and plated door in one of the walls. It is 
 possible he had seen it a hundred times before; but, 
 absorbed in his own dreaming, he had not paid much 
 attention to it. This day, under some sudden impulse 
 he clambered up, and shook the door violently. To his 
 surprise it yielded, and revealed a long, low, narrow pas- 
 sage, quite dark, and leading he knew not whither. Full 
 of the idea that it might reveal something, he hastened 
 home, procured candles and a short rope, and hurried 
 back. The oaken door had swung to again; but this 
 only confirmed the insane idea that spirits were at work 
 there to debar him from finding his treasure. He flung 
 the door back violently, clambered on hands and feet 
 along the passage, until the former touched an edge, and 
 then wandered in air, and he knew he had reached 
 the end. Lighting a candle, he slung it on the rope and 
 let it down. It descended slowly without being extin- 
 guished and he knew the air was pure ; and from the dim 
 reflection he saw a narrow chamber, framed around
 
 52 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 with undashed and uncemented walls. Slowly with- 
 drawing the candle, and placing it on the edge of the 
 chamber, he let himself down gently until he touched 
 the floor of stone. He looked around. There was noth- 
 ing to be seen. But just as he had sighed a sigh of despair, 
 he saw in one corner a long, narrow box, tied round with 
 wire that had long since rusted. He raised the box. It 
 was light, as if empty. He was just able by straining a 
 little to place it on the edge near the candle; and then 
 he drew himself up, groped along the narrow passage 
 again, and emerged into the large chamber of the castle. 
 
 Hurrying home with his treasure, and afraid that some 
 one would see him, he hastened to his bedroom, undid 
 the rusty wire that easily snapped beneath his fingers, 
 and raised the cover. Then were revealed to his wonder- 
 ing eyes some long, fair tresses of a woman's hair, appar- 
 ently in a state of perfect preservation, and exhaling a 
 faint perfume, and on them was laid a letter. For some 
 time he stood entranced before this message from the 
 grave; and then with trembling fingers he took up the 
 long coils of hair and tried to weave them around his 
 fingers. They snapped asunder at once, and seemed to 
 fall into golden dust. He took the letter. It broke in 
 his fingers. Holding the fragments to the light, he 
 thought he discerned some faint appearance of hand- 
 writing: but, bit by bit, the paper or parchment crumbled 
 in his hands, and dissolved, hke the hair, into dust. He 
 sat for a time pondering, dreaming, exulting over this 
 strange missive. Then he sighed, drew down the cover 
 on the golden dust and fastened it securely; placed it in 
 a cabinet as something altogether sacred, a shrine where 
 he could worship daily. But his visits to the old castle 
 might be said to have ceased from that day. 
 
 Apart from this monomania. Dr. Wycherly was alto- 
 gether a sane being. In all the other affairs of life he 
 was a sensible, although not a shrewd man. He had no 
 talent for business matters, and his land was not pro- 
 ductive. He was wrapped up in his science, and in his
 
 ROHIRA 53 
 
 benevolence; passing easily from his books to the service 
 of the poor, who thronged his hall, and who presented a 
 lugubrious spectacle enough with all kinds of bandages 
 and wraps, and malodorous from iodoform and creosote, 
 which he plentifully lavished upon them. 
 
 He had altogether the character of a benevolent mad- 
 man, for, apart altogether from his illusions about his 
 wife, it was taken as a certain sign of mental trouble, 
 even by those who were his beneficiaries, that he should 
 expend skill and medicine without ever exacting a fee. 
 
 Hence when a band of strolling gypsies (who had 
 strayed into the parish, and who just as they were reaping 
 a bountiful harvest by the telling of fortunes and the 
 stealing of hens and such other portable property, had 
 been summarily expelled from the parish by the vigorous 
 denunciations of the priests), left behind them in some 
 rancorous quarrel a few of their tribe, these had no diffi- 
 culty in taking possession of the old castle, and settling 
 there as permanent inmates. In fact, they did not ask 
 permission; for the first indication of their presence was 
 a wreath of smoke from some long-disused chimney. 
 They were then summarily called to account, made the 
 most obsequious apologies, appealed to the well-known 
 benevolence of Dr. Wycherly, protested that they had 
 come there from far-off and unknown places at the invita- 
 tion of his deceased wife, and were left thenceforward 
 undisturbed. 
 
 This family consisted of a woman, apparently about 
 sixty years of age, but tall and sinewy and strong, as if 
 each decade had but lightly left its mark upon her. She 
 was very sallow of complexion, and two deep lines that 
 ran from eye to lip on either side gave her a sinister ex- 
 pression, which was emphasized by the bold, fearless gaze 
 of eyes that never seemed to wink or flinch or fall before 
 the eye of mortal. There was a brood of dusky children, 
 ranging from a babe of twelve months to a girl of twelve 
 years, — all swarthy and dirty and ill-kept, but healthy 
 and hardy from eternal exposure to sun and wind and
 
 54 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 rain. Their father was a man of thirty, a lithe, vigorous, 
 active fellow, who after his arrival at Dunkerrin Castle 
 seemed to spend his life in his boat, watching his lobster 
 beds in summer, and earning a decent liveHhood by pull- 
 ing out and hailing outward-bound and home-bound 
 vessels, and selling his ugly freight at very handsome 
 prices. In winter, or during his idle summer and autumn 
 days, he went about mending kettles or earthenware for 
 the farmers, or he worked for Dr. Wycherly in the fields 
 or around the house for moderate wages, and appeared 
 to be an industrious and skilful man. 
 
 Notwithstanding all this appearance of harmlessness 
 and good-will, strange stories about this uncanny lot began 
 to wander around. Judith, the woman, very soon ac- 
 quired an unsavoury reputation, not only for fortune- 
 telling, which was rather an attractive accomplishment 
 for the farmers' and labourers' daughters all around the 
 locality, and the servants in the houses of the gentry; 
 but she was credited with the dread supernatural powers 
 of the evil eye, with all its usual accompaniments of 
 pishogues, sterilized milk, cattle-maiming, etc. She had 
 been sternly denounced for her evil practices by the parish 
 priest, for which she stored up in her dark mind many a 
 legacy of hate and revenge; but her power over the peas- 
 antry remained unquestioned, and Jude the Witch became 
 a formidable factor for evil in the parish. 
 
 All this power for evil, too, was accentuated by the 
 now frequent apparitions of the Doctor's deceased wife 
 in and around Dunkerrin Castle. Sometimes she appeared 
 at one of the windows looking toward the upland fields 
 and the hill; sometimes she appeared on the very crest 
 of the castle battlements, a tall, thin, shadowy figure, 
 standing out against the dark background of the sea like 
 a statue of white marble. Sometimes, the fishermen, 
 coming back from the mackerel grounds, saw a boat, 
 propelled by neither sail, nor scull, nor oar, nor earthly 
 hand, but there always was that white figure standing 
 in the stern. And sometimes they saw another boat^
 
 ROHIRA 55 
 
 not built like their coracles, but much stronger and more 
 seaworthy, and it seemed to be driven by no human hand 
 up the dark defile of waters, and fire gleamed around its 
 prows, and flames shone in its wake. And it seemed to 
 be projected out of the side of a great hulk, that would 
 loom suddenly out of the darkness, and as quickly dis- 
 appear; and no voice of hail or warning was ever heard, 
 nor did the waves suck round its prow, and there was no 
 flap of canvas, nor creak of mast, but such silence on the 
 seas as comes not from mortal man or duly registered 
 schooner or brigantine. And so everything in and around 
 Dunkerrin Castle and the more modern Rohira mansion 
 was gradually wrapped in a sombre mist of mystery; 
 and the superstitious peasantry all along the coast, and 
 far into the interior of the country, had long since decided 
 that it were wise to give such places and people a wide 
 berth, and as much sea-room as possible. 
 
 When the two boys reached home in the growing dusk 
 of that December afternoon, and had sat down to dinner, 
 they could hardly explain to their father the surprising 
 offer made by the priest in the school that day. 
 
 " Yes, I understand he is an exceedingly clever man," 
 said Dr. Wycherly, musing on the strange proposition, 
 "an exceedingly clever man. But it is a singular invita- 
 tion, a singular invitation." 
 
 "Well, you see. Pap," said Jack Wycherly, "you won't 
 teach us Latin, though I've asked you a hundred times; 
 and you don't want to let us go away, as long as you can 
 help it. And I'm getting pretty advanced. Dion can 
 wait — " 
 
 "Can I, indeed?" said Dion, with his mouth full. "I 
 tell you I can't wait. I don't know what good is Latin 
 or Greek to me, because I'll be captain of a ship, or nothing. 
 But perhaps Dr. Gray would coach me in science. These 
 old chaps know everything. You see they have nothing 
 to do but read, read, read." 
 
 " You mustn't speak in that way of a clergyman," said
 
 56 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 his father, mildly expostulating. "It's not right, my 
 boy, no matter what persuasion they belong to." 
 
 "Oh, I meant no harm. Pap," said Dion. "But I 
 know that this old — old clergyman is awfully fond of 
 Mensuration and Euclid and these things. I saw him 
 teaching a young fellow how to measure the whole school- 
 ground with his eye. The master taped it afterwards, 
 and it was right to the inch." 
 
 "Yes!" said his father gravely. "But the question is 
 now, what right have we to trespass on this clergyman's 
 time? It is very good of him to make the offer — " 
 
 "Oh, so far as that," said Jack Wycherly, "I guess 
 he's only doing it to fret the Catholics who are kicking 
 against him. The boys were all kept away to-day; and 
 I suppose they won't come now till after the Christmas 
 holidays." 
 
 "Why?" said his father. "What's up now? Has he 
 got a new fight on his hands?" 
 
 " Yes! They want him to dismiss the teacher, because 
 his uncle took the farm here at Crossfields. He says he 
 won't dismiss him. They say he must, and no thanks." 
 
 "I think you'd better let us go, Dad," said Dion. "It 
 will be rare fun, .studying with such a schoolmaster, though 
 I suppose he'll lick the life out of us. They say he's the 
 devil when he gets into a temper." 
 
 " The man at least is sticking up now for law and order. 
 Yes! I think I'll let you go. Did he say 'to-night'?" 
 
 " Yes! And he's to procure all the books, pens, pencils, 
 ink, paper, and stationery. And he says that we were 
 to tell you that he won't say a word about religion. Isn't 
 that square and honest?" 
 
 "It is. Although, my dear boys, I fear you both have 
 not much religion to be tampered with." 
 
 " No matter. Pap. At least, we stand for a free Bible, 
 Queen and Constitution. Hip! Hip! Hurrah!" 
 
 "Well, go ahead," said his father. "I'm of opinion 
 that teacher and pupils will soon tire of the experiment. 
 But I suppose no harm can come of it."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The List of Improvements 
 
 "Now, let me see!" said Dr. William Gray. "H'm! 
 what's this? The Bishop's letter! Why it was the list 
 of improvements I wanted." 
 
 "They're on the other side, sir!" said Henry trembling. 
 "I had to use the Bishop's letter." 
 
 "And I'm sure his Lordship would be much compli- 
 mented if he knew that his note-paper with all its mitres 
 and cardinal's hats were used for such a purpose. But no 
 matter." 
 
 He took a good, large pinch of snuff here as if to put 
 the profanity out of court, and continued: 
 
 Dining-room. — To be newly papered in maroon.' 
 What's 'maroon'?" 
 
 Henry Listen looked up at the ceiling, and around at the 
 bookcases, and finally brought back his wandering gaze 
 to the face of his pastor, which was steadily and sternly 
 turned toward the window. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," said Henry at length. "I 
 suppose 'tis some kind of colour." 
 
 "Then, if you didn't know what it was, why did you 
 put it there? Look out in that dictionary to see if there 
 is such a word." 
 
 With something not quite like a blessing for the inge- 
 nuity of his predecessor, Henry looked out for "maroon," 
 and read: 
 
 "'Maroon' — [French, marron, runaway, from Spanish cimarron, 
 wild, unruly, from cima (Fr. cime) the top of a hill.] A name for 
 fugitive slaves, or their descendants in the West India Islands, and 
 Guiana. — Pret. and pp. marooned, to put ashore, and abandon on 
 a deserted island, as was done with buccaneers." 
 
 57
 
 58 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "H'm. Very good," said the pastor, grimly smiling, 
 whilst Henry looked the picture of confusion. "I see, 
 you consider yourself marooned here — cast ashore on 
 a desolate and lonely place, away from the civilization 
 which you are so well qualified to adorn. H'm. The 
 Bishop must soon construct parishes to please our ambi- 
 tious young men. Athboy and Lackagh are no fit places 
 for up-to-date curates — " 
 
 "Here it is! Here it is!" said Henry, with a shout of 
 relief. 'Maroon — A brownish-crimson, or claret colour; 
 a rocket used in displays of fireworks.' I knew it was a 
 colour." 
 
 " And a rocket," said his pastor, sententiously. " Some- 
 thing that goes up with a fizz and a sparkle, and comes 
 down a stick. H'm! we'll strike out that item, I think!" 
 
 And he drew a broad blue pencil across the words. 
 
 " ' Wood-work, window-shutters, doors, to be painted 
 in faint pink; panels in rose-colour.' H'm! that may go 
 too!" 
 
 And he drew his pencil across the page. 
 
 "Now let me see!" he continued, taking another pinch 
 of snuff to fortify himself. " ' Drawing-room ' — of course, 
 opening upon a boudoir, settees, fauteuils, pictures of 
 actresses and winning horses, etc. Pious pictures now 
 relegated to servants' apartments. Well, let us see! 'To 
 be papered white, with chrysanthemum-leaves in gray. 
 All the wood-work to be painted white; panels in pale 
 blue or green.'" 
 
 That 'chrysanthemum-leaf appeared to knock the old 
 man almost speechless, for he began to murmur as if 
 his senses were just leaving him: "'Chrysanthemum- 
 leaf, chrysanthemum-leaf ! ' My God ! And has it come 
 to this?" 
 
 He ran rapidly down the remaining items, merely 
 catching the leading words, — "French-gray," "panels," 
 "architraves," "in lavender," "sea-green," etc. 
 
 Then he laid down the paper, and, turning round, he 
 looked long and earnestly at his curate, who, with eyes
 
 THE LIST OF IMPROVEMENTS 59 
 
 cast down, was longing for the ground to open and swal- 
 low him. 
 
 " You have not made any mention here," he said at 
 length, his lips curving in scorn, "of a piano. Surely 
 in this advanced age you cannot get on without a piano, 
 and a revolving stool, and a music wagon?" 
 
 "I have one!" said the curate faintly. "I want one. 
 I can't do without it. In the long, lonely winter nights, 
 when there isn't a human being within miles that you 
 could speak to, you must have some resource, or go mad." 
 
 "Haven't you your theology, and your rubrics, and 
 your Canon Law to study? Are not these resources — 
 the only legitimate resources for a priest?" 
 
 There was no answer; and he turned to the paper again. 
 
 "'Back bedrooms, staircases, etc., etc., to be left to 
 the option of the pastor'! " 
 
 "To be left to the option of the pastor! Yes! To 
 be left to the option of the pastor! Excellent. Unique. 
 Original in its insolence and contempt." 
 
 The paper was now a blurred sheet of white and blue 
 lines, item after item having been struck out remorse- 
 lessly by the blue pencil with which the old man not only 
 erased the writing, but positively tore the paper. Then, 
 after a long pause he said : 
 
 " I'll let you know later on what my intentions are 
 about the matter." 
 
 This seemed a dimissorial note, and the curate rose to 
 go. But the pastor detained him, and bade him be 
 seated. Then, he said in a gentle tone that startled 
 Henry a great deal more than his angry sarcasm: 
 
 "Henry, I knew your father and mother well. They 
 were decent, pious Catholics, God-fearing, honourable 
 in their dealings, simple in their lives, charitable in every 
 action. They would turn in their graves if they thought 
 that their son, a priest of God, would indulge in such 
 vagaries as this. The oil that consecrated you a minister 
 of Christ is hardly dry on your hands; it is only a little 
 while since you said, (I hope with all the sincerity of a
 
 60 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 pious Levite) : Dominus pars haereditatis meae et calicis 
 mei — " 
 
 " Why, I have been seven years on the English mission, 
 and twelve months chaplain at home," said Henry, who 
 did not know whether he ought to be angry or cry. He 
 was deeply hurt by that allusion to his parents; and he 
 was beginning to feel that he had embarked upon wrong 
 courses. 
 
 "Ah, yes! that English mission!" said his pastor, with 
 a sigh. "Many and many a time," he continued, with 
 his fingers stretched out like a fan, " I said to the Bishop, 
 'Keep your priests at home, or let them go for ever. 
 Keep them at home, and let them learn their duty, and 
 study their theology under the venerable priests of the 
 diocese.' But he would not listen to me. And here 
 now," he continued abstractedly, as if his curate were 
 not concerned, "we have a lot of little creatures coming 
 back to us, with their nice accents, their lace surplices, 
 the gold watch of course, and — a piano; but with no 
 more knowledge in their heads of theology than so many 
 Freshmen in Maynooth. And," he snorted, "that's not 
 the worst. But they have come to despise theology, and 
 to rank it beneath some little rubrics and ceremonies, 
 and taking off their hats to ladies, and keeping their 
 kid gloves well buttoned. And these are the soldiers 
 that are to fight the battles that are looming up before the 
 Church of the future. Look how things are going on 
 here; and they are only symptomatic of the deeper 
 disease. What will these people care about your 'rose- 
 colour' and 'pink-blues' and 'maroons' and 'chrysan- 
 themum ' and your kid-gloving and piano-tinkHng? They 
 fear me, but they will despise you." 
 
 "I don't know," said his curate, "there is some fallacy 
 somewhere; but I can't put my finger upon it." 
 
 " Yes, there is," said his pastor. " The fallacy of for- 
 getting that we profess to be disciples of Him who had 
 not whereon to lay His head." 
 
 "Well, but if you carry out that idea," said Henry,
 
 THE LIST OF IMPROVEMENTS 61 
 
 plucking up courage, "to be consistent you should give 
 up your books and your library, and — and — " he looked 
 around for something else to catch at, " and all your own 
 domestic comfort, and go out, and live in a limekiln." 
 
 There is a strong suspicion that Henry had some latent 
 sting in that last expression, but he looked very innocent 
 and humble. The pastor did not notice anything. He 
 was engrossed by one idea. 
 
 "By no means," he said. "There is a clear line of 
 demarcation drawn between the necessaries of life and 
 its superfluities. Books are necessaries to a priest — at 
 least, that was the old idea that has come down to us 
 from generations. Probably 'maroon wall-paper,' and 
 'chrysanthemum-leaves,' and 'pale-pinks,' and 'French- 
 grays,' and 'Champagne Charlie' waltzes will now take 
 their place. But, beheve me, the old ideas were not far 
 wrong. I remember well — " 
 
 But here the old housekeeper knocked, and coming in, 
 announced the presence of two young gentlemen who 
 wanted to see the parish priest. 
 
 "Two young gentlemen?" he said, not at all pleased 
 at being disturbed, just as he was launching forth on 
 the seas of pleasant or vain reminiscences. "Who can 
 they be?" 
 
 "They are the two young gentlemen from the 'Great 
 House,'" said his housekeeper. "They say you were 
 speaking with them to-day." 
 
 "Oh, to be sure," said the old man, recalling his in- 
 vitation. "Send them in! These are the two young 
 Wycherlys." 
 
 He seemed to be half-ashamed before his curate for 
 such condescension to heretics; but he welcomed the lads 
 cheerfully, brought them over near the fire, and said: 
 
 " Your father, then, had no objection to your coming?" 
 
 "Oh, not the least, sir!" said Jack, the elder. "He 
 is awfully pleased. He says he has forgotten all about 
 his classics. The sea air and knocking about the world 
 has driven everything out of his head."
 
 62 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Not ever3rthing!" said the old man. "If I am to 
 judge by his kindness to the poor, he seems to have kept 
 a good deal of knowledge of his science, besides a large 
 amount of benevolence." 
 
 He paused a moment, as if not knowing where to begin, 
 before he said: 
 
 " Well, now, to carry out our programme! Where shall 
 we begin? Of course, you understand the object of learn- 
 ing the ancient classics? " 
 
 "Of course, sir," said Jack. "To pass the matric." 
 
 "Well," said Dr. Gray, "that is the utilitarian view 
 of the matter. But there is a higher object. Can you 
 guess? " 
 
 "To be able to write a prescription like Pap," said 
 the matter-of-fact Dion. 
 
 "That again is utilitarian," said the pastor. "What 
 would you think of getting a golden key to unlock the 
 treasures of antiquity?" 
 
 "I say it would be right jolly," said Dion, "that is, 
 if the treasures are worth having." 
 
 " Well said," replied the old man. " Did you ever read 
 the Arabian Nights? " 
 
 " I read Sinhad the Sailor," said Jack. "I got it some- 
 where after our Ned, who went away to sea." 
 
 "An' I read Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp," said 
 Dion. "Ah, that's right jolly. But it's nothing to 
 Cooper's Pilot, or any of Captain Marryat's. Did you 
 ever read Snarleyyow? That's a ripping story. Give 
 me a tight brig, wind right astern, a good sea, and a jolly 
 crew — and I'll sail the world ten times over. And if we 
 can come across a slaver, or a pirate, with the black flag 
 and cross-bones aloft, I'd send a seven-pound shot across 
 her bows, and make her bear up to have her papers ex- 
 amined. Then, if they were wrong, I'd put captain and 
 
 crew in irons." 
 
 "H'm!" said the old man, admiring this juvenile 
 rhapsody (whilst Henry Listen smiled at the absurdity 
 of the thing), "we must get you on to Virgil at once so
 
 THE LIST OF IMPROVEMENTS 63 
 
 that you may read of his voyages, and then to the Odys- 
 sey for Ulysses. But the reason I mentioned the Arabian 
 Nights was this. There is some story where he speaks 
 of countless treasures kept in a cave, the doors of which 
 will only spring back at mention of one magic word: 
 Sesame! Now, I want you both to command the treas- 
 ures of Greek and Roman literature by learning the Greek 
 and Latin grammar, and the magic words that will open 
 up for you the caves of the mighty ancients." 
 
 " You see," he went on, taking a huge pinch of snuff, 
 and addressing in imagination a much larger audience 
 than that which was listening to him, " all modern notions 
 of education are wrong, because they are purely utilitarian. 
 You know what the word 'utilitarian' means, I suppose?" 
 
 Jack shook his head and looked at the table. Dion 
 shook his head, and looked in a rather comical manner at 
 Father Liston. 
 
 "No! Well, 'utilitarian' means, what is devoted, 
 primarily and principally, to some — well, to some per- 
 sonal or lower advantage, what is generally called advance- 
 ment in life. That is, a young medical student wants to 
 read classics because he has to compound medicines; a 
 lawyer, because there are so many words in legal books, 
 all derived from the classics; a priest, because he has to 
 read Latin during his whole life. Now, that's not the 
 highest motive; and I hate to see the classics turned into 
 a kind of bread-winning machine by those who don't care 
 for their beauties and sublimities. Now, I'd like you, 
 young gentlemen, to conceive such a love for the classics 
 that 3^ou'd think it a penance and a punishment to be 
 compelled to read Cooper or Marryat or any of those silly 
 and absurd writers, vvhose books are so many potboilers, 
 thrown out to make money by silly boys and girls. Do 
 you quite follow me?" 
 
 Jack turned his pale face away. Dion, more coura- 
 geous, said: 
 
 "I'm afraid, sir, you have never read a real, rousing 
 novel. Of course, they're beyond you — that is, you're
 
 64 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 beyond them. But I'd rather read Marryat than eat 
 butter-scotch, and butter-scotch is ripping, too!" 
 
 " You'll grow out of that," said the old man, smiling. 
 " But, to come back, there was the advantage of the old 
 hedge-schools over your modern academies, with all their 
 noise and boasting. Under a roof of sods, and seated on 
 a bench of sods, the old hedge-schoolmaster, who loved 
 his work, used to read out long passages from Virgil and 
 Homer; and when he had hypnotized the boys, he then 
 translated for them; and he made them mad, downright 
 mad to be able themselves to translate. Hence, a gener- 
 ation of scholars, — peasants and even labourers talking 
 Latin in the fields; and every gentleman capable of 
 quoting Horace at will. Now, if you were to ask a stu- 
 dent or collegian to write a line in Latin, he would have 
 to hunt up twenty dictionaries for the words. But, I am 
 delaying you. Father Liston, would you get down that 
 Latin grammar — Valpy's, and show the young gentle- 
 men the First Declension." 
 
 Thus commenced their first lesson. They told their 
 father when they went home that Dr. William Gray was 
 a "jolly old chap," and that he had a lot of queer books 
 bound in shoe-leather, in which all the s's were f's, and 
 the word " and " was expressed by a figure for all the world 
 like a twisted constrictor. He was pleased; and hoped 
 they were polite. They assured him they were almost 
 young Chesterfields.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Raptures and Remorse 
 
 There are few spirits, if we except those who live under 
 the dead weight of habitual depression, who do not ex- 
 perience at least a few times during life a kind of spiritual 
 rapture or ecstasy that lifts them altogether out of the 
 common ruts of existence, and places them on the summit 
 of the everlasting hills. A certain poet has placed such 
 raptures in the pathless woods, on the lonely shore, and 
 even in the solitude where no voice of man breaks in to 
 drown with its raucous whisperings the musical silence 
 of Nature. The sick man who, leaving the heavily- 
 laden atmosphere of his chamber, stretches forth his 
 arms to the blue heavens, and drinks in long, deep draughts 
 of sweet, cold air, knows what rapture means. The artist 
 soul, that stands for the first time before a noble picture, 
 is cognizant of it. The musician, who improvises on his 
 organ in the midst of imagined angel-presences, knows 
 the exaltation. The poet, who has been suddenly smitten 
 by a great thought, or to whose lips a great line has arisen, 
 walks upon air for evermore, upheld by the serene exalta- 
 tion which the consciousness of having created some un- 
 dying beauty produces. 
 
 And yet, it is just possible that all these sudden, if 
 serene, pleasures are nothing compared with the gentle 
 happiness of a lonely student, who, cut away from the 
 world, and in the sublime aloofness of intellectual exer- 
 cises, bends over some mighty folio at midnight, and fol- 
 lows by the light of his lamp the magnificent processes 
 of thought by which great theologians or philosophers 
 cut their laborious and toilsome way through labyrinths of 
 6 65
 
 66 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 such vastness and intricacy that a faint mind refuses to 
 follow, and perhaps leaves them in their search with a 
 certain contempt for their persistency. It would be 
 difficult to convince the outer world of Philistines of 
 this. There appears to be a mutual and irreconcilable 
 antagonism between theology and literature. Once and 
 again a George Eliot may study Petavius as an intellectual 
 exercise, as a certain Irish Lord Chancellor used to carry 
 Tertullian with him on his holidays. And with some- 
 thing like consternation the world heard of a Coventry 
 Patmore taking up his gorgeous vellum-bound Summa 
 in his old age to find there new and vaster material for 
 an Unknown Eros. But there has been amidst the 
 myriads but one vast intellect which wedded poetry to 
 Philosophy and Theology, and entrained Aquinas and 
 Aristotle in the service of the Muses; and that was the 
 poet who stands alone and pre-eminent — Dante. But 
 the man of letters looks up to the lonely watch-tower 
 where the theologian is bending over his oak-bound, 
 brass-clasped folio, and mutters: "A horned owlet, blink- 
 ing his bleared eyes and flapping his cut wings by moon- 
 light in a dismantled ruin"; and the theologian, looking 
 down from his lofty eyrie on the " man of letters," mutters: 
 "A popinjay with borrowed feathers, chirping some 
 ribald chorus in the market-place." No one appears 
 to understand that there is poetry — the very highest 
 and most supernal poetic inspiration in these musty 
 mediaeval folios; and no one appears to understand that 
 underlying the music and magic of modern poetry there 
 may be hidden some deep theological truths or untruths, 
 which perhaps it would be not altogether unwise to learn 
 or unlearn. But, whilst the contempt of moderns for 
 what they are pleased to designate medisevalism is a 
 conceit bred from a sad and incurable ignorance, it must 
 be admitted that theologians and high philosophers are 
 not altogether wise in making their own sciences occult 
 and unintelligible. The Catholic theologian is the richest 
 merchant, but the poorest shopkeeper, in the world. He
 
 RAPTURES AND REMORSE G7 
 
 has countless riches, but he does not know how to use or 
 display them. He has all kinds of antique and Oriental 
 treasures, bales of costly goods, diamonds of Golconda, 
 topazes of Persia, spoils and seizures from Greece, the 
 flotsam and jetsam from all the wrecked argosies of an- 
 cient and modern times; but he does not know how to 
 dress his shop window. He keeps his treasures like some 
 vastly wealthy and usurious Jew in some secret bazaar in 
 a white-walled and isolated city of the East. It takes a 
 long time to travel thither; and men nowadays will not 
 make pilgrimages after wisdom. And then when you 
 get there, you must have a magic password before you 
 see the caves opened where are hidden the treasures that 
 surpass the dreams of all the half-inspired writers of the 
 world. Some day, one of those genii, better taught by 
 the gods, will reveal, and place beneath the hands of 
 men those spoils and treasures of the ages, as a Layard 
 has laid bare the colossal sculptures of Nineveh, or a Huys- 
 mans in our own day has taught the world the meaning 
 of the cryptic symbolism that underlies every plinth and 
 capital, statue and gargoyle, stained-glass glories or twi- 
 light nooks, in Chartres Cathedral. For the present, 
 however, these vast relics of medievalism are the exclu- 
 sive right of lonely thinkers, who hold possession, because 
 alone capable of their usufruct; and these lonely students, 
 keeping watch and ward over the strong-rooms and safes 
 of Divine Thought, are few and far between. 
 
 One at least we know — the pastor of Doonvarragh. 
 He had got the key of these treasures in the college where 
 he studied; and he did not allow it to rust. For forty 
 years, almost without intermission, he had given his 
 evening hours to the study of theology and philosophy. 
 There in that lonely room, which served as library and 
 dining-room, he sat at his desk, night after night, some 
 ponderous folio before him, his lamp or candles by his 
 side; and there he plunged with all the raptures of a 
 strong thinker into those reveries which haunted the 
 brains of Spanish or Italian thinkers before the Crusaders
 
 68 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 set foot in Palestine, or the Moors had brought into Spain 
 the works and the spirit of the most subtle mind that even 
 Greece could produce. And, with the consciousness that 
 he had done his duty to the sick and poor during the day, 
 he had never a scruple of giving his nights to such intel- 
 lectual revelry; and when his deep hall-clock tolled out 
 the midnight hour, he could arise from his seat with an 
 Altitudo! on his lips, and seek fearlessly that slumber 
 which he knew so well might be the prelude, as it was the 
 presentment, of that deeper sleep, called Death. 
 
 But just as a patient who can lie only in one position 
 may develop pneumonia, so this habit had produced in 
 the mind of this man two dangerous maladies that were 
 now well-nigh incurable. The one was a certain una- 
 vowed contempt for feeble thinkers or intellectual com- 
 moners. The other was a peculiar sensitiveness, through 
 which every accident that interrupted the splendid and 
 silent harmony of these nocturnal studies jarred upon 
 his nerves, and broke up the serenity that could alone 
 render them pleasant and fruitful. Undoubtedly, much 
 contact with the great minds of the world does beget 
 some disdain for ordinaiy mortals ; and it is slightly aggra- 
 vating to be told by those who have acquired such habits 
 and reputations that all things else are the toys of children, 
 or the weapons of demons. But if an ordinary mortal 
 ventures on the sacred precincts, and with all humility 
 and bowed head tries to worship at the same shrines, he 
 is instantly regarded as an intruder and a trespasser, 
 and told to carry his incense and orisons to other tem- 
 ples. This, however, is but a human failing, the autocracy 
 and conservatism that are generated by caste or genius. 
 
 The other consequence touches our story in a more 
 intimate manner. Dr. William Gray, after forty years 
 of solitary study, had become keenly intolerant of human 
 intercourse. His nerves had become trained to such 
 exquisite delicacy by silence and the solemn quiet of mid- 
 night hours, that he had become morbidly sensitive to 
 anything that could break in upon his habits, or disturb
 
 RAPTURES AND REMORSE 69 
 
 that happy monotone of existence that had now become 
 part and parcel of his hfe. But these things are not 
 absolute^ in one's own power, for we cannot control 
 our circumstances; and sometimes the music of hfe jarred 
 with sudden and discordant notes. For example, he 
 found that just now in his sixty-third year his eyes were 
 getting somewhat dim. Little clouds would come before 
 them — tiny wisps of darkness, which he could not rub 
 away. Again and again he had changed his spectacles 
 to suit advancing years; but it seemed of no avail. For 
 a time the dear old characters would come out clear and 
 beautiful as ever, and then they would become cloudy 
 and misty, and little aches and pains would shoot athwart 
 his forehead and through his eyes; and he would rise up 
 sad and disheartened to think, but not to read. 
 
 Then again, idle people, who seemed to have no par- 
 ticular business in hfe, would intrude upon his solitude; 
 and with all his brusqueness and asperity, he could not 
 shut the doors of his hospitahty against them. But, as 
 one of these visitors irreverently expressed it, "he was 
 hke a hen on a hot griddle," till he got rid of the unwel- 
 come intruder. The tyranny of habit had made their 
 presence intolerable. And the luxury of being alone, 
 after such experiences, was all the more sweet. 
 
 This particular winter of which we write, he had been 
 engrossed in a formidable and well-beloved treatise, the 
 De Legibus ^ of Suarez. It was a gigantic folio, grimly 
 bound in brown leather, and to an ordinary mind those 
 seven hundred and fifty pages, each with its double 
 column of close print, twelve or fourteen inches long, 
 would be a solemn deterrent. Not so with Dr. William 
 Gray. He revelled in these dry and forbidding abstrac- 
 tions, — Origin of Laws, natural, civil, and canonical; 
 their force, their stringency, their solemnity; the abro- 
 gation, suspension or dispensation in laws; the rights of 
 privilege and how far they extend; custom and the laws 
 of nations, etc., etc.; and he enjoyed the subject because 
 
 1 On Laws.
 
 70 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 his own mind had a strange affinity with it. He knew 
 nothing but Law; Law was to him the voice and outer- 
 most expression of the mind of the Eternal. He saw 
 Law everywhere — in nature, in the human mind, in 
 rehgion, in the comity of nations. He admitted no such 
 thing as an infraction of a law, or a dispensation. Or, if 
 such things were to be, they would by an infallible and 
 inexorable sequence bring their punishment. He be- 
 lieved that the very slightest disobedience to the simplest 
 decree of God or man had its condign retribution; he 
 met every appeal for pity, every justification for a broken 
 commandment, by the one categorical and inflexible 
 sentence: It is the Law! 
 
 He had ploughed half-way through this mighty laby- 
 rinth of human thought, when he plunged into the horrible 
 indiscretion of inviting those boys to study Latin at his 
 house. It was an impulse, a hasty, foolish act, done on 
 the spur of the moment, and alas ! with the not very exalted 
 motive of angering his recalcitrant parishioners. Like 
 all close thinkers he lacked imagination, which is the 
 second factor in a sound judgment; and he did not realize 
 what a hideous burden he had assumed until the two 
 young Wycherlys broke in upon his conference with his 
 curate. Then he began to realize what a torture it would 
 be, if, night after night for months, he should have to close 
 that beloved folio, and come down to the level of their 
 intellects in grinding out mensa, mensae, and all the other 
 pettinesses of the Latin Grammar. Once was bad enough. 
 The boys were not stupid, but they found themselves in 
 unexpected and unusual surroundings. The first lesson 
 was not a success. Oh! if it would only end there. But 
 now he had given his word; and he was too honourable 
 a man to withdraw from an engagement he had volun- 
 tarily made. What was he to do? The thing could not 
 be continued. That would be absolutely intolerable. He 
 could not shift it over on his curate's shoulders. It would 
 not be fair. And his curate might reasonably object. 
 There was no loophole of escape from six months of tread-
 
 RAPTURES AND REMORSE 71 
 
 mill work, night after night, at that abominable grammar; 
 and with two lads, alien in every way, in religion, in habits, 
 in prejudices and thoughts. He actually groaned aloud 
 in sheer despair for what he had done. 
 
 But this was not all. The report of what he had done 
 had spread from end to end of the parish, and was can- 
 vassed with suppressed, but intense, disapproval. It was 
 unprecedented and, therefore, intolerable. When had he 
 done anything for poor Catholic lads? What Catholic 
 boy had he got into a situation that would help him and 
 his family on in the world? He was always denouncing 
 Protestantism; and now he opens his house to two 
 Protestant lads to train them in those classical studies 
 that were far beyond the reach of Catholic boys. Where 
 was his consistency? Where his principle? 
 
 Such, but in many modified forms, were the questions 
 now agitating his people, and discussed sometimes gently, 
 sometimes angrily, sometimes with little reverential apolo- 
 gies and excuses, sometimes with bitterness and acerbity, 
 in forge and workshop, in cabin and' cottage, from end to 
 end of the parish. The old people, as a rule, with all 
 their tender reverence for the sacred character of the 
 priesthood, and for their pastor in particular, for they 
 regarded him always with a certain admiration blent with 
 fear, defended his action, and attributed it to a lawful 
 desire to acknowledge in that practical manner Dr. 
 Wycherly's benevolence toward the poorer members of 
 his flock. But the young, with all the fire and folly of 
 youth, denounced the action of their parish priest with 
 fury. They felt instinctively, and they were right, that 
 it was an act of defiance and contempt toward his flock. 
 
 In no spot, however, in the three parishes was the 
 matter so hotly discussed as in the cottage of the Duggans. 
 They had been prime movers in the insubordination which 
 emptied the schools. They had some old scores against 
 their pastor ; and with such people revenge often becomes 
 a kind of religion. " You may forgive," said one of that 
 class, " but people of our position never forgive." They
 
 72 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 feel a kind of pride and glory in their vindictiveness. It 
 is a remnant, like a cromlech or dolman, of that ancient 
 Paganism that was so ruthless and uncompromising. 
 
 The family were gathered around the fireside one of 
 these dark, gloomy, murky days that herald and accom- 
 pany Christmastide in Ireland. The father was not an 
 old man in appearance. He was well preserved, and 
 seemed not more than fifty. There were three boys, 
 ranging from twenty to thirty years of age. The vanithee 
 was of the usual gentle but firm, patient, peaceful yet 
 determined kind to be met with in every cabin in Ireland. 
 
 This evening, when the subject was again introduced, 
 there was unusual bitterness in their comments. For 
 that day, Dick Duggan, the eldest boy, a dark, silent, 
 brooding character, had been ignominiously expelled from 
 one of the fields now occupied by Kerins, the returned 
 American. His cattle had strayed in through a broken 
 fence and he had followed, when Kerins came on the 
 scene. Kerins, who always boasted that he was a lineal 
 descendant from the sea-rovers and freebooters who had 
 given their name to the old castle down by the sea, was 
 a strong, silent, determined character, who had seen life 
 out on the American prairies, and had looked more than 
 once into the eye of a rifle or a revolver. He had made 
 money; and yearned for a home near the ancestral castle. 
 He had faced cowboys and Indians, and was not going 
 to be frightened by a few cowards at home. He had 
 furnished the cottage, laid in new machinery, borrowed 
 a few men from the Defence Association; and last, not 
 least, cleaned and oiled the ''shooting irons" which had 
 served him in good stead more than once in the Rockies 
 and Sierras of the West. 
 
 When the cattle had strayed in through the open gap, 
 Dick had followed lazily. He acted as if he had a kind 
 of right over the place; and he was not too expeditious 
 in stopping the trespass. He was rudely awakened by 
 a stern voice hissing in his ear: 
 
 "Whose cattle are these? These yours?" 
 
 I
 
 RAPTURES AND REMORSE 73 
 
 " Yes ! " said Duggan. " They're mine. What have you 
 to say to them?" 
 
 "Only this," said the other. "I'll give you three 
 minutes to put them out, and to follow them yourself. 
 If you or them are on my grounds after three minutes, 
 I'll blow you right into Hell!" 
 
 And suiting the action to the word, he drew out his 
 six-shooter, and held it ready. 
 
 Dick obeyed in a sulky manner. Just as he had driven 
 the last cow through the gap, Kerins said: 
 
 "You'd better close that gap. I'll not be quite so 
 polite in future." 
 
 Dick Duggan' s temper was therefore not quite normal 
 when the discussion about his pastor arose around the 
 turf -fire that night. 
 
 "There," said the old woman, "ye're bringing that up 
 agen. What is it to ye what your priest does? Isn't he 
 his own masther to do what he likes wid his own?" 
 
 "He is," sneered one of the boys. "But if he wishes 
 to open a night-school for Prodestans, let them pay him 
 his jues." 
 
 "Does the ould Doctor get his jues from ye, whin ye 
 takes him up yere cows and horses to cure 'em; or does 
 he charge the poor women who bring their babies on 
 their breasts to relieve 'em and cure 'em?" said his 
 mother. 
 
 "I'm not denying," said her husband, "that the ould 
 Doctor is a good man to the poor. But what has that 
 to do with the priesht taking up his sons and thraining 
 'em?" 
 
 " Wan good turn desarves another," said the old woman. 
 "Ye can't bo always gettin' an' never givin'. An' as ye 
 haven't much to give yereselves, ye ought be obliged to 
 yere priest to pay for ye!" 
 
 "Twasn't for us he done it, believe you me!" said Dick 
 Duggan. " It was to aggrawate and annoy the people as 
 if their hearts were not black enough agen him before!" 
 
 "Shpake for yereself, you cawbogue," replied the old
 
 74 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY ' 
 
 woman angrily. "There's hunderds and thousans in 
 the parish that 'ud die for their prieshts, thank God, 
 still!" 
 
 "There's wan that'll die for him or for thim he's be- 
 frindin', high up too," said Dick savagely, as he went 
 out of the door, " av he don't mend his ways." 
 
 " Look there now," said the good old woman, " there's 
 the larning and egication he got; and there's what 'tis 
 comin' to. The ignorant cawbogue, as if he dared lift 
 his hand agen the Lord's anointed; he'd cling him to 
 the ground." 
 
 There was the silence of terror in the cabin after this 
 explosion. After a long pause, the old woman turned 
 around from the fire and asked: 
 
 "What did he mane by saying 'thim he's befriendin'?" 
 
 " I suppose he manes the teacher," said one of the boys, 
 " or perhaps Kerins. They had a couple of words to-day." 
 
 "Some day," said the old woman, prophetically, "the 
 words will lade to blows; and the blows will ind badly 
 for some. Faith, the wurruld is turning upside down, 
 whin people can shpake that way about the ministers 
 and messengers of God." 
 
 She busied around for some time, and then exclaimed, 
 as the last faint peal of anger died away : 
 
 "Thim haythens below at the ould castle couldn't be 
 
 worse." 
 
 It is quite probable that all this angry criticism and 
 correspondingly zealous defence would never have come 
 to the ears of the pastor, had he not his ancient mentoress 
 and Sybil in old Betty Lane. She alone could dare tell 
 him plain truths, which no one else could even hint at. 
 And it was not very long until the opportunity offered. 
 He was fond of visiting the old woman, partly for the 
 relief and amusement her conversation afforded, partly 
 for the edification which even his priestly spirit derived 
 from her active and vivid faith. There was something 
 actually refreshing to the soul of this severe and proud
 
 RAPTURES AND REMORSE 75 
 
 man in the childlike and simple and courageous manner 
 in which this old saint addressed him. 
 
 "Well, Betty," he said, when the granddaughter had 
 announced his presence, "and how are you getting on?" 
 
 Not a word of reply came from the lips of the old woman, 
 as she stared silently before her. 
 
 " How are you this cold weather? " he shouted, fearing 
 she had not heard him. 
 
 She was still silent, he watching her in surprise. 
 
 "Yerra, what's this I hear about you?" she said at 
 length, in an angry tone of remonstrance. 
 
 "What have you heard, Betty?" he asked, somewhat 
 nettled. 
 
 "That you're taking into your house these Prodestans 
 and taching them to be Prodestan ministers. Yerra, 
 sure, the ind of the world must be near, an' Anti-Christ 
 himsel' must be among us to make you do sich a thing 
 as that." 
 
 "What harm is it, Betty?" he said, half-angry, half- 
 amused at the interpretation put upon his action. 
 
 "What harrum?" she shouted. "Yerra, did I ever 
 think I'd live to see the day whin a priesht would ask 
 what harrum was there in making prachers and supers 
 in the middle of his parish?" 
 
 "Who told you I was making preachers and supers?" 
 he said, more indignant at the accusation than he pre- 
 tended. 
 
 " Yerra, sure the whole parish have it," she said. " Be 
 this and be that, I'd never have you in agin to say Mass 
 for me, av I thought it was thrue." 
 
 "Very good," he said, taking up his hat, "I won't 
 trouble you again. Good-bye! Nance, send for the 
 curate, if your grandmother requires him. Don't send 
 for me again!" 
 
 He was leaving the room in an angry mood, when he 
 turned round to take a last look at the old woman. 
 
 From the poor sightless eyes, hot, scalding tears were 
 running down the channels of her cheeks, unchecked and
 
 76 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 in silence. He thought it was grief for his recalcitrancy, 
 and his pride was hurt that every ignorant creature in 
 his parish should presume to judge him. He knew what 
 strange fancies they sometimes entertained; how utterly 
 wrong were their judgments sometimes. And yet, he 
 also felt that perhaps after all in the eyes of All-Seeing 
 Wisdom, the Catholic instinct of these poor people, inten- 
 sified by prayer and the reception of the sacraments, and 
 fortified by the glorious traditions of their race, might 
 often penetrate more deeply into the truth of things than 
 his own superior wisdom, where charity and justice were 
 not always the guides. 
 
 He had turned away again, and gone down the road, 
 fully determined to break away from such positive and 
 ignorant questioners, when the granddaughter timidly 
 called him back. She had been summoned peremptorily 
 to the bedside of her grandmother, who was heartbroken 
 at the idea of being abandoned by her beloved priest. 
 
 "Tell him come back," she said, "and I'll go down on 
 my binded knees to ax the Lord's and his pardon for 
 having shpoken so to God's messenger. Quick, Nance, 
 or I may die before he comes!" 
 
 He came back slowly and reluctantly, and entered the 
 chamber. The old woman had risen up in bed, and was 
 watching through her sightless eyes for the faintest indi- 
 cations of his presence. When she knew he was near her, 
 she broke out into passionate cries of sorrow and shame. 
 He listened with bent head, and said nothing. 
 
 "You won't shpake to me," she said. "You won't 
 forgive me?" 
 
 "Yes!" he said coldly. "I forgive you!" 
 
 "That's not What you'd say if you meant it!" she cried 
 in anguish. 
 
 "Well, what am I to say, then?" he cried with some 
 impatience. 
 
 "Nothin', nothin'," she said resignedly, and lay back 
 on the pillow. 
 
 He left the room without a word.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A Christmas Gift 
 
 It was Christmas Eve. As is so usual in Ireland, it was 
 a dark, gloomy, rainy, tempestuous day; so dark that the 
 priest had to approach the high window of his dining- 
 room to read the office, for his sight was failing with age, 
 and it was dusk or twilight in the room. The old house- 
 keeper had put little sprigs of holly in the candlesticks 
 on the mantelpiece, and in other little ways she had tried 
 to mark the solemnity of the season. The gray, thought- 
 ful, abstracted man recked not of such things at any time. 
 He was above symbols. He saw only ideas. He only 
 knew his own thoughts; and well he should have known 
 them, for they haunted all his waking moments with a 
 dread persistency of anxiety, or remorse, or apprehension. 
 The approach of Christmas meant no happiness for him. 
 
 And just now he knew that to-morrow, the Feast of 
 Love and Forgiveness and Christian Joy, many of his 
 parishioners would come to Mass with bitter feelings 
 against him in their hearts; and he guessed that they 
 would show it by refusing to pay the Christmas offerings 
 that are customary all over Ireland. This is the one act 
 of high treason which marks the bitterest hostility 
 between priest and people in Ireland. It is an act of 
 apostasy, a flinging-down of the gauntlet, the ultimatum, 
 aixd declaration of hostilities. 
 
 He spent his midday in the church, hearing confessions, 
 for, although his people feared him, they had perfect faith 
 in him as a holy and prudent spiritual guide. He re- 
 turned home just as the day was closing in; and at four 
 o'clock the lamps were lighted and the curtains drawn 
 for the night. 
 
 77
 
 78 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 It was a fast-day, and he dined meagrely enough on 
 a couple of fried eggs and a cup of coffee. The cloth was 
 scarcely removed, when the single knock at the hall-door 
 announced the advent of a beggar, or one of the many 
 poor, generous, loving souls, who, on Christmas Eve in 
 Ireland, show their love for the priest by little donations 
 of turkeys, geese, etc. He well knew the pathos of 
 it, the sacrifice they made out of their little gains and 
 property, and the shy, sweet delicacy which always 
 commanded the housekeeper: 
 
 " Say from a frind. Don't tell him my name." 
 
 But this knock came from Nance, old Betty Lane's 
 granddaughter. She entered the room shyly, and looked 
 at the priest with frightened reverence. 
 
 " I kem to ask your Reverence to say wan of your three 
 Masses in the morning for me grandmother." 
 
 "Certainly," he said. "Let me see! I'll go over first 
 in the morning and say my first Mass at the house — no ! 
 That would be awkward. I'll finish my two Masses in 
 the church, and then drive over. It won't be too late?" 
 
 "Oh, no! yer Reverence. We'll be ready for you, an' 
 — you'll take your Christmas breakfast at the house." 
 
 " Oh, no, no!" he cried. "This is altogether too much. 
 By the way, how is Betty? I suppose she'll be saying 
 that it is her last Christmas!" 
 
 "She is dead, yer Reverence!" replied the girl, turning 
 aside and brushing away a tear. 
 
 "Dead?" he cried, horror-stricken. 
 
 " Yes, yer Reverence," she said. " Whin I wint in this 
 morning to give her a drink, she was dead and cold. She 
 must have died in the early part of the night." 
 
 "This is a great shock!" he said, striving to control 
 his emotion. He remembered, alas! that he had parted 
 from the faithful soul in anger, and unreconciled. Her 
 old wrinkled face, with the furrows filled with tears, 
 came up before him to torment him. 
 
 "Since the day yer Reverence was over," continued 
 Nance, not knowing what a bitter thing she was saying,
 
 A CHRISTMAS GIFT 79 
 
 "she hasn't been the same. Not a word could I get out 
 of her but 'Yes!' or 'No!' and I used hear her sobbing 
 at night in her sleep." 
 
 "But was she ailing particularly?" he asked. "Did 
 she send for Father Liston?" 
 
 " Oh, yeh, no ! " said Nance. " If she thought she was 
 near her ind, she'd send for nobody but yer Reverence. 
 But, sure, no wan can tell whin the ould people take it 
 in their heads to go. But she was the good mother to 
 me!" 
 
 And the girl wept sadly. 
 
 "Very good!" at length said the priest. "You can go 
 home now, Nance; and I'll be over in the morning imme- 
 diately after the Parish Mass. And we can talk over the 
 arrangements for the funeral." 
 
 "Very well, yer Reverence. I'll lave it all in your 
 hands. 'Twill be the lonesome Christmas for me!" 
 
 "And for me," he thought, as the door closed on the 
 girl. 
 
 He sat down and buried his face in his hands. The 
 keenest remorse flooded his soul. His oldest friend in 
 the parish, his only friend, had passed away unreconciled 
 and, as she thought, unforgiven. Her faith, her piety, 
 her vision of God, her freedom of speech which he remem- 
 bered now with a pang he himself had invited and en- 
 joyed, her very poverty, out of which she gave so largely 
 and generously — all came back, each with its little sting 
 of remorse and bitterness for an opportunity lost, and 
 not to be recalled. Minute after minute seemed to flit 
 by over the head of the lonely man as he sat bowed by 
 sorrow at his hearth-side. He did not hear the repeated 
 knocks at his door — the shy, silent whispering in the 
 hall, as messenger after messenger came in with her little 
 offering. He could only think of that old withered face 
 and the tears that ran in its channels. 
 
 At last the knocks had ceased, and tea was placed on 
 the table, when the sound of a car stopped at the door 
 woke him to a new sensation. Although slightly indif-
 
 80 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 ferent, and thinking it might be his curate coming for 
 instructions for the morrow, it was yet a diversion from 
 his gloomy thoughts. He waited and Hstened. There 
 was a sharp, peremptory double knock, which his house- 
 keeper answered. Then the sounds of something very 
 heavy being dragged into the hall, a hasty colloquy and 
 a loud-pitched musical voice, and, as the dining-room 
 door opened, a young girl burst into the room. 
 
 She seemed not to be more than fourteen or fifteen 
 years of age, but she had all the self-possession of a woman. 
 And surely such a fair apparition never threw its shadow 
 on that room before. Even with his dimmed eyes, the 
 priest looking down on the pale face, just now washed by 
 the wintry rains, and slightly flushed from the rudeness 
 of the winds, discerned something strangely and weirdly 
 beautiful beneath the hood that framed it; and large, 
 dark eyes looked up at him with a half-solemn, half- 
 merry look, that was to his lonely soul something won- 
 derful and almost alarming. 
 
 ''Here I am. Uncle, at last," she said, holding out one 
 gloved hand, "ain't you glad to see me?" 
 
 He murmured something; but looked so surprised at 
 the apparition that she thought it necessary to explain. 
 
 "You know I'm your niece," she said. "My poor 
 mother was your sister, at least so I've been told; and 
 Father Falvey said to me, 'Now you go right on; your 
 uncle is a great man at the other side, and he will be 
 awfully pleased to see you, and have you always with 
 him.' But, do you know. Uncle, I didn't think you were 
 so old. Mother always said that you were so much 
 younger and she used talk about you so, and say how 
 clever you were. My — what a lot of books ! Sure, 
 you don't read all these?" 
 
 " Well, you'll help me," he said. " But, child," he con- 
 tinued in a tone of real alarm, placing his hand on her 
 head and shoulder, "you are drenched. Go at once to 
 the kitchen and change everything and tell Anne to get 
 you a cup of tea. Or, stay ! "
 
 A CHRISTMAS GIFT 81 
 
 He rang the bell. The old housekeeper appeared, half 
 bewildered, half frightened. She thought she was going 
 to get orders to expel the intruder at once. 
 
 "Take Miss O'Farrell to the kitchen fire, Anne, and 
 get her some dry things to put on; and get her a hot drink 
 at once." 
 
 "But I may come in, Uncle, then, may I not?" 
 
 "Certainly. I'll wait tea here for you. Only don't 
 delay or you'll catch cold." 
 
 "Oh, I was near forgetting," she said, turning away, 
 "would you mind, Uncle dear, settling with that driver? 
 You know I think he was charging me a little more than 
 was right." 
 
 She had put her hand in her pocket, and stretched 
 forth her meagre purse. The little gesture touched him, 
 and he put her hand aside. 
 
 "Now, leave all that to me! You go at once and 
 change your clothes as I told you." 
 
 He came back to his fire, after settling her fare with 
 the driver who grumbled badly and quoted the wet night, 
 and the storm, and the eight-mile drive, and Christmas 
 time, and many other things; but finally compromised 
 for a glass of whiskey which the priest compassionately 
 gave him. But, when the latter had reached his fireside, 
 and the car had driven away, and all noises had subsided, 
 and the wheels of thought began to revolve again, he 
 almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and the 
 strange pranks Destiny seemed to be playing with him. 
 He was just in the condition of a drowning man who 
 flings up his arms and goes down despairing into the 
 depths, or of one who, clinging to some frail support 
 above a precipice, at last decides that he must give way 
 and succumb to Fate. 
 
 "It is quite clear now," he murmured, leaning his 
 head on his hands, "that my peace of mind, if ever I 
 possessed it, is at an end for ever." 
 
 .-Vnd yet, he thought, how would it be in his old age, 
 with eyesight ever growing dimmer and dimmer, and 
 7
 
 82 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 with a heart-breaking farewell to his books on his lips, 
 — if this sudden vision were to create a new dawn in 
 his life, and supply by gentle human intercourse the awful 
 dearth and hunger in his life which his beloved studies 
 had hitherto filled? 
 
 " Perhaps so," he muttered, as his niece re-entered the 
 room, "these things are disposed by the Higher Powers." 
 
 She looked more attractive even than when she had 
 entered in her nun-like hood. The sodden wet aspect 
 had disappeared; and she looked now so spruce, so neat, 
 so perfect a little picture that the grim man decided, 
 Yes, it was surely a new dawn that had broken on the 
 dusk of his life! She had put on a soft gray gown, which 
 fitted her form to perfection, her long, dark hair was 
 filleted in front and caught behind with a gleaming 
 comb, which allowed the loose tresses to hang down 
 almost to her waist. Her large, open sleeves, frilled 
 with lace, left her arms bare to the elbow. He did not 
 approve of this; but he said in his own mind. It is an 
 Americanism, I suppose, and her mother must have 
 known it. 
 
 She came over quite familiarly and leant down over 
 the fire, and in answer to his query, whether she had 
 had a hot drink, she answered gaily: 
 
 " Yes, dear uncle, I had. That's a dear old soul — 
 your help. But, look here, she's Anne, and I'm Anne 
 also. How are you going to distinguish us? It would 
 never do, you, know, for us to be coming when we are 
 not called." 
 
 "I'll call you Annie," he said. "Will that please 
 you? It is a kind of diminutive, you know. Or, would 
 you prefer Nan, or Annette?" 
 
 "Nan, Nan, Nan," she repeated, holding her hands in 
 a. meditative way before the fire. "Annette, Annette! 
 No, we'll keep to Annie, I think." 
 
 "What — what," stammered the old priest, "did your 
 mother call you?" 
 
 "Well, you see, I was away a good deal from mother
 
 A CHRISTMAS GIFT 83 
 
 at school; and then, when I did come home, she called 
 me Anna. I didn't like it. It seemed a little tony, or 
 affected. In school, I had a pet name. Girls have a 
 fashion of giving pet names in school to each other." 
 
 "And what was your pet name?" he said. 
 
 " Gyp, or Gypsy," she replied, " because I was dark, 
 and, I suppose, a little unruly. You know, I have a 
 temper of my own. I don't like being crossed sometimes." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" he said, lapsing into his usual vein of 
 sarcasm, " I'm glad you have mentioned it. We shall 
 be on our guard." 
 
 "Ah, there now, that's sarcasm. Well, well, just 
 think of a dear old priest, like you, being sarcastic. One 
 of our priests at the Sacred Heart Church was very fond 
 of talking in that way. You never knew when he was 
 serious. In fact, he used boast that he never spoke 
 seriously to the Sisters or the children. Well, you know, 
 we used to laugh — people always laugh at such witty 
 things, especially when they are said about others; but 
 somehow, we didn't like him. You know," she said, 
 shuffling uneasily, and spreading out her little hands 
 deprecatingly, "we expect priests to be serious, and 
 gentle, and — and — awful." 
 
 "Very good," he cried, rising and going to the tea- 
 table, "after that little lecture to your venerable uncle, 
 suppose we have some tea." 
 
 She drew over her chair, and said saucily, as she 
 removed the cosey: 
 
 "I think, uncle, 'tis my place to pour out the tea, is 
 it not?" 
 
 "I suppose so," he said, resigning himself to the new 
 order of things. " I take it that you are going to take 
 possession of all my goods and chattels." 
 
 "There now again," she cried, raising the teapot 
 daintily, "where did you learn to be sarcastic, uncle, 
 living all alone here by yourself? Why, that only 
 belongs to society people." 
 
 "Oh, well," he replied, "we don't give society people
 
 84 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 a monopoly of such things. When you begin to think, 
 and you must think a good deal when you are alone, you 
 naturally come to take a rather cynical view of things." 
 
 "Well, now," she said, "that is right curious. But 
 uncle?" 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 "Do you know I have had no dinner to-day. May I 
 not order an egg?" 
 
 "'Tis a fast-day, Annie," he said. "And the laws of 
 the Church have never been violated in this house." 
 
 The girl looked disappointed. He saw it, and relented. 
 
 'Ha, you said, I believe, that you had no dinner?" 
 
 " No, absolutely nothing since I left the boat at Queens- 
 town at noon. And say, uncle, I'm not bound to fast, 
 you know, I am scarcely fifteen as yet." 
 
 "No," he said, rising and touching the bell, "but you 
 are bound to abstain. Every child over seven years is 
 bound to abstain." 
 
 "My! but that is hard," said his niece, nibbling at a 
 piece of toast. " Over with us, we got a dispensation easily 
 in this matter. Don't you give dispensations here?" 
 
 "No!" he said, she thought rather sharply. "Law is 
 Law. It is made to be obeyed, not to be dispensed with. 
 Anne," he said, turning to his aged housekeeper, "Miss 
 O'Farrell has had no dinner to-day. This must be her 
 dinner. Can you get some eggs and sardines?" 
 
 " I can, sir," said the old housekeeper readily. " But 
 may not the child have a chop after so long a fast?" 
 
 "No!" he said, so sharply that Annie was startled. 
 It was a new revelation. 
 
 He seemed to be moody for some time. The eggs and 
 sardines on toast presently appeared, and the girl raised 
 the cover. 
 
 "They are nice," she said, with the enthusiasm of 
 hunger. "Uncle, may I not help you to some?" 
 
 "Have I not told you," he said, almost rudely, "that 
 this is a fast-day? How then can you ask me to violate 
 one of the laws of the Church? " 
 
 I
 
 A CHRISTMAS GIFT 85 
 
 She sank abashed before his eyes, and ate her meal in 
 silence. He had pulled over his chair to the fire, leaving 
 his niece alone at the table. He had simply swallowed 
 one cup of tea, touching no food. 
 
 During the progress of the meal he touched the bell 
 again, and when the old housekeeper appeared he asked 
 whether Miss O'Farrell's room had been got ready. The 
 old woman answered, yes. 
 
 " Then, be sure to have a good peat and wood fire there," 
 he said. ''Miss O'Farrell is used to a heated room." 
 
 This softened matters again a little, and the girl crept 
 near him. 
 
 " Uncle, " she said timidly. 
 
 "Well?" he replied, but there was an accent of kind- 
 ness in his voice. 
 
 "Uncle, will you call me 'Annie' always and not 'Miss 
 O'Farreir?" 
 
 "Very well," he replied. 
 
 "Uncle?" she said again. 
 
 "Well, what now?" he said. 
 
 " Do you know," she said, laying her small hand on 
 his shoulder, " I am afraid that — that — you didn't 
 expect me — that I am unwelcome." 
 
 "No, no, Annie," he replied, taking the girl's hand 
 from his shoulder, and folding it in his big palm. " You 
 mustn't think that. You must learn to bear with the 
 temper of an old man. You are thrice welcome for your 
 own sake, and — and for your mother's. There; we'll 
 say no more to-night. Be ready to come with me in 
 the morning to eight-o'clock Mass. Anne will call you. 
 Good-night!" 
 
 "Good-night!" she said. "And, uncle?" 
 
 "Well now?" he asked. 
 
 "A Happy Christmas, uncle!" 
 
 "Yes, yes, a Happy Christmas!" he said. Then, as 
 if he were again too hasty, he added : 
 
 "A Happy Christmas, Annie!"
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A Question in Theology 
 
 To sensitive, nervous dispositions, which are always 
 regretting the past, or filled with forebodings for the 
 future, the first moments of waking in the morning are 
 very trying. Consciousness suddenly aroused seems to 
 rivet and fasten itself on the most unpleasant things; 
 and it is only when the blood begins to circulate freely 
 through the brain, that these unhallowed thoughts are 
 expelled, and the more healthy ideas of normal waking 
 hours promptly take their place. 
 
 In the gray dawn of the winter morning the good pastor 
 of whom we are writing suddenly realized two or three 
 portentous events, which in the excitement of the pre- 
 vious night, and the happy oblivion of sleep, he had 
 momentarily forgotten. All the remorse he had felt the 
 previous day on the announcement of the death of old 
 Betty Lane, came back and he felt abashed, humbled, 
 ashamed. All the dread of his first interview with his 
 niece came back; and he was terrified. Evils seemed to 
 be accumulating on him from all sides; and the more he 
 sought to shelter himself against them, the more surely 
 and swiftly did they seek him out. 
 
 It was a silent and moody man that drove his niece 
 across the level road that led to his church; and to her 
 young eyes, cleared from the night-shadows, he seemed 
 quite a different being from the stately and stern, but 
 kindly being she had met the night before. He led her 
 around by a private door that marked the entrance to 
 the pews: and probably it was this little preoccupation 
 and his dim sight that prevented him from observing 
 
 86
 
 A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY 87 
 
 that not far away from the place where his own collec- 
 tors were sitting with sheets of paper before them, there 
 was a small group of two or three men, the centre of 
 which was Dick Duggan. Their object in placing them- 
 selves there was manifest. They said nothing, did noth- 
 ing, but watched. And the result was soon seen. Men 
 came into the chapel-yard, made their way toward 
 the collectors to pay their little offerings and have their 
 names taken down, saw this group watching silently, 
 paused, hesitated, and passed by without entering their 
 names. Little knots of people came in, eagerly talking, 
 suddenly grew silent, whispered in a frightened tone, 
 drew back, and passed into the church, like the others. 
 The collectors looked serious: the little group of watch- 
 ers smiled; Duggan laughed outright. 
 
 It was rather fortunate the parish priest had not ob- 
 served them. With his lofty pride, he disdained going 
 near the collectors to ask or see if the parishioners were 
 paying their usual offerings. This happy accident left 
 him in ignorance of the proceedings of the men who were 
 exercising a silent terrorism over the people. If he had 
 seen them, he would have peremptorily ordered them 
 from the place; and if they resisted, he would have re- 
 moved them with violence. But, although he suspected 
 that there would be some conspiracy on foot to compel 
 the people to withhold their Christmas offerings, he never 
 dreamed that they would venture on such a bold and 
 insolent plan to thwart and annoy him. It was only 
 after he had said his second Mass, and was hurrying over 
 towards where the remains of old Betty Lane were lying, 
 that he was accosted by the collectors, who showed him 
 a vacant list and an empty purse. He thanked them, 
 and said nothing, but passed on. 
 
 He left his niece at his house, and bade her have break- 
 fast without waiting for him, and drove on to where 
 the remains of the old woman awaited their final sepul- 
 ture. There in the presence of the saintly dead, he saw 
 as in a flash of inspiration, how poor and petty were all
 
 88 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 earthly things, when viewed in the light of that eternity 
 to which Death was the happy portal; and not for the 
 first, nor the hundredth, time in his life, did he wish that 
 his weary pilgrimage, too, were at an end, and that he 
 could get away from these hateful and perplexing sur- 
 roundings into the unbroken serenity of eternity. He 
 breakfasted there in that little parlour with that poor, 
 humble washerwoman; and watching her patient face, 
 seamed with toil and the harsh buffetings of life, he grew 
 calmer, and more confident of God. 
 
 "I shall miss poor Betty," he said. "She was almost 
 my only friend in the parish." 
 
 "Oh, don't say that, yer reverence," said the poor girl, 
 "you have plinty of frinds; only they're shy of you." 
 
 "The collection this morning doesn't show it," he said, 
 almost humbly. " Look here, Nance, not a name on the 
 list." 
 
 "Glory be to God!" said the frightened girl, "that 
 never happened before. There must be some divilment 
 behind it." 
 
 "I don't mind the loss," he said. "That's nothing. 
 It is the shame and insult of the thing I mind. Every 
 man that passed by this morning slapped me on the face." 
 
 "It's only wan or two, yer reverence," she said, reas- 
 suringly. "Only wan or two; but they are a bad lot, 
 and the people are afraid of them." 
 
 "That's just it," he said. "That's just what I com- 
 plain of — that the whole parish should be terrorized 
 by one or two miscreants. What are they afraid of? 
 What can these fellows do?" 
 
 "That's thrae, yer reverence," she said. "But you 
 see the people nowadays don't like throuble; an' anny 
 wan of them blagards could set fire to a rick of hay or 
 straw, or bum down the cow-house, or lame a horse for 
 life — and they'd do it!" 
 
 "Veiy good," said the priest. "But then the people 
 would get compensation from the court. They wouldn't 
 suffer a penny loss." 
 
 I
 
 A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY 89 
 
 "Yes, yer reverence. But look at all the throuble. 
 Look at the lawyers, witnesses; and maybe afther they'd 
 gone to all kinds of expinse, it would be thrun out in the 
 ind by the ould barrister." 
 
 "I see," he said, reflectively. ''You're right, Nance! 
 The days of heroism, and even decent principle, are past. 
 The people are become a parcel of sheep, ready to fly and 
 destroy themselves at the bark of a dog." 
 
 "At any rate, yer reverence," she said, "there's wan 
 consolation. They're more afraid of Dick Duggan than 
 they are of yer reverence." 
 
 " I'm afraid 'tis true," he said laughing. " They can't 
 say any more that I am keeping them in a state of terror." 
 
 " But, you may be sure of wan thing, yer reverence," 
 the poor girl said, anxious to relieve the weary load that 
 was pressing on her pastor, " there isn't wan parishioner, 
 except maybe thim Duggans, that won't pay you yer 
 jues. An' if the poor old 'uman had her way, you'd 
 get it on the double." 
 
 "Yes, I know that," he said somewhat more cheerily. 
 " But not one penny of their money shall soil my hands. 
 I wouldn't touch the coins of cowards." 
 
 It was true. That very day, at the funeral of old 
 Betty Lane, whilst the men were waiting to take out the 
 coffin for burial some farmers came up sheepishly to the 
 parish priest, and proffered their offerings. 
 
 "We weren't able to give it this morning," they said. 
 
 "Why?" he asked shortly, whilst his thin lips drew 
 together, and curled in angry scorn. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 "Take your money," he said. "I'd feel myself ever- 
 lastingly shamed, if I touched the money of men who were 
 afraid to do right." 
 
 And they slunk away. 
 
 Again, after the funeral was over, little groups met 
 him; and humbly and apologetically offered their little 
 mites. He dismissed every one of them with contempt; 
 and they began to think that after all, they would have
 
 90 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 done better had they braved the anger of Dick Duggan 
 and his clique. 
 
 He got home in the early afternoon, and ashamed of 
 the gloom of the morning, which he saw had fallen heavy 
 on his niece, he determined at any cost to put a brave 
 face on matters and help Annie and his only other guest, 
 his curate, to have a pleasant evening. 
 
 When he entered the hall, and put up his driving cloak 
 and hat, Annie came out to meet him. It was quite 
 clear that the morning's depression had left but little 
 trace on her blithe and happy spirit, for she had her arms 
 bare to the elbows and whitened with flour, whilst thick 
 lumps of dough clung to her fingers. 
 
 "You never wished me a 'Merry Christmas' this morn- 
 ing," she said. "And now I can't shake hands with you. 
 I am making up some jam-rolls for Ajine. She says she 
 never saw them made." 
 
 "Then you'll have to eat them yourself," he said. 
 "Neither I nor my curate is going to put ourselves in 
 for a bad fit of dyspepsia." 
 
 "But, uncle! Dyspepsia? " she cried in protest. "No! 
 No! I'll make them so light you won't know when you've 
 swallowed them. I will, indeed." 
 
 " All right," he said. " But we don't want any of your 
 American cookery here. Keep your old pies and doughnuts 
 to yourselves. All we want is honest Irish meat and drink." 
 
 "Well, I'll bet you, — I'll bet you, something," she 
 cried, "that I'll make your curate eat them. Who is 
 he? And what is he like?" 
 
 "Ah, well, now, just wait and see. It is always a 
 mistake to describe people. There is generally disap- 
 pointment. But get away now and go to work. I have 
 to read my office before dinner, and read up something. 
 I suppose there can be no reading to-night." 
 
 "I guess not," she said, "if I can help it. Imagine — 
 reading on Christmas Night!" 
 
 Father Henry Liston came over early. His face was
 
 A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY 91 
 
 clouded. He had heard of the news at Doonvarragh, 
 although at Lackagh and Athboy, where he had cele- 
 brated, the collections came in as usual. 
 
 " You see, Pastor," he said, with some freedom, be- 
 cause he felt he was now on the pastor's side, and there 
 Was almost a sense of patronage in his accent, " if you had 
 just allowed me pitch into those scoundrels, this would 
 never have happened. These fellows begin to think we 
 are afraid of them; and, by Jove, mark my words, Pastor, 
 if ever our people think that we fear them, they will 
 trample upon us. That's my experience." 
 
 Dr. William Gray looked down on the youthful form, 
 and boyish face of his curate, and smiled. 
 
 "Now, if I had been over here this morning," con- 
 tinued Henry, not noticing his pastor's amusement, " I'd 
 have taken that Duggan by the nape of the neck, and 
 pitched him into the channel. And, then, Fd have taken 
 each of the other fellows in turn, and chucked them c?ut." 
 
 " You wouldn't have taken the three in a bunch?" said 
 the pastor. "That would have spared time and labour." 
 
 "No," said his curate, unheeding the sarcasm in his 
 anger, "I would have taken them separately and indi- 
 vidually. It would have been more effective; and then, 
 I'd have withered up that congregation in such a way 
 that not one of them would have been left an appetite 
 for roast goose that day." 
 
 "That would never do," said his pastor. "That would 
 drive the whole parish to drink; and the remedy would 
 be worse than the disease." 
 
 "Well, all I know is," said the curate, "you have 
 taken the whole thing too quietly. You have the name 
 of being a strong man ; and I suppose you were when you 
 were young. But age, age tells its own talc. It is only 
 young men should be made Parish Priests and Bishops. 
 They have no experience and no fear." 
 
 "Out of the lips of babes and sucklings comcth "^orth 
 wisdom," said his pastor. "But we'll waive the subject 
 now, young man. I want to ask you a question in theol-
 
 92 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 ogy before we dine. I believe we can't discuss the matter 
 after." 
 
 The curate's face fell at the word "Theology." It 
 was the prelude, he knew, to many an ordeal. But he 
 plucked up courage to say: 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "No matter. You'll see for yourself after," replied 
 his pastor. " But the question is, If a parcel were sent 
 to you from abroad, a parcel which you strenuously 
 objected to, which you didn't want, and distinctly re- 
 fused, were yet sent on, what would you do?" 
 
 Henry reflected a moment, and recalled all his prin- 
 ciples of justice and contracts, which he had learned with 
 infinite pains in college. Then he held up his head and 
 did a wise thing. He asked another question: 
 
 "Was the carriage prepaid?" 
 
 "Well, yes," said the pastor. "They were obliging 
 and polite enough to do that." 
 
 " Because, you know," said his curate, confidently, 
 " I always suspect unstamped letters, or parcels on which 
 you are requested to pay something. Well, then, I 
 should say it all depends on the value of the parcel." 
 
 " But, you don't know the value and cannot measure 
 it. It may be worth a good deal, or — " 
 
 Here the pastor paused. He could not say that word. 
 
 "By Jove, that's a hard case," said Henry, driving 
 his hands deep in his pockets and looking crossly at his 
 boots. " I never heard of such a case in theology. It 
 only shows that in practical life, questions will crop up, 
 of which the astutest theologians never dreamed. You 
 must give me time, Pastor; that's not a question to be 
 decided offhand." 
 
 "Certainly," said his pastor. "In fact here comes 
 dinner. You sit here." 
 
 " You expect somebody else," said his curate, nodding 
 to the knife and fork and napkin at the other side. 
 
 " Yes ! This is my niece. Miss O'Farrell, P ather Liston," 
 said the pastor^ as Annie entered the room. And prob-
 
 A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY 93 
 
 ably, the best fun of the Christmas night was to see the 
 astonishment and surprise written on the face of that 
 good curate, as Annie sailed in, and quietly saluted him. 
 
 She had put on a white dress, frilled and tucked and 
 plaited in some marvellous manner. Little fringes, of 
 lace fluttered around her neck and over her hands; and 
 a little miniature of her mother's clasped at -her throat 
 seemed to be the only bit of colour that relieved the white 
 monotone of dress on the one hand, and the dark 
 masses of hair that rippled down from the gold fillet 
 across her neck. She looked to the eyes of the young 
 priest the living embodiment of all those pure, sweet, 
 holy figures that had been painted on his brain, since 
 he took up his first prayer-book, or raised his eyes, at 
 the bidding of his mother, to the celestial vision of the 
 Woman and Child. He stared and stared and stared, 
 as if he were mesmerized with surprise, until he was 
 brought back to his senses by the young lady herself 
 saying: 
 
 "Look here, Father Liston, you're spilling your soup 
 on the table cloth; and Anne will be furious." 
 
 Then he blushed for his bad manners, and got back 
 to his senses. 
 
 But it was a happy dinner; and when the plum-pudding 
 and jam-rolls and mince-pies came round, Henry did 
 them all full justice. 
 
 "You'll take some more plum-pudding?" said the 
 pastor. 
 
 "For the sake of the sauce," said Henry, handing up 
 his plate. 
 
 "No, no, Uncle," said Annie, "Father Liston must 
 take some of these jam-rolls. It was I made them." 
 
 There was no resisting that appeal; and Henry took 
 three jam-rolls on his plate. 
 
 "They are as light as feathers!" said Annie. 
 
 "They are absolutely murderous 1" said her uncle. 
 
 "I appeal to Father Liston," said Annie. 
 
 "Yes! they're very bad," said Henry. "Don't give
 
 94 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 • 
 t,ny to your uncle, Miss O'Farrell. They'd shorten liis 
 
 life. Keep them all for me." 
 
 "There, I guessed so much," said the pastor. 
 
 "You might as well eat bullets," said Henry, handing 
 over his plate for more. "They're certainly as indi- 
 gestible as cheese upon corned beef." 
 
 " You'll be deadly sick to-morrow," said the pastor, 
 "and I'll not attend your calls." 
 
 "All right," said Henry. "I wouldn't advise you 
 touch one. Pastor. You'd be a dead man in a week." 
 
 And then the dish was cleared. Annie held it up 
 triumphantly over her head. "There's American cook- 
 ery," she cried. "Hurrah for the Stars and Stripes!" 
 
 Then she said merrily that the sauce of the pudding 
 had got into her head and that, if she stayed longer, she 
 would talk too much, and would uncle mind, if she went 
 in to Anne; and she would appear again at tea-time. 
 Which was all a pretty way of contriving to leave the 
 two priests alone, for they had many deep things to 
 discuss which a young maiden's comprehension could 
 hardly reach. 
 
 When he had closed the door, Henry said, standing 
 near the fire: 
 
 "Is that the parcel you spoke of. Pastor, that came 
 prepaid from a foreign land?" 
 
 "It is," said the pastor, as just a little shade of anxiety 
 crept down on his face. 
 
 "Then I think my decision is, to keep that parcel," 
 said Henry.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 DuNKERRiN Castle 
 
 Under the same heavy pall of darkness, under the 
 same smoky mist, that seemed now to descend from the 
 heavens and again to exhale from the earth, the same 
 Christmas was spent, but not under the same conditions, 
 at Dunkerrin Castle. The half-gypsy, half-tinker tribe, 
 were all gathered together in a large room of the old 
 castle, — the grandmother of sixty bending now over the 
 fire, now over the cradle, where the youngest child was 
 sleeping; the father seated on a wooden chair smoking; 
 the children romping or fighting for the bones of the fowl 
 that had served as a Christmas dinner. There was an 
 aspect of debility about the old woman, as she bent her- 
 self almost double over the fire, contrasting strongly 
 with the erect and almost defiant attitude she assumed 
 when she went amongst the people and carried the terrors 
 of her supposed supernatural powers amongst them. 
 She was an actress off the stage, and she seemed limp 
 and broken under the weight of her years. Her son was 
 a long, lithe, active fellow, who, even in repose, seemed 
 to keep every sense and sinew on the alert against sur- 
 prise; and even now, as he smoked calmly, his eyes 
 seemed, whilst watching the flames that shot up the 
 chimney, to be afar in their vision, seeing what might 
 be even more truly than what is. 
 
 The dusky brood of children varied in appearance as 
 much as in age. The eldest girl was positively ugly; 
 yet her brother, next in age, was as beautiful as those 
 pictures that represent Ribera, the Spanish artist. Then 
 again, the girl next in age was as perfect in face and 
 
 95
 
 96 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 figure as any gypsy traditions could show; and so on, 
 down through the entire line of brown young savages 
 to the baby who cried in her cradle. 
 
 Except the noisy tumult of the children, quelled from 
 time to time by words or blows from their granddame, 
 there was no sound audible. But a trained ear would 
 catch, at regular pauses, a long, low gurgling sound, the 
 swish of the waves that this night broke softly outside 
 and then rushed tumultuously through the tunnel right 
 under the room where the gypsies were keeping their 
 Christmas. Sometimes, in the high swell and purpose 
 of the tide, the waters thundered and seemed to shake 
 to its foundation the stout old castle, and then to break 
 away in hissing volumes of water that seemed to sweep 
 the foundations with them. 
 
 The room where the family were gathered was very 
 large, square, and lofty. The floor was of stone; and 
 the roof ascended dome-like, or like a beehive, layer 
 upon layer of apparently small stones leashed on one 
 another till they closed narrowly in the summit. The 
 narrow slits that opened in and served as windows were 
 carefully blocked up with old clothes driven deep into 
 the wedges of the walls, so that not a ray of light could 
 be seen from the outside, nor could a listener or watcher 
 learn aught of what transpired within. High up on one 
 of the walls was the Gothic door, strongly iron-hinged 
 and studded with nails, through which Dr. Wycherly 
 had made his way and found his wife's supposed tresses. 
 But it looked so massive and so antiquated that a careless 
 person would deem it but a piece of mock masonry or 
 woodwork without any further use or design. Over in 
 one angle of the building was a litter of straw held in 
 place with a framework of heavy stones. Two or three 
 ragged coverlets were cast loosely upon it. A pony's 
 harness and a few boxes made up the rest of the furni- 
 ture. The larder was a niche near the fireplace; and it 
 was the one opulent thing that relieved the misery of 
 the place, for it was crammed with turkeys, geese, and
 
 DUNKERRIN CASTLE 97 
 
 chickens, which had been reported missing from many a 
 desolate fowl-yard during the past eventful fortnight. 
 
 As the night wore on, and the children's cries died 
 away, as they clambered undressed into their straw 
 couch, the eldest girl and boy alone remaining up with 
 their parents, the old woman said, in a half-querulous 
 manner : 
 
 "Get out the brandy, little Pete. Why not we spend 
 Christmas, as well as the Gorgios?" 
 
 He rose up lazily, and yet nothing loth; and was about 
 to mount a ladder toward the door that was sunk into 
 the masonry, when he paused, listened, and thought he 
 heard a footstep outside. Just then, a mighty sweep of 
 waters, borne in on the swell of the tide, hushed every 
 sound for a moment; and when there was silence, a tap 
 was distinctly heard at the door. The man hastily re- 
 moved the ladder, whilst the old woman lowered the lamp, 
 and the two eldest children looked from father to grand- 
 dame, as if asking what they were to do in the sudden 
 emergency. Then the old woman, in answer to a look 
 from her son, nodded; and he, going over, undid the bolt, 
 shot back the lock and the visitor entered. 
 
 It was Ned Kerins, proprietor of the farm, which was 
 now such a storm-centre in the parish. He seemed to 
 have taken a little drink; but was in perfect command 
 of himself, and, as he entered, he said with the half- 
 playful, half -apologetic tone of a man who knows he 
 is not welcome: 
 
 "You did not expect a visitor such a night as this?" 
 
 "A friend is always welcome," was the reply, as Pete 
 closed the door, and then stood irresolute, waiting for 
 Kerins to speak. 
 
 " I guessed so. Otherwise I shouldn't have come. But 
 I haven't come empty-handed. See!" 
 
 And drawing a bottle of whiskey from his pocket, he 
 handed it to the old woman. 
 
 " You see," he added, sitting on the box which Pete 
 had offered him, "it was lonesome up there at Crossfields. 
 fi
 
 98 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 My two protectors are now lying dead drunk, one at each 
 side of the fire in the kitchen; and I guess I should be 
 very soon like them, had I remained. Get a couple of 
 glasses, Pete, and let us drink together. It is ill drinking 
 alone." 
 
 Pete got the glasses leisurely. The old woman, whilst 
 rocking the cradle with her left-hand, kept her keen black 
 eyes fixed on their visitor. She divined that it was not 
 pleasure, nor the sense of loneliness, that drove him forth 
 from his home on such a night. 
 
 "Thou hast done ill, friend Kerins," she said at length, 
 assuming her oracular way of speaking, " in leaving thy 
 home to-night! When the wild hawk leaves his nest, 
 you will find nought but blood and feathers in the morn- 
 
 mg." 
 
 " Never fear, Judith," he cried, as the liquor gave him 
 courage. "The enemy have won one victory to-day; and 
 they will get drunk over it to-night." 
 
 "What victory?" cried the old granddame. "We 
 have not been out to-day; and news does not come but 
 slowly here." 
 
 " Better things than news seem to have come," he said, 
 laughing and nodding at the larder. 
 
 "Yes," she said, and there were anger and suspicion 
 in her tone. "The people open their hearts largely to 
 the poor at Christmas time." 
 
 "Now, don't be angry, Jude," he said, with a laugh. 
 "I'm not suspicious. And in any case, the fox always 
 kills far away from home." 
 
 "But you haven't told us what the Duggans have 
 gained," she said, waiving the question. "How have 
 they gained a victory, and over whom?" 
 
 "Oh, by Jove," he said, "over the biggest man in the 
 parish. They stopped the priest's jues to-day. Not a 
 man that entered the chapel paid a cent." 
 
 The old woman's eyes glistened with pleasure, but 
 she said: 
 
 " It is not meet for you to rejoice thereat, friend Kerins;
 
 DUNKERRIN CASTLE 99 
 
 for is it not on your account that he is at war with his 
 parishioners?" 
 
 "And I don't rejoice, friend Judith," he said, adopting 
 her mode of speech. " I only wonder that the great man 
 took his punishment so easily." 
 
 "He did?" 
 
 "Yes! he passed in without a word, although he saw 
 Dick Duggan and his confederates frightening off the 
 people. He had a young lady with him. He passed in, 
 and said not a word." 
 
 There was silence for a few seconds. The old woman 
 raked out some white ashes; and then bade her son go 
 forth and bring in fresh timber for the fire. 
 
 " Yes, you are right," she said, " in coming hither. We 
 shall make a night of it, when Pete comes in. Pull thy 
 chair nearer, and drink!" 
 
 "So, as I was saying," he continued, accepting the old 
 woman's invitation, and bending over the smouldering 
 ashes, " my men are safe to-night. And, as I was saying, 
 it is lonesome up there alone; and then, I had a fancy — 
 Where's Pete?" 
 
 "Gone for fresh fuel in the stable. He'll be back 
 presently. But you were saying? — " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I was saying, or about to say, that I had a 
 fancy to spend my first Christmas night in Ireland in 
 the place where mj^ forefathers lived. You know this 
 old castle belonged to us?" 
 
 "I know it is called Dunkerrin Castle," she replied. 
 "But I never heard that you had any rights in it." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't say that," he cried, shuffling on his rude 
 seat. " I have no rights now. But maybe, I might yet. 
 The old doctor is failing. His son, the mate, will never 
 come back to live here — " 
 
 "How do you know that, Kerins?" she said. "He 
 has been home from sea before; and you must know his 
 father intends the place for him." 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so," said Kerins. "You know more 
 about people than I do. I keep to myself always. In
 
 100 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 fact, I am surprised at my coming down here to-night; 
 but I had a fancy — Where's Pete?" 
 
 " Gone for fuel," she said angrily. " Didn't I tell you so? 
 Here, Cora, go and see where is your little father gone. 
 This man is impatient. He does not like my company." 
 
 "Now, now, Judith," said Kerins soothingly, "don't 
 be cross. I meant nothing. Don't go out, lass; the 
 night is dark." 
 
 "Oh, but she must go," said the old beldame. Then, 
 turning to the girl, she said: 
 
 "Go!" 
 
 "You see," said Kerins, "as I was saying, I had a 
 fancy for the old place — not that I'd care to live here; 
 but you see, old times and old recollections come back. My 
 father often told me that our ancestors were freebooters 
 here. They owned neither king nor country. They 
 regarded only their own kith and kin. They held all 
 this land which the old doctor holds now — by confisca- 
 tion, of course, and Crossfields, and the Duggans' farm, 
 and all the land down to Athboy. An' they used go 
 out to sea — What's that?" 
 
 " Only the tide," said Judith, as a deep roll as of thunder 
 reverberated beneath them, and the seas seemed mounting 
 up to submerge the old castle. "The son of the free- 
 booters and sea-pirates should not shiver on such firm 
 ground as this." 
 
 "I'm not afraid," he said, "and I am not the son of 
 a freebooter. I was only saying my ancestors used go 
 out to sea in their great ships by night — at least, so I 
 heard my father say — and, I suppose, they were pirates 
 and smugglers. This old place is just the place for 
 smuggling." 
 
 He did not see the fierce look of hate and suspicion 
 the old Sybil cast upon him. 
 
 "I heard of the Kerins, too," she said, calmly, dis- 
 guising her anger and fear. " I have heard it said that 
 many a man felt the point of their dirks for less than 
 what you have said to-night."
 
 DUNKERRIN CASTLE 101 
 
 "Yes! it was a word and a blow," he replied, not heed- 
 ing the threat. "They say there was a secret chamber 
 here in the old castle, where they kept their smuggled 
 goods — brandy and tobacco; and they also say, there 
 was a deep hole here somewhere, through which they 
 dropped into the tide the people they murdered. Of 
 course, these are old legends and stories that have no 
 meaning now; but it only shows what rough times these 
 were — it was all fighting and blood, every man's hand 
 against every one else." 
 
 The girl, Cora, came in, bearing in her strong arms a 
 little pile of pine logs for the fire. She was humming 
 an air Hghtly; and, as she approached the fire, and flung 
 on log by log, she broke into the familiar Romany rhyme . 
 
 Here the gypsy gemman see, 
 
 With his Romany gib, and his rome and dree, 
 
 Rome and dree, rum and dry, 
 
 Rally round the Romany Rye. 
 
 Then she rapidly changed it to the old nursery rhyme: 
 
 The farmer loved a cup of good ale, 
 
 And called it very good stingo. 
 
 There was S with a T, T with an I, I with an N, 
 
 N with a G, G with an O, 
 
 There wasSTIN GO; 
 
 And called it very good stingo. 
 
 "Where does thy little father tarry?" said Judith. 
 
 " In the stable," the girl said. "The pony is sick. He 
 is physicking the pony. Hark! there the pony stamps 
 his little foot. The pony does not like physic." 
 
 The "little father" was not physicking the pony, 
 although the pony was stamping his "little foot." The 
 "Httle father" had long since sped up the narrow path 
 that led to the chine of the hill beneath which Kerins's 
 farm lay. The "little father" had then grown more 
 cautious, for the great brown collie gave tongue when he 
 heard the strange step; but a whistle, a long, low, caress-
 
 102 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 ing whistle, subdued him, and the "little father," after 
 peering through the window, carefully entered the house. 
 It was quite true what Kerins had said. The two Defence 
 Union men were lying, heavy in drink, one at each side 
 of the fire that had now smouldered down into dead white 
 ashes. They were bulky fellows, with whom the "little 
 father" would have had no chance had they been sober. 
 But now they were at his mercy. He stooped down, 
 and picked their pockets clean of every bit of money they 
 possessed. Then, looking around, he spied their revolvers, 
 ready to hand, on the kitchen settle. These he appro- 
 priated also, having seen that they were loaded. Then, 
 driven to further covetousness by success, he put into 
 his pocket their cartridge-cases. Snap, the great brown 
 collie, seemed to protest by grumbling deeply against 
 the robbery; but he knew the "little father" well, and, 
 like many superior beings, he stifled his conscience through 
 human respect; and the "little father" patted him on 
 the head, and said "good dog!" and he took it as his 
 reward, as many a superior being would take a similar or 
 more solid bribe. Then the "httle father" lightly leaped 
 the hedge, came rapidly down the narrow path, entered 
 the stable, took up a handful of firewood, and passed 
 into the circle around the fire. 
 
 "Is the pony better, little father?" said his hopeful 
 daughter signalling to him. 
 
 "No," he said sulkily, "not much better, i' faith. I 
 doubt much if some one has not been tampering with 
 her. She's badly drabbered, I'm thinking." 
 
 "Nonsense, Pete," said Kerins rising, "no one around 
 here would drab the pony." 
 
 "If she is," said the "little father" in a fury, "many 
 a balor will be drabbered before the New Year dawns." 
 
 "Sit thee down, little father," said the old woman, 
 "sit thee down and take thine ease — " 
 
 "No, woman," he said. "What have we but that 
 httle pony in life? Take that away, an' we're on the 
 road again to-morrow."
 
 DUNKERRIN CASTLE 103 
 
 "And then Mr. Kerins could have his old castle, which 
 he says belongs to him, through long generations of free- 
 booters and sea-rovers — chamber for smuggled goods, 
 cave for dead bodies, and all." 
 
 But Kerins protested loudly. He meant nothing — 
 nothing at all. He would not take the old place, ghost 
 and all, for a song, "although, Judith," he said, "I guess 
 that ghost has as much flesh and blood as you." 
 
 If he had known how near he was to be torn by that 
 ghost, he would not have been so self-confident. But 
 Pete knew it and beckoned him forward. 
 
 "I must see you home. The nights are dark, and 
 there are dangerous people abroad. Come, Mr. Kerins, 
 I must see you home." 
 
 Kerins protested; but the "little father" was obdurate, 
 and both staggered up the rough path, or boreen, that 
 led to Crossfields. 
 
 "The Duggans are not stirring to-night," said Kerins, 
 as he looked down into the dark valley where a few lights 
 were still twinkling. Then the dog gave tongue again; 
 but, recognizing his master, he leaped and sprang upon 
 him as if he would say: 
 
 "Welcome! Where were you? Queer things have 
 been happening here, which my canine intelligence can- 
 not fathom. Now, things may be cleared up." 
 
 And when Pete laid his hand on the dog's head to 
 caress him, Snap turned away sulkily and growled. 
 
 "What has come over Snap?" said Kerins, lighting a 
 candle. "I thought he and you were great friends." 
 
 "So we are! so we are!" said Pete cheerfully. "But 
 you know dogs are dangerous at night even to friends." 
 
 But Snap had gone over, and after sniffing and mouth- 
 ing around the drunken men, he lay down between them, 
 and placed his huge head on his front paws in an attitude 
 of aggressive watchfulness. 
 
 " You see how safe everything is with such a dog," 
 said Kerins proudly. 
 
 "Yes! everything is very safe," said the "little father."
 
 104 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Goodnight!" 
 
 "Good-night!" said Kerins. "By the way, Pete, I 
 think I'll take that ugly lass of yours in service. I'll I 
 
 give her good wages, you know, and plenty of good 
 food — " 
 
 "You must ask herself," said the "little father." 
 "She has a will of her own." 
 
 He made his way home in the mist and fog; but before 
 he was half-way down the hill, he heard his daughter's 
 voice aloud on the midnight mists: 
 
 We sow not, nor toil, yet we glean from the soil 
 
 As much as its reapers do ; 
 And wherever we rove, we feed on the cove, 
 Who gibes at the mumping crew. 
 
 So the king to his hall, and the steed to his stall, 
 
 And the cit to his bilking board ; 
 But we are not bound to an acre of ground, 
 For our home is the houseless sward. 
 
 .
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A Challenge and Its Answer 
 
 "The Duggans are not stirring to-night!" said Kerins; 
 and he was right. Down there in the hollow where the 
 house nestled in its clump of trees, no Christmas lights 
 were visible, like those in the houses, scattered here and 
 there, in the vicinity. It was a sad Christmas there, and 
 the reasons were these. 
 
 No sooner did Dick Duggan and his comrades, ill- 
 disposed fellows from the neighbourhood, realize that 
 they had gained a triumph over the parish priest through 
 the terrorism they exercised over the tenantry, than they 
 also realized that they had gained a Pyrrhic victory. 
 They adjourned to a public-house in the village imme- 
 diately after Mass, and spent the afternoon drinking 
 there. But even on their way thither, they were passed 
 by silently by group after group of peasants, who, with 
 heads hung down, and sulky visages, seemed to acknowl- 
 edge their own shame, and, at the same time, to be en- 
 raged against the men who had led them into it. These 
 had all the consciousness of a great crime ; and they drank 
 heavily to drown it. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, when the night was just falling, 
 Dick Duggan made his way home, having parted with 
 his comrades just outside the village. All that day, 
 since Mass time, there were storms raging in the house- 
 hold. One of the boys defended Dick's action, and the 
 sister, with the usual illogical prejudices and temper, was 
 bitter against the parish priest. She seemed to take it 
 as a special offence that he had come to church that 
 morning, accompanied by a young lady, whom no one 
 
 105
 
 106 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 as yet knew to be his niece. The father was silent, as 
 all these men are, taking no sides, and seeming to regard 
 the whole discussion as a neutral who had no interest in 
 it. But the old woman was overwhelmed with shame and 
 sorrow; and the whole afternoon she passed from parox- 
 ysms of tears to paroxysms of anger; and it was difficult 
 to say which of these it was most harrowing to witness. 
 
 When Dick with somewhat unsteady feet crossed the 
 threshold of his home that Christmas night, it was well 
 for him that his senses were more or less dulled by drink; 
 for he could hardly have borne the torrent of contempt 
 and anger which his mother poured forth. For a few 
 moments she was silent, as if wishing to allow the spec- 
 tacle of his degradation in drink to sink into the souls 
 of her audience, and then she let loose the floods of anger 
 and hate. 
 
 "Wisha, thin," she said, facing him, as he sat inse- 
 curely on the settle in the kitchen, "isn't this nice busi- 
 ness I'm after hearing about you this morning?" 
 
 She spoke calmly, but it was an enforced calmness, as 
 if she were storing up her wrath for the final explosion. 
 
 "What?" said Dick, open-mouthed, and with watery 
 eyes trying to fix his attention on his mother. 
 
 "What?" she replied. "You don't know, I suppose. 
 You don't know, you — blagard, what the whole parish 
 witnessed to-day; and what the parish will be ringing 
 wid' whin we are in our graves." 
 
 "Wah'r you talkin' about?" said Dick, trying to be 
 angry in turn. 
 
 "I'm talkin' about you, you blagard, an' thim that 
 wor wid you this mornin' whin you insulted the minister 
 of God. To think that a child of mine should ever lift his 
 hand agin God's priesht! To think that I rared a ruffian 
 that has disgraced us forever! How can we ever lift our 
 heads agin? Or face the dacent people — we who wor 
 always respected in the parish? Where did the black 
 drop come in, I wondher, for the Duggans and Kellys 
 wor always clane and dacent people? The ould boy
 
 A CHALLENGE AND ITS ANSWER 107 
 
 must have soraethln' to say to you, you blagard; and 
 shlipped in the black blood somehow or other; for 'twas 
 never hard in our family afore that we wint again the 
 prieshts!" 
 
 "The prieshts must be taught their lesson too," said 
 Dick, waking up a little. "We're not goin' to lave 
 prieshts, nor annybody else, ride over us." 
 
 "And who was ridin' over you, you ruffian?" said his 
 mother. "What had the priesht to say to you or the 
 Yank outside? He had nayther hand, act, or part in 
 your thransactions. Well become that gintleman, who's 
 the talk of the counthry for his larnin' and knowledge, 
 to come between a parcel of amadhauns like ye, that 
 can't bless yereselves. Begor, we're comin' to a quare 
 pass, whin a gintleman like our parish priesht must 
 come down, if you plaze, and turn out wan farmer to 
 plaze another." 
 
 " He shouldn't have imployed the grabber's nephew in 
 his school," said the daughter, who took it as an insult 
 that the parish priest had not promptly yielded to the 
 popular demand. 
 
 "Indeed?" sneered the old woman. "The parish 
 priesht of Doonvarragh must consult an onshuch like 
 you, that knows no more about a school than a cow 
 does about a holiday, whinever he is to appint a school- 
 master. Wisha, thin, perhaps, you had a notion of the 
 place yerself, me fine lady! You could tache 'em pot- 
 hooks I suppose, and to say their prayers backwards, 
 like the divil; and it isn't much of that same you're fond 
 of doing. You'd rather be looking in yere looking-glass 
 than in yere prayer-book anny day, I'll warrant you!" 
 
 "There! There!" said the old man interfering, "let 
 us have some pace and aize this Christmas night, at all 
 events!" 
 
 "Tisn't I'm disthurbin' yere pace, John Duggan," 
 said his wife, "but thim that's brought shame into this 
 house. Oh, wirra! wirra!" she cried, sitting down on 
 the sugan chair near the fire, and bending herself back-
 
 108 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 ward and forward, opening out her hands in an attitude 
 of sorrow and despair, " to think that I should see the 
 day whin a son of mine would disgrace me! To think 
 that for two hundred years, no one could pint a finger 
 at the Kelly s, until now! Manny and manny a time I 
 hard my mother say, God rest her sowl ! that no wan ever 
 could lay a wet finger on a Kelly, or thrace anny maneness 
 to the family. An' sure the Duggans, too, were dacent 
 people enough. But now, now, oh! wirra! wirra! 'tis a 
 sore and sorrowful day for us ; an' a day that 'ull be remim- 
 bered. For sure, every wan knows that nayther luck 
 nor grace ever followed a family that had hand, act, 
 or part agin a priesht. An' 'tisn't to-day, nor to-morra, 
 we'll know it. Whin I'm in my cowld grave, an' the sooner 
 God takes me to himself now, the betther, praised be 
 His Holy Name! there'll be trouble an' sorra on thim 
 that come afther me — " 
 
 "There, there, Nance!" said her husband, who was 
 more deeply affected by his wife's sorrow than by her 
 anger, "what do you want makin' yersel' sick in that 
 way? Sure, what's done, is done, an' there's no reme- 
 dyin' it now!" 
 
 "That's just what throubles me, John Duggan," she 
 replied, not looking around, but still continuing her solil- 
 oquy before the fire, "that's just what's throublin' me. 
 There's no rimedy, there's no rimedy, as you say. The 
 curse of the Almighty will fall on us, and there's no hand 
 to put His back. Look at the Mullanys. I remimber 
 when they wor the finest family in the parish — fine 
 boys and bouncing girls; an' look at 'em now. Wan 
 dying of decline, another up in Cork madhouse; another 
 across the says, and no tidings of her! Look at thim 
 Condons! I remimber whin they war milkin' twinty 
 cows; and now they're glad to get a sup of milk in charity 
 from the naybors. And this d — d blagard," she cried, 
 her sorrow rising into a sudden fury, as she snatched up 
 a burning stick, and flew at him, " wid all thim examples 
 before his face — Git out of my house, you ruffian, and
 
 A CHALLENGE AND ITS ANSWER • 109 
 
 never set foot inside my dure agin. Git out, and go to 
 them that are betther company for you than your ould 
 mother, and never let me see yer face agin!" 
 
 She would have struck him with the lighted brand, 
 and he would have never resented it, so deep and awful 
 is the reverence in which these Irish mothers are held 
 by their children, but the old man interfered, and drag- 
 ging away the boy from his mother's fury, he said: 
 
 "Come out, Dick, and lave some pace here this blessed 
 night. Come out into the haggard, I say!" 
 
 The young man seemed to hesitate, but his mother said : 
 
 "Go out, as yer father bids you," she says, "or we'll 
 have blood spilt on the flure to-night. Go out, an' take 
 wid you, if you can, the curse you've brought on this 
 dacent house. An' sure wid wan like you widin the 
 walls, 'tis no place for the blessed Christmas candle to 
 be lighting." 
 
 And going over, she blew out the Christmas candle, 
 that had been burning since midnight. It seemed so 
 like the ceremony of public excommunication from the 
 Church, of which the peasantry retain very vivid, if 
 sometimes erroneous, traditions, that great awe fell on 
 the entire household circle; and, as the smoking wick 
 flared, and sank and died away, a darkness, as of death, 
 or something worse than death, fell on the place. The 
 girl fell on her knees to pray, and the men filed out, one 
 by one, into the night. 
 
 The little party of three, gathered around the pastor's 
 fire after tea, was a pleasant one. Despite the events of 
 the morning, the spirits of the two priests had risen 
 joyously; and it seemed as if his youth had been given 
 back to the old man. It might have been the presence of 
 his niece that had restored his long-lost faith in humanity, 
 for nothing seems to redeem the race except the freshness 
 and buoyancy and hope of childhood, or the ingenuous 
 charms of early youth, as yet unspoiled by self-con- 
 sciousness, or a sense of the deadly perils of life.
 
 no THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Tea was over, and they had drawn their chairs closer 
 around the fire, for though the night was warm, the cold 
 chill of damp was in the air, and there is a friendly look 
 about a fire apart altogether from its utility. Dr. William 
 Gray was in his happiest mood. Seated in his armchair, 
 and with his handkerchief spread out on his knees, and 
 with a pinch of brown snuff in his fingers, he went over 
 and recalled and narrated scene after scene in his college 
 days, told quaint stories about professors, whose names, 
 once famous, had long sunk beneath the waters of oblivion; 
 and then passing on to his priestly life, with all its varied 
 experiences, he told story after story, each one more 
 humorous, more quaint, or more tragic, than another. 
 His two hearers listened spellbound, for he was a first- 
 class raconteur, and could throw humour or pathos into 
 his voice, especially as he spoke of the contrasts between 
 his own consciousness and the deadly terror he used to 
 inspire into the minds of the people. He told of a 
 famous election, when the bribing parties used to go 
 around dressed in women's clothes to avoid recognition, 
 and how bribes used to be placed on the slabs of tombs 
 by night, and intimation be given to voters to seek them 
 in such uncanny places; and how a certain ghost used 
 to pocket those bribes, and frighten the very lives out 
 of the dishonest burgesses who sought them. And of a 
 certain night, when spies were placed by the opposing 
 parties around his house, and how he discharged an 
 ancient blunderbuss into the midst of them. And how 
 he restored to speech and hearing a certain dumb and 
 deaf impostor, by having her taken out in a boat unto 
 the deep seas, and flung overboard by the faithful mari- 
 ners. He recalled snatches of old ballads he had composed 
 at election-times, with sundry comical refrains, and topi- 
 cal allusions, which would be then unintelligible. And 
 he told also of certain weird and supernatural wonders 
 he had witnessed in the course of a long missionary career 
 — strange manifestations of the terrific powers that lie 
 veiled behind the silences of Immensity, and that rarely,
 
 A CHALLENGE AND ITS ANSWER 111 
 
 but indubitably, break through the close veil and mask 
 that hide the faces of spirits from the eyes of flesh, and 
 muffle the sound of voices that we would give worlds 
 to hear. Ah, yes! a priest doesn't reach his three-score 
 years and more without experiencing the presence of 
 many witnesses to the Unseen — ■ that awful world, that 
 lies so close around us, and envelops us in its mysterious 
 folds, but which we in vain try to penetrate by the eye 
 of intellect or the eye of sense, until we pass from the 
 shadow and the symbol unto the Truth. He spoke of 
 all such things with a certain awe and mysteriousness 
 in his voice, that deeply impressed his hearers, not with 
 a creepy feeling of dread for jabbering and gibing spectres, 
 but with that reverential sensation of holy fear which 
 such things have a right to demand. And his curate, 
 listening with all his ears to these interesting narratives, 
 spoken so calmly, almost so indifferently, by this great 
 man, caught himself wondering, again and again, whether 
 this fascinating and delightful old priest could be the 
 same as he who was shunned and dreaded by the priests 
 of half the diocese as an unreasonable and intractable 
 old autocrat, and whose name was a synonym of terror 
 in half the parishes around. 
 
 Henry Liston was sinking into a state of blissful scep- 
 ticism about human opinions in general, so amply refuted 
 by the common estimate of this man, when a loud, single 
 knock was heard at the hall-door. 
 
 There was instant silence in the group by the fire- 
 side. 
 
 "A sick-call!" said Henry Liston. "No Christmas 
 Night was ever known to pass without a sick-call." The 
 pastor looked serious. 
 
 There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and then 
 the timid knock at the door. 
 
 The old housekeeper came in and announced that a 
 man wanted to see the parish priest, 
 
 "Get his name!" said the latter. 
 
 "I think 'tis Duggan, sir!" she said, closing the parlour
 
 112 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 door gently behind her, and speaking in a whisper. " Dick 
 Duggan — and he has the sign of drink on him ! " 
 
 "That's the scoundrel that kept the people back from 
 the collection this morning," said Henry Liston, "and 
 that mocked and jeered at you." 
 
 It was an unhappy word. The pastor's forehead, a 
 moment ago calm and unruffled, drew down into an angiy 
 frown; his eyebrows bent in, and his thin lips, on which 
 a minute ago was a smile and a laugh, now grew thinner 
 and closed together in a firm, rigid line of determination. 
 After a moment's pause, he rose up and went out. 
 
 It was Dick Duggan. When he had left his father's 
 house under the sting of his mother's tongue, he had 
 wandered wildly up and down the haggart behind the 
 plantation that skirted their boundaries. The scene 
 with his mother had almost sobered him; but he was 
 tortured with misgivings about his own conduct and with 
 hate for everyone that rebuked him. One moment, his 
 temper broke into a furious storm of wrath as he recalled 
 the bitter words that had fallen from his mother's lips; 
 the next, a feeling of dreadful terror, that caused the per- 
 spiration to burst out in cold beads on his forehead, came 
 down on his abject and degraded spirit, when he remem- 
 bered the prophecy his mother uttered as to the curse 
 that was sure to fall on anyone who had opposed or 
 insulted the minister of God. It was in such a mood of 
 agony his father found him. The old man, although 
 equally bitter about the loss of Crossfields, did not sym- 
 pathize with the extreme measures all his sons, but 
 especially Dick, had taken. Yet he had a latent feeling 
 of gratitude toward him, for so zealously espousing the 
 family cause against the stranger. 
 
 "I am thinkin', Dick," said the old man, removing 
 the short pipe from his mouth, when he had recognized 
 his son in the darkness, "that we'd betther ind this." 
 
 "Ind what?" said Dick sullenly. 
 
 "Ind all this dissinsion," said his father. "We've 
 got enough of it."
 
 A CHALLENGE AND ITS ANSWER 113 
 
 "'Twill never ind," said Dick, savagely, "till the grab- 
 ber goes out of Crossfields." 
 
 "That's wan thing," said his father sententiously, 
 "and we may put it aside for the present. I'm spakin' 
 of our dissinsion with the priesht. Betther ind that." 
 
 "'Twasn't I begin it," said Dick. "Let him that 
 begin it shtop it, an' not be goin' agin the people." 
 
 " You mane about the tacher? " said his father, 
 
 "I do," said Dick. "Let him sind Carmody away; 
 an' there'll be pace in the parish." 
 
 "But, afther all," said his father, "what has the bhoy 
 done? Shure there's nothin' agin him." 
 
 "Nothin'?" said Dick, in utter amazement at his 
 father's perversion. " Nothin'? Isn't he Kerins's nephew 
 be the mother's side? Isn't that enough, an' too 
 much?" 
 
 " 'Tis bad enough," said the father, " but how can the 
 bhoy help that? Sure, 'tisn't his fault, if his uncle is a 
 grabber? " 
 
 " Yerra, what's comin' over you?" said his son, irrever- 
 ently. " I never hard them sintiments afore." 
 
 " I misbedoubt me," said his father, " but we're wrong. 
 In anny case, be said and led by me, and make your pace 
 with the priesht an' with God. You hard what your 
 mother said." 
 
 It chimed in so neatly with Dick's reflections when he 
 was not at fever-point, that he grew silent. After some 
 reflection, he said: 
 
 "What would you want me to do?" 
 
 "Make your pace with the priesht, I say," said the 
 father roughly, feeling that he was gaining ground. 
 
 " Yes, but how am I to face him? Begor, I'd rather 
 face a mad bull." 
 
 "They say he's aisy enough, af you take him aisy," 
 said his father. "The night is airly ayet. He's hardly 
 over his Christmas dinner; an' if ye were to walk down — " 
 
 "Yerra, is it to-night?" said Dick. "An' at this hour 
 of the night? Begor, he'd throw me out on my head.
 
 114 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 He's a hard man, an' you know it. Look at thim poor 
 girls of the Comerfords that he dhruv to America last 
 year; an' that poor girl of the Clancys that died of fright 
 in her confinement. He has an awful tongue; an' the 
 divil mind him if he's getting it back now." 
 
 Clearly, Dick's temper was running up to fever-point 
 again. 
 
 "Thin," he continued, "he can't lave even his curates 
 alone. There, nothin' will do him but to get poor Father 
 Conway removed, and bring that caushtheen here, who 
 ought be under his mother's wing ayet." 
 
 This uncomplimentary allusion to our young curate 
 did not please his father, who at once cut short the dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 "Very well," he said. "You won't be said, nor led 
 by me or your mother. Thin you'd betther be lookin' 
 for your night's lodgings elsewhere; for, be this an' be 
 that, you'll not shleep undher my roof till you make 
 your pace with the priesht." 
 
 And he turned away abruptly. 
 
 Thus driven unexpectedly into a corner, Dick Duggan 
 began to reflect. Clearly things were turning against him. 
 The hero of the chapel-yard in the morning was the 
 beaten coward in the haggart at night. He shivered as he 
 thought for the first time that he was homeless, and under 
 the awful shadow of a curse. But then the dread and 
 shame of facing his parish priest became overpowering. 
 Agitated and nervous, but driven by some secret and 
 involuntary emotion, he found himself on the high road 
 leading down to Doonvarragh. He strode on, not with 
 any direct object, least of all with the wish to comply 
 with his father's orders. Then, after walking a couple 
 of miles, and meeting no one, for the people never venture 
 from their own hearthsides on Christmas Night, he found 
 himself suddenly in front of the public-house, where he 
 had been drinking all the morning. He knocked rather 
 timidly; and, when invited to enter, refused, because it 
 always seems an intrusion to trespass on the privacy of
 
 A CHALLENGE AND ITS ANSWER 115 
 
 families on Christmas Night. He asked for a glass of 
 whiskey and got it, drinking it hastily outside the door. 
 He then asked the hour of night; and was told it was just 
 past eight o'clock. He then strode forward. That glass 
 of spirits was a complete knock-down blow to reason, just 
 like the sharp blow of a powerful athlete when his beaten 
 adversary is rising helplessly from the ground. Before 
 he could realize his position, he was standing in the hall 
 of the presbytery, the great figure of his parish priest 
 towering over him, and the sharp voice piercing his ears: 
 
 "Well? What do you want?" 
 
 Dick shuffled from one foot to another, and looked 
 dumbly at the priest. 
 
 Again came the sharp question, like a pistol shot in his 
 ear: 
 
 "Well, well. Come, what do you want?" 
 
 "I kem to shay — " said Dick, and stopped there, 
 paralyzed in utterance. 
 
 "I kem to shay," he repeated, awed by the ominous 
 silence, "that we wants no more dissinsions in par'sh." 
 
 "Go on," said the voice above his head. 
 
 "If you dismish Carmody, we're goin' to forgive you 
 — ever' thin'!" 
 
 The next moment, he felt his neck gripped by a giant, 
 and he was sprawling, in an instant, on the gravel outside 
 the door. 
 
 A great gloom then came down on the little circle 
 around the fire. Henry Liston rose up, and said he should 
 get away. Three miles were no joke at that time of 
 night. Annie fluttered into the kitchen, her face white 
 with alarm. Far up on the hills, John Duggan was walk- 
 ing to and fro in the thick darkness, waiting, waiting, 
 until he should welcome his repentant and forgiven son, 
 and take him into his home absolved from all sin and 
 malediction. But a lonely figure, with soiled clothes, 
 and face and hands torn and bleeding, was wending its 
 way slowly up the hill, hate and fear, fear and hate, 
 playing havoc with the soul within. And the midnight
 
 116 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 hour struck on the hall-clock, and the Pastor of Doon- 
 varragh was still striding up and down, up and down 
 along the narrow strip of carpet in his dining-room, his 
 hands tightly clasped behind his back, and his brain on 
 fire with many thoughts, the worst and best of which 
 was one of exceeding humiliation.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 His Sister's Story 
 
 St. Stephen's morning broke clear and frosty, for 
 during the night the mists had cleared, and the early 
 dawn grew cold and still in the winter starlight. Dr. 
 William Gray had to go to his church to celebrate early 
 Mass, as this was one of his days of obligation; but he 
 arranged to be back to breakfast. As usual with him 
 now in his old age, it was not the pleasant things of the 
 day before that recurred to his memory on waking, but 
 that last act which, however justified, was yet the occa- 
 sion of the deepest sorrow and humility to him. He 
 tried to forget it, to shake it off, but it would recur. He 
 was not self-disciplined enough to keep his anger in check 
 when aroused; nor to dismiss the remorse that was its 
 invariable accompaniment. The necessary attention and 
 recollection at Mass relieved his mind somewhat of the 
 strain; and it was in a better mood he returned home, 
 and sat down to breakfast with his niece. If he had 
 not been so proud and self-contained a man, he would 
 have alluded to the unhappy event that had closed the 
 simple festivities of the night before; and this would have 
 been the happiest and surest anodyne for his painful 
 thoughts. But this was not his way. Nevertheless, he 
 was comparatively cheerful, although anxious; and, 
 strange to say, his chief anxiety now was the thought, 
 what impression would that event have made on the 
 young American girl, who was now under his protection. 
 For we in Ireland have a curious reverence for the opin- 
 ion of outsiders : and a nervous dread lest we should figure 
 badly in their sight. 
 
 117
 
 118 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Not a word, however, was said about the unpleasant 
 subject; but, toward the close of breakfast, some remark 
 passed by his niece made the old man push aside his plate 
 and cup, and say: 
 
 " By the way, you haven't told me as yet about your 
 father, and your life in America. I am not curious, 
 Annie," he said, his voice taking on a gentleness that 
 was all the more affecting because so apparently foreign 
 to his character, " but, if I am to be your guardian now, 
 we must make no mistakes; and you know the past 
 always throws light on the future." 
 
 The tears started at once to the girl's eyes, for she 
 was just entering that time of life when everything be- 
 comes wonderful and mysterious, and the feelings are 
 just under the touch of speech; but she gently brushed 
 them aside, and said, with just the shadow of a sob: 
 
 "There is so little to tell. Uncle. It has all passed so 
 swiftly that my life appears to have been bunched to- 
 gether in a few short facts." 
 
 She stopped for a moment, and then said simply: 
 
 " You know father was an engineer — not a mere 
 engine-driver, you know, but a civil engineer, or archi- 
 tect. The truth is, I hardly remember him, for during 
 my childhood he was so taken up with his work that we 
 never saw him, except perhaps once a month, when he 
 would come back, worn and haggard, from some long 
 journey. He appeared to like to come home; but he 
 looked always anxious and fretful. The lives of men in 
 America are pretty strenuous. Uncle." 
 
 "So I've heard," her uncle replied. "Nervous energy 
 is calculated there by tons, not pounds." 
 
 "Somehow," the girl continued, "there seems to be 
 no rest, no lying-down, you know, and not bothering 
 about things, but letting them take their way. 'Tis all 
 rush, rush; and when one thing is done, another turns 
 up to be done. However, poor father had no rest, no 
 home. And dear mother shared the unrest. Often and 
 often, I caught her looking at me and my little brother
 
 HIS SISTER'S STORY 119 
 
 — you know I had a little brother, Billy — the dearest, 
 sweetest, little chap that ever lived. All gone — all 
 gone now — oh! uncle dear," she cried in a sudden par- 
 oxysm of grief, "where are they gone? What is it all 
 
 — what is it all?" 
 
 Her uncle made no reply. It was no time for theo- 
 logical disquisitions — only for the lonely heart to sob 
 itself into silence. After a few minutes, the girl composed 
 herself and went on: 
 
 " After Billy's death, I was sent on to school. I suppose 
 I was fretting too much about Billy. Or, perhaps they 
 thought I was getting old enough for school; but I was 
 sent on to the Loretto Convent at Niagara Falls; and 
 there I spent three years." 
 
 "Is the Convent at the Falls?" said her uncle, rather 
 to give her time to think than through any curiosity. 
 
 "Yes, practically, right over the Falls. And do you 
 know, Uncle, I think the place had as much to do with 
 my — education, or what shall I call it? — formation, as 
 even my class-work, and that was very constant, and, I 
 think, very select and high, you know!" 
 
 Her uncle nodded. 
 
 " You know. Uncle," the girl went on, " when you are 
 face to face with awful things, you grow small yourself, 
 or you shrink and become humble. Somehow, the girls 
 at Niagara were not at all like the girls you meet in a 
 city, although like myself they were all city girls. We 
 used go around with a certain awe, or strangeness, as 
 if we were living in an enchanted place. And you know, 
 if you stood over the Falls, you couldn't speak. No one 
 speaks, when looking at the Falls. It is only when you 
 come away, and the awful thunder dies away into a 
 distant rumbling, that you recover the use of speech. 
 Of course, the first nights we were there, there was no 
 sleeping. But then, the first nights at home there was 
 no sleeping either." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said her attentive uncle, "it is all habit, 
 habit, the worst and best of tyrants."
 
 120 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "But the sensation when you awoke in the morning, 
 especially in winter, when the river is full, and listened 
 to the awful rush of waters in the darkness, was almost 
 too much. You got up stunned; and it was only after 
 breakfast, you could face real work. For the noise was 
 in your ears, and the tumult was in your mind; and you 
 went around like one in a trance. You should see Niagara, 
 Uncle. Some one says that it is Niagara that makes 
 America what it is; that it is the electric throb of Niagara 
 that is felt through the entire continent, and makes the 
 Americans so wide-awake and restless." 
 
 " 'Twouldn't do, 'twould never do for us," said her 
 uncle. " 'Tis the mercy of God that we have such wet 
 skies and such a drooping atmosphere. We Irish would 
 turn the world topsy-turvy, if we had the conditions of 
 America in our midst." 
 
 "Would you?" said his niece, with open eyes. "Yes, 
 indeed," she added reflectively, " I often heard mother 
 say that father was burning himself out with brain-work 
 and anxiety. She said it was his Irish temperament. 
 But I always heard. Uncle, that the Irish were so lazy 
 at home." 
 
 "So they are! so they are!" he said grimly. "Thanks 
 be to God for that. If they ever become active, you 
 may be sure it is always on the side of mischief. If the 
 Lord shall ever divert the Gulf Stream from our coasts, 
 we shall have the prettiest lunatic asylum in the world; 
 and you know, the world itself is the lunatic ward of the 
 universe." 
 
 "Well, now," said Annie thoughtfully, "that does 
 surprise me." 
 
 And the surprise was so overwhelming that she forgot 
 her narrative, until her uncle recalled her to it. 
 
 "But what did you learn? what were your studies? 
 I see you have learned cooking, although my curate 
 has a bad headache this morning — " 
 
 "Oh, now, Uncle, that's cruel; wait till I see Father 
 Liston. I'm sure he'll admit that — well. I mustn't
 
 HIS SISTER'S STORY 121 
 
 boast. I believe it is thought here that we Americans 
 never cease boasting." 
 
 " So it is," he said. " Everything is almighty in Amer- 
 ica — from the almighty Niagara to the almighty Mis- 
 sissippi; to say nothing of the almighty dollar." 
 
 "Well, now," said the girl musing, "that is strange. 
 You see one must travel to see things rightly at home." 
 
 "Quite so," he said, with his usual sarcasm, "and that 
 is why I am giving you the opportunity first, of boast- 
 ing of your accomplishments (that's the word, I believe), 
 and then — " 
 
 " Uncle, you're really unkind. Why, I always thought 
 old priests were gentle and compassionate." 
 
 "And young priests?" he said. 
 
 "Well, you know, young priests have not seen things; 
 and you make allowances for them." 
 
 "That is good. I must tell Father Listen how com- 
 passionate you are. But, there, we are getting no nearer 
 the question, what have you learned, besides promoting 
 dyspepsia?" 
 
 "Well, a little music, some Euclid and Algebra — " 
 
 "Good!" said her uncle. 
 
 " Some knowledge of ItaHan — " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "English Literature and Composition; needlework — " 
 
 "Can you knit stockings?" he broke in. 
 
 "N — no," she said. "But I can make lovely things 
 in silk. Look, Uncle, I noticed yesterday that your 
 vestments were rather worn here in front — would you 
 let me mend them? And the altar-cloth was very poor. 
 I shall work an I H S on the front, if you will allow me. 
 And do you know — of course you don't — men never 
 see things — the finger-towels looked dirty. If you have 
 no objection, I'll overhaul the whole place soon — " 
 
 "Km!" said her uncle, beginning to see dimly how the 
 tables were being turned against him, "very good! we'll 
 see about it. Of course, you young ladies are like un- 
 fledged curates — everything is wrong, and you are the
 
 122 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 celestial and heavenly-appointed messengers to make 
 everything right. Well, we'll see! Meanwhile, what I 
 want to know is this: Did you ever learn Latin?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes!" she said. "I can read the Commen- 
 taries of Caesar and the first five books of Virgil." 
 
 "What?" he cried. "Are you serious, Annie?" 
 
 "Quite," she said, simply. 
 
 "I don't believe one word of it," he said. "This is 
 American boasting, with a vengeance." 
 
 "Well, you can try me," she said. "Have you the 
 books in the house?" 
 
 "I think so," he said, reluctantly, rising up and going 
 to his bookcase. He took down an old Delphin edition 
 of Virgil, and after dusting it, he handed it to his niece. 
 She took the ugly volume in her hands gingerly, and then 
 laid it on the table, as if it were infected. He saw the 
 gesture. 
 
 " You don't like Virgil? " he said, with a smile. 
 
 "I don't like dirt," she replied. 
 
 " Oh, a little dust doesn't matter," he replied. " Open 
 anywhere, and read." 
 
 She took up a paper-knife, and carefully opened up 
 the pages. They were water-stained and brown from 
 age; and the type was archaic. She read on, and stopped. 
 
 "What a funny old book," she said. "The ess's are all 
 effs ; and there appears to be no regard for punctuation — " 
 
 "No matter," he interrupted, "read on!" 
 
 She read slowly, but perfectly, without one false quan- 
 tity; and to his astonishment, she read as if she followed 
 the meaning, with emphasis, and also bringing out the 
 beautiful colour-sounds of the great Mantuan. 
 
 "That will do!" he said. "But why do you say, viri 
 and not 'viree'; citi, and not 'ceetee'?" 
 
 Then his niece laughed irreverently. "Ceetee," she 
 said, "Ceetee" — There's no such word here. 'Solvite 
 vela citi' — that's v/hat Virgil says." 
 
 "Very good," he replied, almost blushing under the 
 correction. "Translate now."
 
 HIS SISTER'S STORY 123 
 
 And Annie did, fluently and in excellent English, with- 
 out enervating the Latin expression. 
 
 Then he demanded the meaning and construction of 
 the sentences, the tenses and conjugations of verbs, all 
 of which the girl answered without flinching, and even 
 with ease. 
 
 "Put down that book," he said at length. "Your 
 teachers are to be congratulated. This is solid education, 
 and, Annie," he said, and paused for awhile, "God sent 
 you to me!" 
 
 The young girl was filled with emotion at the words, 
 they sounded so strange after his brusqueness and sar- 
 casm. 
 
 "Yes!" he repeated. "God sent you to me. But 
 before I explain, one question more. You haven't told 
 me how you were circumstanced after your father's 
 death, and how your mother died." 
 
 He leaned his head on one hand, and put up his hand- 
 kerchief to hide his face. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, "we were not too well off, I believe. 
 You know, father had not much time to put by capital 
 — that's the word, I believe, — and once I heard him 
 anxiously speaking to mother about railways. How- 
 ever, when he died, we had to sell our house and furniture, 
 and live in a flat. Then I went back to school; I spent 
 a few vacations with companions. Once I returned 
 home to find mother looking very ill and worn. Then 
 I was suddenly summoned to her bedside in Chicago." 
 
 Here the girl stopped. The priest drew his handker- 
 chief closer around his face. 
 
 " It was in a public hospital," the girl went on, although 
 her voice was breaking into little sobs, "and mother 
 had — not even — a private room. She could not afford 
 it, I believe. She suffered much — 'twas tuberculosis in 
 the throat — I believe — and that is bad and — danger- 
 ous. When I saw her — her face was sunken and blue; 
 and when — she turned around — and rested her eyes 
 on me — I thought I should go mad — with grief."
 
 124 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 She stopped again, partly with emotion, and partly 
 in great wonder at the silence of the man, whose face 
 was turned away from her. His silence made her go on. 
 
 " I wasn't allowed to remain — they said the place 
 was dangerous — nor even to kiss dear mother. Father 
 Falvey dragged me away, and took me to a convent, 
 where I remained, till all was over, and I was sent here." 
 
 Her uncle's face was still averted from her; and he 
 listened in silence, but God alone knew with what emo- 
 tion he listened to the narrative of the sad life ending 
 in the lonely death of that sister from whom he had 
 parted in anger so many years ago. The sorrow of the 
 thing overwhelmed him; and he now felt grateful to the 
 good priest who had sent him this young girl, to whom 
 he could make reparation for any undue harshness or 
 injustice he might have done to her mother. And then 
 he started at the thought of how near he had been to 
 the mistake, or crime, of repudiating this one great chance 
 of reparation. 
 
 " You heard me say," he replied at length, removing 
 the handkerchief from his face, "that I thanked God 
 you had come hither. There are many reasons for it; 
 but I may mention one now. I notice my sight is grow- 
 ing dim; and perhaps, after some years, I may not be 
 able to read with any pleasure. Now, all my reading is 
 in Latin — in fact, it is theology; and I have a hope that 
 you may be able to read for me, after many years — 
 after many years, if I should become — " he dared not 
 say "blind," — "unable to read myself." 
 
 " But, Uncle, how could I read theological words? I 
 guess they are quite different from Virgil — " 
 
 " Not so much as you think," he said. " I see that you 
 have acquired a wonderful knowledge of Latin for a girl 
 — wonderful ! I never thought that nuns could teach Latin 
 and Greek — do you know any Greek?" 
 
 "Not much!" she replied. "Only the Gospel of St. 
 John!" 
 
 "Only the Gospel of St. John!" he echoed. "It is
 
 HIS SISTER'S STORY 125 
 
 astonishing! I won't doubt your word again, by putting 
 you to the test. But you have no idea what a pleasure it is 
 to have some one near me who can understand such things." 
 
 " I'm sure if I can help you, Uncle," she said, " I shall 
 be very happy. And it will keep up my own knowledge." 
 
 "Quite so!" he said. "And you never know when 
 you may require it. Knowledge is always useful. But 
 you must keep up your studies. You must join my 
 evening-class now!" 
 
 "Evening-class?" she cried. "Why, Uncle, do you 
 keep school?" 
 
 "Yes!" he said smiling. "At least, I have had for 
 some time two young scholars, whom I am preparing for 
 matriculation in the Queen's College, Cork." 
 
 "Then they are young gentlemen?" she asked in a 
 tone of alarm. 
 
 "Yes!" he repHed. "Two young Wycherlys, sons of 
 a benevolent doctor, who is very kind to the poor here; 
 and to whom I owe a little return." 
 
 She was silent. She did not expect this; and she 
 didn't like it. But he wished to be candid. 
 
 "Furthermore," he said, "they are Protestants; and 
 I want to show my own people here, that if they choose 
 to annoy me, I can equally show how little I care for 
 them, and how much I can appreciate the honesty and 
 manliness of Protestants." 
 
 His voice had so suddenly taken on a ring of defiance and 
 battle, that the girl was struck silent. Strange things were 
 being revealed to her during these two days of her Irish life, 
 ■ — strange, portentous things, which were quite the reverse 
 of all she had heard from her mother about Ireland. 
 Here, where she had dreamed, even in her young soul, of 
 nothing but peace and holiness and reverence and tender- 
 ness, behold there are tumult and anger, and the sadness 
 that comes from mistrust and suspicion, raised by hot pas- 
 sion to the intensity of mutual hate. She had yet to learn 
 that behind all this were to be found perfect faith, and even 
 the " Love that casts out Fear."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Unexpected Visits 
 
 When Kerins and his protectors woke on St. Stephen's 
 morning, they soon realized that they had been visited 
 the previous night with sad results. Kerins was savage 
 with them; and they with Kerins. The whole trio were 
 very wroth with the one thing amongst them which had 
 been decent — the dog, Snap. 
 
 " What could have that — dog been doing? " said one 
 of the men. '"He's savage enough, sometimes. Come 
 here, you brute! What came over you last night, that 
 you allowed a midnight thief to come in and steal and 
 rob everything before him? Come here!" 
 
 And the great patient animal came over in his own 
 slow, dignified way, and looked up in the face of his 
 interrogator. 
 
 "Do you hear me?" said the fellow. "You are fed 
 and housed to protect us. You weren't drunk. We 
 were, as we had a perfect right to be; and we depended 
 on you, you lazy brute. You can bark and bite at sheep 
 and lambs. What were you doing?" 
 
 And Snap put his nose in the air, and emitted a low, 
 long, melancholy howl. It meant clearly: 
 
 "True. I'm an unfaithful dog. I saw the evil thing 
 done; and the evil man who did it. I saw him sneak in, 
 and prowl around, and search your pockets, and take 
 your revolvers. And I was silent. He said 'Snapl 
 Snap! Good old dog!' and I couldn't bite him. Besides, 
 what am I, but a poor dog; and how can I, with my 
 canine intelligence, understand the ways of you great 
 and god-like beings? That man, that thief, was a friend 
 
 126
 
 UNEXPECTED VISITS 127 
 
 of yours. He came in here; and eat your bread and salt. 
 I saw him smoking and drinking with you there by the 
 fire. How am I to distinguish a friend from an enemy? 
 And how was I, a poor dog, to know whether it was a 
 friend that was borrowing your money and your weapons, 
 or a thief that was steahng them?" 
 
 But this howl of argument, this canine apology, was 
 not accepted by the superior being, who kicked the poor 
 brute into a corner, and left him, sore and whimpering 
 there. 
 
 "Let Snap alone," said Kerins, angrily. "He's not 
 your dog. He's mine. And it was not his fault. 'Twas 
 your own. How often have you been warned to keep 
 yourselves right in these dangerous times, and with such 
 dangerous neighbours?" 
 
 "Well, master," said the fellow. "I guess you are as 
 much to blame as us, though you were cute enough to 
 keep yourself all right. But it seems quare that Snap, 
 who will bite a hot iron when he's roused, never gave 
 tongue last night." 
 
 " You were too dead drunk to hear him," said Kerins. 
 "When I came home at midnight, all the artillery of 
 England couldn't wake ye." 
 
 "Then you went out and left us here unprotected?" 
 said the fellow. 
 
 "Yes! I ran down to the old castle for an hour," 
 said Kerins, "an' whin I came back, there ye were, as 
 dead drunk as logs, and Snap between you." 
 
 "Well, there's no good wastin' words over it now," 
 said his protector. " It was a frind,^' he laid much stress 
 on the word, "not an inimy, that cleaned our pockets, 
 and took our barkers. But we'll find him out. By G — 
 we will; and thin it will be a bad night's work for him." 
 
 The fellow was savage from his losses; and still more 
 from the insult offered. These men terrorized the coun- 
 try, and to look crossly at them was a legal offence. And 
 now, some rascal had the courage, the absolute courage, 
 to steal into a prohibited place, defy the law of the land,
 
 128 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 and actually lay sacrilegious hands of theft on its lawful 
 representatives and defenders. It was too bad. And 
 they were determined to resent and revenge it. 
 
 Hence, a few days afterwards, as old Mrs. Duggan was 
 throwing out some refuse into the fragrant pit before 
 the door, she was startled at seeing the local sergeant 
 of police and a constable entering the yard. They came 
 slowly along; and then courteously knocked on the half- 
 door. Being bidden to enter, they politely showed a 
 warrant for the search of the premises. 
 
 " Yerra," said the old woman, " an' what are ye search- 
 in' fur?" 
 
 "Well, that's our business, ma'am," said the constable, 
 "which we'll tell you if we finds anythin'." 
 
 The men were out; and only the old woman and her 
 daughter were present; but the two officers were very 
 gentle and respectful; and, although they made a thorough 
 search, and overhauled everything in the place, they 
 discovered nothing but an old, disused gun, which, 
 although it was held without a license, was so utterly 
 worthless that they disdained to take it away with them. 
 
 " Now, I can tell you what we came for," said the man. 
 "There was a robbery committed next door on Christ- 
 mas Night — a double robbery of money and arms ; and 
 suspicion naturally fell upon your house, as your people 
 are at variance with Kerins." 
 
 " Well, thin," said the old woman, flaring up in defence 
 of the honour of her household, " whoever sot ye upon us 
 knew nothin' of us an' ours. 'Tis thrue that we have a 
 variance with this Yankee man; but none of our seed, 
 breed, or generation wor ever guilty of robbing and 
 Stalin'. I expect 'twas thim blagards theirselves, when 
 in their dhrink, lost their money and their guns; for, 
 begor, they're never sober, night or day; an' whin they're 
 dhrunk, faix we're afraid to go outside the dure, for fear 
 we'd have the heads blown aff of us." 
 
 "Well," said the sergeant, "at least, we can say we 
 have found nothing to incriminate any of your family.
 
 UNEXPECTED VISITS 129 
 
 But, as a friend, I'd advise the boys to be careful of them- 
 selves. They're saying things, that, if anything happens, 
 will tell with a jury, against them." 
 
 "Thank you kindly," said the old woman, gratefully. 
 "But I'm afeard we'll never know pace agin here." 
 
 The same afternoon (it was early in the New Year), 
 one of the leading members oi the Defence Union, whose 
 representatives were lodged with Kerins for his defence, 
 called on the parish priest. It was the first time a land- 
 lord had ever crossed the threshold of nis door; for, 
 although he was known to be a strenuous and bigoted 
 supporter of law, whether civil or ecclesiastical, and knew 
 no cause for dispensation, and no excuse for revolt, 
 meeting every objection with the iron formula: It is the 
 Law! nevertheless it was also known that he was, in 
 every sense, the father of his people, and their stern 
 defender against oppression of any kind. It is a position 
 which, in Ireland, is scarcely understood by those who 
 have landed interests in the countiy, or even by the 
 people themselves. If a priest utters a word in defence 
 of his people, he is at once reputed an agitator and rev- 
 olutionary; if he opposes the popular will from reasons 
 of conscience, he is set down by the people as a friend 
 of their oppressors, and by the governing classes of the 
 country as a conservative ally. The character of Dr. 
 William Gray seems unintelligible — a protector of his 
 people and keenly alive to their interests, yet a strenu- 
 ous supporter of law, and an equally strenuous opponent 
 of lawlessness. And yet, this is what he was during life, 
 and consistently to the end. 
 
 He treated his visitor with all the courtesy due to his 
 rank, bade him be seated, and waited. The latter, with 
 some embarrassment, made apologies for his intrusion, 
 spoke on a few indifferent topics, and then came to the 
 object of his unusual visit. He was somewhat awed by 
 the appearance of this grave man, who, silent and motion- 
 less as a "tatue, gazed steadily through the window, a 
 look of stern expectation in his great gray eyes. 
 10
 
 130 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "I do not know if you consider my visit inopportune 
 or unexpected," he said at length, "but I came to say, 
 on behalf of myself and my colleagues, how grateful we 
 have reason to be to you for the stand you have taken 
 against disorder and lawlessness in your parish." 
 
 There was an awkward pause, his listener remaining 
 still motionless staring through the window. 
 
 The gentleman continued: 
 
 "It seems to us, that if all the ministers of religion 
 in the country had adopted the same attitude, things 
 would not have come to the present pass." 
 
 "That is," said his host, "things would have remained 
 as they were?" 
 
 "Well, I mean," said the other, "that whilst the rela- 
 tions of the people toward the governing authorities 
 might have been improved by slow and constitutional 
 methods, we would not have been plunged into a violent 
 revolution." 
 
 " I am quite with you there," said Dr. Gray, now lean- 
 ing back in his chair, and spreading out his handker- 
 chief, and taking up his snuff-box; "but would you inform 
 me, what slow and constitutional methods were being 
 taken by the landlord class, or by the government, to 
 better the awful condition of our poor people?" 
 
 "Well, I thought," said the other, somewhat embar- 
 rassed, "that things were improving; large reductions 
 in rent were being given; and the country appeared to 
 be prospering, until the agitator and the professional 
 politician came on the stage." 
 
 "I want to make a small diversion from this pleasant 
 subject," said Dr. Gray. "Would you mind telling me 
 where you graduated; for I think you have had a uni- 
 versity training." 
 
 "In Cambridge," he replied. "I am an M. A. of Cam- 
 bridge." 
 
 " That clears matters a little," said Dr. Gray. " I was 
 afraid you had never been outside of Ireland, like so 
 many of the gentry of the country, and argument there
 
 UNEXPECTED VISITS 131 
 
 is hopeless. Now, would you mind telling me, what 
 country, and what age, was ever free from agitators and 
 professional politicians?" 
 
 Then he added, holding up his fingers: 
 
 "Utopia!" 
 
 '"Tis true," said the other, reflectively. "But there 
 is something especially rabid and sinister about Irish 
 agitation." 
 
 "That's because you are personally concerned," said 
 Dr. Gray. "So far as my Hmited reading goes, this 
 land revolution in Ireland has been effected with infi- 
 nitely less violence than any revolution in history." 
 
 "You really surprise me, Dr. Gray," said the land- 
 lord. "I have been under the impression that it has 
 been the most truculent and unjust agitation ever re- 
 corded." 
 
 "Then I'm sorry to say that you have read history 
 to little effect," said Dr. Gray. "You, the gentry and 
 nobility of Ireland, have been in exactly the same posi- 
 tion toward the people as the aristocracy of France 
 during the reigns of Louis XIV and Louis XV, with this 
 difference, that the oppression of the people, the grind- 
 ing-out of all the best elements of human life, and the 
 absorption of these elements by one class, selfish and 
 unprincipled, lasted for the space of two reigns in 
 France; in Ireland, it has lasted for centuries." 
 
 "Pardon me," said the other. "But was not your 
 Church on the side of the Government then — and on 
 the side of 'law and order'?" 
 
 "Yes!" said the other bitterly, his stern face assuming 
 a sterner aspect. "And so much the worse for our 
 Church! It forgot its place as the protector of the poor; 
 and it has suffered a fearful retribution to this day!" 
 
 He was silent for a while with emotion; because it was 
 one of the subjects on which he felt deeply. But recol- 
 lecting himself, he said: 
 
 "You remember what a revenge the French took!" 
 
 The other nodded.
 
 132 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Compared to the Irish, it was the revenge of wolves 
 to the harmless bleatings of sheep." 
 
 "They have beggared us!" said the landlord, gloomily. 
 
 "It is not they," said the priest, "it is the economics 
 of the age that have reduced your income. The steam- 
 ship and the telegraph have beggared you. You have 
 no more reason to complain than if you lost your money 
 from a fall in stocks, or any other daily change in the 
 money-market." 
 
 "Well," said the landlord, rising, "Whatever be the 
 value of your arguments, there is one consequence, which, 
 as an Irishman, and I am an Irishman, I deplore. I used 
 to hear my father talk of his people, how loyal, how 
 honourable, how scrupulously exact they were in matters 
 of honesty. I am afraid that, too, has changed. I am 
 afraid that fine sense of honour has been expelled from 
 the hearts of the people; and that, having succeeded in 
 poHtical dishonesty, they are now becoming personally 
 dishonest in their dealings." 
 
 The face of the priest flushed with anger; but, in a 
 moment, the terrible truth flashed in upon him. Could 
 he contradict this man? The latter went on: 
 
 "In fact, sir, what has brought me here to-day is, to 
 take cognizance of an act of vulgar robbery committed 
 here on Christmas Night." 
 
 "What?" said the priest. "I have not heard of it." 
 
 " Probably not," said the other. " But it occurred." 
 
 " Sit down," said the priest gloomily. " Yes, things 
 are looking bad there." 
 
 "On Christmas Night," repeated the landlord, "some 
 fellow, or fellows, broke into Kerins's house, in his absence, 
 stole my men's revolvers, and then — their watches; and 
 then — their money." 
 
 It was bad news; but a thought occurred to the priest. 
 
 " Could your men be making a case? " he asked. " For 
 you know that is quite possible." 
 
 "I cannot say that I like the insinuation, sir!" he said, 
 feeling that to have a grievance is to stand on firm ground.
 
 UNEXPECTED VISITS 133 
 
 " But, allowing it to be possible, do you think these men 
 would like to go unarmed in the midst of a hostile popu- 
 lation; and be supplied with new revolvers at their own 
 expense?" 
 
 "No!" said Dr. Gray. "I am sure they wouldn't like 
 to be compelled to pay anything, from all that I have 
 heard. But, whom do you suspect?" 
 
 "Naturally, suspicion falls in one quarter," said the 
 landlord. " We have obtained a search-warrant for the 
 Duggans; and I'm sure that they are the robbers." 
 
 "I think you are mistaken," replied the priest. "The 
 Duggans are a rough, passionate lot; but I doubt if any 
 of them would descend so low as to steal." 
 
 "Well, we shall see," said the other, "I must now 
 bid you Good-day! and allow me to thank you for your 
 courtesy in according me this interesting interview, and 
 also for your firmness in dealing with disorder in your 
 parish, though you may deprecate it." 
 
 And then he added, in an undertone, as if speaking 
 to himself: 
 
 "What a pity we cannot understand each other 
 better!" 
 
 " Yes!" said the priest. " 'Tis a pity! And when men 
 like you, cultivated and well read, and with all the ad- 
 vantages of a university education, fail to understand us, 
 Where's the hope?" 
 
 He had led his visitor to the door. The latter paused 
 there for a moment. He was thinking, in a half-con- 
 scious manner, of how pleasant it would be, if he could 
 repeat that visit, and see more of this man, whose cour- 
 age and intelligence seemed to fascinate him. Every 
 emotion seemed to press toward a renewal and continuance 
 of such happy relations. But, education, prejudice, 
 human respect, dread of criticism, rose up at once, and 
 said : " Nay ! this must not be ! The thing is quite im- 
 possible!" 
 
 He hastily said. Good-bye! and strode along the 
 gravelled walk toward the gate.
 
 134 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Something similar, too, was agitating the sensitive 
 and emotional nature of the priest. 
 
 "What a pity," he thought, "that we can never under- 
 stand each other! Now, here's a man who thinks on a 
 hundred subjects even as I. We could meet, and discuss 
 the classics, science, human history, even theology; and 
 it would be a mutual pleasure. Again, he thinks as I 
 do on the subject of Law, — great and mighty conserv- 
 ator of the Universe and of men, — and we might 
 co-operate and ally our forces on the side of righteous- 
 ness and morality. And yet 'tis impossible — as impos- 
 sible as to transfer yonder ocean to yonder hills, or bring 
 down her satellite to the earth." 
 
 And then the subject struck him of the odious charge 
 he had brought against the people of the parish. Could 
 it be true? Had the people gone down so low as to have 
 become mere vulgar thieves and pickpockets? He saw 
 clearly the terrific change that was coming over the people 
 — the people, so dear to the heart of every Irish priest. 
 He saw the old spirit of loyalty to each other disappear; 
 and a new hateful spirit of distrust and suspicion arising. 
 He saw how the "ould dacency " was gone — that manly, 
 honourable feeling that existed beforetimes in the hearts 
 of the people, and would make them rather suffer death 
 than dishonour. He knew that men now shirked their 
 lawful obligations, and defied shopkeepers to attempt to 
 recover their debts by decrees. In a word, the terrible 
 truth came back, enunciated by this landlord, that 
 having succeeded in their political struggles, they had 
 lost, or were losing, the sense of personal obligations; 
 and he groaned in spirit. He knew well that the canker 
 of modern greed had eaten into the hearts of the people; 
 and that the soul was nearly dead. And yet — thieves, 
 midnight thieves, pickpockets? No! he refused to be- 
 lieve that.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A Great — Artist 
 
 Notwithstanding his sarcastic remarks on Henry 
 Listen's projected improvements, the good pastor was 
 determined to make his young curate happy; and, as 
 one of the elements of happiness is a comfortable house, 
 he deputed a certain contractor in the neighbouring town 
 of M — to send up painters and paper-hangers to the 
 curate's house at Athboy, with definite instructions, 
 however, that things should be done on a more modest 
 scale than the ambition of his young confrere desired. 
 And as the contractor just then was short of hands, he 
 was obliged to send a combination of painter and paper- 
 hanger in one person, named Delaney, or rather Delane. 
 This person, however, was quite equal, both in dignity 
 and efficiency, to the double role. He had been in Lon- 
 don, serving his time to some master-painter, and he had 
 had marvellous experiences which seemed to change and 
 develop according to the nature of the place in which he 
 happened to be at work. He had an impressive manner, 
 rather supercilious, until he brought his subjects to his 
 feet, when he relaxed a little; and he had a face that 
 would not be considered remarkable in Italy, but which 
 should have made his fortune anywhere outside that 
 favoured land. 
 
 It was a handsome face — the real, artist face, inher- 
 ited from his Irish mother; but, from one cause or another, 
 the pale cheeks looked a little puffed, and slightly pitted; 
 and the thick, black hair, that fell artist-like on his neck, 
 was streaked with premature gray. 
 
 But his was an impressive and attractive face; and 
 
 135
 
 136 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 when, the first morning of his arrival, he made the house 
 resound to some choice pieces from La Traviata and 
 Sonnambula, the little servant, Katie, whom Henry 
 Liston had brought hither from his native town, was 
 prepared, like the Count in the song, " her heart and her 
 fortune [that is, the entire contents of her master's 
 larderl to lay at his feet." There were some reasons, 
 however, why he was able to resist the dual temptation. 
 It appears, as he afterwards in confidence told the young 
 priest, that he was a blighted being, that he had already 
 had an affair of the heart, which had brought the silver 
 into his hair; and (but this was not a confidence, only 
 an after-revelation) he had a decided predilection for 
 liquid over solid refreshments. 
 
 This soon became apparent, although the young priest 
 was anxious to close his ej'es against the fact. Because, 
 as he read his Office this first morning in the little parlour, 
 which he intended to make his library and study, he 
 became suddenly aware that the singing in the room at 
 the other side of the hall had ceased. Yielding to a 
 slight feeling of curiosity, he crossed the hall. The 
 artist had vanished. A pile of paint-boxes was on the 
 floor, and a few brushes. A painter's apron was flung 
 over an arm-chair, and a ladder leaned against the wall. 
 
 Henry Liston pulled the bell, and Katie appeared. 
 
 "Where's the painter gone?" he said. 
 
 "I don't know, sir!" she replied. "I thought he was 
 here." 
 
 Henry went back to read his Office. 
 
 About noon, the artist strolled leisurely in, and com- 
 menced an aria, just where he had left off at ten o'clock; 
 and when the young curate entered the room, he was 
 leisurely sorting paint-cans and brushes. 
 
 "I thought you'd be half way through your work by 
 this time," said Henry, not without some trepidation, 
 as the artist calmly went on doing nothing. "And do 
 you know, Delane," he continued, " I fear you have been 
 drinking."
 
 A GREAT— ARTIST 137 
 
 The artist looked calmly down on the young priest, 
 and said: 
 
 ''No, sir, not drinking, oh, no! Trying to get up an 
 artificial stimulation of the blood in the brain for this 
 important work? well, yes! I may admit that." 
 
 "Do you mean that you cannot work without stimu- 
 lants?" said Henry. 
 
 "No, sir," said the artist. "I don't mean that. I 
 can do ordinary work in an ordinary manner. But, 
 where there is a severe mental strain, I need the help of 
 stimulants, — in a moderate manner, in a moderate 
 manner." 
 
 "But where's the severe mental strain here?" said 
 the bewildered Henry. "You have got to hang some 
 paper and paint some wood-work, that's all ! " 
 
 The artist laughed loud and long, and somewhat 
 sardonically. 
 
 "Well, sir," said he, recovering himself with an effort, 
 " as the poet says : 
 
 Where ignorance is bliss, 
 'Tis folly to be wise I 
 
 There's no use arguing that question. Here are the 
 cans; here is the oil; here are the brushes; and here is 
 my palette. Now, here also is the exact tint in which 
 the architraves and panels are to be painted. Would 
 you be pleased, sir, to mix them for me? " 
 
 "I'd rather not," said Henry, drawing back. "'Tis 
 a trade I haven't learned." 
 
 "Not a trade, sir!" said the artist gravely, and with a 
 slightly offended tone. "Not a trade — an Art if you 
 please!" 
 
 "All right!" said Henry. "But if it is an Art, I pre- 
 sume you have been initiated in it, and that now it comes 
 as easy as walking." 
 
 The artist again laughed loud and long. Henry was 
 slightly disconcerted. He began to feel his inferiority. 
 
 "Did you ever hear of an artist named Tintoretto?"
 
 138 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 said the great man, pouring out a little dust on his palette, 
 and moistening it. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said Henry. "Often!" 
 
 "Do you know why he was called Tintoretto?" queried 
 the artist. 
 
 "No!" said Henry. "I suppose from the place in 
 which he was born ! " 
 
 "No, sir! but because of his marvellous power of dis- 
 tinguishing colour in all its beautiful shades. I belong 
 to the school of Tintoretto!" 
 
 "Do you really?" said the curate, with open eyes. 
 
 "Yes, sir!" he said, as if he would like to speak mod- 
 estly, but circumstances were compelling him to be 
 boastful. "I have studied in that school. Titian for 
 colour — crude, raw colour. Raffaelle for design — ! " 
 
 "Ah, Raffaello," broke in Henry, with enthusiasm. 
 "The master-mind of all!" 
 
 The artist grew suddenly silent and even solenm. He 
 wasn't exactly offended. He only felt as if a youngster 
 had blundered badly; and he was called upon, as a matter 
 of conscience, and against his will, to whip him. 
 
 "I don't think much of Raffaelle!" he said sadly. 
 
 "What?" said Henry Liston. "Raffaello of the Car- 
 toons — Raffaello of the Sistine Madonna; Raffaello of 
 the — the — why, next to Michael Angelo, he is reputed 
 the master-artist of the world ! " 
 
 "Ah!" said the artist sadly, "there's the amachure 
 again!" 
 
 And a deep silence followed, — the curate extinguished; 
 the artist sadly mixing colours on his palette. Suddenly, 
 an idea seemed to strike him, as he felt there was no use 
 in carrying on a conversation in Art with the " amachure." 
 
 "The walls have not been prepared, sir!" he said, 
 pointing to the walls of the room. 
 
 "Prepared?" said Henry. "How? by whom?" 
 
 "These walls should have been prepared by some 
 labouring person," said the artist. "The old paper torn 
 down, the walls smoothed, etc.''
 
 A GREAT— ARTIST 139 
 
 "Why, that's your work!" said Henry dubiously. 
 
 "My work?" said the artist. "My God, sir," he con- 
 tinued, " this is too bad. I never work except where the 
 place is prepared by one of these labouring persons. Have 
 you a labouring person around the premises? It's an 
 awful waste of time." 
 
 And he looked at his watch. 
 
 In despair, Henry ran out to fetch in his man-of-all- 
 work, Jem. The artist vanished. 
 
 Jem came in reluctantly. He had been smoking 
 leisurely in the stables, and contemplating space. 
 
 "This painter," said the curate, "expects this place 
 to be prepared for him. We must pull down all that 
 paper and clean up the place. Where is he? Where's 
 Delane?" 
 
 "Where is he?" said Jem, sulkily. "Where is he, but 
 where he always is, his head stuck half-way into a pint 
 down at the 'Cross'?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" said Henry Liston. "Don't say that! 
 I found him a most intelligent man. He has read a 
 good deal." 
 
 "He's the biggest blaggard in Munster," said Jem. 
 "He'd drink the say dry!" 
 
 "Well," said the curate, taking off his coat. "Here 
 goes! As no one else will do it, I must do it myself." 
 
 And Jem got ashamed of himself, when he saw his 
 master in his shirt-sleeves; and both set to, and had the 
 whole place in fair order when the artist returned. 
 
 "Ha!" said the latter, carefully scrutinizing the work, 
 and passing his hand over the wall to find any roughness 
 or stubborn shreds of wall-paper. "Very good, very 
 good, indeed! Very good for a labouring person!" 
 
 "That question of labouring persons, sir!" he said, 
 when Henry returned, clothed and washed and in his 
 right mind, " is the question of the future. It is loom- 
 ing up like a thunder cloud on the horizon and some 
 day it will break, and shed fire and brimstone on the 
 land."
 
 140 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "I think if you commenced here!" said Henry, pointing 
 to the wall near the fireplace. 
 
 The artist shook his head; took his brush and made a 
 dab of paint near the door; and then retired to the window 
 to see the effect. It was not quite satisfactory. 
 
 "As I was saying to you about Raffaelle," he said, 
 rubbing out the paint, and shedding some fresh powder 
 on his palette, "he is very much overrated. Michael is 
 not so bad. But Sanzio is overrated." 
 
 Here he made another dab, retreated to the window 
 and shook his head, and took up his palette again. Henry 
 sat down in despair. 
 
 "When I was in London, the master-painter said to 
 me one day, 'Delane,' he said, 'you have no business 
 here. You are an artist, not a tradesman. I see it in 
 your eye. I see it in the contoor of your face. Now, 
 you are to go every day to South Kensington; and sit 
 down. You are to do nothing, but rest your weary 
 brain, and study the works of the masters. Look at 
 no inferior picture,' he said. 'It will ruin your genius 
 and your taste. Keep a steady eye on the masters. 
 Your wages will be paid as usual ' — " 
 
 "By Jove! that was generous!" said Henry Liston, 
 forgetting himself, and carried on by the gracious hum- 
 bug that was addressing him. 
 
 "Well," said the artist coolly, "it was, and it wasn't. 
 He expected a reward. He expected to turn out the 
 greatest mind of the century." 
 
 " 'Twas a pity he was disappointed," said Henry. 
 
 "He was," said the artist, "but the fault was not 
 mine. I was blighted in the bud." 
 
 The "memory of the past" struck him silent, and 
 Henry noticed, with much sympathy, that he took out a 
 particularly dirty handkerchief, and stealthily wiped 
 away a tear. It was too pathetic; and Henry to relieve 
 the tension of sympathy asked him to continue his narra- 
 tive. He sniffed a little, gave a little cough, and went on : 
 
 "As I was saying, sir, I went every day to the Gallery;
 
 A GREAT— ARTIST 141 
 
 and, as I had been ordered, I sat down and studied. 
 Round about me, a crowd of amachures, ladies and gentle- 
 men, were looking, watching, daubing, and spoiling acres 
 of canvas, in front of the Cartoons. I watched, studied, 
 and — was silent. One day, as I was about drawing 
 my final conclusions about these Cartoons, a gentleman 
 paused, and stood by me. 'I notice,' he said, 'that you 
 have been here every day for some weeks, studying 
 the Cartoons; and I also noticed, if you will pardon the 
 observation, that you have the artist face — I see it 
 in your nose, in your eye, in the contoor of your head, in 
 the back of your poll, in the short upper lip that betokens 
 genius and high breeding. Now, I am anxious to get an 
 impartial and honest opinion about these pictures. There's 
 no use in asking these,' he said, pointing to the rabble 
 around, 'but what is your candid opinion? Fear not. 
 I am your friend.' Thus encouraged, I stood up, and, 
 after some deliberation, I said: 'I don't think much of 
 them!'" 
 
 "What?" said Henry Liston. "In the face of the 
 whole world?" 
 
 " In the face of the whole world," said the artist calmly, 
 " and in the face of the stars, and in the face of the firma- 
 ment, and the waters above the heavens, and the waters 
 beneath, I said: 'I don't think much of them!'" 
 
 "That was a bold thing to say," replied Henry. "Of 
 course, you gave the gentleman your reasons." 
 
 "Certainly," said the artist. "I never give an opinion 
 without reasons. I said, 'You see those Cartoons, their 
 colouring, their lights and shades?' 'Yes,' he said. 'Do 
 you think,' I said, 'that these are the tints of the East, 
 the East with all its vivid colours, strong whites, burning 
 reds, etc.?' 'No!' he said, 'they are not. These are 
 all pale drabs, and greens, and sickly yellows.' 'Don't 
 you see,' I said, 'that the whole thing wants Orientaliza- 
 tion?' 'Yes,' he said. 'You're right.' I had him now 
 on the hip. 'Now, look at those figures,' I said: 'Are 
 these the figures of Jewish fishermen, or Roman coal-
 
 142 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 heavers or stevedores?' 'By Jove, you're right again,' 
 he said. I saw I had now the victory, and I pressed it 
 home. 'Did any one ever see a Jew with these gladia- 
 torial muscles, those firm-set, square jaws, those curly 
 pates? Is not the strength of the Jew in his brains, not 
 in his muscles? Are these rough, coarse, muscular 
 labourers the men who are to change the face of the world?' 
 'What is your name?' he said. 'Delane,' I said. 'Any- 
 thing to Delane of The Times?' ' Well,' I said, not caring 
 much to pursue the connexion, 'I believe there is some 
 consanguinity, but I prefer to stand on my own legs.' 
 'This is my card,' he said, handing me his card. 'Any 
 time you call at my house, I shall be happy to see you.' 
 He went away, and I looked at the card." 
 
 "Well?" said Henry, breathless with excitement. 
 
 " 'Twas the card of the first financier in Europe," said 
 the artist. "I said to myself, 'Delane, your fortune is 
 made!'" 
 
 "And why wasn't it?" said Henry Liston, 
 
 "Why? Oh, why?" echoed the artist in a passionate 
 tone. " Why was Troy taken and burned to the ground, 
 and old Father Anchises put to death? Why did Antony 
 — Mark Antony throw up his kingdom? Why was 
 Ireland lost?" 
 
 He stopped dramatically; and Henry Liston thought 
 that as these were rhetorical questions, they needed no 
 answer. But, suddenly, the artist passed into a paroxysm 
 of despair. He struck his forehead violently with his 
 left hand, then covering his eyes with his right hand, he 
 allowed palette and brushes to fall rattling to the ground, 
 whilst he exclaimed: 
 
 "Oh, Nina, Nina, thou peerless one, why didst thou 
 come between me and my Art?" 
 
 And flinging off his apron with a gesture of despair, 
 he rushed violently from the room. 
 
 When Henry Liston had recovered from his fright, he 
 ventured to look. The artist was moving at the rate 
 of ten miles an hour toward "The Cross."
 
 A GREAT— ARTIST 143 
 
 That evening Henry Liston was tormented by the 
 doubt, whether this artist was a consummate black- 
 guard, as Jem declared; or a genius, but one of that 
 unfortunate tribe, who could never come to any good 
 in this world, nor probably in the next. There was no 
 doubt that he had a strong predilection for bottled porter, 
 and an equally strong desire to shirk his work; but Henry 
 Liston was a sympathetic soul, and he had been lately 
 reading a very pathetic book called Men of Genius, in 
 which all the tragedies of life seemed to hang on the foot- 
 steps of every poor fellow who had the unhappy dower 
 of brains. Now, Henry Liston did not sympathize with 
 the attitude which the world assumed toward men of 
 genius. It kicked them from its doors when alive, and 
 bade them go down and get their sores licked by the dogs; 
 but the moment they were dead, this "world" flung 
 itself into a paroxysm of remorse, and insisted on raising 
 marbles and other heavy materials to their deified memory. 
 It occurred to Henry that one kind word spoken during 
 life might be worth more to these poor tramps from 
 Heaven than a column of adulation in the morning 
 newspapers, when they lay stark and stiff in their shrouds; 
 and that a morsel of bread or a stoup of wine might have 
 been better bestowed on these poor mortal waifs when 
 alive, than a bust of bronze in the market-place when 
 dead. 
 
 Then he had also read how humble people, like himself, 
 were handed down to immortality amongst men, because 
 they had linked arms with genius even once; and how 
 after ages, with tears in their stony eyes, blessed the 
 memory of those who had been kind to the immortals. 
 Hence, he had made up his mind, that as Fate had thrown 
 him across the pathway of genius, no future generations 
 should blaspheme him for coldness or unkindness to a 
 gifted child of the gods. But work had to be done. 
 The pastor, who was quite insensible to such lofty emo- 
 tions, might come in at any moment, and demand in 
 a hurtful manner, why his work was not carried forward.
 
 144 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 So Henry Listen, who had been reading in the Life of 
 Sidney Smith, how that wit and philosopher had cheated 
 his horse into working by tying a peck of oats around his 
 neck, which he pursued all day long and never overtook, 
 conceived a brilliant idea of decoying the artist into 
 something like a day's decent labour. He allowed time 
 for the experiment, however; and the following day he 
 did not interfere at all, but left the artist to himself. 
 He found that, at the lowest calculation, the latter had 
 visited "The Cross" at least six times during the day; 
 and he found the sum-total of his day's work was one 
 wall faintly tinted. 
 
 When six o'clock struck, and the artist promptly 
 obeyed its summons to rest, Henry accosted him. 
 
 "I quite agree, Delane," he said, "with what you 
 stated yesterday as to the necessity of stimulating the 
 brain, when engaged in delicate and fancy work; but I 
 noticed that you had to — ahem, rest six times to-day, 
 and as each interval occupied half an hour, there were 
 three hours lost out of your day's work." 
 
 "Lost? No, sir! Not lost," said the artist compas- 
 sionately. "The energies newly granted on each occa- 
 sion to the fagged and weary brain more than made up 
 for lost time." 
 
 "And this is the sum-total of to-day's work?" said 
 Henry, pointing to the wall. 
 
 "Quite so, sir!" said the artist. "I consider that 
 that approaches as near perfection as it is possible for 
 the human mind to accomplish." 
 
 "Perhaps so!" said Henry Liston. "But I should 
 like to see a little more done. At this rate, it will take 
 to Easter to finish." 
 
 "Ha! there's the Celtic impetuosity again," said the 
 artist. " The fatal flaw in the Irish character — the 
 desire to get things done, no matter how. The total 
 repugnance to the pains that spell perfection." 
 
 Henry Liston was abashed in the sight of such genius. 
 Nevertheless, he made his little Droposal.
 
 A GREAT— ARTIST 145 
 
 "Well, now/' he said, "I am making a proposal that 
 I think you'll accept. To-morrow at noon, Katie will 
 have dinner ready for you. I shall allow you a bottle 
 of porter at your dinner; and then, when you close your 
 work at six o'clock, you can have as much as you please ! " 
 
 "You mean, of course, sir," said the artist, with con- 
 summate pohteness, "at your expense?" 
 
 "Well, that's an after detail," said Henry, diplomati- 
 cally. "What do you say to the general programme?" 
 
 "Impossible, sir! Utterly impossible!" said the artist 
 with an emphasis that swept the young curate off his 
 feet. 
 
 "Where's the objection?" said Henry faintly. 
 
 "One o'clock to six p.m.," said the artist. "Five 
 hours of the severest mental strain ! No, sir ! Impossible ! 
 Reason would totter on its throne; and you would have 
 an artist maniac in your house!" 
 
 "Well, make your own terms, then!" said Henry 
 impatiently. " You must keep at your work now. 
 What do you require?" 
 
 "Must! Must! Must!" said the artist musingly. 
 " Do you know, sir, that it is the first time in my long and 
 chequered career that opprobrious epithet has been levelled 
 at me!" 
 
 "Well, you know what I mean," said the curate. "I 
 don't want to hurt your feelings — " 
 
 "And you have hurt them, sir! You have racked and 
 wrenched the sensitive chords of my soul!" 
 
 Here the dirty pocket handkerchief was requisitioned 
 again; and Henry Listen was in despair. 
 
 "Look here, Delane," he said at length, "I'll put six 
 bottles of stout there on the sideboard to-morrow, if you 
 give me your word of honour that you won't touch them 
 until your work is done!" 
 
 "I accept the treaty!" said the artist. "But you 
 should be careful of your language. You never know 
 when you may drive a blighted being to despair!" 
 
 11
 
 >,■ > 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 A Peace-Offering 
 
 Gradually, and as it were tentatively, the people of 
 the parishes at Doonvarragh and Athboy came back to 
 '"■^f' their senses after the fevered feeling at Christmastide ; 
 and when the schools reopened after the hohdays, they 
 were speedily filled. A few hung back, waiting to see 
 how the tide would turn, for that terrible taint of moral 
 cowardice, and total lack of individuahty, is almost 
 universal in the Ireland of to-day. Then, when after 
 the first few days' filtering, the crowds of children began 
 to flock to the schools, the remnant thronged after; and 
 Carmody, the assistant, took his place every day, and 
 assumed his rightful command over the pupils committed 
 to his care. 
 
 Nevertheless, and although in other ways victory 
 remained with the pastor, he still kept his house open 
 to the young Wycherlys for their daily tuition in Latin. 
 It was terribly irksome to a solitary man; and many a 
 time, when bending over his Suarez or St. Thomas, he 
 felt his attention engaged and called away by the neces- 
 sary supervision of the studies of these boys, he repented 
 that he had been so hasty; and would gladly welcome the 
 time when their matriculation studies would end. And 
 now there came in the fresh complication of his niece? 
 How was he to combine the education of those Protes- 
 tant lads and his niece? Was he running risks? Again, 
 he felt that the more he fled from Fate, the more relent- 
 lessly did Fate pursue him. Clearly, his old age was not 
 to be, what he so often dreamed it would be, a period of 
 imruflQed serenity preluding the eternal calm. 
 
 146 
 
 l\ 
 
 A
 
 A PEACE-OFFERING 147 
 
 The first evening that these home-classes opened after 
 the Christmas holidays, Dr. William Gray said to his 
 niece after dinner: 
 
 "Those boys will be coming down this evening, Annie. 
 They are nice, well-conducted lads, although they have 
 not had the guidance of a mother's hand; and you must 
 be kind with them." 
 
 These words, "the guidance of a mother's hand," 
 touched the heart of the young girl, who had just learned 
 the pang of a bereavement similar to theirs. It softened 
 her toward them, although her prejudices were very 
 great. 
 
 "I'll do my best. Uncle," she said. 
 
 "You see," said her uncle, "you are very much ad- 
 vanced in your studies; so much so indeed, that you have 
 surprised me. And you will be able to superintend their 
 studies for a while, and direct them. I am so busy about 
 other things." 
 
 "But, Uncle, you must let them know that I'll not 
 stand any nonsense. If I am to direct their studies, 
 they must be prepared to obey." 
 
 "I think you'll find that all right," said her uncle. 
 "Get your books down, and I'll show you how to com- 
 mence." 
 
 The first evening's experiment was not a success. The 
 two boys were actually alarmed when they found that 
 they were to be guided and taught by a particularly 
 beautiful young girl, not older than themselves. Jack's 
 face flushed with nervous excitement, as he took his 
 seat opposite Annie O'Farrell. Dion stared, and stared, 
 as if he saw an apparition. 
 
 "Now," she said, "get your books. You," she said, 
 looking at Jack Wycherly, whose eyes fell under her 
 glance, " must commence Csesar at once simultaneously 
 with your Latin Grammar. And you — what are you 
 staring at?" 
 
 "I can't help it!" said Dion. 
 
 "Can't help what?" said Annie severely.
 
 148 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Can't help looking at you!" said Dion candidly. 
 
 " If you can't find your books more attractive than me, 
 I guess the sooner you leave here the better." 
 
 And Dion pretended to be very much engrossed in 
 Henry's First Latin Book. 
 
 Jack was toiling slowly at his exercise : " Balbus murum 
 aedificat!" the dreaded Caesar lying before him. Occa- 
 sionally, and very timidly, he stole a glance at the fair 
 face that was bent over her own studies; but instantly 
 dropped his eyes again. And for some time there was 
 silence in the room. 
 
 The girl's thoughts were so engrossed with her novel 
 position of teacher in classics, that she never noticed 
 how the boys looked, or whether there was anything 
 attractive about them. But once or twice, as she pointed 
 in a dictatorial manner to some error in his primitive 
 Latin composition, she noticed that Jack had silky flaxen 
 hair, a very broad white brow, and very pale hectic 
 cheeks. Then, she thought she would see what colour 
 were his eyes; and she questioned him. He looked up. 
 They were deep blue, and, in the lamp-light, dark and 
 lustrous. Her eyes fell before his. And she wondered 
 at herself. 
 
 After a quarter of an hour, Dion became restless. He 
 was struggling with a difficult declension, and a new word 
 — navis. It was a horrible declension, but the meaning 
 of the word lit up the whole place, because it revealed 
 the shining seas, and the stately vessel, full-bosomed and 
 straining to the wind; and he saw the white foam curling 
 around her prow and in her wake; and he smelled the 
 tar of the ropes and the odour of the bitter brine together. 
 
 "I say. Miss O'Farrell," he said, looking up, "is navis 
 the Latin for ship?" 
 
 "Yes!" she said curtly. "How do you decline it?" 
 
 "Navis, navis, navi, navem," said Dion, and stopped 
 there. 
 
 " Go on," she said. 
 
 " It has no vocative," said Dion.
 
 A PEACE-OFFERING 149 
 
 "Why?" said Annie. 
 
 "Because you can't call a ship!" said Dion. "It's 
 neither man or woman. It's a thing!" 
 
 "Then why do the sailors always speak of a ship as 
 'she'?" said Annie. "She tosses, she heaves, she tacks, 
 she goes before the wind! Is that so?" 
 
 "By Jove, Miss O'Farrell," said Dion enthusiastically, 
 "you're a born sailor. Where did you pick up all that? 
 And you're right. Then I am to call navis in the vocative 
 case?" 
 
 "Yes!" said Annie curtly. 
 
 "Is there any other Latin name for a ship, besides 
 navis, Miss O'Farrell?" said Jack, somewhat shyly. 
 
 "Yes!" she said promptly, "puppis!" 
 
 The boy flushed crimson with anger; and a deep frown 
 came down on his forehead. He closed his book, put 
 it aside, and rose up. 
 
 "Come, Dion," he said, "we have been trespassing 
 here, I perceive, and are not expected to remain any 
 longer." 
 
 Then turning to the bewildered girl, he said: 
 
 "Would you kindly thank your Uncle for his cour- 
 tesy toward us — " 
 
 " What — what's the matter? " said Annie, now quite 
 frightened. " I have said nothing — done nothing — " 
 
 She was now standing, and was nearly as tall as the 
 elder boy. Whilst a deep flush of anger covered his pale 
 face, she was now pale and concerned. She did not 
 know what had happened ; or what had given occasion to 
 such feeling. Then, in a moment recovering herself, and 
 remembering the fatal word, she said hastily: 
 
 "One moment, please, and I shall explain." 
 
 And going over to the bookcase she took down a pon- 
 derous Latin dictionary; and, opening it, she showed the 
 two lads the word "puppis"; and its meaning — "the 
 stern of a ship; hence the ship itself." 
 
 The boy murmured an apology, pleaded ignorance, 
 asked pardon. All in vain. The girl's vanity and
 
 150 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 temper were touched; and she remained silent during 
 the remainder of the lesson. 
 
 When the boys were departing, they held out their 
 hands shyly. She touched Dion's hand gently; but put 
 down her hands by her side, when Jack offered his. 
 And, looking him straight in the face, she said: 
 
 "I wish you to remember that, whatever be the custom 
 amongst rude boys, it is not usual for ladies to use offen- 
 sive expressions, especially when there was no provoca- 
 tion." 
 
 And she did not accompany them to the door. So 
 the first lesson was not a great success. 
 
 When she narrated the little circumstance to her uncle 
 at tea, he smiled, that is, he said, "H'm!" twice, and 
 then said : 
 
 "It was a most awkward expression. And really, 
 Annie, you cannot be surprised that the lad resented it. 
 Remember, that he has hardly any knowledge of Latin; 
 and the similarity of the words is certainly very striking." 
 
 " But," she said, " he should have known that I — 
 that no young Catholic girl, would use an offensive word 
 like that." 
 
 "They know nothing of Catholics, except what they 
 have seen of us through stable boys and rough servants," 
 said her uncle. "But, do you know, I rather like the 
 lad's spirit. It's just what I'd have done, had I been in 
 his place." 
 
 "Really, Uncle," she said, "is that so?" 
 
 "Quite so. I only hope that your explanation will be 
 accepted, and that the lads won't stay away." 
 
 ^'But, if these misunderstandings arise too often," 
 said his niece, "it will be rather awkward." 
 
 "No danger," said her uncle. "You'll always find 
 that when a mistake has been made, it is generally a 
 security against a second. And then," he added, " after 
 all, it will brighten life a little for you; and a presbytery 
 in Ireland is not the most cheerful place in the world for 
 a young girl."
 
 A PEACE-OFFERING 151 
 
 As the two young lads wended their way homeward, the 
 elder got an unmerciful chaffing from his brother. 
 
 "Well, Jack, you did put your foot in it, this time, and 
 no mistake. By Jove, but wasn't she grand though for 
 a little Yankee girl." 
 
 "I don't think I'll go there again," said Jack, sulkily. 
 "That girl would want to boss us out and out." 
 
 "You're right," said Dion, with a smile. "We won't 
 go there again. I'll tell Pap what she said; and we 
 won't say a word about the Latin for 'ships'." 
 
 "But would that be fair?" said Jack. "After all, it 
 was I who made the mistake." 
 
 "Well, you see, the whole thing is this," replied Dion. 
 "If you say you don't want to go again, there's an easy 
 way out of the trouble. Just let me tell Pap, that a 
 Yankee lass called us 'Puppies'; and there's an end of 
 it." 
 
 "Yes! But would that be true?" said Jack. 
 
 " Of course it is," said Dion. " You asked her another 
 name for a ship, besides navis, and she called us ' Puppies'." 
 
 "But she didn't," said Jack. 
 
 "Now, look here. Jack," said Dion, "where's the use 
 in humbugging? You want to go, so do I. I think I'm 
 first in the running too. She shook hands with me, and 
 she refused to touch your hand. My! But, but wasn't 
 she grand?" 
 
 "In any case, we must tell Pap," said Jack. "I'll 
 keep nothing back from him." 
 
 The result was that, when Miss Annie O'Farrell entered 
 the room of studies the following evening, she found the 
 two young gentlemen before her; and, as she took her 
 seat, she was aware that a huge bouquet of the most 
 delicious white and purple violets, daintily placed in a 
 pretty vase of crimson glass, was neatly arranged between 
 her books. This time she flushed with pleasure, until 
 her face was as crimson as the glass; and a glad smile 
 of delight crept over her features. For she, too, had had
 
 152 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 her anxious thoughts after the events of the previous 
 night. Had she been precipitate? Was there any cause 
 for her curtness and stiffness toward these lads, who were 
 so well-conducted, although motherless? She recalled 
 with a pang the flushed face of the angry boy — then his 
 tone of remorse and penitence for a very natural mistake 
 — then his downcast eyes, and the shy advance toward 
 reconciliation that he made, and that she had rudely 
 repulsed. She was angry with herself for having been 
 angry with them; and finally, she thought, that, supposing 
 they would not come again, would it mean a certain deso- 
 lation in her life? The boys were good-looking. Jack 
 positively handsome. They were nicely-mannered; and 
 it would be a rare pleasure, although she did not deem 
 it such at first, to train their young minds even as hers 
 had been trained. How would it be now, if shyness or 
 some other feeling kept them away forever? She passed 
 that day in a kind of fevered anxiety, wondering, wonder- 
 ing, whether, when six o'clock struck, she should hear 
 their knock. At last the hour came. Six o'clock struck. 
 Five minutes after six. No knock. Her heart sank. 
 Then at a quarter past six the familiar knock was heard; 
 and she watched eagerly as Anne marshalled the boys 
 into the room. Then, after some vigorous efforts to 
 control her emotions, she came in softly, and it was then 
 that the peace-offering and scented symbol of humility 
 caught her senses, and her face flushed with delight. She 
 took up the beautiful flowers, and gazed at them admir- 
 ingly. Then, burying her face in them, she said gently: 
 
 "To which of you am I indebted for these?" 
 
 "Jack, of course," said Dion, grinning. And Jack 
 kicked Dion under the table. 
 
 "To neither of us. Miss O'Farrell," said Jack, "but 
 to Papa." 
 
 "To Dr. Wycherly?" said Annie, not too well pleased. 
 She had been hoping that it was a penitential offering 
 from himself. 
 
 "Yes!" said Jack. "The fact is, I told Papa all that
 
 A PEACE-OFFERING 153 
 
 happened. He said I was an awfully stupid fellow; but 
 that I should apologize and make amends. He then 
 gathered these, and ordered me to bring them and to 
 say how sorry I am for what occurred last night!" 
 
 "They are very beautiful," said Annie, still not too 
 well pleased with Dr. Wycherly. " These must be costly, 
 and hard to get just now!" 
 
 " Oh, not at all," said Dion. " Why, we have a whole 
 acre under them." 
 
 "An acre!" said Annie. "How much is that?" 
 
 " Oh, as much as all these grounds put together. But, 
 I say. Miss O'Farrell, you must come up and see them 
 yourself, and let us show you Rohira, and the old castle, 
 and the gypsies." 
 
 She looked at Jack, as if asking if he would second the 
 request. 
 
 "Father said," he replied in answer to her look, "that 
 it would be a great pleasure if you could come to see us. 
 I mean some fine day." 
 
 "And if you can pull a boat, you know," said Dion, 
 "we can let you have one, and it is great fun." 
 
 "But girls don't row," said Annie, who was an inland- 
 bred young lady, and had never seen the sea, until she 
 put her foot on the steamer. 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes," said Dion. "Why, Cora can turn 
 Jack or me." 
 
 "And who is Cora?" asked the girl whose curiosity was 
 much piqued. 
 
 "Why, she's the gypsy girl down at the Castle on our 
 grounds. She's awfully ugly, but she can do everything 
 almost. If you saw her fighting with her old grand- 
 mother, Jude the Witch, and giving her jaw, you'd kill 
 yourself laughing." 
 
 "'Sh!" said his brother warningly, dreading another 
 explosion. "Better not speak of these things, Dion. 
 Miss O'Farrell doesn't care to hear of them." 
 
 But Miss O'Farrell did; and was dying to know all 
 about the gypsies and their ways, and whether they told
 
 154 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 fortunes as she had read in books, and whether they 
 were as handsome as they were said to be. But her 
 sense of dignity would not allow her to ask questions, 
 until the happy Dion came to her aid, although his vocab- 
 ulary and method of expression were not too choice. 
 
 " Some day you must tell me all about them," she said, 
 opening her Virgil. "Do you know that at one time 
 people used to read their fortunes in opening this book." 
 
 The boys stared at her with open eyes. 
 
 "Yes!" she said, with professional pride. "In the 
 Middle Ages Virgil was supposed to be a sorcerer, or 
 magician, you know; and people used to open these pages 
 and guess their futures from the page that first opened 
 to them," 
 
 "Jude searches your hands," said Dion eagerly. "Of 
 course it is all rot — humbug, I mean ; although she knew 
 all about you. Miss O'Farrell." 
 
 Here Jack nudged his talkative brother. 
 
 "About me?" said Annie. 
 
 "Yes!" said Dion. "Of course, 'tis nothing. She 
 only knew that you had been in America, and had come 
 over to your uncle, and — " 
 
 A pretty violent kick from Jack shut him up. 
 
 "You'll come up some day. Miss O'Farrell," said Jack, 
 interfering, "and see all our wonders. I know Pap 
 would be awfully pleased; and you can take away as 
 many violets as you please." 
 
 "And we have lilies-of-the-valley, too," put in the 
 irrepressible Dion, "and primulas, and snow-drops. You 
 know father is a botanist, and he sends packets of these 
 early flowers to Covent Garden, London, and every- 
 where." 
 
 " It must be a delightful place," said Annie, musingly. 
 "How do you call it?" 
 
 " Rohira. It is an Indian name. Father was in India, 
 you know, and he has all manner of snake-skins, cobras, 
 constrictors, rattlers, ugh! the ugly things. And he has 
 Indian knives, and swords, and funny old guns; but some
 
 A PEACE-OFFERING 155 
 
 are mounted in gold and silver, and queer old heathen 
 gods, the ugliest devils — " 
 
 '"Sh!" said Jack. "You're forgetting yourself, Dion. 
 Do you know where you are?" 
 
 And Jack's remark conjured up a very unusual blush 
 on the brazen cheek of his brother, who, however, speedily 
 recovered himself and asked Miss O'Farrell's pardon very 
 nicely. And that young lady seemed to have fallen into 
 a reverie; and altogether, there was not much serious 
 work done that night. But at parting, Annie was very 
 gracious; and this time she did not put her hands stiffly 
 by her side.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 RosLEiN Roth 
 
 With something very like fear and trembling, Henry 
 Listen watched and waited the result of the next day's 
 experiment. He had little hopes that Delane would keep 
 his engagement. And these hopes almost faded away, 
 when, at half-past twelve, the little maid came in and 
 asked that the artist might have a second bottle of porter 
 at his dinner. 
 
 "He does not eat as much as a child," said Katie, with 
 tears in her eyes, "and he says he fears he'll never get 
 through the day." 
 
 Henry Liston paused. It was a crisis in his life. Would 
 he be equal to it? 
 
 "Yes! you may give him another bottle," he said at 
 last, conscious of great weakness. But then, to make 
 up for it he added with the most invincible determina- 
 tion: 
 
 "But only one, mind!" 
 
 "Very well, sir!" she said. 
 
 He remained inside doors all day, although he had some 
 business at the schools and elsewhere; but he carefully 
 kept away from the dining-room where Delane was work- 
 ing, although his ears were alert to catch every sound. 
 At first, that is, immediately after dinner, Delane was 
 gay, and musical. He sang "My Pretty Jane," probably 
 out of gratitude to Katie, and evidently intended for 
 her ears, for Katie seemed to hear more knocks at the 
 front door that day, and to linger on more various duties 
 in the hall, than ever before. But at two o'clock there 
 was silence; and Henry knew the tragedy had begun. 
 
 156
 
 ROSLEIN ROTH 157 
 
 There were four hours yet to the time of release and re- 
 freshment, and it was difficult to say whether the artist 
 or the priest suffered more during that time. For the 
 latter's senses were on the rack the whole time, he had 
 been so penetrated by the reasoning of the artist; and 
 his imagination, like that of all sensitive and kindly 
 people, ran far ahead of reason, and conjured up all kinds 
 of doleful possibilities. Would Delane collapse? Would 
 he break down physically, and fall off the ladder? Or 
 would the fagged and jaded brain give way, without 
 the accustomed stimulant, and the fellow become deliri- 
 ous? And then, what would the public say? They'd 
 say, that for the sake of the price of a bottle of porter, 
 the life of that poor tradesman had been sacrificed. It 
 was a melancholy reflection, or rather anticipation; and 
 when four o'clock struck, and his own dinner was placed on 
 the table, he asked in a tone of pretended ease, concealing 
 some real agitation, whether Delane was working steadily 
 in the dining-room. Katie seemed unable to reply. He 
 repeated the question. And Katie said: 
 
 "I think he is, sir! But — but — he may be dying," 
 and burst into tears, and fled from the room. 
 
 Then, deeply agitated, the young curate rose up from 
 his untasted dinner, and going over to the dining-room, 
 he knocked. There was no reply. He opened the door 
 trembling, and found the artist in a heap on the floor, 
 which was splashed all around with paint. He rang 
 the bell violently, and Katie came in, and flew at once 
 into hysterics. Then he flung a pail of cold water on 
 the prostrate artist. It had no effect beyond a convul- 
 sive shudder which at least showed that he was alive. 
 Bewildered and terrified, the young priest looked around, 
 and his eye caught the stately row of porter-bottles that 
 were ranged on the sideboard. A happy, but sacrile- 
 gious thought struck him. He rushed from the room, 
 brought back a corkscrew and a long, deep, crystalline 
 tumbler, drew the cork, and filled the glass with the foam- 
 ing liquor to the brim. Holding it to the artist's lips, he
 
 158 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 held up his head with the other arm. A convulsive 
 shudder passed through the frame of the prostrate man. 
 The next moment, he had flung the whole of the liquor 
 down his parched throat; and holding up the tumbler, he 
 said, in a sepulchral voice: 
 
 "Quick! Again!" 
 
 Henry drew another cork, and filled the tumbler. The 
 artist flung the contents down his throat again, and held 
 out the empty glass, murmuring: 
 
 "Once more!" 
 
 Once more the glass was filled and emptied; and then 
 the artist rose, and said, in a dramatic undertone: 
 
 "Richard is himself again! But," he continued, re- 
 garding the young priest with a severe look, "'twas 
 touch and go! Never, never, never, attempt such an 
 experiment again!" 
 
 "Are you better?" said Henry Liston, in lieu of some- 
 thing more appropriate. 
 
 " Better? Yes. If you mean, am I snatched from an 
 early and premature grave? Yes, I am. But I shall 
 carry the marks of this experiment to my tomb." 
 
 "You must be an awfully delicate fellow," said the 
 young priest, "that you cannot go for a couple of hours 
 without drink!" 
 
 " Delicate? Physically? No. I am as strong a man 
 as there's in Ireland. Mentally? Yes. 'Tis the fagged 
 and weary brain." 
 
 And, as if to support the fagged and weary brain, he 
 leaned his head on his hands, and seemed to weep. 
 
 "At three o'clock," he said, "I knew I was near the 
 fatal collapse; but I'm an honourable man. I had given 
 my word; and I meant to keep it, if it cost me my life. 
 At half-past three, I became delirious. My senses swam. 
 My brain reeled. My intellect tottered to its foundation. 
 I was out on a lonely desert. I saw nothing but glisten- 
 ing sands all around, and a pitiless — pitiless — sky 
 overhead. I watched my camel's eye. ■ I knew the 
 instinct of the beast would scent water from afar. In
 
 ROSLEIN ROTH 159 
 
 vain! Nothing but sand, sand, pitiless sand everywhere. 
 At last, my beast raised his head and sniffed the air. ' Ha ' 
 said I. 'At last! At last!' I looked! Alas! 'twas 
 only the desert mirage — the mockery of Nature over its 
 dying child!" 
 
 The artist paused for a moment, and then continued: 
 
 "Four o'clock struck! The scene was changed. I 
 was out on the desert ocean ! It was ' water, water, every- 
 where, but not a drop to drink.' 'And shmy things 
 did crawl with legs over a slimy sea.' It was awful. 
 Again, the pitiless sea, the brackish water, the sun looking 
 down and laughing with his pitiless stare. The albatross ! 
 I shot it ! It hung around my neck ! I stroked its plu- 
 mage! The Ancient Mariner! The ribbed sea-sands! The 
 wedding guest ! Why dost thou hold me with thy glisten- 
 ing e5'e ! My God ! my mind is wandering again ! Quick ! 
 Quick! Quick! Your reverence! Or you'll have a hope- 
 less maniac on your hands!" 
 
 Henry opened a new bottle, which went the way of 
 its predecessors. He wished this child of genius was far 
 away. 
 
 "Ha!" said the child of genius, "There! The mental 
 equilibrium is restored again. But what a dream!" 
 
 He was plunged in a deep reverie. A faint knock was 
 heard, and Katie put in her head. 
 
 " Is he — be — better? " she blubbered. 
 
 " My pretty one," said the artist. " Yes ! He is better. 
 Weep no more!" 
 
 "If you come into the kitchen, and rest yourself," 
 said Katie, quite unheeding her master, or his dinner, 
 "maybe you'd be able to go home all right!" 
 
 "Thanks, my angel!" said the artist, rising up wearily, 
 and stumbling a little. "Let me lean on thee! There! 
 Now, I shall be able to recuperate." 
 
 Henry Listen sat down to a cold dinner, heated only 
 by a mental debate : Is this fellow a consummate humbug 
 and blackguard, or a fallen angel? 
 
 He decided to submit the matter to the superior judg-
 
 160 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 ment of his pastor, as all good and inexperienced curates 
 should do; and he wrote a short note to the effect that 
 things were not progressing rapidly, and that if the con- 
 tractor could take back the child of genius and send an 
 ordinary worker, it would be better for the progress of 
 the work and eventually for the pastor's purse. 
 
 The result was a pastoral visit next morning. About 
 ten o'clock. Dr. William Gray drove up, and entered the 
 curate's house. 
 
 "Well! This fellow is doing nothing? Just what I 
 expected. Where is he?" 
 
 Henry pointed to the door of the dining-room. The 
 pastor strode over, walked in unceremoniously and 
 glanced around. 
 
 "How long have you been here?" he said to the artist. 
 
 "Par'n?" said the artist, pretending to be very busy. 
 
 " I say how long have you been here? When did your 
 master send you here?" 
 
 The artist ran his fingers through his hair, and said, 
 meditatively : 
 
 " I think this is the third — nay the fourth day of my 
 labours on these premises." 
 
 "And the last!" said the pastor. "Put on your coat, 
 and leave the house at once ! " 
 
 "What? This is an outrage!" said the artist grandly. 
 " It's a libel on my profession — it's an — " 
 
 " Put — on — your — coat ! " said the pastor more im- 
 pressively, "and be quick about it!" 
 
 The artist put on his coat. 
 
 "Are these your paints and brushes, or your master's?" 
 
 "I have no master," said the artist grandly. "That 
 day is gone!" 
 
 "Well, your employer? Are these your paints, or 
 your employer's?" 
 
 "If you mean the person who pays me stipulated 
 wages for my Art — yes, they're his!" 
 
 "Then, leave them here, and quit at once!" 
 
 And because the pastor looked threatening, and was,
 
 ROSLEIN ROTH 161 
 
 moreover, a stalwart man, the artist obeyed: mut- 
 tering : 
 
 " I shall consult my lawyer about this outrage on myself, 
 and the profession I represent!" 
 
 The pastor slammed the door behind the expelled 
 artist. There was a sound of weeping afar off from the 
 depths of the kitchen. 
 
 "A most consummate blackguard!" said the pastor, 
 entering Henry's room. "I'll send down a message to 
 C — this evening, that will make his ears tingle. It 
 seems impossible to get a decent or honest tradesman to- 
 day. Rights of labour! The down-trodden labouring 
 man! We are coming to a strange pass in the history 
 of things." 
 
 From which Henry Liston, with some perturbation of 
 spirit, conjectured that his pastor was now in one of his 
 angry and sarcastic moods. He was hoping, silently 
 hoping, that the great man would speedily depart. He 
 almost regretted having sent that letter. 
 
 The pastor turned around, and surveyed the room. 
 
 "He did nothing here, I suppose?" 
 
 "Nothing!" said Henry. 
 
 "What's that?" pointing to a piano. 
 
 "A piano," said Henry. "A CoUard and Collard!" 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A Collard and Collard," shouted Henry. "The best 
 makers." 
 
 " And what do you want it for? Surely, you can't play ! " 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes," said Henry Liston, who thought it 
 well to use a little bluff. He went over and sat down, and 
 ran his fingers up and down the keys. Then he stopped. 
 
 "What do you call that?" 
 
 "The first part of a prelude by Bach." 
 
 "Bach? Who was he?" 
 
 " A great composer. You have often heard of Bach, I 
 suppose ! " 
 
 "Never, thank God. And how long now were you 
 learning that rubbish?" 
 12
 
 162 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Oh, it took years upon years," said Henry. "That 
 art is not acquired in a day." 
 
 " I should say not ! That leaves you without a notion 
 of your Moral Theology, I suppose!" 
 
 He had gone over to the bookcase; and with his dim, 
 gray eyes close to the glass, he was peering along the rows 
 of books. Henry's heart was beating rather wildly. 
 
 "H'm! Goethe! Is that the German infidel and 
 profligate?" 
 
 " Well," said Henry, " he wasn't exactly a saint." 
 
 "I should say not. What is Sammtliche Werke?" 
 
 " His entire works — Opera Omnia ! " said Henry. 
 
 "Let me see one of them!" said the old man. 
 
 And Henry was reluctantly obliged to find the key, 
 and he handed down a volume of Goethe at random. 
 
 "Can you read this? Or, is it all the usual humbug 
 and pretence of young men nowadays?" 
 
 "I know a little German," said his curate, modestly. 
 "I can read it although I cannot speak it!" 
 
 " H 'm," said the incredulous pastor. " I'll bet you can't 
 read a line of it. Here ! Read this ! It looks like verse ! " 
 
 And Henry took the book, and read in his best West- 
 phalian accent the " Heidenroslein." 
 
 "H'm!" said the pastor. "Can you translate it?" 
 
 " Of course," said Henry, giving the verse a free trans- 
 lation. 
 
 " How is that the chorus runs? " said his pastor, holding 
 his head down in an air of listening attention. 
 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden. 
 
 repeated Henry. 
 "And it means?" 
 
 Little Rose, Little Rose, Little Rose so red, 
 Little Rose upon the heath! 
 
 The pastor poised a pinch of snuff between his fingers, 
 and looked sadly through the window.
 
 ROSLEIN ROTH 163 
 
 "Good God!" he said at length, ''and is the Irish 
 Church come to this? And what in the name of heaven 
 are the superiors of colleges doing to tolerate this out- 
 rageous nonsense? " 
 
 "It wasn't in college I studied Goethe," said Henry. 
 "They knew nothing about Goethe there. It was in 
 England." 
 
 "Of course! There's what I'm telling the bishop this 
 many a day. ' You're sending our young priests over 
 there,' I said, 'to become half-heretics. In the name of 
 God keep them at home; and let them learn their Moral 
 Theology!'" 
 
 "It's never any harm to become an educated man!" 
 said his curate, stung by his sarcasm. 
 
 "No! But what is education? Do you call that 
 rubbish — and I suspect there's some double meaning 
 beneath that fellow's verses — education — 
 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden. 
 
 Have you any more of that German rubbish here? Here! 
 Who's this fellow? Richter. Who's he? What did he 
 write?" 
 
 "Oh! He's the great author of Titan, and Hesperus, 
 and Fruit, Flower and Thorn Pieces, etc., etc.," said Henry. 
 
 "Anything like 
 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden?" 
 
 "No!" said Henry, going over and taking down a 
 volume. "Jean Paul wrote only prose; or rather poetry 
 in the form of prose ! " 
 
 "Who's Jean Paul?" 
 
 "Why, Richter! It is a pet name for the favourite 
 of all German scholars." 
 
 "Very good! Let's hear what that fellow has to say 
 for himself." 
 
 And the poor curate had to roll out the seven-footed
 
 164 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 words of the mighty dreamer to a most unsympathetic 
 listener. 
 
 "Very good!" said the latter. "Now, what does it 
 all mean?" 
 
 And Henry read falteringly: 
 
 Ottomar asked, "Who annihilates them, then?" "I," said the 
 Form, and it drove him among the armies of corpses into the masked 
 world of annihilated men; and as the Form passed before a mask 
 with a soul, there spurted a bloody drop from its dull eye, such 
 as a corpse sheds when the murderer approaches it. And he was 
 led on unceasingly, by the mute funeral procession of the past, 
 by the rotten chains of existence, and by the conflicts of the spirits. 
 There saw he first of all the ashy brethren of his heart pass by, 
 and in their countenances there still stood the blighted hope of 
 reward : he saw thousands of poor children with smooth, rosy cheeks, 
 and with their first smile stiffened, and thousands of mothers with 
 their uncoffined babes in their arms; and there he saw the dumb 
 sages of all nations with extinguished souls, and with the extin- 
 guished light of Truth, and they were dumb under the great pall, 
 like singing birds whose cage is darkened with a covering ; and there 
 he saw the strong endurers of life, the numberless, who had suffered 
 till they died, and the others who were lacerated by horror; and 
 there he saw the countenances of those who had died of joy, and 
 the deathly tear of Joy was still hanging in their eyes; and there 
 he saw all the lives of the earth standing with stifled hearts, in 
 which no Heaven, no God, no Conscience, dwelt any more; and 
 there he saw again a world fall, and its wail passed by him. "Oh! 
 how vain, how nothingly is the groaning and struggling, and the 
 Truth and the Virtue of the world!" And there at last appeared 
 his father with the iron ball-globe which sinks the corpses of that 
 ocean, and then as he pressed a tear of blood out of the white eye- 
 lid, his heart, which ran cold with horror, exclaimed, "Form of 
 Hell, crush me speedily; annihilation is eternal, there live none but 
 mortals and thou. Am I alive. Form?" 
 
 The Form led him gently to the edge of the ever-freezing field 
 of ice; in the abyss he saw the fragments of the stifled souls of 
 animals, and on high were numberless tracts of ice, with the anni- 
 hilated of higher worlds, and the bodies of the dead angels were 
 for the most part of Sun's light, or of long sounds, or of motionless 
 fragrancy. But there over the chasm, near to the realm of the
 
 ROSLEIN ROTH 165 
 
 dead of the Earth, stood a veiled Being on a clod of ice; and as the 
 white Form passed, the Being raised its veil ; it was the dead Christ, 
 without resurrection, with His crucifixion wounds, which all flowed 
 afresh on the approach of the white Form, 
 
 "Horrible!" said the old man, "And almost blas- 
 phemous. Did that fellow believe in anything?" 
 
 "He was the greatest apologist for the existence of 
 God and the immortality of the soul that ever existed," 
 said Henry, "I am afraid, sir, you think there have 
 been no defenders of the common faith outside the ranks 
 of Theologians." 
 
 "And I think rightly," said his pastor, emphatically, 
 "What right have these fellows to be tampering with 
 such questions at all?" 
 
 "Yet, St. Paul said in the Areopagus: 'Hath not one 
 of your own poets said — ?'" 
 
 "That's a different thing altogether," said Dr. Gray. 
 "I must be going. But, just a moment — how does 
 that fellow treat the question of immortality?" 
 
 And Henry looked up and down across the page, and 
 hither and over, and turned off many barren and unin- 
 telligible rhapsodies, and looked confused, so that his 
 pastor said: 
 
 " Never mind ! 'Tis not worth looking for! The fellow 
 is bad enough; but not as bad as: 
 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden ! " 
 
 "Just wait a moment," said Henry. And then he 
 said viciously: 
 
 " See, is there anything like this in the Salmanticenses 
 and Emmanuel Sa?" 
 
 And he went on reading: 
 
 The sunny mist was floating downwards far away in the ether 
 like a brilliant snow-cloud, but the mortal was retained in that blue 
 Heaven by a long sound of music coming over the waves ; the sound 
 re-echoed suddenly through the whole boundless ether, as if the
 
 166 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Almighty Hand was running over the clouds of Creation. And in 
 all the orbs there was an echo as of jubilee; invisible springs floated 
 by in streams of fragrancy; blessed worlds passed by unseen with 
 the whispering of ineffable joy; fresh flames gleamed in the Suns. 
 The sea of life swelled as if its unfathomable bottom was rising, 
 and a warm blast came to shake the sun-rays and rainbows, and 
 strains of joy and light clouds out of the cups of roses. All at once 
 there was a stillness in the whole of immeasurable space, as if 
 Nature were dying of ecstasy — a broad gleam, as if The Endless 
 One was going through Creation, spread over the suns, and over 
 the abysses, and over the pale rainbow of the milky way — and all 
 nature thrilled in delicious transport, as a man's heart thrills when 
 it is about to forgive. And thereupon his innermost soul opened 
 itself before the mortal, as if it were a lofty temple, and in the 
 temple was a Heaven, and in the Heaven was a man's form which 
 looked down on him, with an eye like a sun full of immeasurable 
 love. The Form appeared to him, and said, "I am Eternal Love; 
 thou canst not pass away." And the Form strengthened the 
 trembling child who thought to die of wonder, and then the mor- 
 tal saw through the hot tears of his joy, darkly, the nameless Form 
 — and a warm thrill dissolved his heart, which overflowed in pure, 
 in boundless love; the creation pressed languishingly, but close 
 against his breast, and his existence, and all existences were one 
 love, and through the tears of his love Nature glistened like a bloom- 
 ing meadow-ground, and the seas lay there like dark-green rains, 
 and the suns like fiery dew, and before the sunfire of the Almighty 
 there stood the world of spirits as a rainbow, and the spirit broke 
 its light into all colours, as from century to century, they dropped, 
 and the rainbow did not change; the drops only changed, not the 
 colours. 
 
 The All-loving Father looked forth on His full creation, and said, 
 "I love you all from Eternity — I love the worm in the sea, the 
 child upon the earth, and the angel on the sun. Why hast thou 
 trembled? Did I not give thee the first Life, and Love, and Joy, 
 and Truth? Am I not in thy heart?" And then the worlds 
 passed with their death-bells, but it was as the church-ringing of 
 harmonical bells for a higher temple; and all chasms were filled 
 with strength, and all Death with bliss. 
 
 He wound up triumphantly, and with a brave, rhe- 
 torical flourish. 
 
 "Is that all?" said his pastor grimly.
 
 ROSLEIN ROTH 167 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Henry airily. "There are hundreds of 
 pages equal to this." 
 
 *"Tis enough!" said the grim man. "But, Father 
 Liston," he said gravely, "I'd advise you now, as your 
 pastor, and as one that has the care of souls, to take all 
 that rubbish out into your yard, and burn every bit of 
 it to ashes. And then, take up the Penny Catechism 
 and study it. It will be better for you, and better for 
 the poor people in the long run than your rhapsodies 
 and rubbish, and your: 
 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden." 
 
 And with these words he vanished, leaving a sad heart 
 behind him.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A Lowly Saint 
 
 When Dr. William Gray reached his home that after- 
 noon, he was in one of those moods of agitated thought 
 that were so frequent with him, and in which he had to 
 walk up and down his room to regain composure. He 
 was one of those serious and lofty thinkers that looked 
 down upon literature and art as only fit for children 
 dancing around a Maypole. He could not conceive how 
 any priest could find an interest in such things, which he 
 regarded as belonging so exclusively to a godless world 
 that he regarded it as high treason for any of the captains 
 of the Great Army to be attracted or drawn to them. He 
 felt exactly towards the literary or accomplished priest, 
 as a grim and wrinkled old field-marshal would feel if 
 he had heard that a young subaltern had stolen out of 
 camp at midnight and gone over to the enemy's lines to 
 listen to the strains of some Waldteufel waltz. He would 
 accept no hint or suggestion of compromise with that 
 mysterious "world," which, with all its wiles and magic, 
 has been to the imagination of such ruthless logicians 
 something like the vampire witches of mediaeval romance, 
 from whose diabolic charms there was no escape but in 
 instant flight. The meditation of " The Two Standards," 
 and its terrific significance, was always before his eyes. 
 Here was the Church, stretching back in apparently 
 limitless cycles and illimitable, if variable power, to the 
 very dawn of civilization. Here was the mighty fabric 
 of theology, unshakable and unassailable, and founded 
 on the metaphysic of the subtlest mind that had ever 
 pondered over the vast abysses of human thought. Here 
 
 168
 
 A LOWLY SAINT 169 
 
 were its churches, built not to music, but to the sound of 
 prayer — great poems and orisons that had welled out 
 of the heart of Faith, and grown congealed in eternal 
 forms. Here was its music, solemn, grave, majestic, as 
 if it fell from the viols of seraphs into the hearts of saints. 
 Here was its mighty hierarchy of doctors and confessors, 
 — pale, slight figures in dark robes, but more powerful 
 and more aggressive than if they carried the knightly 
 sword, or moved in the ranks of armoured conquerors. 
 Here was its Art breathing of Heaven and the celestial 
 forms that peopled the dreams of saints. Its literature 
 was one poem and only one; but it lighted up Heaven, 
 Earth, and Hell. 
 
 And there in the opposite camp was the "world," — 
 that strange, mysterious, undefinable enemy, taking its 
 Protean forms from climate, race, and language. There 
 were its theatres, coliseums, forums, opera-houses with 
 all their pinchbeck and meretricious splendour, where all 
 the vicious propensities of the human heart towards lust 
 and cruelty were fanned and fostered by suggestive 
 pictures or erotic verses or voluptuous music. There, 
 too, were its philosophic systems, vaporous, fantastic, 
 unreal as the smoke that wreathes itself above a witch's 
 caldron, or the ashes that lie entombed in the urns of 
 dead gods. There again is its Art, fascinating, beautiful, 
 but picturing only the dead commonplaces of a sordid 
 existence, or the fatal and fated loveliness of a Lais or a 
 Phryne. And there is its main prop and support, — 
 this literature, aping a wisdom which it does not under- 
 stand, or dealing with subjects that reveal the deformities 
 and baseness, instead of the sacredness and nobility, of 
 the race. 
 
 "And here is this curate of mine dabbling with this 
 infernal business; wasting his hours in subjects that would 
 make a statue blush for modesty, or an idiot smile at 
 their puerility. I'll stop that. He is here to do God's 
 work and to save souls; and he must do it, or — go!" 
 
 He took up his Breviary to read; and the splendour and
 
 170 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 beauty and tenderness of its imagery made the world's 
 literature look more tawdry and thoughtless than ever. 
 When he came to the Te Deum in the office of Matins, he 
 found that instead of saying: 
 
 Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth ! 
 
 the words of Goethe's song : 
 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 
 would come to his lips. He put down the well-thumbed 
 volume in disgust. 
 
 "Serves me right!" he said. "When the devil gets 
 his rhymes into your brain, the Spirit will depart. There 
 is no room for Him!" 
 
 And lo ! as he considered these things, the Spirit breathed 
 upon him — a gentle and almost imperceptible breath ; 
 and his conscience woke up beneath it. The thought 
 occurred to him for the first time that he had also under- 
 taken the immediate charge of an immortal soul in the 
 person of his niece. And what had he done hitherto for 
 her? Nothing. He had amused her; put her in the way 
 of pursuing her studies. But her soul ! 
 
 He touched the bell; and bade the housekeeper send 
 Annie to him. 
 
 "The day is fine, Annie," he said, when she appeared. 
 " Had your luncheon? Well, then, put on your hat, and 
 we'll have a stroll." 
 
 The day was fine and bracing; a pallid sun shed some 
 lustre on the landscape; and there was a healthy sting 
 of cold in the clear air, for the light frost lay in the fur- 
 rows of the fields, and the ground was steeled near the 
 ditches where the shadows fell. Annie in her tight warm 
 jacket, with a little sealskin cap, decorated by one soli- 
 tary bird, and the red flame of one feather, looked bright 
 and beautiful, as she strove with the spring of youth to 
 keep pace with the long, firm strides of her uncle. He 
 strode along, buried in thought, rather heedless, as old
 
 A LOWLY SAINT 171 
 
 men are, of the efforts his niece was making to keep 
 abreast with him, until they came in view of the sea, that 
 looked cold and joyless in its vast expanses, sailless and 
 shadowless in its gray and lonely solitude. 
 
 When they touched the loose sand, which lay piled 
 up near the road, he relaxed a little, and then he said 
 abruptly : 
 
 "Can you play? Do you know anything of music?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" she said, panting and gasping a little. "I 
 know something of music. But I am not an experienced 
 player. I hadn't time." 
 
 "You won't have many opportunities of improving 
 here," he said. "There's only one piano, that I know of, 
 in the parish." 
 
 "Indeed? And who owns that? The Wycherlys?" 
 
 "No! They wouldn't be so absurd. It's this new 
 curate of mine, if you please ! " 
 
 "Father Liston? Oh, I'm so glad," she said with 
 enthusiasm. "I hope 'tis a good one!" 
 
 "I believe so," he said grimly. "He gave as much 
 for the thing as would buy a whole set of the Benedic- 
 tine edition of the Fathers." 
 
 ^ "That's delightful," said Annie. "Won't we have 
 little concerts — but can Father Liston play?" 
 
 "I believe so. He played off something for me that 
 he called a prelude. And it was — a prelude to as good 
 a sermon on his outrageous nonsense as he ever heard. 
 I've seen a monkey on a barrel-organ; but it wasn't 
 half so ridiculous as a priest sitting at a piano ! " 
 
 " But, Uncle dear," said Annie, " isn't it a nice accom- 
 plishment for a young priest? I can't imagine you now 
 sitting on a piano-stool, and playing symphonies from Bach 
 or Beethoven — " 
 
 " Yes, Bach ! That's the fellow that got him into the 
 prelude and — the sequence. But, go on! You can't 
 imagine me sitting on a piano-stool. Why?" 
 
 "Because you are old, and venerable, and solemn. 
 But I can imagine you sitting at an organ, like that
 
 172 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 lovely picture of the Franciscan monk, his bare feet 
 touching the pedals, his sandals hanging loose, and the 
 two angels with their music-sheets in the air floating 
 above his head." 
 
 "H'm! That's intelligible enough, although I think, 
 that monk would be better employed praying or studying 
 in his cell. But an organ is not a piano." 
 
 "No! But still I think 'tis lovely to see a young 
 priest acquainted with all the masters in music and litera- 
 ture." 
 
 "You do? Wouldn't it be better for them to be 
 acquainted with their Breviaries, and their Moral Theolo- 
 gies and the Imitation of Christ?" 
 
 "Well, the two can go together," said Annie, boldly. 
 
 "No!" he said, with an emphasis that startled the 
 girl, "The two can't go together by any means. A 
 priest is a fighter, not a play-actor. Do you suppose 
 the devil and his legion of angels are strumming pianos 
 — or snaring souls?" 
 
 "That's true!" said his niece musingly. "I suppose 
 not. And I suppose the devil is very busy. Uncle!" 
 
 "He is," said her uncle — "very busy, in particular, 
 in trying to get people to forget him." 
 
 They had crossed a long stretch of firm sand, and now 
 emerged again into the high road, that ran under fern- 
 laden cliffs, whence little rills of water ran down to swell 
 the small dimensions of a stream that was ever hastening, 
 hastening towards the great sea. Here and there, little 
 ash-trees projected between the rocks that lined the cliff- 
 side, their withered fronds hanging loosely in the air, 
 pushed out by the tiny black buds that, with all the inso- 
 lence of youth, were urgent for development. And far 
 up in the air, the sharp ledges of the cliffs were fledged 
 with pines and infant elms; and heavy fronds of bracken, 
 that had escaped the winter frosts, hung down and fes- 
 tooned the black, wet stones that seemed detached from 
 the soft earth, and were only caught by the roots that 
 stretched from the trees above. The road here was firm
 
 A LOWLY SAINT 173 
 
 and hard, for the wintry sun never touched it; but the 
 rime lay near the edges of the rivulet that sang and 
 sparkled to the sea. 
 
 After a walk of about half a mile along this shaded 
 road, they suddenly came in front of a cottage, whose 
 gabled roof and diamond-paned windows marked it as 
 something quite different from the ordinary white-walled 
 cabins that form such a distinctive, if unpicturesque, 
 characteristic of an Irish landscape. 
 
 Here the pastor stopped, and opening a little, rickety 
 gate, crossed a narrow, gravelled path; and, without 
 ceremony, entered the kitchen of the cottage. His niece 
 followed; and their senses were greeted by a pungent 
 odour of soap-suds and wet Imen, whilst the air was so 
 thick with steam that for a long time Annie O'Farrell 
 could see nothing but the vast array of white sheets and 
 other linen that hung in a line across the room. 
 
 "Here, Nancy," said the priest, "I have brought my 
 niece. Miss O'Farrell, to see all your shrines and altars." 
 
 The girl rose from her bent position over her washtub; 
 and rubbing her wet hands in her apron, she held them 
 out, pale, and flabby and moist from her work. 
 
 " She's very welcome," she said. " But you must give 
 me time, your reverence, to light up the statues." 
 
 " Of course, of course," he replied. " Run upstairs, 
 and we'll look around here." 
 
 There was nothing very sightly to be seen. Great 
 baskets of soiled clothes awaited their turn to be reno- 
 vated ; great tubs held the heavy masses that were under- 
 going renovation; and a great boiler hissed and steamed 
 above the range. But yet, it was a pretty thing to see 
 the white dainty tablecloths, napkins, handkerchiefs, 
 cuffs, collars, lingerie of every kind, spotless and folded, 
 and ready for human use again. It was in reality a 
 triumph of human skill, the daily and hourly conquering 
 of difficulties, the beautiful and fragrant ablution of all 
 the sordidness that humanity will contract through all 
 its daily necessities.
 
 174 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Annie took up a handkerchief and a collar; and with 
 feminine instinct — for it appears to be an instinct of 
 woman's nature to cleanse and to heal — she turned them 
 round and round in her dainty fingers, and said to her 
 uncle : 
 
 "They are beautifully finished. I have seen nothing 
 like that in the steam-laundries of America." 
 
 " It is a noble life," he said, " if we could understand its 
 significance. It is typical of the sacramental power of 
 cleansing and purifying. And, when I add that all that 
 work is consecrated by daily and constant prayer, for all 
 day long that poor girl is singing hymns or praying to 
 the Sacred Heart, and to the Blessed Virgin, whilst she 
 is scrubbing, and wringing and ironing and folding, you 
 can imagine what a perfect life it is!" 
 
 "But she's paid well for all this?" queried Annie. 
 
 "H'm," he said, grimly, "there's the commercial spirit 
 of America again. The great god. Mammon, sole ruler 
 and final end of all mankind." 
 
 "No I I didn't mean that," she said, somewhat 
 nettled. "But I can't imagine her giving her time and 
 labour without being well paid!" 
 
 "Well, and what do you think she charges now, say 
 for that collar and cuff?" 
 
 " I should say three or fourpence each at least." 
 
 "One half-penny!" he replied, "and she is very glad 
 when she can get it." 
 
 Here Nancy came downstairs, and announced that her 
 spiritual grottoes and shrines were now fit for inspection. 
 They mounted the narrow stairs, and entered a small 
 bedroom with a coped ceiling, and Annie had to put 
 her hands over her eyes to shade them from the blaze 
 of light that now shone around statue and picture, and 
 every holy emblem and insignia of the great Unseen, 
 that revealed itself by faith every hour of the day to this 
 humble and pious girl. The old man knelt down humbly, 
 great theologian and powerful disquisitionist as he was 
 on all the arcana which it pleases the Eternal Mind to
 
 A LOWLY SAINT 175 
 
 keep veiled from the eyes of Humanity. Here, in the 
 presence of Divine Faith so keen that it had become daily 
 vision, all these terrible abstract questions about the 
 secrets of Godhead, or the intervention of the Deity with 
 human beings, seemed to fade away, as morning mists 
 before the face of the rising sun; and he saw the stately 
 landscape of Faith, each article clearly outlined and 
 defined, by the hght of those wax tapers purchased by the 
 sweat and toil of that humble woman. 
 
 Refreshed in spirit, and strengthened in faith, he rose 
 up, and after a few murmurs of admiration for the beau- 
 tiful things they had seen, they descended the stairs 
 again into the workroom; and, when Annie had praised 
 and duly honoured the dainty workmanship of the tub 
 and mangle, they passed out into the sweet air of Heaven 
 again. 
 
 They had gone down the road towards home a good 
 distance, and the westering sun was casting his dying 
 radiance across the winter landscape, and western win- 
 dows were gleaming in the yellow splendour, and the tree 
 tops were pale with colour, when, noticing the silence of 
 his niece, her uncle said: 
 
 " Why, Annie, what's this — crying? " 
 She wiped her eyes, and said with a little sob: 
 "It's the holy Ireland of which I so often heard my 
 mother speak!"
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Rejected by the "Powers" 
 
 The same interview that had plunged his pastor into 
 a reverie of passion and piety drove Henry Liston down 
 into the depths of despondency. The bitter words which 
 he had heard about his favourite pursuits and studies 
 affected him not by reason of their sarcasm, but by the 
 suspicion they created in his young mind that perhaps, 
 after all, he had conceived wrong notions of the purposes 
 of education, and of his own vocation amongst the people. 
 Was this old man, of whom his predecessor had spoken 
 with such singular reverence, and who bore the reputa- 
 tion of being the ablest theologian in the diocese — was 
 he right? That is, was his idea of a priestly education 
 the proper one; and should he himself be obliged to retrace 
 his steps, and reconsider, in these the dawning days of his 
 life, his estimate of what the circumstances of the age 
 demanded from the members of the sacred profession? 
 Regarding the scholastic philosophy, and the theology 
 founded upon it as the citadel and bulwark of the Truth 
 and Safety of the Ark of God upon earth, he had always 
 thought that an acquaintance with art and literature 
 was an indispensable requisite for that liberal education 
 which everyone nowadays was receiving, and which was 
 expected also from the ministers of a faith that always 
 held high on its standard the motto of enlightenment. 
 The whole world was moving onward in a certain track 
 bordered with the flowers of imagination and fancy, 
 and demanding at every step what was beautiful even 
 more than what was exalted and useful. Nowadays, 
 men had little time available, and less intellect capable 
 
 176 

 
 REJECTED BY THE "POWERS" 177 
 
 of dealing with the tremendous abstractions that under- 
 lie the whole of the Church's metaphysic. It wearied of 
 such things; and sought guidance in other ways along the 
 paths which offered least resistance to human thought and 
 endeavour. Is it wise to leave these worldlings to pursue 
 their own way without a guide? And how can one offer 
 himself as a guide, unless he has walked that way alone? 
 Forth from primary, secondary, and higher schools, were 
 coming, day by day, hundreds of gifted youths, who had 
 been taught that the masters of all human mental en- 
 deavour were the poets, scientists, novelists, metaphysi- 
 cians of the world. These golden youth have never heard 
 of Suarez or Vasquez; had dimly heard of the "dumb ox 
 of Sicily," whose bellowings were to fill the whole world. 
 They had the world's shibboleths on their lips; the world's 
 idols were theirs. They would regard, apart from his 
 spiritual ministrations, such a gifted man as his pastor, 
 as "a horned owl, sitting in the ivied recesses of some 
 mediaeval ruin, and blinking at the sunlight." They will 
 only follow an educated man in these days. And to be 
 regarded as an educated man, clearly one must needs 
 follow that curriculum of studies that is prescribed in the 
 great University of the world, where everyone, priest as 
 well as layman, has to graduate. And is not this uni- 
 versally admitted? Whilst the "great theologians" as a 
 class, holding themselves aloft and aloof from the affairs 
 of men, had little practical influence on the age, except 
 so far as they mould the thoughts and principles of the 
 working apostles in the Church, one hears everywhere of 
 priestly architects, priestly writers, priestly historians, 
 priests in social science, priests in educational controver- 
 sies, priests in politics, priests even in the marts of com- 
 merce; and, so far as we can see, their influence seems to 
 be a paramount factor in every department of modern 
 progress in which they, unwillingly perhaps, but yet by 
 common suffrage, take the lead. "The Penny Cate- 
 chism," indeed! It is very good; but the advancing and 
 progressive spirit of the age requires more. For while 
 13
 
 178 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 envious politicians cry, "Back to the sanctuary!" the 
 voice of humanity seems to say, " Come out into the forum 
 and the mart! Come down from your high place in the 
 empyrean, and be a brother to your brethren!" 
 
 It was all as clear as noonday to the perturbed brain 
 of the young priest, as he sat, his head buried in his hands 
 in a reverie of troubled thought after his pastor's visit. 
 It was all clear as noonday; and yet he had to admit 
 that that Heidenroslein of Goethe on which he had unfor- 
 nately stumbled was slightly absurd; and that there 
 was something not quite reverent in that rhapsody of 
 Richter's, although his conclusions told directly in favour 
 of that doctrine of immortality to which the human mind, 
 amidst all its aberrations, seems almost despairingly to 
 cling. 
 
 In such a mood of mind, a little thing turns over the 
 balance of thought; and it came in the shape of a few 
 words spoken lightly by his little servant. She said to 
 him with that tone of easy familiarity that seems almost 
 disrespectful, but is not intended to be so: 
 
 "Is he going to send another painter here, your rev- 
 erence?" 
 
 "Yes!" said her master, "you may expect him to- 
 morrow!" 
 
 " I hope he'll plaze him," she said, going round and set- 
 ting many things to rights that were not very much astray; 
 " and 'tis mighty hard to plaze him, if all we hears is thrue." 
 
 "I'd advise you, Kate," said her master, "to be care- 
 ful about what you hear and more careful about what 
 you say in this place. You'll always find more lies than 
 truth floating around!" 
 
 "They won't bear much from me," she said; "but 
 what everybody says must be thrue. He's a hard man; 
 and we've seen it ourselves." 
 
 "Now, now, now!" said her master, interrupting, 
 "that won't do, Kate. I know the parish priest to be a 
 most benevolent and kindly man, doing good to every- 
 body in his parish." 
 
 ii
 
 I 
 
 REJECTED BY THE "POWERS" 179 
 
 "Faix, it wasn't much good he was doing when he 
 evicted thim poor Duggans over on the hill; and sint 
 away the poor schoolmaster in the village with his wife 
 and children, and thrun them on the road." 
 
 "Where did you hear that nonsense?" said Henry 
 Listen angrily. "There's not a word of truth in what 
 you're saying; and beware! Let me hear no more of it!" 
 
 "All right, your reverence!" she said, somewhat 
 abashed. "Of course I don't know but what everybody 
 is saying. There's not wan in the whole parish has a 
 kind word to say for him. 'Tis all law ! law ! law ! W^hin 
 he wants to drive a poor girl away to America, 'tis the 
 lavj! When he wants to come down upon a poor school- 
 master, 'tis the law agin! But, faith, the people now are 
 taking the law into their own hands, an' they'll teach 
 him a sore lesson. They're sorry for you, your reverence, 
 an' they say they'll make it up to you. But I'm sorry 
 we ever came here, under such a masther as him!" 
 
 It was a disturbing element; and yet it had a sooth- 
 ing effect on the irritated nerves of Henry Listen. It 
 was quite clear that the pastor's ways were not approved 
 of by the people; and somehow, we all grow into the 
 absurd belief that Vox populi est vox Dei! May it not 
 be, that, as he was erring sadly in his administration, 
 he might also be erring sadly in his dogmatic opinions 
 about a priest's tastes and studies? Was he not, in a 
 word, an extremist; and is not that epithet sufficient to 
 condemn him, and to prove his lack of judgment in every- 
 thing? 
 
 He rose up, and went over and examined his beloved 
 books. For a young man he had put together a goodly 
 number of them. There they shone, in all their new and 
 resplendent bindings, row after row, the masterpieces of 
 every age and race of mankind. Was he going to take 
 these out, and destroy them in one sacrilegious holo- 
 caust? And then fall back, for the resources that every 
 priest needs against the necessary solitude of his life and
 
 180 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 calling, on the "Penny Catechism"? The last word 
 that was said to him by his confessor when leaving college 
 was to have some "hobby," some "fad," which would 
 save him from the ennui of lonely hours. And, now 
 that he had acquired a taste for literature, and had 
 already experienced its value even as an anodyne against 
 the pain of the gristless mill of the brain, was he going to 
 throw himself back on the vacuity of idle hours, and the 
 torture of solitary thought? 
 
 He made up his mind, then and there, that this was 
 one of those occasions where a man must lean upon him- 
 self, and set aside both tradition and authority. 
 
 He looked out; and, seeing that the afternoon was fine, 
 he took up a heavy walking-stick, and started for a long 
 walk. His way led down by the sea-marshes, where he 
 startled into a lazy flight one or two lonely herons or 
 gulls that were fishing amongst the sedges, and then he 
 mounted the steep declivity that led to the cliff that over- 
 hung the sea. In a few moments he had rounded the 
 corner, and struck into a narrow path that was beaten 
 by the feet of men across the brow of the fields that 
 sloped down to the shore; and in an instant the whole 
 superb scene, yellow in the wintry radiance, broke into 
 view. He saw how the shore bent in and out in deep 
 bays for miles, sometimes receding far inland, sometimes 
 projecting in bold promontories, that pushed their feet 
 into the sea. Far away, far, far away, the coast-guard 
 station glittered white and beautiful, its masts faintly 
 discernible in the evening light; and very much nearer, 
 a gray tower or castle stood darkly against the blue, 
 or rather slate-coloured, waters, that lay in the calmness 
 of the quiet afternoon, as still as the waters of an inland 
 lake. He stood for a moment, drinking in all the beauty 
 of the scene; and whispering to himself silently that what- 
 ever trials or distractions awaited him behind in those 
 fenny and marshy places, at least he had a place of refuge 
 and solitude here above the eternal sea. 
 
 "If ever," he said aloud, "I am fretted or annoyed
 
 REJECTED BY THE "POWERS" 181 
 
 by — by — circumstances, I'll just bring out some pocket- 
 edition of my poets; bury myself down there in some nook, 
 where only the eye of God can see me; and bid worry and 
 trouble, good-bye!" 
 
 He moved along briskly under the exhilaration of the 
 pure sea air and the beauty of the landscape, when, 
 suddenly turning a corner, where the sea had torn down 
 vast masses of cliff and surface, and deeply cut into the 
 land, he came almost face to face with a young girl, who 
 was sitting on a ditch, her limbs crouched and gathered 
 in, and her head resting on her hands. She was by no 
 means a beautiful picture, nor one that would arrest the 
 steps of a hasty wayfarer. Her face, dark of complexion, 
 seemed also begrimed with dirt, and her long, lank hair 
 fell down on either side in that manner we are accustomed 
 to in the pictures of the Prairie Indians. She neither 
 moved, nor spoke, as the young priest came close to where 
 she sat; and in his usual cheery way he said: 
 
 "Hello! and who are you?" 
 
 She stared him straight between the eyes, and said, 
 without changing her posture, or moving a muscle: 
 
 "Hallo! and who are you?" 
 
 He then took her to be one of those simpletons that 
 formerly were an unpleasant sight in the streets and 
 thoroughfares of Ireland, but who are now mostly gathered 
 into the workhouses; and with some compassion, he said: 
 
 "Never mind, my good girl; but what's your name?" 
 
 "Never mind, my good boy; but what's your name?" 
 she replied. 
 
 He laughed at the absurdity of the thing; but she 
 stirred not, but kept her black eyes fixed full upon him, 
 searching him all over. 
 
 " You cannot be a Catholic, my good girl," he said at 
 length, putting on an aspect of seriousness, "or you 
 wouldn't speak that way to a priest." 
 
 " So you're the new priest that has come here," she 
 said, nodding her head in a significant manner. " Let 
 me tell your fortune and your future."
 
 182 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Oh! I see/' he cried, as a light broke in upon him, 
 "you're one of the gang of gypsies down at the old 
 castle. Thank you, my future and fortune will reveal 
 themselves." 
 
 He was moving away, when she arrested him with a 
 gesture. He stood still, and waited, but with a little 
 disgust. The pity that was springing in his heart for a 
 poor simpleton had given way to a strong feeling of 
 aversion for an impostor. 
 
 "You wouldn't be in such a hurry if you knew all," 
 she said, in a manner that suggested profound indiffer- 
 ence on her part, although she now stood up, descended 
 lightly from the ditch, and confronted the priest. " There 
 are many crosses in your path here. There are those 
 watching you, who will hurt you if they can. And there 
 will be treacherous friends, who will go into your 
 mouth to pick out your secrets, and get you into theif 
 power." 
 
 "Tell me something new," said Henry Liston, "and 
 not that foolish drivel. What you have foretold of me 
 is true of every man. My books have confided so much 
 to me without the aid of a fortune-teller." 
 
 " Give me a shilling," she said, " and I'll tell the truth." 
 
 "Then you have been telling lies," he cried. "No, 
 I'll give you nothing. You are a cheat and a liar." 
 
 The girl's eyes flashed fire on the instant, and she 
 clenched her hand as if to strike him. But in an instant, 
 a soft film, as of a tear, seemed to steal over her eyes, 
 and she said in a piteous manner: 
 
 " You are right. But I'm not lying when I tell you, 
 that I'm hungry. I haven't broken fast to-day." 
 
 Touched with compassion, he fumbled in his pockets, 
 and drawing out some silver, he proffered a shilling. She 
 seized the coin, and his hand at the same time, and bend- 
 ing down her face until it almost touched the palm, she 
 examined minutely every line and wrinkle and muscle. 
 
 Then raising herself erect, she flung the hand of the 
 priest aside with a contemptuous gesture, and said :
 
 REJECTED BY THE "POWERS" 183 
 
 tc 
 
 ■Pah! There's nothing there! The Powers are not 
 concerned with such as you!" 
 
 And she strode down across the fields to where the old 
 pirate-keep and stronghold held watch and ward above 
 the sea.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 A Lucullan Banquet 
 
 Several evenings of those strange tuitions in the 
 pastor's house had passed by, and the invitation to 
 Rohira had been repeated again and again by the young 
 Wycherlys, before Annie ventured to open the subject 
 to her uncle. He used occasionally break away from his 
 Suarez to look in, and give directions to the studies both 
 of his niece and her two companions, arranging lessons, 
 criticising compositions, giving occasional readings in 
 Virgil and Horace to stimulate their energies. Then he 
 would go back to his desk, and recommence somewhere 
 far down in the long columns of proofs and explanations 
 with which the great Spanish Jesuit sought to bring into 
 harmony those terrific forces with which the world of 
 nature and the world of men are agitated. Sometimes, 
 indeed, he brought back sad distractions from these 
 visits, sad misgivings as to the propriety of having these 
 young Protestant lads under his roof at all; and still more 
 poignant doubts of the prudence of allowing his niece to 
 accompany them in their lessons. He had often a secret 
 hope, as the days went on, and the evenings lengthened 
 out, and the year was stretching itself to broader horizons 
 and more cheerful conditions, that they would suddenly 
 leave on some pretext; or that something would turn 
 up to create a diversion that would break up these even- 
 ing classes. But, no! The days went on; and, regular as 
 clockwork, the young lads came in the evening, conned 
 over their Latin and Greek lessons, were always polite 
 and respectful, and always went away cheerful and 
 thankful. There seemed to be no prospect of ending 
 
 184
 
 A LUCULLAN BANQUET 185 
 
 an undertaking rashly assumed; and the old priest felt, 
 for the hundredth time in his life, how difficult it is to 
 control a set of circumstances let loose by a single act. 
 
 Hence, when his niece first broached to him the pro- 
 posal to visit Rohira, he rather bluntly and somewhat 
 angrily refused. The young girl resented the tone he 
 took; and showed her resentment as only young ladies, 
 with a certain spirit, can. And seeing that he was bring- 
 ing into his hitherto quiet home the spirit of unrest, he 
 relaxed so far as to explain: 
 
 "You know, my dear Annie," he said, "that this is a 
 matter in which we cannot be too particular. It is not 
 usual in Ireland for Catholics and Protestants to mix 
 together socially, except in very high grades, where edu- 
 cation is such a protection. And then, I have to consult 
 the prejudices of the people." 
 
 "In America," she said, "we're above such little 
 things. Seems to me, that you here in Ireland are going 
 to keep up the Kilkenny-cats programme to the end." 
 
 Which was rather spirited language toward such a 
 giant as her uncle. 
 
 "There may be reasons," he said, rather humbly, she 
 thought. "We are just passing out into new conditions, 
 where, perhaps, a better feeling should prevail." 
 
 "It seems to me altogether narrow and queer," she 
 replied. "Why, the dearest friends, and the best and 
 truest friends we had in Chicago were Protestants. 
 I heard father say, more than once, that he would trust 
 Lawyer Plimsoll, a Baptist lawyer, with his life and all 
 he possessed. And I'm sure I'll never again have a 
 friend like Dora Plimsoll." 
 
 "Well," he said, turning the tables a little on his niece, 
 "that may be all quite true; and I know you feel this old 
 place lonely sometimes — " 
 
 "Now, Uncle," she said at once. "That's not kind. 
 You know I didn't mean that." 
 
 Then, after a pause, she said briskly, although there 
 was a little sob in her voice:
 
 186 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "There, Uncle, let's say no more of it. I'll abandon 
 the idea; and let Dr. Wycherly know." 
 
 Which, of course, meant victory for Annie. That 
 magnificent sacrifice of will meant prompt surrender on 
 his part. But no more was said about the matter then. 
 
 A few evenings later, and just before Lent commenced, 
 her uncle said one evening: 
 
 "The days are lengthening, Annie, and the weather 
 is unusually fine. I have been thinking that there was 
 something in what you said about breaking down those 
 barriers that lie between us and our Protestant friends. 
 Some one must begin somewhere. And after all, the 
 people rather like Dr. Wycherly, and they have excellent 
 reason. Many a child he has saved; and many a mother 
 he has given back to her family from the grasp of death. 
 He's a good man, but eccentric. Perhaps, it would be 
 as well if you visited Rohira." 
 
 "But I have declined the invitation. Uncle," she 
 answered. " I cannot well offer to go now." 
 
 "No, of course," he said, "unless it is repeated. It is 
 not unlikely that they may ask you again." 
 
 And they did. Because, in that occult and yet most 
 delicate manner with which young ladies manage to 
 have their way in this world, Annie contrived to let it 
 be known that somehow her objections had vanished, 
 and that she would compliment Dr. Wycherly now by 
 appearing at Rohira, if the honour were again solicited. 
 
 The Lenten season was very near at hand; and Lent 
 was a time when good Catholics were averse from visiting. 
 Would Shrove Tuesday suit? Would Miss O'Farrell 
 come to Rohira on Shrove Tuesday, and eat pancakes 
 with the family, and hunt for the ring in the cake, etc., 
 etc.? Precisely. The very day would meet all her 
 wishes. Then came an awkward invitation elsewhere. 
 Father Listen had now got rid, once and forever, of the 
 tribe of artists; his house was perfect from attic to cellar-, 
 it was the "use and custom" to open out the long rubric 
 and ceremonial of life with a modest entertainment; and
 
 A LUCULLAN BANQUET 187 
 
 would not Dr. William Gray and his niece do him the 
 honour to dine with him on Shrove Tuesday, before put- 
 ting on the sackcloth and ashes of Lent? 
 
 It was awkward, this clashing of pleasant voices calling 
 a young life to that relaxation and amusement which 
 are indispensable. But the slow intellect of the uncle, 
 ponderous and comprehensive enough to deal with gigan- 
 tic problems in the metaphysic of life, was quite unable 
 to grasp this petty difficulty. 
 
 "We cannot refuse Father Liston," he said. "It is 
 his first time, — his great inaugural symposium. He is 
 sure to have asked the brethren. It would look ill that 
 I should be absent. And then, he intends to compli- 
 ment you, Annie." 
 
 Annie's face fell. It would be nice of course to dine 
 with Father Liston, and see all the priests. But Rohira — 
 pancakes — gypsies — old castles ! Who could resist 
 that? The position was difficult; but what obstacle 
 will not woman's wit cut through? In some mysterious 
 manner, Father Henry Liston cancelled the engagements 
 for Shrove Tuesday; and issued a new set of invitations 
 for the preceding Monday. And so the double vista 
 shone gaily before the vision of the young girl; and she 
 was happy. 
 
 It was a pleasant little party over there under the 
 shade of the sea-cliffs, and facing the sea-marshes at 
 Athboy. There were few invited, because Henry Liston 
 was somewhat fastidious; and the profuse hospitality 
 of larger circles was somewhat repugnant to his tastes. 
 But the little dinner was very choice; the appointments 
 were almost too fine; the silver shone a httle too brightly; 
 somehow, everyone, but the amiable host, felt that a 
 little more humility and modesty would have placed 
 them more at ease. Only the two young ladies present, 
 his sister and Annie O'Farrell, were enraptured. They 
 saw things with human eyes, and eyes, too, trained by 
 mysterious Nature to understand and appreciate beauti-
 
 188 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 ful things. The stem austerity with which human things 
 are viewed by the priestly eye was not theirs. Young, 
 happy, hopeful, only the fair things of life appealed to 
 them; and their imaginations were not sobered by deep 
 contemplations on the vanity of earthly desires. They 
 wished and hoped and dreamed; and were happy when 
 the dreams came true. 
 
 Whether it was the stern, austere manner of the old 
 pastor, which he never laid aside, except when speaking 
 to children or the poor, and which he steeled into utter 
 hardness and silence when dealing with his brethren; or 
 whether there was a general feeling that somehow Henry 
 Liston, in his first domestic experiment, had overshot 
 the mark, there was some chill restraint hanging around 
 that dinner-table; and when Henry Liston, in his sense 
 of amiability and hospitality, opened a bottle of costly 
 wine toward the end of the entertainment, and the pastor, 
 on being offered it, said curtly and contemptuously "No!" 
 and "No!" was echoed down along the table; and the 
 host had to put aside the opened wine on the sideboard 
 untasted — it needed all the glorious hope and buoyance 
 of youth to keep back the tears from his eyes. But, at 
 last, the torture ended; the two young ladies retired to 
 the drawing-room; and a more healthful atmosphere of 
 cheerfulness and good-feeling spread over the room. 
 Still, the majestic presence, and the short, stern remarks 
 of the pastor, punctuated by sarcasm, that levelled 
 all conversation into its own dreary monologue, soon 
 emptied the dining-room. On one excuse or another, the 
 younger priests departed ; and the pastor and curate were 
 left alone. Henry knew he was in for something; and he 
 steeled his nerves to bear it. 
 
 "Was this your first clerical dinner in Ireland?" said 
 the old man, after an awkward pause. 
 
 "Oh, no," said the curate gaily. "I used to have a 
 few priests down to dinner occasionally at M — ." 
 
 " You were a chaplain, then, passing rich on eighty or 
 ninety pounds a year!"
 
 A LUCULLAN BANQUET 189 
 
 " Yes ! But these little things really cost nothing worth 
 talking about!" 
 
 " Indeed? Just hand me over that bottle on the side- 
 board!" 
 
 Henry demurely brought over the offending bottle. 
 
 The pastor read slowly the label : 
 
 TOKAY 
 
 SUPERIOR. REFINED. 
 
 Vintage 188 — . 
 
 "How much might that be worth now? How much a 
 dozen?" 
 
 "About eighty-four shillings!" said Henry. 
 
 " Four guineas ! My God! Enough to feed a labourer's 
 family for a month. Absolutely sinful and criminal ex- 
 travagance. How much more of that stuff have you — 
 in your pantry — I beg your pardon, — in your wine- 
 cellar?" 
 
 "That's the only bottle in the house!" said Henry, 
 with a little air of triumph. 
 
 "You said it cost four guineas a dozen?" 
 
 "So it did. But I didn't pay it. 'Twas simply a 
 Christmas present from my grocer!" 
 
 The good pastor's face fell. It was a magnificent 
 thrust from Henry. But the old man was used to parry 
 and fence with dexterity. He was one of those logicians 
 who cannot be beaten, his mind leaped so lightly, like a 
 skilful picador, to avoid a frontal assault. The brethren 
 said of him that he could prove that black was white, 
 that night was day, that sin was virtue, and virtue sin, 
 with the greatest facility. Ho was born quite out of 
 date! He was a Greek sophist! 
 
 "And do you think," he continued, clearing and fortify- 
 ing his faculties with a pinch of snuff, "that you were 
 justified before God and man in opening and wasting 
 seven shillings' worth of wine — a labourer's wage for a 
 week ? "
 
 190 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Well, you see, sir," said Henry demurely, "I couldn't 
 refuse that present without offence. My grocer said, 
 when giving it to me: 'This is a splendid wine. Father. 
 I can guarantee its purity and age. Don't open it unless 
 you have distinguished company who can appreciate it. 
 You're going to Athboy. Ah ! there's the man who knows 
 what wine is — your future parish priest. Dr. Gray.' " 
 
 "Who was that blackguard?" said the pastor furiously, 
 "and what did he know about me?" 
 
 "I'm sure I can't tell you, sir!" said Henry meekly. 
 "But he seemed to be very proud of your knowledge. 
 The people really like priests that are educated enough 
 to distinguish the bouquet of fine wines." 
 
 "'The bouquet of fine wines!'" cried the pastor in a 
 rage. "My God! Think what we are coming to! 'The 
 bouquet of fine wines!' Such language from a priest; and 
 such indications of forbidden knowledge. This is worse 
 than 
 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden!" 
 
 He snuffed furiously for a few minutes. Then, Henry, 
 with a little trepidation, pushed over a pretty, engraved 
 wine-glass, and said, not without a spice of mischief: 
 
 " 'Tis open now, sir, and there's no use in letting it go 
 to waste. Try one glass!" 
 
 And he filled the dainty glass to the brim. 
 
 The pastor tasted it, and put it down, with a grimace of 
 disgust. 
 
 " Some chemist's mixture of quinine and bog-water," 
 he said. " I think you shouldn't play such practical jokes 
 on your guests." 
 
 "Why 'tis Tokay, real Tokay!" said Henry Liston. 
 " He assured me it was the very best of wine." 
 
 "'Tis like everything else you have," said his pastor. 
 " Books, furniture, pictures — all shams. What's that? " 
 
 And he pointed his thumb and forefinger toward an 
 engraving that hung on the wall. 
 
 " That's an etching of one of Watts' — Watts, you
 
 A LUCULLAN BANQUET 191 
 
 know — the great painter, whose works are in the Tate 
 gallery. All his works are allegorical and symbolic." 
 
 " They may he," said his pastor grimly. " But they're 
 totally unfit for the walls of a priest's house. What do 
 you call that thing?" 
 
 "An epergne! A silver epergne!" 
 
 "How do you spell it?" 
 
 " E-p-e-r-g-n-e ! " spelled his curate. 
 
 "Silver! What did it cost?" 
 
 " 'Tisn't all silver, you know," said Henry. "A good 
 deal of it is glass. It cost about ten pounds ! " 
 
 "And you, a young chaplain, had the effrontery of 
 spending ten pounds on a gewgaw of that kind?" 
 
 "I didn't spend one halfpenny on it!" said his curate. 
 " 'Tis a present from the Women's Confraternity ! " 
 
 "Another present! You will soon be able to set up as 
 a wine merchant, and picture dealer, and jeweller. Did 
 you ever hear the saying: 'This might have sold for much 
 and given to the poor'?" 
 
 "I did," said Henry. "And the man was rebuked who 
 said it." 
 
 "Who?" said the pastor in a moment's forgetfulness. 
 
 "Ish Kerioth!" said Henry. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Ish Kerioth — Judas, the traitor!" 
 
 "Oh, I forgot, you're right, Iscariot. Where did you 
 get that new-fangled pronunciation?" 
 
 "'Tis the Hebrew," said Henry. 
 
 "Of course. And you know no more about Hebrew 
 than the sole of my boot! There is more sham knowledge. 
 Everything is sham with young men nowadays!" 
 
 Tea was announced in the next room, where the two 
 young ladies were in ecstasy over all the pretty things 
 that Father Liston had put together, or rather been pre- 
 sented with. For, of a truth, he had scarcely spent 
 twenty pounds on his household effects; but his friends 
 were well-off, and his zeal and kindness and geniality 
 had been substantially appreciated in the town where
 
 192 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 he had lately officiated as chaplain; and there are still 
 left in Ireland a few, of the dear old Irish love and faith, 
 who think nothing too good for a priest. Now and again, 
 too, whilst pastor and curate were talking so grimly in 
 the dining-room, the sounds of a rich-toned piano, struck 
 by one of the girls, came floating in subdued melody across 
 the hall. All around there was an atmosphere of refine- 
 ment, and education, a hint of progress, a departure from 
 old ideas, that grated harshly on the senses of the old 
 man, accustomed to an ascetic mode of living, and no 
 human pleasure but that which came from intellectual 
 intercourse with the exalted minds of the Church. 
 
 He stood up, and gazing down along the table, where 
 silver and glass and ruby lamps and rich flowers and costly 
 fruits cast light and fragrance all around, he nodded his 
 head and said, dropping his words slowly, like corrosive 
 acids on the quivering soul of his curate: 
 
 " Now, Father Liston, we're commencing life together. 
 How long we shall be together, I cannot tell. But, I am 
 of opinion that an old man's words, whether he be a 
 superior or not, should have weight with the young. 
 Now, I don't know how far these new ideas have become 
 prevalent among the younger priests, or whether you 
 stand alone. But I must tell you at once, and emphati- 
 cally, that I gravely, — yes, gravely disapprove of many 
 things I have been witnessing. They may not be sinful, 
 or wrong; but they are unpriestly; and, if you make your 
 meditation every morning, as you ought to do, your con- 
 science should have told you this already. There was 
 first your order, yes, order to your pastor to paint and 
 paper your house in an outlandish fashion. Here then 
 are books that should not be seen on a priest's shelf — 
 German romance, German nonsense, a poor substitute 
 for the Theology of the Church. If you continue feeding 
 your mind on this rubbish, you will either lose your faith, 
 which, probably, is the greatest misfortune that can 
 befall a man in this world, or you'll become a flippant 
 and foolish creature. In God's name, do what I told
 
 A LUCULLAN BANQUET 193 
 
 you the other day. Take out, and burn in your stable- 
 yard all that rubbish — prose and poetry ; and if you have 
 still a few pounds to spare, buy some good Moral-Theology 
 books and Scripture Commentaries, and read them, read 
 them — " 
 
 ''I have a fair selection here, sir!" said Henry, calling 
 his attention to a lower shelf, where to his amazement, 
 but not to his confusion, for he was never confused, the 
 pastor read such names as a Lapide, Bellarmin, Hurter, 
 Franzelin, etc. 
 
 "H'm! That's so far good. But, of course, you never 
 open them. Show me that Hurter!" 
 
 Henry handed over the book. The leaves were uncut. 
 
 " H'm — I thought so. More sham! Wouldn't it have 
 been cheaper for you to get a few painted pieces of board, 
 and label them!" 
 
 "I haven't had time to read much yet!" said Henry 
 almost crying. 
 
 "No, of course, except: 
 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden! 
 
 There's always time for that!" 
 
 He took an enormous pinch of snuff, and dusted his 
 waistcoat in front with his pocket handkerchief. 
 
 "Tea is ready, sir!" said Henry. "It is waiting in 
 the — the — parlour ! " 
 
 "No! drawing-room!" said his pastor. "You should 
 never say 'parlour.' 'Drawing-room' is the proper word, 
 and the proper thing for a priest. Now," he continued, 
 "look at that table to-night! It would have suited a 
 nobleman's palace. It is utterly and criminally unsuitable 
 to a priest, surrounded by poor people, as all priests are 
 in Ireland. I don't object," he said as if he were making a 
 tremendous concession, "to a young priest entertaining 
 his friends in a modest way — in a modest way; but just 
 look at what we have seen to-night ! Look at that table ! " 
 
 "Why, there's nothing exceptional there!" said Henry, 
 14
 
 194 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 very much nettled. "Did you expect me to dine my 
 friends on bacon and cabbage?" 
 
 " No ! I see now you're taking my friendly and gentle 
 admonitions in a bad spirit," said his pastor. "There's 
 another sign of the times! No! I do not expect you to 
 dine your friends in a paltry or mean manner; but there 
 are differences between shabbiness and Lucullan ban- 
 quets — " 
 
 "Uncle!" said Annie, putting in her head. "Miss 
 Liston and I are dying for a cup of tea — " 
 
 " Then why don't you take it? " said her uncle brusquely. 
 
 " Because we're waiting for you ! " she replied. " Come ! " 
 
 And he went. 
 
 That evening, brother and sister had a pretty confer- 
 ence about the dinner and their guests. 
 
 "Miss O'Farrell was in ecstasies," said Mary Liston, 
 "about your dinner and the table appointments. She 
 said she had never seen anything like it before; and, after 
 all, there was nothing unusual or even strange!" 
 
 "Not in civilized society, certainly," said her brother, 
 who was smarting under his pastor's criticisms. "I'm 
 glad Miss O'Farrell had a pleasant evening. Her uncle 
 had a pleasant evening, too." 
 
 "I thought he looked gloomy and unhappy," said 
 Mary Liston. 
 
 "Not at all," replied her brother. "He enjoyed him- 
 self thoroughly, because he made every one around him 
 unhappy. I wonder the little he ate didn't choke him." 
 
 "Well, never mind, Henry," she said, "every one else 
 was pleased. Katie is off her head from all the compli- 
 ments she has received." 
 
 "Well, I suppose we must forgive and forget," said her 
 brother buoyantly. "The pastor is one of that large 
 class that must be forgiven everything because they 
 mean well." 
 
 "Well, I'm very glad I have known Annie," she said. 
 "She appears to be a sweet and accomplished girl."
 
 A LUCULLAN BANQUET 195 
 
 "So am I glad," he answered. "That poor girl's life 
 must be a trying one; and she needs a friend." 
 
 "She told me she was going to Rohira to-morrow," 
 said his sister, "and she asked me to accompany her." 
 
 "To Wycherly's?" said her brother, eyes open in sur- 
 prise. "Wonders will never cease." 
 
 "Do you think I may go, even without an invitation?" 
 
 "Certainly. Dr. Wycherly is a good man, and does 
 not stand on ceremony. Well, here goes for a breath of 
 fresh air, while Katie is clearing up the table." 
 
 He put on his overcoat, took a strong stick, and bent 
 his steps toward the cliffs. It was a night made lovely 
 by the moon, whose beams, unlike the more glaring sun- 
 beams, which accentuate light and shadow, seemed to 
 shed a uniform lustre of pale silver across sea and land. 
 The air was very mild down there by the sea ; and when he 
 turned the corner, where the cliff broke away at right 
 angles, and came suddenly, face to face, with the long 
 sweep of sea to the far horizon, rippling in the moonlight, 
 and the long sweep of coast, where the fields sloped down 
 to the low cliffs that broke the violence of the ocean, he 
 thought he had never seen a lovelier sight. Lights, look- 
 ing quite red in the moonlight, seemed to burn at Rohira, 
 and far up the coast at the station ; and one solitary lamp 
 lit up the dusky and picturesque pile of Dunkerrin Castle, 
 that seemed now almost beneath him. It was a scene 
 that might have shed its placid enchantment on a more 
 perturbed spirit than Henry Listen's; for, with all the 
 buoyancy and spring of youth, his spirit rose up hope- 
 ful from the depths of a depression that would have em- 
 bittered for weeks an older and more inelastic disposition, 
 that had passed through the conflict, and found its wings 
 maimed or broken. 
 
 Whilst he moved along rapidly, yet pausing from time 
 to time to permit the beauty of the scene to enter and 
 sanctify his spirit, and whilst he allowed the rapture of 
 the sea beneath the moonlight particularly to intoxicate 
 his senses, he thought he saw in near the shore something
 
 196 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 like a spectre gliding over the waters. It was pearly 
 white, unlike the gray-white of a sail; and it was not the 
 shape of any sail he had ever seen, but a woman's form, 
 transparent, as he thought, against the moonlight. He 
 descended rapidly a narrow, beaten path that led down 
 from the heights to the high ditch that guarded the cliffs; 
 and, passing rapidly onward, he soon came quite close 
 to Dunkerrin Castle. The eerie character of the place 
 and the dangerous character of its inhabitants forbade 
 him going further; but he saw clearly beneath him a tiny 
 boat or punt, propelled by no human hands apparently, 
 and in the prow, standing upright, was the spirit-form that 
 he had recognized from the cliffs overhead. Utterly 
 stupefied, and somewhat frightened, he uttered a shrill 
 cry; and just then boat and occupant seemed to vanish 
 from beneath him, and to be swallowed up beneath the 
 rocks on which the old keep was built. He leaned up 
 against the damp face of the ditch in a kind of stupor, 
 from which he was only aroused by a voice at his side: 
 
 "Priest Listen, thou hast wassailed and wantoned to- 
 night. Thy veins are inflamed with wine; and thy brain 
 is intoxicated with forbidden music. Dost thou consider 
 that half the poor of thy parish, who have gone supper- 
 less to bed to-night, and whose little ones cry vainly 
 for bread, might be fed with the refuse of thy ban- 
 quet?" 
 
 It was Judith. She stood over him, appearing in the 
 mist of moonlight much taller than she really was; but 
 he did not notice this, nor take account of her apparel, 
 which was ragged and grimy enough: he saw only her 
 two black, glowing eyes fixed upon him in anger and con- 
 tempt; he heard only her bitter and untruthful charges 
 against himself. The injustice of the thing stung him, 
 and he answered back in her own style: 
 
 "Thou liest, woman! I have neither wassailed nor 
 wantoned ! And there is not in the whole parish a single 
 child gone supperless to bed to-night!" 
 
 " What do you know of the parish? " she said. " Have
 
 A LUCULLAN BANQUET 197 
 
 you entered a single cabin since you came hither, or knelt 
 by a single sick-bed?" 
 
 " No i " he said feebly. " I haven't been called. I have 
 never shirked duty; nor refused a call from the sick or 
 suffering!" 
 
 " You were too busy about your own castle to heed the 
 cabin," she replied. "Whilst you were feasting, your 
 pampered servants drove the poor and starving from 
 your door." 
 
 "Not the deserving poor!" he said. "At least not 
 with my knowledge. They have instructions to break 
 bread to every child of Adam, except the thief and the 
 wastrel!" 
 
 "And how are they, or you, to know the thief and the 
 wastrel?" she hissed in anger. "Do you think you can 
 discover hypocrites, because you are a hypocrite your- 
 self?" 
 
 " I have had enough of this," he said. " Don't attempt 
 to accost me again, so long as you are in this parish! And 
 it will be a short time enough, if I can help it." 
 
 "I defy you," she said. "Your Mass-bell rings but 
 once a week. My God, Ahriman, is always with me!" 
 
 He went home in a mood from which even his kind 
 sister could not arouse him. He had some tea in silence, 
 and then he took down some books, and began to read. 
 He only said: 
 
 "Tis a strange, uncanny place, Mary! I don't know 
 what to think of it. They appear to be outside civiliza- 
 tion. Did any tramps or beggars call around the place 
 during dinner? " 
 
 "I'll ask Kate!" she said. 
 
 And Kate was able to inform her that a girl of fourteen 
 or fifteen years or more was prowling around the stables 
 and the house all the evening, trying to peer through the 
 windows, and talking to the servants of the priests who 
 had been at dinner. She once ventured into the kitchen, 
 from which she was summarily ejected, and she cursed 
 them all in Irish, Kate said.
 
 198 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "I see; that explains something," Henry said to his 
 sister. "I'll have a quiet read before I go to bed." 
 
 And he took down some of his gods from their shelves; 
 and bade them speak to him. An unwise thing for a 
 young man! For he who sups with the Olympians will 
 find it hard to breakfast with boulevardiers. 

 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 A Visit and a Prophect 
 
 Down along that moonlight drive of five or six miles 
 with her uncle, Annie's heart was singing joyously, with 
 the delight of having seen some of those fair and beauti- 
 ful things in which the spirit of a young girl rejoices, and 
 also in having made a new acquaintance — that of a 
 friend whose tastes and desires (so she had ascertained 
 in their friendly colloquy after dinner) were exactly iden- 
 tical with her own. And, perhaps, the ear of this weary 
 world, so full of sighs, and anguish, and regrets, hears 
 nothing half so sweet as those delightful interchanges of 
 ideas and sentiments that take place between two young 
 girls, whose dissimilarity of age, although not very great, 
 is yot no barrier to the outpouring of confidences, that 
 seems to establish on the moment a treaty of life-long 
 friendship. She was so full of joy and innocent girlish 
 thankfulness that she should speak to the grim old mentor 
 at her side. 
 
 " Well, that was the most enjoyable evening I ever yet 
 spent. Wasn't it delightful, Uncle?" 
 
 " H'm," said the uncle, holding the reins steady on the 
 old roadster, whose long paces and methodical steps 
 seemed quite in keeping with his master's ways. 
 
 "I'm beginning to understand Ireland better now, the 
 dear old Ireland, of which mother used to speak — so 
 genial, so kind, so hospitable!" 
 
 "H'm-m-m!" 
 
 "And it was all so pretty — the silver, the glass, the 
 dinner-ware, the lovely flowers and grapes. Why didn't 
 you drink that wine, Uncle, that Father Liston opened?" 
 
 199
 
 200 THE BLLNDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 " Because I wanted to avoid a sudden death," said her 
 uncle. 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Annie, unconsciously, "I have heard 
 that these wines are bad for old persons." 
 
 " Yes, and for young persons, too," said her uncle, 
 savagely. 
 
 " Indeed? I suppose so. But, perhaps, it is the fashion 
 to offer them. I'm not well made up in these things. 
 Miss Liston told me a lot!" 
 
 "H'm-m-m!" 
 
 "She's a most delightful girl — except Dora PlimsoU, 
 whom I shall never forget, she's the most attractive girl 
 I ever knew." 
 
 " Like her brother? " said the old man. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Annie, "she really resembles him 
 a good deal. And she adores him. She thinks there's 
 no one in the world like Henry, as she calls him." 
 
 " I agree with her there," said her uncle. " He is quite 
 exceptional in every way." 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say so. Uncle," she said. 
 "Won't Mary be pleased to hear that! She was saying 
 how anxious her mother was that you and he could get 
 on together. Did you know her mother. Uncle? She 
 said, I think, that she knew you at one time." 
 
 "I did, well," he replied. "A good, simple, honest 
 Christian woman, with no nonsense about her, none of 
 these fandangoes that are becoming fashionable nowa- 
 days!" 
 
 "But did you know Mary? No, I suppose she's too 
 young!" 
 
 " I baptized her!" said her uncle, and then he was silent. 
 The little remembrance softened him a good deal. 
 
 For a few miles they drove along in silence, till very near 
 home, when Annie said: 
 
 "Do you know. Uncle, I have done a rash thing; but I 
 hope it is all right!" 
 
 "I'm not surprised," said her uncle grimly. "Well, 
 what is it?"
 
 A VISIT AND A PROPHECY 201 
 
 "I took the liberty of asking Mary Liston to go with 
 me to Rohira to-morrow. Of course, I have had no invi- 
 tation for her. Will it make any difference, do you 
 think?" 
 
 "It might elsewhere," he replied, "but Dr. Wycherly 
 is a sensible man; and doesn't mind nonsense of that 
 kind." 
 
 "She'll come down here, and we can go together to 
 Rohira. You'll give us the covered car, won't you?" 
 
 "By all means," he said, more cheerfully. "Tell Bob, 
 and he'll be ready." 
 
 In fact this arrangement solved one of these new troubles 
 that seemed to rise, like bubbles, out of the quiet waters 
 of life. He had great misgivings about those evening 
 tuitions of his niece; and, after he had given a hasty con- 
 sent to her visiting Rohira, the grave indelicacy of the 
 situation seemed to strike him. But he had no choice. 
 He could not damp the spirits of this young and joyous 
 being by withdrawing the permission on the ground that 
 the visit was unusual or irregular, and he dared not hint 
 at possible complications that might arise. He had to 
 bow his head to destiny, and destiny came again to his aid. 
 
 And so, the following afternoon, a bright breezy spring 
 day, with warmth in the air, fragrance and beauty burst- 
 ing from the earth, and great fleecy clouds chasing one 
 another across the blue fields of heaven, the two young 
 girls, in the happy springtime of life, drove up along the 
 sloping road that led to the high grounds above the sea. 
 It was so warm that they gladly dispensed with their 
 furs, and Annie said: 
 
 " I'm sorry now we didn't bring the side-car. Do you 
 know, Mary, I don't like these covered cars. They shut 
 out the view and they are so close and stuffy." 
 
 "Yes, my dear," said the more experienced Mary, 
 " but when we are coming home, and there is no landscape, 
 and Jack Frost is nipping our faces, it will be no harm 
 to have a little shelter. Who lives there? It is a nice 
 situation."
 
 202 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 " I believe one of my countrymen — a returned Yank, 
 like myself," said Annie. " I believe that place has been 
 some trouble to my uncle." 
 
 "And look," said Mary, "what horrid-looking fellows!" 
 
 These were the emergency-men, who, after the day's 
 work, were lazily leaning over the ditch, smoking their 
 short pipes, and making savage remarks on things in 
 general. 
 
 "Do you know, Annie," said her friend, "I am afraid 
 there are some horrid people here. There was some 
 young girl prowling around our kitchen last night; and 
 at last Jem had to put her out; and she used dreadful 
 language. And now, look at these. I shall be afraid 
 to come back this way, when it is night." 
 
 "There's no danger," said the courageous Annie. 
 "That's where Kerins lives; and these are workmen sent 
 out by some gentlemen, for no one here would work for 
 him. There's something against him. I don't understand 
 it. But, you see," she continued, airing her superior 
 wisdom, "these men are for the law. They're a kind of 
 police, and therefore we're safe from them." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right," said Mary Liston, feeling much 
 more comfortable for the explanation. " If they are a 
 kind of police, we could call on them to protect us." 
 
 "Of course," said Annie. "Let me fix your veil; it's 
 drooping a little." 
 
 By and by, they came to the gate that led down a 
 winding avenue from the upper road to Rohira; and, as 
 they turned into the broader sweep that led to the door, 
 both girls gave an involuntary cry of surprise at the 
 beauty of the scene that lay before them. Dunkerrin 
 Castle, a little to the right, seemed to lie right beneath 
 them, for the slope of the fields was precipitous; and they 
 had not yet time to measure distances, nor see things in 
 perspective. For the same reason, the vast expanse of 
 ocean, instead of appearing, as it would appear to trained 
 and accustomed senses, a great level of tranquil and 
 gleaming waters, now seemed to rise up before them as
 
 A VISIT AND A PROPHECY 203 
 
 a gray and gleaming wall of crystal, mounting high over 
 their heads, and impenetrable as the wall of a prison. 
 And the coast-line, dark and well-defined in the waning 
 light of a March evening, had every rock and pinnacle, 
 every bay and headland, defined as if an artist had drawn 
 deep, dark boundary lines across them, and defined them 
 as a map, and not as a picture. The girls stopped the 
 car, and dismounted, walking slowly along the well- 
 gravelled walk that led to the front of the mansion, and 
 pausing, now and again, little poets as they were, to 
 drink in the beauty that lay so solemn on earth and sky 
 and sea. 
 
 Dr. Wycherly came forth to meet them, having heard 
 the sound of the carriage wheels on the gravel. With 
 old-fashioned courtesy, he had put aside his velvet jacket, 
 and now appeared in a close-fitting coat, such as profes- 
 sional men wear in cities. His long hair curled down 
 upon his shoulders; his beard was neatly trimmed; and 
 he saluted and welcomed his girl-visitors with all the defer- 
 ence he would have paid to the first lady in the land. 
 He manifested not the slightest surprise in seeing two 
 visitors, where only one was expected. He simply mur- 
 mured interrogatively : 
 
 " Miss — ? " bowing to Annie. 
 
 "Miss O'Farrell," said Annie, with equal simplicity. 
 "And I have taken the liberty of bringing my friend, 
 Miss Liston, to see Rohira. Uncle said you wouldn't 
 mind ! " 
 
 "Your good uncle," he said, "compliments me, by 
 speaking the truth. I am greatly pleased that you both 
 have honoured me with your presence. The boys, whom 
 you know better, are not yet returned from school. But 
 I shall show you all my curios, to interest you, till they 
 return." 
 
 He took them into the great hall, which spread aloft, 
 heavy with stucco, wrought in cornice and ceiling into 
 all kinds of fancy fruits and flowers and figures. The 
 walls were literally covered with all kinds of Hindu arms
 
 204 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 and ornaments — bead work, entangled in all kinds of 
 fancy devices; heavy lacquered ware, with strange Hindu 
 emblems; costly Benares vases suspended on moulded 
 brackets; and an armoury of guns and pistols, and sabres 
 crooked and vicious-looking, and Paythan knives with 
 their heavy ivory handles. On the tables of delicately- 
 wrought or engraved brass were valuable sets of chess- 
 men, made from the purest ivory; and work-boxes and 
 writing-desks, from which the faint aroma of rare and 
 precious woods exhaled. On every blank space, the 
 hideous scaled skin of some dangerous species of reptile 
 stretched its dried folds, the ugly triangular head with 
 its naked fangs glaring down, as if in life, upon the visitors. 
 The girls shuddered, and drew together; and Dr. Wycherly, 
 noticing the gesture, conducted them, beneath the rare 
 and costly tapestry that half-covered an entrance, into 
 his drawing-room. 
 
 Here again he excited their surprise and curiosity by 
 showing and explaining in detail many a wonderful book, 
 or picture, or article of virtu he had picked up in his 
 travels; and then, when their curiosity was sated, he 
 bade them sit on a carved oak sofa, until he would dis- 
 cover and exhibit the prize of his collection. 
 
 This he took with some precaution and not a little 
 reverence from the cabinet near the window; and beckon- 
 ing the young ladies forward until the long light of the 
 westering sun fell full upon it, he opened the box, and with 
 some tenderness and awe, bade them inspect it. They 
 could see nothing but a little golden dust, a strand or 
 two of fine hair, and some broken paper; and they looked 
 at him for an explanation. 
 
 "You see there, my dear ladies," he said, "the relics, 
 the precious relics of my dear, dead wife. This is her 
 hair, crumbled away into a kind of golden dust under the 
 alchemy of Death and Time; for Death is not the great 
 Destroyer. He needs Time, as an apprentice, to perfect 
 his work. This is the remnant of her farewell letter to 
 me: alas! it was illegible, or rather so fragile that it per-
 
 A VISIT AND A PROPHECY 205 
 
 ished in my hands. They both came to me in a singular 
 manner. I knew that the spirit of my dear, dead wife 
 haunted the old castle down there on the cliffs. She 
 loved the sea and that old keep in life. She used to 
 spend her days there, watching the sea from one window, 
 which I shall show you. Her spirit haunts the old ruin 
 still. She is often seen there on fine, moonlight nights, 
 like this. Don't start, my dear young ladies! The 
 spirits of our beloved dead cannot hurt us. Do you 
 think that those who loved us in life, come back to harm 
 us in death? No! Impossible! Well, I used to go 
 down there often, very often in past days, seeking for 
 one, at least one, interview with her, who was so dear to 
 me during life. But I failed. She has revealed, and 
 does reveal herself to others. She has not chosen to 
 reveal herself to me. But, somehow, I felt that there 
 was some message from the dead awaiting me somewhere : 
 and one day I discovered a heavy oaken door, that 
 seemed so solid as to be part of the masonry, and I pushed 
 it to. It revealed a long narrow passage, at the end of 
 which was a sunken chamber; and in that chamber I 
 discovered these, the last sad remnants of my beloved. I 
 brought them home with infinite care; but the moment 
 the air caught them, it dissolved them. This is all that 
 remains; but I assure you, my dear young ladies, I would 
 willingly part with every object in my Oriental collection 
 in the hall, rather than with this little box. But here 
 are the boys! I know their footsteps. They will be 
 greatly pleased ! " 
 
 And folding up the sacred dust and carefully tying 
 the box, he laid it away in the cabinet, which he locked. 
 
 The boys rushed into the hall, rough and boisterous 
 enough, so greatly in contrast with the quiet, sad de- 
 meanour of their father, Dion shouting: 
 
 "I say, Pap, did Miss O'Farrell come? Ah, here you 
 are! I was afraid you'd disappoint us!" 
 
 And then he looked shyly at the stranger. 
 
 "Miss Liston, Dion!" said Annie O'Farrell.
 
 206 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Miss Liston, Jack!" she repeated; and the two lada 
 shook hands with some reserve toward the stranger. 
 
 "Now, before the twiHght falls," said the father, "you 
 had better take the ladies down and see the old castle — " 
 
 "But I want some grub, Pap!" said Dion, with a grin. 
 "I'm as peckish as a starved crow!" 
 
 "I'm surprised at such language before ladies," said 
 his father. "Why, Miss O'Farrell, I can hardly con- 
 gratulate you on your pupil." 
 
 "The words don't come into our Latin lessons," said 
 Annie, with a smile. "Perhaps they belong to some 
 other language?" 
 
 "They do!" said Dr. Wycherly, with some severity. 
 "They belong to the language of slang, which young 
 gentlemen should never use before ladies. Now, Dion, 
 curb your appetite, until you have done the honours of 
 the place to your visitors. I promise you a hearty tea, 
 and plenty of pancakes at six o'clock!" 
 
 "Hurrah! good old Pap!" shouted Dion. "Come, 
 Miss O'Farrell, come Miss Liston; and we'll see the old 
 castle first." 
 
 "Are you afraid?" whispered Mary Liston. "I am. 
 I wish we were back for the pancakes." 
 
 They had little to fear, however, for never were fair 
 ladies escorted by such gallant cavaliers. Dion, although 
 hungry, was in boisterous spirits. Jack, more gentle, 
 and more reserved, seemed rather more solicitous about 
 the young ladies' dresses, as they toiled down the rough 
 path, strewn with brambles, but starred with yellow 
 primroses, that led to the castle. Here they paused; and, 
 without entering the premises of the gypsy family, they 
 mounted a rude stone staircase, that led to the second 
 story of the building. From this a fine view was had of 
 the sea in front, that seemed to stretch inimitably for- 
 ward to the southern horizon; and to the west, where the 
 coast was broken by all the jagged lines of cape and 
 promontory. 
 
 "Beneath here," said Dion, "is a cave, or rather be-
 
 A VISIT AND A PROPHECY • 207 
 
 neath the gypsy room; and you can hear the sea bellowing 
 and groping beneath the castle. And here is the narrow 
 bight or fiord that cuts its way far into the land. Yonder 
 is the Coast Guard Station; and I guess that many a 
 glass is levelled at this old pile. But mum's the word!" 
 
 They went higher to the last story, which was unroofed, 
 and open to the heavens, although the walls and windows 
 were intact. And, as they stood in pairs, gazing at the 
 wondrous scene that lay before them, Jack Wycherly 
 whispered to Annie: 
 
 " You won't be alarmed, Miss O'Farrell, if I tell you 
 that this is the window where the reputed ghost is seen? 
 We have no faith in it, Dion and I. We have our own 
 suspicions. But, poor Papa believes that it is our dear 
 mother's spirit that comes back to visit a place that was 
 dear to her. We don't care to contradict him. It would 
 anger him. But, we think it is all a fraud. And oh! it 
 is so horrible to think that our dear mother's memory 
 should be used in so shocking a manner!" 
 
 And there were tears in the boy's eyes, as he spoke; 
 and Annie, turning toward him in the waning twilight, 
 noticed the pinkish pallor of his face, and the glitter in 
 too luminous eyes. Fearing to ask what he and his 
 brother suspected, she thought to relieve his feelings by 
 asking of what his mother had died. 
 
 "Of consumption!" he said. "Pulmonary phthisis is 
 what father called it. She caught cold, neglected it, 
 and it developed into that disease. But it is very chill 
 here. Miss O'Farrell. Lot us go down!" 
 
 As they stepped from the last stone on to the gravel, 
 they were met by the tall form and dark face of Judith. 
 She was by no means an ill-looking woman; but there 
 was always a sinister look on her face, that was furrowed, 
 as we have said. 
 
 "Let me tell your fortune, young lady!" she said, 
 holding out her hand. 
 
 Dion, who had gone up the hill with Miss Listen, 
 shouted down:
 
 208 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 " Get away from that old hag, Miss O'Farrell. Jack, 
 what are you doing?" 
 
 But the woman clutched the girl's arm, who shrank 
 from her in terror; and Jack Wycherly, seeing her anguish, 
 struck smartly the hand of the old witch. 
 
 She turned on him angrily; and, then, assuming her 
 usual prophetic look, she pointed upward to the castle, 
 and said: 
 
 "The spirit of your mother calleth for you — to go 
 to her, and in the same way." 
 
 They passed from her in silence, oppressed by her 
 manner and her words. When they entered Rohira, 
 there was a tumult of voices. The eldest brother, and 
 heir to Rohira, had unexpectedly come back from sea.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Comments and Confidences 
 
 On their way home from Rohira, the two young girls 
 did not well know whether they ought to be pleased, or 
 disappointed with their visit. The weird beauty of the 
 place, especially in the setting sun and in the after-twi- 
 light and in the moonlight, seemed to haunt them with 
 its melancholy splendour. The strange, sad figure of the 
 old doctor, so sane, so refined, so highly trained, so fasci- 
 nating, were it not for that one dark line of the mono- 
 mania that possessed him, almost moved them to tears. 
 And the rencontre with that wretched old woman at the 
 castle, her assumed majesty of mien and carriage, her 
 prophetic words, her dark visage, seamed with lines of 
 passion, would have made Annie shudder, but that the 
 unpleasant recollection seemed to have been obliterated 
 by one still more unpleasant — that of the sudden and 
 unexpected advent of the elder member of the family, 
 whose presence apparently was not too well desired. 
 
 "It spoiled the evening on us," said Annie O'Farrell, 
 with a shrug. "Why didn't he come yesterday, or the 
 day before, or to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow? 
 One would suppose that he was told we were coming; 
 and that he arrived just in time to spoil our amusement." 
 
 "What is it, I wonder? What brought him home?" 
 said Mary Liston. 
 
 "I don't know," said Annie. "But from what the 
 boys hinted, from time to time, I suspect he has failed 
 in his examination for the captaincy of a vessel, and has 
 given up the sea." 
 
 "Well, but after all," said her friend, "that could 
 15 209
 
 210 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 hardly be reason enough for the rather cold reception he 
 got, especially from Dr. Wycherly. You noticed that 
 the kind old man was struck silent for the whole evening." 
 
 " Yes," said Annie, inconsequently, " and the pancakes 
 were lovely." 
 
 ''So they were," said Mary Liston. "And weren't 
 the silver and ware superb? They'd drive Henry wild 
 with jealousy." 
 
 " But did you notice that there was a want of tidiness 
 somewhere? I suppose we shouldn't make remarks; but 
 I think I see a woman's hand was wanting." 
 
 "He's very handsome?" said Mary Liston. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " The prodigal son, I suppose he's tanned and browned 
 from the sea. But he's decidedly a handsome man." 
 
 "Something sinister, though?" 
 
 "Well, n — no! There's not the space of the eye be- 
 tween the eyes, which is the sign of perfection; but, other- 
 wise, he is a type of manly beauty." 
 
 " Oh! but we forgot. We never saw the acres of violets 
 and lilies-of-the-valley and hyacinths — the very things 
 we came to see ! " 
 
 "I can't bear hyacinths. The perfume overpowers 
 me." 
 
 "I love the daffodil and the narcissus for themselves; 
 and because they cause no trouble." 
 
 "Did the old witch tell your fortune? We saw her 
 catching your sleeve; and that young lad trying to dis- 
 engage your hand." 
 
 "No!" said Annie, with a faint blush, happily unseen 
 in the dark. " But she ' assumed the god,' and prophesied 
 for poor Jack." 
 
 "Poor? why do you say 'poor,' Annie?" 
 
 "Because, you know, the young lad looks delicate; 
 and — and — that old beast said the spirit of his mother 
 was beckoning unto him." 
 
 "She meant calling him away?" 
 
 "Yes!" said Annie, with something like a sob. "Of
 
 COMMENTS AND CONFIDENCES 211 
 
 course, we are taught not to believe such things; and I 
 suppose there is a good deal of trickery and deceit about 
 these people. But somehow it oppresses you, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 "I'm afraid it does," said her friend. "I suppose 
 'tisn't right; but a dream will haunt me for days." 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry we didn't see the garden! It will 
 mean another invitation, and another visit," said Annie. 
 
 "But won't that be delightful?" said her companion. 
 
 "Delightful? No. I shan't like it. Do you know, 1 
 fear that I shall not sleep to-night. The whole thing 
 has given me a shudder. Did you ever get that creepy 
 feeling, when someone is telling a ghost-story?" 
 
 "Often!" said Mary Liston. "It gets under the roots 
 of your hair; and you almost feel them move!" 
 
 "Yes! that's just what I feel about Rohira," and 
 Annie gave a little shudder, and drew her furs closer 
 around her neck. 
 
 " Do you know what I think, Annie," said her friend 
 after a long pause. " I think still that what seemed 
 wanting here was a woman's hand. The ware was so 
 lovely — antique — I'm sure it was valuable. And the 
 silver — those sugar-bowls and cream-ewers were soHd 
 silver, not electro-plate — I saw the hall-mark — and 
 did you notice how heavy and massive they were? And 
 the spoons! All solid silver. I suppose he stole them 
 from some Hindu prince — " 
 
 " 'Sh!" whispered Annie. "The doctor is a good man." 
 
 "I know," said Mary Liston. "But it is surprising 
 what good people will do under temptation. And out 
 there, you know, I heard Henry reading something about 
 it, the West India, or East India Company, or Society 
 or something, thought it only right to take away every- 
 thing the natives possessed. That's what makes England 
 so rich at the present day." 
 
 "How horrible!" said Annie O'Farrcll. "But you may 
 be sure the poor doctor did nothing wrong. He is so 
 kind to the poor, I hear uncle say, and so charitable."
 
 212 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Perhaps he is making up for all the bad things he 
 did abroad?" 
 
 "You are a regular little infidel, Mary Liston!" said 
 Annie. " But here we are? Can't you stay the night — 
 uncle will be so pleased." 
 
 "No! I promised Henry I would return, and he would 
 be uneasy," said Mary. " But, Annie, if the second invi- 
 tation shall come, and it will, because I know you must 
 see those gardens, promise me that I shall go, too." 
 
 "I take that for granted," said Annie. "And this 
 time, I'll secure an invitation for you. Come in and see 
 uncle, until your car is ready." 
 
 Such were the comments made by two innocent school- 
 girls on their little adventure that evening. Somewhat 
 different in tone and temper were the remarks on the 
 same visit that were made elsewhere the following 
 day. 
 
 The Duggans were very sore and bitter since the day 
 when their home and honour were both alike outraged by 
 the visit of the police. The charge of petty theft was 
 intolerable to the imagination of a highly-strung people, 
 who thought little of a hard word or a blow, or any other 
 act of violence. And, as usual, in their own illogical 
 fashion, they raged against the very man who was 
 defending them against the vile imputation. In these 
 remote and thinly-populated places reports travel fast, 
 and very simple incidents are noticed and recorded. 
 And hence, the evening of Ash-Wednesday had not closed 
 in, when news reached these people that Mr. Reeves, 
 chief agent and organizer of the Defence Union, had 
 been closeted with their parish priest during an entire 
 afternoon. 
 
 "I knew it," said Dick Duggan, angrily, this evening. 
 " He has gone over, body and bones, to the inimies of 
 our race and religion." 
 
 " Who has gone over to the inimies of our race and 
 rehgion?" said his mother, with equal anger, facing him
 
 COMMENTS AND CONFIDENCES 213 
 
 with that fierce scowl under which the bravest of her 
 children winced and quailed. 
 
 "The priesht! The parish priesht!" replied Dick. 
 "There's the evidence 'ud convict him in anny coort in 
 Ireland. When he brings Reeves all the way from his 
 home to see him, do you think 'tis for nothin'?" 
 
 "And who told you, you blagard," said his mother, 
 " that it was the priesht brought him, instid of him calling 
 on the priesht?" 
 
 "Him callin' on the priesht?" echoed Dick, with de- 
 rision. "He'd call on the divil sooner, an' you know 
 that. Did any wan ever before hear of a landlord callin' 
 on a priesht, without being axed?" 
 
 "And what 'ud the priesht want wid him?" asked the 
 mother, lowering her tone from one of fierce denial to 
 one of anxiety. 
 
 "What 'ud he want, but to set him on us? Sure 'tis 
 plain as two and two makes four. He sinds for Reeves; 
 he tells him all about us; and Reeves sends for the police. 
 Sure annywan wid an eye in his head can see that." 
 
 "There's no use argyfyin' the matter, mother," said 
 her daughter, breaking in; "they're gone over, body and 
 sowl, to the Prodestans. Sure them two fine ladies that 
 kum to the parish lately were over at Rohira last night 
 till all hours, coortin' and gallivantin' with them boys. 
 Ned, the Captain, has come home; and they had a big 
 party to meet him." 
 
 "Wisha, faix thin, Ned is not so welkum a visitor to 
 Rohira, that they'd care to have a party to meet him. 
 Who told you?" 
 
 "Thim that seen thim, going and comin'," said her 
 daughter. 
 
 It struck the poor old woman dumb. All her defences 
 were shattered. Some deep Catholic instinct told her 
 that there was a mistake somewhere, and that the priest 
 was wronged. But she couldn't see her way out of the 
 difficulty. Reeves calling on the priest, and closeted with 
 him; the subsequent visit of the police on their insulting
 
 214 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 errand; and the entertainment of the two young ladies 
 at Rohira — all seemed to her simple mind to point in 
 one direction, namely, to the abandonment of old ways 
 and customs on the part of the priests, and the implied 
 betrayal of their people. 
 
 She went around her work this evening in a sad and 
 angry mood. The black "tea" of Ash- Wednesday and 
 the total absence of decent food hardly improved her 
 temper; but she could say nothing. She only prayed to 
 God to enlighten her, and to clear up the mystery for her. 
 
 Later on they were gathered round the humble supper- 
 table near the square of glass that served as a window. 
 The men too missed the milk that accompanied the usual 
 supper of potatoes. They had to eat the home-made 
 bread dry, and the potatoes dry except for a little 
 "dip," made of flour and water; and the "black tay" 
 that succeeded, tasted acrid and unwholesome in their 
 mouths. 
 
 These things, apparently trifling, do not much improve 
 the Christian temper; and the old man and the "boys" 
 were smoking furiously in the inglenook near the hearth 
 to get back their equanimity, when the sheep-dog, that 
 had been sleeping under the table, roused himself and 
 barked; and the next moment, a tall, handsome figure 
 burst into the kitchen. 
 
 "God save all here!" he said, cheerily. "How are 
 you, Duggan? and the mistress? Is this Dick? And 
 Jerry? Why it seems only yesterday, since I left you all 
 behind." 
 
 The family was taken by surprise; but they soon recog- 
 nized Edward Wycherly, the eldest son of the old doctor, 
 and the future heir of Rohira. 
 
 "Oh! Master Ned, is that you?" said the master of the 
 house. "We hard you kum home; and sure all the nay- 
 bors are glad to see you." 
 
 "And I'm glad to see them," said he, taking the chair 
 that was offered him by the young daughter of the house. 
 " When a fellow is knocking around the world in all sorts 
 
 ii
 
 COMMENTS AND CONFIDENCES 215 
 
 of weathers, and meeting all sorts of queer folks, he is 
 glad to get home, and amongst honest people again." 
 
 "I suppose you saw many quare things while you wor 
 abroad," said the old man. He alone ventured to speak, 
 the others having sunk into that condition of observant 
 silence which the Irish peasant so much affects. 
 
 "'Queer' is no name for them," said the visitor, taking 
 out a silver case, and lighting a cigar. "It would take 
 a month of holidays to tell all. But, how are ye getting 
 on here? What kind of a Shrove had ye?" 
 
 "Divil a much!" said the old man. "I didn't hear of 
 a marriage at all at this side. There wor wan or two 
 small ones over at Lackagh." 
 
 "I suppose the priests are too hard about the money?" 
 said Wycherly, smiling. 
 
 "That's right. Begor, your 'anner has it now," said 
 Dick, with a grin. 
 
 "'Tis a lie for you, you blagard," said his mother, 
 angrily. " You know in your heart and sowl that the 
 priests aren't hard on the people. But, faix," she said, 
 turning to Wycherly, " the wurruld won't plaze the young 
 people nowadays. Nothin' but America for the girls; 
 and the bhoys want as much money as would float a 
 ship." 
 
 "And the ould people don't want to give it," said 
 Dick Duggan. 
 
 "Thim that have it, don't," said his mother. "Sure 
 no bhoy now is married under forty or fifty; and the 
 girls are thirty-five or forty theirselves." 
 
 "Then I have no chance," said Wycherly, in such a 
 melancholy fashion that all burst out laughing. 
 
 "Begor, yer 'anner," said Dick, with unusual freedom, 
 "we hard you had your chice of two fine young ladies 
 last evening. Sure, you must be hard to be plazed, if 
 the parish priest's niece and the curate's sister wouldn't 
 plaze you." 
 
 Wycherly smoked in silence. 
 
 "Sure, we hard," said Dick Duggan, continuing his
 
 216 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 favourite topic, " that they wor specially axed up to meet 
 yer 'anner." 
 
 "Indeed?" said Wycherly, drawing in and closely 
 scrutinizing the speaker. "That can hardly be, as I was 
 not expected home. I landed at Queenstown yesterday, 
 and never sent even a wire that I was coming. But they 
 were both nice-mannered and bright young ladies. The 
 parish should be proud of them." 
 
 "They are!" said Dick drily. 
 
 " By the way, I see," continued Wycherly after a pause, 
 " you and ourselves have got a new neighbour. How long 
 are the Slatterys gone?" 
 
 "Oh, a year or two," replied the father. 
 
 "I wonder," said Wycherly, opening out the raw sore 
 that was festering in these poor peasants' minds, "they 
 didn't leave you the place. It would have been a neat 
 little addition to your farm, which is really too small. 
 Or, one of the boys could have taken it, and settled 
 down there, and brought in some girl with a piece of 
 money." 
 
 "I suppose 'twasn't God's will," said the mother, 
 anxious to turn the conversation. " There's a man there 
 from America. Kerins they call him." 
 
 "Rich?" said Wycherly. 
 
 " Rich as a Jew," was the answer. Dick Duggan went 
 out; he couldn't stand this. 
 
 "I wish he had gone somewhere else," said Wycherly. 
 "I hear he has Emergency men minding the place. I 
 don't like that. The people could have done without 
 these fellows." 
 
 But, notwithstanding his friendly tone and attitude, 
 these remarks were received with silence and suspicion. 
 Nothing will ever again take from the peasant's heart 
 the dread of the gentry. 
 
 He saw it, and rose up to go. 
 
 " Well, I must be off," he said, throwing the end of the 
 cigar into the fire. " We'll see a deal of one another, I 
 hope."
 
 COMMENTS AND CONFIDENCES 217 
 
 "Then you're not going away to say agin?" the old 
 man asked. 
 
 "No!" he replied. "I have given up the sea. I've 
 come home to stay; and help father to manage Rohira." 
 
 "An' you'll be marryin' and getting a rich wife, plaze 
 God!" said the old man. 
 
 "I haven't made much headway with the ladies as 
 yet," he said, laughing. "At least our two visitors of 
 last evening seemed to take me for a pirate, who had just 
 hauled down the black flag from his masthead. They ran 
 when I came in, and that's a bad sign, although I'm not 
 such a bad-looking fellow. Am I now?" he said, address- 
 ing the young girl. 
 
 She turned away her head, and said in a low voice: 
 
 "I have seen worse sometimes!" 
 
 "There's a comphment, Mrs. Duggan. You see there's 
 no use. I can't get on. But good evening to you all!" 
 
 "Banacht lath!" said the old man.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 The Beast and the Man 
 
 After a whole day's solemn meditation made on an 
 empty stomach, which, according to the Schola Salerni- 
 tana, and old Cornaro, and other reputable authorities, 
 is the first condition of a clear head, Henry Liston decided 
 in a most pragmatic manner that he was justified in per- 
 severing in the manner of life he had now assumed. The 
 solemn abjurations and remonstrances of his pastor had 
 disturbed his conscience not a little, especially as they 
 seemed to be the sharp echo of all he had heard in college. 
 Once or twice, during the long mental struggle on that 
 Ash-Wednesday, he had almost determined to rise up 
 and commence the holy season and a new life by making 
 the holocaust of all these worldly books, which his pastor 
 so warmly recommended. But, when he stood before 
 his bookcase, and saw their beautiful bindings, and re- 
 membered the many hours of pleasant and profitable 
 recreation they had afforded him, his heart sank, the tears 
 came into his eyes, and he turned away. He also remem- 
 bered that once in England, where he had purchased 
 these books, a certain visitor one day, looking over them, 
 exclaimed in a tone of surprise: 
 
 "What? Goethe, Novalis, in a priest's house! This 
 is the New Era. So you have found the Secret," and 
 then murmured absently: "Rome will conquer again. 
 She has got our guns at last ! " 
 
 And finally, he thought what a comparative failure 
 his pastor had been in that parish, even though he was 
 reputed to be, and in reality was, a distinguished and 
 deeply-read theologian. 
 
 218
 
 THE BEAST AND THE MAN 219 
 
 "I'll try on the new lines," said Henry, late that night 
 "I'll try modern methods. If I fail, I'll fall back on 
 the old lines again." 
 
 An excellent resolution ; but one not too easily carried 
 out. The great central problem appeared to be, whether it 
 was a fact that a new spirit had come into Ireland; and 
 whether the priesthood were to persevere in the old 
 methods of dealing with their people, or adopt new 
 methods more in accordance with the spirit of the age. 
 Father Henry Liston decided for the latter, regardless 
 of the consequences to himself. 
 
 The first indication of his new resolution was his 
 throwing himself, as it were, into the hearts of the people. 
 Whilst his great pastor kept "aloof and aloft," admin- 
 istering his parish in strictest accordance with canon 
 law and tradition, Henry Liston came down to their 
 level, became one of themselves, spoke to them familiarly, 
 cried with their sorrows, and laughed with their joys. 
 His pastor immediately noticed it, and warned him. 
 Going home one morning from the Lenten stations, he 
 read him a homily on the manner in which he had 
 addressed the people that morning. 
 
 " It was altogether too familiar," he said. " It is right 
 to be plain and simple; but you mustn't degenerate into 
 a familiarity that makes the people smile at such sacred 
 things. And it is all right to use homely illustrations; 
 but that story of the fox this morning was simply an 
 outrage on all religious decency. Try and maintain 
 some dignity. Father Liston. The people will think 
 more of you in the long run. And, by the way," he con- 
 tinued, "you must give up the habit of addressing people 
 by their Christian names. You have no right to call 
 people with whom you have had so little acquaintance, 
 'Mary,' or 'Kate.' They don't like it." 
 
 The allusion to the "fox" story originated thus. A 
 few days previous to this Station, when the pastor, after 
 having hastily swallowed a cup of tea and a morsel of 
 dry bread, had departed, and the few farmers, who had
 
 220 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 been patiently waiting at the kitchen fire, came in to 
 breakfast, the young curate remained, anxious to make 
 their acquaintance. And, under the sunny and welcome 
 absence of the pastor, and the cheerful greetings of the 
 curate, and the prospect of getting a fairly good Lenten 
 breakfast for nothing, the good people relaxed a little, 
 and finally let themselves go. 
 
 In a country-house like this, the conversation invari- 
 ably turns on one of two topics, fox-hunting and politics. 
 The ways of Reynard and the ways of the politician seem 
 to have a pecuHar fascination for the Irish peasant; and 
 they take the keenest delight in narrating the tortuous 
 methods of securing an election, even to a country dis- 
 pensary, on the one hand, or the Machiavellian tricks 
 of the fox on the other. And they laugh at their own 
 losses from either side. This morning, the politicians 
 were left in peace, although it was a sore trial to some to 
 abstain from criticising public men; and the conversation 
 turned on the coolness and dexterity and honesty and 
 fidelity of the fox. For, like most much-maligned persons, 
 that poor animal has certain virtues of its own, which, 
 however, are feebly recognized by an unjust and undis- 
 criminating public. 
 
 "There never yet was a more belied poor crachure, 
 yer reverence, than a fox," said a stout young farmer, 
 his mouth well crammed with a junk of home-made bread. 
 "I knew a poor widda wance, that lived near a cover. 
 She had the finest flock of geese and turkeys in the coun- 
 thry. And, although she was a widda, and the fox 
 knew it, he never tetched as much as a fedder on thim 
 fowl. There they were, crowing and cackling and sailin' 
 over the pond under his nose, and he never even looked 
 at 'em. But one winter came in very cowld, and the 
 country was snowed up all round. And the fox got 
 hungry. And agin his conscience, and though he knew, 
 as well as you or me, that he was committing sin, he de- 
 scinded one cowld, awful night on the widda's yard, and 
 tuk away wid 'im wan of her finest bins. She cried Mille
 
 THE BEAST AND THE MAN 221 
 
 murther! whin she diskivered in the morning wan of her 
 best hins gone ; and you may be sure she cursed that poor 
 fox as hot as if he wor a Christian. But he didn't mind 
 — not a bit. The weather cleared up a httle thin. And 
 wan fine morning, whin the widda kem out to count her 
 chickens, she found she had two too manny. ' Yerra who 
 owns thim?' sez she to herself. 'Thim aren't mine.' 
 Just thin she looked up, and there was Mr. Fox going 
 away, jest like a gintleman, without waiting to be thanked. 
 And the quare thing was that it was just the colour and 
 breed of the hin he ate, that he brought back agin!" 
 
 "I hard much the same of the ould huntsman that 
 used live over at Longueville," said an ancient and griz- 
 zled old farmer. " He had a hole dug near the fire-place, 
 and he made a nate cover for it out of an ould millstone; 
 and whenever the fox was hard pressed he made for that 
 cover; and they never caught him. But he wasn't goin' 
 to be in anny wan's debt. He robbed and stole every 
 hen roost around the country; and begobs the ould hunts- 
 man never wanted a fowl in his pot so long as he had 
 such a provider." 
 
 "But it wasn't honest," said Henry Liston, who was 
 shocked at such vulpine and human depravity. 
 
 " Which, yer reverence — the fox, or the huntsman? " 
 said the historian. 
 
 "Of course, the man," said Henry. "The fox is irre- 
 sponsible — he doesn't know better." 
 
 "God help yer reverence," said the farmer. "He 
 knows he's doing wrong, the villain — but sure, he thinks 
 'tis right to recompense his friend. And sure it is." 
 
 "But the man ought to stop such depredations," said 
 Henry. 
 
 " How, yer reverence? " was the query. And all looked 
 up to witness the discomfiture of the young priest. That 
 "how" was a poser. 
 
 "He's not always as honest as that," said another 
 guest. "He always has an eye on the eleventh com- 
 mandment ; but sure in that he's only like the rest of the
 
 222 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 world. 'Meself first, and the rest nowhere,' is his re- 
 ligion; and 'tis the religion of many besides him. I wint 
 in wan fine mornin', it might be four or five years ago, 
 to take a look at the barn to see how things wor go in'. 
 And lo! an' behold you, there wasn't a hin or a turkey 
 alive; and herself had the natest lot of young turkeys 
 for the Christmas market wor ever seen. Me eyes sprod 
 in me head; and I was just beginnin' to curse and blasht 
 the thief, whin there in the middle of thim was himself, 
 as dead as a dure nail. I let fly wan or two soft words 
 at 'im; and thin I wint over and took the vally of the 
 fowls out av him in kicking. After a while I got ashamed 
 of kicking a dead brute, so I caught him by the brush, 
 and flung him out into the dunghill. I wint in thin to 
 call out the dogs; and out they kum, yelpin' and barkin', 
 like mad. But there was no fox!" 
 
 "What happened?" said Henry innocently. 
 
 "Begor, 'tis aisy to guess what happened," said the 
 narrator. " He was shamming death. He got in through 
 a high winda, I suppose, intindin' to take one fowl for 
 his supper, and no more. But, like ourselves, wan crime 
 led to another, and whin he found he could not get out, 
 there was nothin' fur him but to massacray thim all, an' 
 himself into the bargain." 
 
 " He wasn't as cute as the fellow that got into my yard 
 a few months ago," said a rival. "The same thing hap- 
 pened to my boy-o ; he got in through a high winda, and 
 couldn't get out. So he killed all before him; and thin 
 he gathered them all ondher the high window where he 
 kem in. We wor huntin' and scourin' the counthry for 
 the fowl whin it struck me that they might be here. So 
 I opened the dure, an' in I wint. There they wor, as 
 dead as Julius Saysar; but no trace of me fox. I wint 
 over, and stooped down to count thim; and faith, it 
 wasn't me prayers I was sayin.' I took up wan, and 
 just thin, I felt somethin' lep on me back; and out wint 
 Mr. Fox through the winda." 
 
 "There's no ind to him," was the verdict; but Henry 
 
 i
 
 THE BEAST AND THE MAN 223 
 
 Liston took away with him not only the conviction that 
 the fox was a highly intelligent animal, and therefore 
 deserving of every respect; but that he had also certain 
 homely virtues, such as fidelity and gratitude, which do 
 not always accompany acuteness and cleverness in his 
 human friends. But he noticed that these redeeming 
 features were forgotten, and nothing remembered but 
 the baser qualifications in man and brute. 
 
 A few mornings after he had been entertained with 
 the "fox," he had an instance of what the higher and 
 nobler being can do. The conversation had turned this 
 morning on the prevalence of bribery at elections; and 
 the general conviction appeared to be that every man 
 had his price, and that there was no office, no matter 
 how great or how small, that was not sought for and 
 obtained by intriguing, cunning, and bribery. 
 
 "They may say what they like," said one of the guests, 
 "about gettin' the best man for this, that, and the other 
 thing; but 'tisn't the best man, but the longest purse 
 that wins. But I hard some time ago a shtory that bangs 
 Banagher. A widda, and," he looked around to see if 
 he was compromising himself, and then he went on, " and 
 sure widdas are the divil, — had a son, who she thought 
 would look nice in a dispensary. So she brought the 
 bouchal home from England, and ran him. People said 
 that she bribed right, left, and front; but, begor, if she 
 did, some other fella had a longer purse, and her boy 
 was bate." 
 
 "An' she lost all her money?" some one exclaimed. 
 
 "Did she?" said the speaker. "Didn't I tell ye she 
 was a widda? Didn't I?" 
 
 " You did," was the reply. 
 
 "Thin, how could she be bate? She wasn't, faix. But 
 she bate the whole Boord of Guardians hollow. She 
 bribed by cheque. Thim that had cashed her cheque, and 
 took the money, she had thim caught; for there was her 
 evidence agin thim, and it meant two years' imprisonment. 
 They were glad enough to pay her back. Thim that
 
 224 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 held the cheques, she blocked thim by stoppin' the cheques 
 in the Bank, and they were glad enough to give 'em back, 
 too." 
 
 "But, sure, she was caught herself in the bribing?" 
 
 "Av coorse she was; -but what did she care? They 
 weren't goin' to inform on a 'uman; and faix, she'd go to 
 gaol willingly enough, if she could sind twenty-two 
 Guardians before her." 
 
 All of which was received with an uproarious laugh as 
 the climax, apogee, and perfection of all human cuteness. 
 
 It made Henry Liston reflect a little, and preach his 
 little homily on vulpine and human depravity, with the 
 result that he elicited a broad grin from his audience, 
 and a severe homily from his pastor. 
 
 But it made him reflect; and, as we have said, his re- 
 flections were helped a good deal by the abstinence of 
 Lent. The conviction now began slowly to dawn on his 
 mind that somehow the people had got off the track. 
 The "ould dacency" of which he had heard so much 
 from his mother had gone. The people were beginning 
 to be ashamed of nothing but failure — that of which 
 they had the least reason to be ashamed. They were no 
 longer ashamed of foul trickery, of base dealings with 
 one another, of shady and doubtful acts, which would 
 have kept away whole families from Mass a few years 
 ago. It had passed into an article of religion now, that 
 the whole business of life was to succeed, no matter by 
 what means. The nation seemed to have put its honour 
 in pledge, or in its pocket; and all the lofty idealism, all 
 the consecrated and time-honoured traditions, that had 
 so distinguished the race in the past, were now deliber- 
 ately rejected with rude jokes and low pleasantry; and 
 all the lower and baser motives of self and success were 
 adopted as an ethic and a rehgion. 
 
 Henry Liston was young and the vast enthusiasm of 
 youth had not yet degenerated into cynicism through 
 a sense of hopelessness and failure. It is a grand thing 
 to see these young lads come forward, hope shining in
 
 THE BEAST AND THE MAN 225 
 
 their eyes, and courage driving the pulse-beats of martial 
 ardour through brain and muscle and nerve. You dare 
 not speak to them of degeneracy and national apostasy 
 and a gray and gloomy future. They admit there are 
 faults, and symptoms of decay, and a loosening of bonds, 
 and the gray ashes of a dead patriotism. But, what 
 are they there for, these young priests, but to eliminate 
 those faults, and arrest that decay, and tighten those 
 bonds, and blow those gray ashes into a flame that will 
 warm and lighten all the land? Yes, that is their duty; 
 for that the holy oils were rubbed on their palms and 
 fingers by consecrating prelates; and for this they have 
 to labour and toil and expend themselves and die, if needs 
 be, in the struggle. Of what consequence to humanity, 
 thought Henry Liston, is it whether Ideas are innate or 
 acquired; why an Archangel and not one of the Thrones 
 or Dominations was sent to announce the awful mystery 
 of the Incarnation? There are more pressing questions 
 for solution now. And he made up his mind, after the 
 first round of stations, that his pastor, over there in his 
 library, blinding his eyes over the perplexities of abstract 
 problems that never would be solved, might be a pictu- 
 resque object as a lonely and solitary student. But the 
 age needed somewhat more. In fact what the age needed 
 was — himself! 
 
 It was the springtime, too; and under its invigorating 
 influence the life-blood was pouring hot into his brain; 
 and every faculty was kindling into a stream of fresh 
 energies and hopes, and resolutions. The thrushes were 
 tolling out their bell-peals from every bush and thicket, 
 and the smaller songsters were chirping and love-making 
 with their little lyric voices down along vale and hollow and 
 even in the bitter salt-marshes of the sea. There was a 
 warm perfumed breath from Nature's teeming bosom on 
 the air; and all the senses were flattered into new pleasures 
 by the ever-varying potencies of Nature in her new birth. 
 And the young priest felt the vivifying influences all 
 around him; and he thought he should shake off the torpor 
 16
 
 226 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 of winter, and infuse into the sordid breasts of these poor 
 peasants some new principles and motives for their Hfe- 
 conduct. So he sat down and wrote rapidly, for the 
 thoughts were burning in his brain, a sermon that was 
 long after famous in the parish, and which he called " The 
 Man behind the Gun." 
 
 The idea was taken from what had occurred in one of 
 those delicious struggles, which, notwithstanding Hague 
 Conferences, Angels of Peace, etc., etc., seem to be part 
 and parcel of the Human Drama, just as dangerous 
 humours in the human body break out into hot eruptions, 
 or take the more deadly form of low fever. And Henry 
 drew a graphic picture of the two hostile armaments, 
 equal in armour-plating, size and weight and calibre of 
 guns, etc., approaching each other silently on Pacific or 
 other seas, until the first shot shrills out; and in a few 
 hours, one fleet is reduced to old scrap-iron on the floor 
 of the sea, or towed captive into some hostile harbour; 
 and the other, uninjured walks the waters with flags 
 flying and captured ships in its wake. Now, where lies 
 the difference here, quoth Henry. Equal in armament, 
 equal in guns, equal in magazines — the one is shattered, 
 the other triumphant? What was the magic factor? 
 Clearly, the man behind the gun! And the moral of the 
 sermon, elaborately drawn out and embellished, is the 
 well-known and hackneyed one — that what we want in 
 Ireland is not measures, but men! Henry Liston, youth- 
 ful and enthusiastic, thought the discovery unique and 
 original. Alas! has it not been the theme of every essay, 
 poem, political dissertation, philosophic conjecture, for 
 the past thousand years? And are not we as far away 
 from the solution as ever?
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Reminiscences 
 
 So thought his venerable pastor, who read him a homily 
 on the subject, to which Henry listened with bowed head 
 and burning cheek, but with a decidedly unconvinced and 
 unconverted spirit. 
 
 "Sit down," said the grim old man, pointing to the 
 pillory. "I have heard of this sermon of yours, and I 
 am not finding fault with it, except to say that I think 
 if you would keep steadily insisting on and explaining 
 the Ten Commandments, you would do more good than 
 by 'beating the air' with such foolish rhetoric. But, 
 rhetoric is always the bane of young men." 
 
 "Then you don't agree with me, sir!" said Henry, 
 mildly, "that the great want in Ireland, just now, is 
 men — I mean, manly, Christian men, strong, straight- 
 forward — " 
 
 " Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera," interposed his pastor. 
 " Yes, I agree with you thoroughly. Only I would go 
 further and say : It is the want of the whole world. Why 
 mark out Ireland? Is it not the universal necessity?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Henry. " But I think 'tis a mis- 
 take for us to be speculating on the universe, instead of 
 looking to our own needs." 
 
 "Now, that's good!" said his pastor, approvingly. 
 "That is well said. What remark is that you made about 
 putty-men?" 
 
 "I said," said Henry, somewhat annoyed to find that 
 every expression had been so carefully noted, "that you 
 cannot build a house of putty-bricks; and you cannot 
 build a nation of putty-men." 
 
 227
 
 228 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "That is admirable, really admirable!" said his pastor; 
 and whether he spoke sarcastically, or in conviction, 
 Henry could not determine. "But no one contests such 
 a plain truth, I suppose?" 
 
 " No ! — " said Henry dubiously. . 
 
 "What then?" said the old man with his stern logic. 
 "Where's the need of repeating such a truism?" 
 
 "Because," said Henry, argumentatively, "you must 
 show the want to have it supplied, I suppose." 
 
 " Quite so," was the answer. " But how do you propose 
 to supply it?" 
 
 "By preaching it in season, and out of season," said 
 Henry boldly. " By casting scorn on all that is base and 
 despicable, and turning the minds of the people to higher 
 things." 
 
 It was a pretty piece of eloquence; and, as it merited, 
 there was great silence. Soon this became embarrassing; 
 and Henry said, with some hesitation and a little blush: 
 
 "Ireland seems to me to-day like a man blindfolded 
 in sport, trying to make his way to the light, by catching 
 at everything with outstretched hands." 
 
 "A pretty simile!" said the pastor, taking a huge pinch 
 of snuff, and then handing the box to his curate. " Ireland 
 seems to me to be Hke a flock of sheep, rushing pellmell 
 over a precipice into a muck-heap." 
 
 "Don't you see, my dear Henry," he continued, after 
 a pause, "that all the old ideals are vanished, and they 
 can no more return than the elves and fairies that used 
 to dance in the moonlight? All the old grand ideas of 
 love of country, love to one another, the sense of honour, 
 the sense of decency — all are gone ! Up to twenty 
 years ago, in some way those ideals were there, broken 
 perhaps and distorted; but they were there. Then, for 
 the first time, an appeal was made by public men — I 
 won't call them demagogues or even politicians — to 
 the nation's cupidity. Instead of the old passionate 
 war-cry, Ireland for the Irish ! they sank to the Socialistic 
 cry. The land for the People! They've got it now! They
 
 REMINISCENCES 229 
 
 have the land; and they fling Ireland to the devil. Each 
 man's interest now is centred in his bounds-ditch. He 
 cannot, and he will not, look beyond. He has come into 
 his inheritance; and he sends his mother to the work- 
 house ! " 
 
 Henry was so appalled at these words, and they bore 
 so sternly on all the experience he had been acquiring 
 during the past few weeks, that he could only say faintly: 
 
 " But surely, sir, it was a grand thing to win back from 
 the descendants of Cromwellians and Elizabethans the 
 soil of Ireland? Surely our fathers would exult if they 
 could see such a day! There never was such a radical, 
 yet bloodless revolution!" 
 
 "Yes, yes," said his pastor, "if it rested there. But 
 you see the appeal to the nation's cupidity, and its 
 success, have hardened the hearts of the people. So 
 long as there was a Cromwellian landlord to be fought 
 and conquered, there remained before the eyes of the 
 people some image of their country. Now, the fight is 
 over; and they are sinking down into the abject and 
 awful condition of the French peasant, who doesn't care 
 for king or country; and only asks: Who is going to reduce 
 the rates?" 
 
 " It would have been better then for our people to 
 remain as they were?" asked Henry, "with rack-rents, 
 tumbling houses, the workhouse, and the emigrant- 
 vessel?" 
 
 "There again is the illogical, capricious, fickle brain 
 of the young man of our generation," said his pastor. 
 "I didn't say that. When will you young men learn 
 the value of words and their meaning? Look at that 
 clock!" 
 
 Henrj'- looked up to where a plainly-mounted clock 
 was moving its hands slowly forward under a glass shade. 
 
 "Every hour," continued his pastor, "pushes me nearer 
 my grave. It is not pleasant. I would rather go back a 
 little. But I cannot. If I were to put back the hand on 
 the dial, would it lengthen my life?"
 
 230 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "No!" said Henry. 
 
 " In the same way," said the old man, " I know right 
 well that it is useless to stop, or to try to stop the progress, 
 or evolution, of a nation. It is part of the eternal on- 
 wardness of things. There is no putting back the hand 
 on the dial. But, there are times when I yearn for the 
 grand old people that are gone; for the grand old ideas 
 they held as a religion. Perhaps it is old age, and I am 
 become the laudator temporis adi; but, whilst I am not 
 blind to the follies and drawbacks of the past, I cannot 
 help thinking that those times were greater than ours." 
 
 He seemed to sink into a reverie of memory, and Henry, 
 touched by the appearance of sentiment in this stern old 
 logician, who breathed syllogisms, was also silent. 
 
 After a long interval, during which the young curate 
 saw a tender light creep down over the strong features 
 of his pastor, the latter woke up, and said, in tones of 
 unusual tenderness: 
 
 "I remember, when I was a young curate (it was in 
 your native town), I was summoned one wet wild night 
 to a sick call. The rain was coming down in torrents, 
 and before I got well into the main street I was wet 
 through. As I was passing along, I heard a fine manly 
 voice echoing through the deserted street; and I soon 
 came upon a group of young lads who were gathered 
 round a ballad-singer, who had taken up his position in 
 front of a well-lighted shop. I just glanced at him as I 
 was passing; and something about him struck my fancy. 
 He was no ordinary, ragged, impecunious ballad-singer. 
 That was clear enough. He was well dressed; and, as 
 the gas-light fell on his face, I saw that he was a Fenian 
 emissary. The sharp, clear-cut face, the heavy mous- 
 tache, the right hand sunk in the breast pocket of his 
 coat, his erect military bearing, left no room for doubt. 
 I slipped into a shop for a moment. The proprietoi 
 came down to interview me. I said: 'Stop, Tom, a 
 moment. Don't speak! I want to listen ! ' And it was 
 well worth listening to. It was the famous song:
 
 REMINISCENCES 231 
 
 See who comes over the red-blossomed heather, 
 Their green bamiers kissmg the pm-e mountain air. 
 
 Did you ever hear it?" 
 
 "No!" said Henry Liston. "I cannot remember 
 having heard it." 
 
 *'0f course not. But you know: 
 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden." 
 
 Henry held down his head. Clearly, he was never to 
 hear the end of that unfortunate poem. 
 
 "Never mind!" said his pastor, continuing. "It is 
 only another sign of the decadence of the age. But I 
 tell you 'twas a grand song, and it thrilled me through 
 and through. It was a song for men, the men you are 
 dreaming about now. And it was a song for Ireland: 
 every line breathed freedom — the freedom of the moun- 
 tain, and the glen, of the moorland and the ocean. There 
 in that dingy shop, I saw it all — the troops under their 
 banners, debouching around the curves of the mountains, 
 and swelled every moment with new contingents from 
 every hamlet and cabin; their captains on horseback; 
 their pipes playing; and 'Freedom throned on each proud 
 spirit there!' It was all a dream, of course, but a glori- 
 ous dream. And, not all a dream; because the spirit that 
 breathed from that man seemed to have infected even 
 the children; and the poor little beggars spread themselves 
 out into vedettes all along the street to warn the 'Fenian' 
 when the police were coming." 
 
 There never was a more surprised individual in this 
 world than Henry Liston, as he watched with awe and 
 tenderness this new revelation in his stern and sarcastic 
 superior. The latter, as if enchanted with the memory 
 of things, took a pinch of snuff and went on : 
 
 "A few nights later, the moon was shining full upon 
 one of the glens in the neighbourhood, flooding all the 
 off-side with light but leaving the wooded side in complete
 
 232 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 darkness, when, getting home by a short-cut across the 
 hills, I suddenly stumbled on a detachment of Fenians, 
 who were being drilled in the wood. The place was so 
 dark I would have passed by, not seeing them, but there 
 again was that strange thrill that one feels in the presence 
 of something hidden and ghostly. And I could just hear 
 the shuffling of feet and the suppressed breathing of men. 
 I was passing on rapidly — for I knew they would not 
 like to be detected, even by me — when I was suddenly 
 challenged : 
 
 '"Halt! who goes there?' — 'A frigid,' I said. — 
 'Halt, friend, and give the countersign!' — This was 
 awkward. But I braved it out; and I said gaily: 'Sars- 
 field is the word; and Sarsfield is the man!' — 'Dat's 
 not the countersign!' said the voice^ which I now recog- 
 nized as that of a fellow named Jerry Kinsella, whom 
 I had cuffed well at his Catechism not twelve months 
 before. The thing now was awkward; but just then an 
 American officer came up, and challenged me. I ex- 
 plained. And all was right in a moment. But, as I 
 moved away, I heard Jerry saying, as if in answer to a 
 challenge : ' Begobs, if it was any wan else, I'd have run 
 him through.' 
 
 "Now, here is the queer part of the matter. I knew 
 all these fellows well, — Jack Carthy, the butcher; Jem 
 Clancy, the baker; Joe Feely, the carpenter — and in 
 ordinary hfe, made little of them. But, somehow, the 
 fact of their being Fenians threw a glamour around them 
 in my mind's eye; and I never after met them in the ordi- 
 nary walks of life, but I looked on them with a kind of 
 shy respect. It was the idea that glorified and trans- 
 figured these poor workmen into patriots. When I had 
 crossed the stream, and mounted the glen on the other 
 side, I stood still for a moment, strangely touched by 
 what I had seen. Looking back, I could discern nothing 
 beneath the dense darkness of the pine-wood. But just 
 then, there pealed out from the heights above a bugle- 
 call. It was the cavalry call of British soldiers —
 
 REMINISCENCES 233 
 
 Come, come to your stables, 
 My boys, when you're able, 
 Come, come to your stables, 
 My jolly dragoons ! 
 
 " It sounded for all the world to my ears as the rallying- 
 call of the people; and, coupled with what I had seen in 
 the valley, it seemed that there beneath the darkness 
 were gathered for conquest and victory the embattled 
 legions of the motherland. I heard next day that it 
 was only a bank clerk who was amusing some young lady 
 friends with a cornet; but it was a long time before the 
 imagination let go the fancy, and let reason reign again." 
 
 The old man seemed so buried in the past that Henry 
 had not the courage to bring him back to the dolorous 
 present. But he well understood what was working in 
 his mind. 
 
 "Good God!" said the old man at length, "if those 
 fellows were alive now, what would they be? I heard all 
 their confessions the day before they went out to the 
 rising. Of course, I saw it was madness; and I did all 
 in my power to stop them. But I couldn't. There was 
 the oath binding them to do impossibilities. But it was 
 a glorious madness. What would they be now? Porter- 
 drinking, platform-storming politicians, murdering one 
 another for some scoundrel of a landlord on the one hand; 
 or some equal scoundrel of a demagogue on the other." 
 
 "Well," the old man continued, "the rising came off; 
 and, of course, it was a miserable fiasco. The men had 
 no arms, and were practically undrilled. They fell away 
 at once before organized force. And yet, because the 
 whole thing was animated by an idea, it was great and 
 heroic. Two or three years after, I happened to be 
 dining at the College one evening. I forget now, it is 
 so long gone, what took me there. But I remember 
 there was a whisper around the halls that an ex-convict, 
 a Fenian, — one, too, who had been sentenced to be 
 hanged, drawn, and quartered — had been asked by the 
 great bishop to dine that day. I believe the poor fellow
 
 234 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 was only a few days out of prison, and had come there to 
 see his sister, who was a Presentation nun. We all sat 
 down to dinner, the priests at the head-table with the 
 bishop; and there was some disappointment, as the guest 
 was not appearing. Then, the door opened quietly; and 
 in there walked a small, thin, pale, insignificant-looking 
 man, except for one thing — you'd never guess?" 
 
 " I give it up," said Henry, much interested. 
 
 " Except for his cropped head. The gray hair was only 
 recovering from the convict's clip. It was his aureole of 
 honour; his nimbus of sanctity. The whole assembly, 
 bishop, priests, and students, stood up, as if they had an 
 electric shock; and clapped and cheered, and clapped and 
 thundered, until the little man had gone over, received 
 the bishop's blessing kneeling, and taken his place at the 
 bishop's right-hand. It was a great ovation and a 
 righteous one. The man was the representative of an 
 idea; and that idea had become an article of faith to us." 
 
 The old man paused, as if trying to recollect something. 
 Then, he said quietly, but with bitter emphasis: 
 
 " I believe, some time ago, an attempt was made on 
 the life of that man by some of our dear fellow-country- 
 men at some paltry election. What the English law 
 couldn't do, the hands of Irishmen tried to do. Yes, we 
 are becoming a practical people." 
 
 The lesson was sinking deeply into the mind of the 
 young priest, who was exceedingly perturbed by all that 
 he was hearing and witnessing. 
 
 "Clearly, then," he said at length, "the matter stands 
 thus. Whilst we cling to a great idea, we make no pro- 
 gress. When we do progress, we lose our spirituality, 
 — our great dreams and ambitions. Is there no such 
 thing as combining the two?" 
 
 And his pastor had to answer sadly: 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " You have no faith then, sir, in the new Gaelic League? " 
 
 "Old age is not the time for faith or hope," said the 
 old man. "It is the time of regret for lost chances and
 
 REMINISCENCES 235 
 
 opportunities. I know all about this League. But just 
 see! They are bringing back the letter of the language; 
 but where is the spirit of patriotism? The Gaelic League 
 has brought back Cuchullin and Ossian, and Naomh; it 
 might as well have brought back Homer and his Odyssey. 
 But by throwing the thoughts of the young into the far 
 perspective of years, it has overleaped the present. Nay, 
 it has deliberately blotted out the whole of the nineteenth 
 century, — its mighty epochs, '98, '48, and '67; and, by 
 the scorn it has cast upon what it is pleased to call Anglo- 
 Irish writers, it has wiped out from the memory of men 
 such names as Grattan, Flood, Emmet, Tone, Davis, 
 Duffy, Mitchel, Martin, Kickham, and the rest." 
 
 " You are giving me electric shocks this morning," 
 said Henry Liston faintly. " You are upsetting all my 
 beliefs and making me a political infidel." 
 
 "Don't take all I say for granted," said the old man, 
 with a touching absence of that dogmatism which was 
 an essential element of his character when dealing with 
 theological matters. "I am old in years; older in experi- 
 ences. But just test what I say! Go into your schools, 
 where the children are learning Irish. Ask them to sing 
 one of Moore's melodies — the swan-songs of dying Ire- 
 land. In vain. Speak to them of Mitchel or Meagher. 
 They never heard such names. Ask them to recite ' Fonte- 
 noy' or 'Clare's Dragoons.' They could more easily 
 sing a chorus from Sophocles. I said a while ago that 
 the people had got back their inheritance, and sent their 
 mother to the workhouse. They are now getting back 
 their language to ignore all that was noble and sacred 
 in their history. But, you see, I am old. Don't mind 
 me, Henry! Do your best in your own way. I am old; 
 and I cHng to dreams of the past. I'd rather have one 
 strand of the rope that hanged these poor boys over there 
 in Manchester than all the 'collars of gold' which the 
 ancient Irish robbed from each other after spoiling the 
 proud invader."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 The "Ghost" in Hamlet 
 
 The Easter week of that year was a happy week for 
 at least three of our actors in this little drama. Annie 
 had come up to Athboy, to spend the Easter holidays 
 with her friend, Mary Liston. They were recent acquaint- 
 ances; but a few interchanges of opinion on dress and such 
 like subjects had ripened, as if with a torrid sun, the 
 acquaintance into a fast friendship. After a few days, 
 they could open out the recesses of their most hidden 
 thoughts to each other, and revel in that spontaneous 
 confidence that belongs only to the young. 
 
 They had visited Rohira again by special request of 
 Dr. Wycherly; they had seen the gardens. They had 
 been overwhelmed at first by the sight of nearly two acres 
 of ground, literally covered with spring flowers, although 
 large quantities had been shipped away to the London 
 markets by steamers that called and hung out in the 
 offing and sent their boats ashore, or availed of the ser- 
 vices of Pete, the Gypsy, who was quite indifferent whether 
 he carried lobsters or orchids, so long as he was well paid. 
 
 Then, after such a surfeit of beauty and perfume, these 
 young souls fell back on the narrower pleasure of the 
 simple bouquets that Dr. Wycherly forced upon them. 
 For to some souls a single rose speaks more eloquently 
 than a tangled forest of rose-trees; just as we watch a 
 single planet in the heavens, and are blind to the infinite 
 suns. 
 
 Edward Wycherly, the returned one, and the unwel- 
 come, was particularly assiduous in his attention to the 
 two young ladies; and, whilst Henry was being enter- 
 
 236
 
 THE "GHOST" IN HAMLET 237 
 
 tained by the Doctor with all manner of strange informa- 
 tion about Hindus and their arts, and modern diseases 
 and modern science, his son was wrapping the senses 
 and imagination of the two young girls in an aromatic 
 cloud of incense from garden and hothouse, and a poetical 
 cloud of Oriental poetry and legend, which he had gathered 
 in his travels. 
 
 Yet, the verdict passed upon him there during the 
 Easter holidays by these two guileless girls was not al- 
 together favourable. Mary Liston declared him handsome; 
 but the beauty, she thought, was of a sinister kind. Annie 
 was silent. When she spoke, she declared her intention, 
 with all her usual positiveness, not to meet him again, if 
 it were at all possible. And so he was dismissed. 
 
 During these beautiful, sunny days, and in the long 
 evenings, it was quite inevitable that those three young 
 people gathered around the fireplace should discuss many 
 things of interest to themselves and others. Henry 
 Liston hardly knew which of the three pleasures he pre- 
 ferred — reading in a listless way there by the fireside, 
 whilst his sister and her young friend were at the piano; 
 or, listening in a dreamy way to some old Irish melody, 
 quaint and weird and lonely as the winds that were 
 sighing around the house, or some modern study, fantasie, 
 or nocturne from a foreign master; or debating with those 
 keen young intellects the eternal question. What is to 
 be done for Ireland? For there is the problem that is 
 ever uppermost in the minds and hearts of the young. 
 The old have despaired of the solution, and are now spec- 
 tators. But the young are forever dreaming, and the 
 things that people their dreams seem to be ever flying, 
 like flocks of birds, down the long vistas of hope. 
 
 On one point there seemed to be absolute and perfect 
 agreement — the necessity of infusing some brightness 
 into the homes of the people, of turning a little sunshine 
 and music into the dreary and silent monotony of their 
 lives. 
 
 And so the Easter holidays melted into May; and the
 
 238 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 May blossoms fell, and the burning suns of June and July 
 turned everything into gray gold. And August and 
 September came on with their russet mantles and the 
 rich fruitage of the year. And the days closed in, as 
 the leaves fell in mellow October. But the idea was 
 always haunting the mind of Henry Liston that he was 
 bound to brighten the sombre lives that fretted away 
 into the grave in a still and gray monotony of labour and 
 anxiety; and he determined that during the winter he 
 would not only establish the Gaelic League in his parish, 
 in spite of the melancholy forebodings of his pastor; but 
 he would further enliven things in general with a series 
 of concerts, plays, etc., that would be instructive and 
 amusing to his people. 
 
 During these months, however, a few things, of some 
 moment to our chief actors, did occur. Edward Wych- 
 erly, the defeated one, did persuade his father to remove 
 the boys from the dangerous atmosphere of the priest's 
 house; and, spun and plucked at his own examination, 
 he nevertheless succeeded in getting his brother through 
 his matriculation in the autumn. Jack kicked against 
 the arrangement at first; but was obliged to yield on the 
 compromise that Miss O'Farrell was to be asked occa- 
 sionally to visit Rohira. In this he was ably and enthusi- 
 astically seconded by Dion. The heir-apparent of Rohira 
 seemed to object; but, somehow, he managed to be always 
 present when Annie O'Farrell called. 
 
 The emergency-men were withdrawn from Kerins's 
 farm; and Kerins entered into an offensive and defensive 
 alliance with Pete the Gypsy. 
 
 Judith seemed to be gaining greater power over the 
 minds of the people; for now, eggs were found in greater 
 abundance in the furrows of the gardens, — eggs that 
 would not break, if cast into the flames, but glowed like 
 heated iron; and on the door-posts of dairies a strange 
 kind of grease, like that which is used in railway-wagons, 
 was often found smeared, and frequently a mysterious and 
 unwholesome meat was discovered in the field. All these
 
 THE "GHOST" IN HAMLET 239 
 
 were ancient charms and spells, under the name pishogues 
 well known to the people. But now they seemed to be 
 everywhere; and, as a result, the milk would not yield an 
 ounce of cream; the calves perished in the fields, or were 
 born dead ; and the people whispered amongst themselves 
 in low accents of fear and apprehension. Some, the more 
 religious and godly, feared the anger of God had descended 
 on the parish for their insubordination toward their 
 pastor. Some thought it was the diabolic influence of 
 Judith that was working ruin. But no one, not even 
 the bravest, would approach that gray old keep down 
 there by the sea-breakers. Its inhabitants were as safe 
 from observation as if they lived far out from the main- 
 land. Only one seemed to watch, and ponder, infidel as 
 he was, on these nocturnal apparitions of the Castle 
 Spectre; and he soon made up his mind as to what they 
 portended. Jack and Dion Wycherly were incredulous, 
 but inquisitive; but Edward Wycherly took a closer 
 interest in the denizens of the castle; and his increasing 
 interest was viewed by them with apprehension and hate. 
 
 At Athboy, Mary Liston came and went on her angel 
 visits from her home in the town, brightening her brother's 
 solitary life with her sweet presence, for brother and sister 
 loved each other dearly. And hence, when one evening, 
 after a protracted absence, Mary Liston came up from 
 town, and asked her brother to walk with her over the 
 cliffs, Henry felt that there was something coming. And 
 there was. For when his sister had explained that she 
 had made all arrangements in the early summer to enter 
 at the beginning of the approaching autumn the convent 
 where she had studied, Henry felt that half his life was 
 cut away, although he dared not oppose his sister's reso- 
 lution. He came home, and took his tea in silence. That 
 was all. 
 
 Down at Doonvarragh, the old pastor, whilst giving 
 full time to his parochial duties, seemed more absorbed 
 then ever in his theological studies. He had become 
 somewhat sceptical about human things; and was looking
 
 240 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 steadily toward the divine. He had mounted the de- 
 clivities of life; and, looking back, had seen its utter bar- 
 renness and waste. His eyes were turned toward the 
 west, where the sun of his life was sinking under shining 
 seas. It was no little relief to him when those evening 
 tuitions were at an end. He knew he had made a mistake, 
 but he could not correct it. Circumstances and the slow 
 progress of events settled the problem for him; and now 
 he could revel in his studies without the uneasy conscious- 
 ness that under his roof was a practical problem that per- 
 plexed him. But, day by day and every day his sight 
 seemed to grow dimmer. Again and again his oculist 
 changed his glasses. This gave relief; but again they 
 began to fail him, and he had to procure yet stronger 
 lenses. One day he asked the man, was this cataract? 
 The answer was, I wish it were! which implied that it 
 was something worse, and probably incurable. Hence he 
 began to lean more and more on the help of his young 
 niece, who had now grown into his heart. The feeling 
 of irksomeness, which her presence had brought into his 
 solitary life in the beginning, had now given way to a 
 feeling of dependence upon her, so he almost resented 
 her absence during the visits she paid to her young friends 
 at Athboy. As for Annie herself, there was creeping 
 into her life an undefined sense of lonehness; and, except 
 on the few occasions when she visited the Listons, her 
 young years were sinking into a drear monotony; and she 
 was beginning to be a dreamer, which means discontent 
 and unhappiness at one's own surroundings. And a 
 few times she found tears gathering in her eyes, and she 
 had to wipe them gently away! 
 
 As the days narrowed, and the nights lengthened in 
 October, Henry Liston decided that the time had come 
 to commence his cherished project of throwing a little 
 light and music into the hearts of his people. He wrote 
 to a valued confrere in the neighbouring town and asked 
 advice and assistance, both of which were promptly given. 
 This experienced purveyor of instruction and amusement
 
 THE "GHOST" IN HAMLET 241 
 
 recommended that the academical session at Athboy or 
 Lackagh should commence with something "stunning," 
 in order to stimulate the flagging energies of the people. 
 Hence he pooh-poohed a mere concert, and rather hum- 
 bled Henry Liston by throwing scorn on a gramophone 
 entertainment which Henry had humbly suggested. In- 
 stead of such juvenile things, " fit only for school children," 
 he said, he proposed to send up his own Dramatic Corps 
 of the Young Men's Society, all picked men, and capable 
 of every kind of histrionic engagement. These young 
 Keans and Kembles had advanced, by leaps and bounds, 
 from "Pizarro; or the Conquest of Peru" to the "Lady 
 of Lyons"; and, lately, spurning everything dramatic that 
 did not come from the highest genius, they had given 
 with marvellous success, and for three nights running, 
 "Hamlet, Prince of Denmark," of which, he hinted, 
 Henry had perhaps heard. He could send the whole 
 troupe, except the "Ghost." This being a minor part, 
 it could be supplied by a local artist. The properties, 
 dresses, scenery, he recommended, should be procured 
 from the Theatre Royal; but he would manage all that. 
 The expenses would be trifling. A few little items for 
 car-hire, refreshments, etc. The balance of profits could 
 be expended in local charities. He was disinterested 
 and sublime. 
 
 It seemed to the inexperienced mind of Henry Liston a 
 pretty programme. It would be a magnificent launch for 
 his new ideas on the seas of experience. He was quite 
 sure of a good house. The thing was a novelty. The 
 people were wifling to be amused; and they thought 
 nothing of the shillings they had to pay, A few wary 
 spirits, on reading over the spirited programme, fumbled 
 in their pockets, and expressed a doubt whether "it 
 would be value for their money." But the young people, 
 who happily had not yet begun to calculate the money 
 value of everything, overruled these sceptics; and long 
 before the eventful evening arrived, every seat, amongst 
 the reserved benches, was engaged. 
 17
 
 242 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Henry Listen had a small dinner party, consisting of 
 his sister and Annie O'Farrell, and the good confrere who 
 had suggested this happy idea; and they drove together 
 to the Lackagh school, where the entertainment was to 
 be held. The school-room was very large and spacious, 
 having been built for the accommodation of two hundred 
 children on the separate system. The two schools were 
 now thrown into one, and there was a class-room at the 
 end which served admirably as a dressing-room for the 
 performers. 
 
 There was not even standing-room in the hall when the 
 priests arrived ; but their places and the seats for the ladies 
 who accompanied them were kept carefully with that 
 mute sense of reverence which is universally shown to 
 the priesthood in Ireland. Right in front of where they 
 sat, Henry Liston recognized the local Protestant rector, 
 who was also Archdeacon of the Diocese, and with him 
 were his wife and sister. 
 
 The stage was prettily arranged, and a magnificent 
 drop-scene, representing the River Lee and Blackrock 
 Castle by moonlight, was just sufficiently raised to afford 
 a peep at the splendour of back scenes and side-wings. 
 There was a murmur of eager applause when the actors 
 in the first scene appeared; but this was rapidly changed 
 into fright when the "Ghost" came forth with dreadful 
 solemnity from the side-wings, and Horatio challenged 
 it. "It" was impersonated by a local artist, named Tim 
 Finucane or Finigan, who, in the ordinary stage of life, 
 helped his neighbours by putting slates on the roofs of 
 outhouses and barns, when the fierce storms that beat 
 along this unprotected coast had laid angry hands on 
 them. He was rather small of stature, and it happened 
 that his ghostly raiment was unusually long; so that he 
 was obliged to raise it in front, as a lady raises her dress 
 when crossing a muddy street. His face was covered 
 with chalk, and his hair was powdered with flour. Alto- 
 gether, he was a ghastly sight, and there was a panic 
 amongst the children at his first appearance. In the
 
 THE "GHOST" IN HAMLET 243 
 
 first scene he had nothing to say, as the " Ghost " was to 
 refuse the invitation of Horatio, probably because that 
 young man called "it" angry names, such as "illusion," 
 etc.; and hinted rather broadly that the ghost was a 
 thief. But Tim made up for the enforced silence, by 
 rolling his eyes dreadfully, taking in the full orbit of the 
 audience; and then he retired, gracefully holding up his 
 garment in front. It was only then it began to dawn on 
 the people, and particularly on the "gods" at the rear 
 of the hall, that the " Ghost " was verily and indeed no 
 other than their own Timothy Finigan. Hence there 
 was terrible disappointment and much remorse, for they 
 thought Tim would not appear again. 
 
 This, however, passed away for the moment when 
 "the melancholy Dane," clad in a velvet doublet slashed 
 with silver, and in gorgeous nether habiliments, stepped 
 forward and commenced his dialogue with the ffing. It 
 was then that Henry Listen recognized in the graceful 
 and handsome figure his friend Delane. With a gasp of 
 surprise, he turned to his brother-cleric and said: 
 
 "Why that's Delane that's doing 'Hamlet'!" 
 
 "Of course!" said his friend calmly. "Do you know 
 him? A born artist! Irving couldn't hold a candle to 
 him, if he got a fair chance. But those London fellows 
 found out that he was Irish; and, that was enough! He 
 was hunted from the stage." 
 
 " But," said Henry Liston — here he was compelled to 
 stop in the midst of his hostile criticism, through sheer 
 admiration of the magnificent contempt and hidden 
 hatred which Delane poured into his words to the King 
 and Queen. Of course there was some Celtic exaggeration, 
 but the fellow, in some mysterious manner, seemed to 
 have caught the spirit of the immortal author ; and Henry, 
 carried away by his enthusiasm, could not help saying: 
 
 "There's no good talking. If we had just a trace of 
 education, we'd sweep the whole world before us." 
 
 A sentiment with which most observers will cordially 
 agree.
 
 244 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "But," continued Henry, "doesn't our friend find it 
 necessary to float his powerful mind in something besides 
 tea?" 
 
 "Of course!" replied his clerical brother. "That is 
 part of the programme. Every genius drinks, or goes 
 mad." 
 
 " The fellow told me, when he was working at my house, 
 that he was crossed in love," said Henry. 
 
 "He tells the same story every night in some public 
 
 house in M ," was the reply. " Sometimes 'tis a 
 
 duchess; sometimes an actress; and so on. He told 
 them all about you. But he said you lacked imagination; 
 that you had never heard of the ' Ancient Mariner. ' " 
 
 "The ruffian!" said Henry Liston. "But here comes 
 the 'Ghost' again!" 
 
 This time the " Ghost " appeared more lugubrious than 
 before, possibly because now he had to make certain 
 revelations to Hamlet, the burden of which, even with 
 the aid of a prompter, was too much for Tim Finigan's 
 brain. He seemed paralyzed at first, rolling his eyes 
 over his audience, and letting them rest with apprehen- 
 sion on the "gods" at the end of the hall. It was irre- 
 sistible — the temptation that now seized them. Tim's 
 ghostly aspect suggested the immortal song : Tim Finigan's 
 Wake; and no sooner was it suggested than a young 
 fellow commenced to Tim's apparent horror to sing: 
 
 One morning Tim felt rather dull, 
 His head it ached, which made him shake, 
 He fell from the ladder, and broke his skull; 
 They carried him home his corpse to wake: 
 They rouled him up in a nate, clane sheet, 
 And laid him out upon the bed; 
 With six mould candles at his feet; 
 And a bottle of whiskey at his head. 
 
 Whack-f al-la ; your sowl to glory! 
 
 Welt the flure! your trotters shakel 
 
 Wasn't it all the truth I told ye — 
 
 Lots of fun at Finigan's wakel
 
 THE "GHOST" IN HAMLET 245 
 
 All this time the "Ghost" stood paralyzed with anger 
 — hatred and more than histrionic rage passing over his 
 whitened face. A few times he stretched forth his hand 
 threateningly toward the " boys," which action, of course, 
 increased the merriment; and when the first strophe was 
 ended, Tim's deep voice was heard echoing down the hall: 
 
 "Ye bla— gards!" 
 
 There was a roar of laughter, which made Tim repeat, 
 despite the dignified remonstrances of Hamlet, who stood 
 by in an attitude of offended majesty: 
 
 "Ye Lackagh bla — gards! Wait till I'm done wid de 
 pla— ay!" 
 
 He then turned around, and attempted to address the 
 dignified Hamlet, who was gracefully pulling his mous- 
 tache; but the moment Tim opened his mouth, the boys 
 struck up again: 
 
 Micky Mulvany raised his head, 
 
 Whin a bottle of whiskey flew at him, 
 
 It missed him, and striking agin the bed, 
 
 The sperrits spattered over Tim. 
 
 Bedad, he revived, see how he rises, 
 
 Timothy jumping from the bed, 
 
 Swears while he wallops them all, like blazes, 
 
 T'ainim an Dhiaoul! Do ye think I'm dead? 
 
 Whack-fal-la-fal-la-fal-lady 
 
 Welt the floor! Your trotters shake! 
 
 Wasn't it all the truth I told ye — 
 
 Lots of fun at Finigan's wake! 
 
 'o*- 
 
 Here the angiy "Ghost," threatening fire and brim- 
 stone, was pulled in; and the young priest, who had sent 
 
 his troupe up from M , rose solemnly; and, in a few, 
 
 politely sarcastic words about the intellectual backward- 
 ness of the people of that parish, their utter want of 
 appreciation of a great drama, and the intense vulgarity 
 of that rowdy song, he had them all soon reduced into 
 humiliated silence. He then sorrowfully, and with tears 
 in his voice, expressed his regret that in an assembly of 
 Irishmen such a rowdy song reflecting upon the Irish
 
 246 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 character should be tolerated for a moment. English- 
 men might laugh at such revolting caricatures of the Irish 
 character, but surely in the new awakening of the nation, 
 when Irishmen were beginning to exercise, as well as to 
 feel, that self-respect which belongs to every free people, 
 and the absence of which only characterizes enslaved 
 nationalities, surely such songs of the nation's slavery 
 as that which they had just listened to should not for a 
 moment be tolerated by a people awakening to a sense of 
 their dignity and importance. He had only yielded to 
 the importunities of his friend. Father Liston, in order 
 that new light might be thrown into the lives of the 
 people. If he had for a moment anticipated this gross 
 and unseemly interruption to the progress of the play, he 
 would not have dreamed of bringing his dramatic troupe 
 into their village. In conclusion, he begged of them not 
 to interrupt further by such unseemly demonstrations. 
 Otherwise, he should be reluctantly obliged to suspend 
 the performance; and this would not only be a personal 
 loss to themselves, but would reflect unending discredit 
 on the people of that parish. 
 
 This discourse was received in respectful silence; the 
 only comment was made at its termination : 
 
 " Begor, we couldn't help it, yer reverence. The tim- 
 tation was too great!" 
 
 Meanwhile, Henry Liston was occupied by another 
 reflection, which not only made him quite insensible to 
 the honour, or dishonour, of his parish; but completely 
 spoiled all his interest in the play to the end. He had 
 noticed, that, on the last appearance of the "Ghost," 
 the archdeacon, who sat right in front, leaned over to 
 his wife, and, pointing to the "Ghost," seemed to make 
 some excited comments on his appearance. And a 
 dreadful thought then and there took hold of Henry 
 Liston's imagination. It so preoccupied him that he 
 did not exchange a word, except a brief " Yes" and " No" 
 with his confrere, who had an uneasy consciousness that 
 perhaps he had gone too far in his remarks, and that
 
 THE "GHOST" IN HAMLET 247 
 
 his good friend, Henry Liston, was offended for his 
 severe strictures on the conduct of the people. 
 
 The play seemed to drag on interminably; but all 
 things have an end; and the moment the people began 
 to rise up and file out of the hall, Henry Liston whispered 
 to his sister, "Wait for me outside!" and he leaped up 
 the rude steps that led to the stage, and thence to the 
 dressing-room. The lamp that flared on the wall revealed 
 the performers, more or less in deshabille, as they put 
 off the dramatic costumes, and assumed the garments 
 of ordinary civilization. Hamlet, however, was still in 
 his slashed velvet doublet and silk stockings, and was 
 leaning in a dignified and melancholy manner against 
 the side scenes. The "Ghost" was seated on a trunk 
 which had contained some of the stage "properties"; 
 and his head was bent down between his legs in an atti- 
 tude of mournful and despairing resignation. 
 
 "I say," said Henry Liston, in an excited manner, 
 "did all these costumes come from the Theatre?" 
 
 "Yes, sir!" said Hamlet. "They belong to the lessees 
 of the Temple of Thespis in Cork." 
 
 " They — do — not ! " said the " Ghost " in an emphatic, 
 but mournful manner. 
 
 "So I thought!" said Henry. "In the name of God, 
 Finigan, what possessed you to take this thing?" 
 
 He pointed to the white linen garment, with the very 
 voluminous sleeves, which the "Ghost" was wearing. 
 
 "Why the mischief," he continued in an angry and 
 excited manner, "didn't you come to me? I'd have 
 lent you a surplice." 
 
 "Yarra, what good 'ud be your surplus?" said the 
 Ghost. "Shure, you're surplus wouldn't rache to a 
 man's hips. And, besides, wor we goin' to commit a 
 sacrilege by wearin' a priesht's vestments?" 
 
 "All I know is," said the young priest, "you have 
 committed one in the eyes of the law now, if you cannot 
 get back that — article, before the thing is discovered." 
 
 "Yarra, make your mind aisy, yer reverence," said
 
 248 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Tim. "You're too narvous intirely. Them that took 
 the ould minister's shirt can put it back again." 
 
 "I hope they will, and quickly," said Henry Liston. 
 "You wouldn't be so easy in your mind, if you saw the 
 way he was watching you during the play!" 
 
 "He may go to the divil," quoth Tim. And Henry 
 Liston left him in peace. 
 
 He hastened out to find his sister alone, standing near 
 the side-car, awaiting him. 
 
 "Where's Annie?" he said. 
 
 "Gone home," was the reply. 
 
 "Gone home? I understood she was coming back 
 with us?" 
 
 "She changed her mind. I heard Mr. Wycherly say 
 that it would be a pleasure if she allowed him drive her 
 to her uncle's gate. And she consented. The Wycherlys 
 are gone a quarter of an hour." 
 
 So they were. They drove along the moon-lit road, 
 passing groups of passengers here and there, who gave 
 way as the car passed; and then closed in, making un- 
 complimentary remarks on car and passengers. The 
 two young boys. Jack and Dion, were on one wing of 
 the car, Annie and Ned Wycherly on the other. The 
 drive was short, barely two miles. But when she alighted, 
 she passed into her uncle's house without a word of 
 thanks or farewell; and that night a weary head pressed 
 her pillow, and bitter tears bedewed it. So powerful 
 is the utterance of a word in the ears of the innocent. 
 It was only one word from the play they had just wit- 
 nessed; but it revealed the beast that is in man. 
 
 But he was unconcerned. For just as they left the 
 priest's gate, a pyramid of flame shot up into the sky 
 from the summit of the hill, on which their father's house 
 was built. 
 
 " Duggan's rick is on fire ! " said Jack. 
 
 "No! 'tis Kerins's house and out-offices," said his 
 brother. 
 
 " It may be our own 1 " said Edward, as he pushed the
 
 THE "GHOST" IN HAMLET 249 
 
 horse forward along the road, and breasted the hill 
 toward the sea. 
 
 A month or so later, Henry Liston, who had quite 
 forgotten all about the play, other more serious things 
 engrossing him, strolled in on business to the local shoe- 
 maker, named Cupps, who also filled the office of sexton 
 and bell-ringer to the Protestant church. 
 
 After the interchange of a few words, and the trans- 
 action of a little business, Cupps, looking up from his 
 work, said slyly: 
 
 " That was a grand play ye had up at the school a few 
 weeks ago, sir!" 
 
 "It was!" said Henry, carelessly. 
 
 " It must have cost a power and all of money to bring 
 down all them grand clothes and wigs and swords from 
 Cork," said Cupps, hammering away at the boot in his 
 lap. 
 
 "So it did," said Henry. "There was little left for 
 charity, I promise you!" 
 
 Cupps hammered away furiously for a few seconds. 
 Then suddenly stopping, he looked up, and said : 
 
 "A quare thing happened the next morning, your 
 reverence; but I haven't tould a mother's sowl about it." 
 
 He stopped for dramatic effect, and then continued: 
 
 "Whin I opened the vesthry window that morning, 
 the fust thing I see was the diamond panes of glass broken; 
 and a jackdaw lying dead on the floor." 
 
 A light was breaking in on Henry's mind, but he said 
 nothing, 
 
 "Now, in all honesty, yer reverence," asked the cobbler, 
 "do you believe that a jackdaw could, or would, dash 
 himself against a leaded window, and break through it, 
 killing himself?" 
 
 "Well, I suppose, that would depend on the force with 
 which he flew," said Henry. 
 
 The cobbler beat round the soles of the boot rapidly. 
 Then, he said jerkily:
 
 250 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Another quare thing I found that morning, yer 
 reverence. The Archd ay ken's surplice, which was as 
 clane as a pin on Sunday morning, was that morning as 
 dirty as if a tramp had slept in it. Wasn't that quare 
 now, your reverence?" 
 
 And he looked up at the priest with a meaning smile. 
 
 "It was; very strange, indeed!" quoth Henry. 
 
 And the cobbler seemed now to beat in the wooden 
 rivets and iron tacks as furiously as if he were in a passion. 
 But no! he was only dramatizing a little. Then he sud- 
 denly stopped; and looking up again, he said: 
 
 "And the quarest thing of all is this, yer reverence. 
 I don't know what the Archdayken drinks at home. It 
 may be champagne, or it may be soda-water. But this 
 I can take my Bible oath upon — that, at least, whin 
 he's conducting divine service, he's not in the habit of 
 spilling bottled porter over his clothes." 
 
 "I should say not, indeed," said Henry Liston, with a 
 gaiety he didn't feel. He didn't know what this church 
 official, with the knowledge he certainly possessed of the 
 midnight raid upon the vestry, was going to do. The 
 latter, however, explained. 
 
 "But, mum's the word," yer reverence. "I don't 
 want to see thim poor fools sent to gaol for six months. 
 But it was fortunate for them the thing occurred in the 
 beginning of the week; and not of a Saturday night. I 
 had the whole thing spick and span by Sunday morning. 
 'I'm afraid, Cupps,' said the Archdayken, 'that you get 
 my surplice washed too often.' He was rubbing his chin 
 and smiHng. I knew what he meant. 'The claner and 
 whiter they are, sir,' sez I, 'the more they'll frighten the 
 ghosts away. An' I'm towld that a ghost has been seen 
 around here lately.' 'So I heard, '^Aipps,' sez he. And 
 there'll be no more about it!"
 
 BOOK II
 
 « 
 
 il
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Partings 
 
 Years had rolled by over the heads of our actors in 
 this little drama — years, leaden-footed to the young, 
 swift to the old. And they brought with them many 
 changes, for good or ill, for the years are impartial, and 
 they drop snowfiakes or fireflakes at will on the heads 
 over which they pass in their flight to eternity. 
 
 All our younger friends had left the parish, and changed 
 the venue of life elsewhere. The old had struck their 
 roots too deeply to bear transplanting. 
 
 Mary Liston had entered, not the Convent of the 
 teaching order, where she had been educated, but one of 
 the strictest and most austere observance in the Church 
 — that of the Poor Clares, or Collettines. The reason 
 for the change originated in a casual conversation which 
 she had, a few days before she left her brother's house, 
 with Nance, the poor girl who earned her livelihood by 
 washing in the diamond-paned cottage at the corner of 
 the road which led from Lackagh to the parish priest's 
 house. A slight acquaintance had sprung up between 
 them; and Mary Liston had visited the cottage a few 
 times, attracted thither by the strange supernatural 
 atmosphere of the place — the realization and bringing 
 down into daily life of the Unseen Powers, that from their 
 hidden habitation amongst us seem to hold their hnnds 
 on the pulse of all things that breathe and move. This 
 sense of the supernatural breathed from every object 
 in the humble cabin; and it was so intimate that the girl 
 expressed her surprise that Miss Liston should suppose 
 it unusual. 
 
 253
 
 254 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Lonesome, Miss? Yerra, no! I'm never lonesome 
 here. I keeps the best of company. Whin I'm pounding 
 and washing and beethng and manghng these clothes, I 
 do be thinking all the time of how the Blessed Virgin 
 did the same for Jesus and Joseph. An' I imagines her 
 to be here near me, both of us working together; and I 
 do be talkin' to her; and she to me. And sometimes I 
 axes her all about her Divine Son; and she ups and tells 
 me everything — what He wears, and what He eats and 
 drinks; and where she gets things for the house; an' how 
 she manages the poor wages St. Joseph aims. And thin, 
 whin she goes away, I talks to the Lord over there on 
 His cross, and I tells Him all I thinks and feels about 
 His sufferings and death, until the big lump comes into 
 me throat, and I haves to shtop. And thin, I takes to 
 singing ould tunes and hymns my grandmother taught 
 me — wild ould Irish songs, in which the Blessed Trinity 
 and the Incarnation, and everythin' is mixed up together, 
 ontil I gets so happy an' joyful, that I do be jumpin' 
 out of me skin." 
 
 "Then," said Mary Liston, "you're never sad, nor 
 sorrowful, nor wishing to be something else than what 
 you are?" 
 
 "Yerra, God bless you, no, Miss!" said the girl. "I 
 don't know what it is to be sorrowful. I was a bit lone- 
 some whin me ould grandmother wint away from me; 
 but that's all passed and gone. I know she's in heaven, 
 altho' I still get Masses and prayers said for her. But, 
 I'm not a bit sad nor sorrowful now. How could I be, 
 when I have Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, wid me? And look, 
 Miss! all them Saints comes out of their pictures and 
 talks to me; and sometimes, whin I go to bed at wan 
 or two in the mornin', I can't sleep I'm so full of joy, and 
 me heart is big enough to break in bits." 
 
 "But, you have a hard Hfe," said Miss Liston. "Up 
 in the dark of the morning, working all day in soap-suds 
 and a steamy atmosphere, and all nearly for nothing, for 
 I have heard you are poorly paid."
 
 PARTINGS 255 
 
 "As to gettin' up in the mornin'/' said the poor girl, 
 "that's aisy enough, whin you want to get back amongst 
 all that's holy and good; and as for workin' all day, I 
 don't mind it. It would be much harder to be sittin' 
 down on that sugan chair, idle and lazy. And as for 
 the pay, sure I haves enough; an I sez to meself that I 
 am richer than the Blessed Virgin, for I have only wan 
 mouth to feed; and she had three, blessed be their holy 
 names!" 
 
 " But, then, you must be sometimes fagged out and 
 tired," persisted Miss Liston, who was struck by this 
 picture of transcendent piety in such a place, "and you 
 must long to lie down and be sCt rest, and give up work 
 altogether? " 
 
 " Yerra, God bless you, no. Miss!" was the reply. 
 "Whin I am tired, I just thinks of our Lord carrying His 
 cross to Calvary; and it gives me new strinth. Whin I 
 wants to lie down, I sez to meself. Ha! if you had the 
 hard bed of the cross to lie upon, you wouldn't be in such 
 a hurry, me lady ! Or, if your two hands and feet were 
 gripped in the cowld, hard nails, that were rusting with 
 your blood, you wouldn't mind the hot wather and the 
 soda that blisthers 'em now. Ah, no, Miss, whin we 
 think of all that was done and suffered for us, it's aisy 
 to bear our own little thrials — av coorse, with the help 
 of Him who sinds them." 
 
 Now, all this made Mary Liston reflect; and some holy 
 books that ever lay on her dressing-table seemed to repeat 
 in better language the words of this poor girl. And then 
 Mary Liston began to pray — that is, to pray in earnest 
 — not to say her prayers only. And gradually a new 
 light began to creep into her life, and a strange, weird 
 sense of a world beyond the world of time and sense 
 began to dawn on her startled mind. She now became 
 afraid. She was at the parting of the ways. She had 
 gone too far to go back; and yet she feared to go forward, 
 for there she knew were desolation and trial, before she 
 could emerge into the peace and joy that surpasseth
 
 256 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 understanding. It was the ordeal through which every 
 select soul must pass that is called to the higher life — 
 the skirting of the howling valleys of desolation before 
 emerging into the sunlight of the beckoning hills. But 
 she persevered; and in silence. Never a word did she 
 speak to her mother or even to her brother about the 
 call and the consequences. Only they noticed that she 
 had grown paler and thinner, and more reserved, though 
 not less cheerful. Some said it was the exercise of cycling 
 which was settling her features in such lines of hardness 
 and strength. Some said it was the sea-air. But she 
 went her way in a silence broken only by her conferences 
 with Nance. Then, one day, she got permission to attend 
 a retreat for ladies at a certain city convent. There 
 she decided that her vocation was not for a life of teaching 
 or nursing or visiting; but for a Hfe of contemplation and 
 prayer, broken only by the austerities of the severest 
 order in the Church. 
 
 Strange to say she received no opposition except in 
 one quarter, and that the least expected. Her home 
 friends assented in unquestioning silence. They knew 
 nothing about such things. They only knew that her 
 Director had bidden her thither, and she should obey 
 the call. Her brother offered no opposition. His heart 
 sank somewhat when he thought of his little sister walking 
 the flagged or tiled corridors of the convent in bare feet; 
 or rising at midnight with the sleep still heavy on her 
 eyelids to go down to the cold dark choir for two or three 
 hours; or ringing the alms-bell, when she and her religious 
 sisters were actually hungry. But he had too deep a 
 sense of the supernatural to oppose the manifest will of 
 God. He only questioned his sister as to whether she 
 quite understood and realized the austerities she was 
 about to face. And when she had answered that she had 
 measured and weighed them all and her own strength 
 and endurance, he said: "God's will be done!" But the 
 very day she entered religion, he quietly sold all his silver, 
 and evermore tried to imitate her although afar off.
 
 PARTINGS 257 
 
 But Annie O'Farrell was furious. That is the only 
 word, I think, that will express her indignation and grief 
 at her young friend's resolution. Somehow, probably 
 in the absence of other friends, and in the soft heat of 
 youthful enthusiasm, she had grown into a singular 
 unity of thought and purpose with Mary Liston. Their 
 ideas, sentiments, longings seemed to harmonize in such 
 completeness that no room was left for doubt or distrust. 
 And Annie O'Farrell, though of a strong nature, still felt 
 a new zest in life, because she had a friend, not so much 
 to lean upon, as to share her inmost thoughts, and be- 
 come the partner of all her future hopes and ambitions. 
 And now, here is the friend ruthlessly torn from her side 
 by a fanatical idea; and so unexpectedly that Annie 
 refused to believe it until she heard it from her own lips. 
 It was at Father Liston's house. 
 
 "This is not true, Mary Liston," she said in an aggrieved 
 tone. " Father Liston has told me that you are about to 
 become a Collettine, or something else of that kind; but 
 although he is a priest, I refuse to believe it. Say it is 
 not true!" 
 
 "But it is, Annie," said Miss Liston. "I shall wait 
 for a few weeks longer to make some preparations; and 
 then I depart. Ah, if you could only come also!" 
 
 "Me?" said Annie, shocked and angry. "God forbid 
 that I should bury myself in a tomb for the rest of my 
 life." 
 
 "Sometimes flowers grow even in tombs," said her 
 friend laughing, yet with a certain sadness in her voice. 
 
 " It is sheer nonsense — sheer, downright, stark mad- 
 ness," said Annie. " I'm amazed that Father Liston 
 could tolerate the idea for a moment. I knew always 
 you'd be a nun. Something told me of it. But then I 
 hoped you would join a high-class teaching order, where 
 you would have all the refinements and advantages of 
 life and yet do good — real, positive good in educating 
 young girls decently. But to bury yourself in a hole, 
 where you will be half-starved and perished with cold 
 IS
 
 258 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 and hunger, and where you can never be of any use to 
 man or mortal — I say, Mary, you'll never stand it — • 
 not for a week, mark my words. And then out you'll 
 come; and the whole world will be laughing at you." 
 
 Here Henry Liston entered. Annie turned to him. 
 
 "Father Liston," she said, "how can you entertain 
 for a moment the idea of allowing Mary to enter that 
 horrible hole of a convent? Don't you know, as well as 
 I do, that she won't stand it for a week? For God's 
 sake, stop it now, before it becomes too late. You know, 
 if Mary enters, her pride will keep her from returning, 
 even though she knows her life will be a purgatory. I 
 can't understand why you should allow it. And I can't 
 understand why the Church should tolerate such useless 
 and cruel institutions here in the end of the nineteenth 
 century." 
 
 So she argued, reasoned, pleaded with all the eloquence 
 of a love that was being broken into pieces by such sever- 
 ance. But it was of no use. Mary Liston smiled at her 
 friend's extravagance. Father Liston said nothing. He 
 went about, sad and resigned to the inevitable. 
 
 Annie broached the matter to her uncle. She argued, 
 pleaded, expostulated, in the hope that he would inter- 
 fere. But here she was met by a wall of adamant. 
 
 "It is the Law!" he said. 
 
 "What Law?" she cried. "What Law can bind a 
 young girl, in all the freshness and sweetness of her youth, 
 to bury herself in a hole, to wear coarse flannels, to eat 
 coarse food which she begs, to get up in the middle of 
 the night and go down into a cold chapel — ugh! And, 
 worse than all, to lead a lazy, useless life, neither good for 
 king nor country?" 
 
 "A lazy, useless life?" he muttered severely. "A lazy, 
 useless life? What are you speaking of, Annie? Or, do 
 you quite understand what you mean?" 
 
 "Perfectly," she replied, although she was afraid she 
 had gone too far. " It is a lazy, useless Ufe to do nothing 
 but meditate and pray, and — fast."
 
 PARTINGS 259 
 
 "What would you, in your great wisdom, substitute 
 for prayer?" he asked. 
 
 " Why, work — work of some kind, teaching, tending 
 the sick, making girls useful, and so on." 
 
 "But prayer is work!" he said, so gently now that 
 Annie did not see how she was betraying herself. 
 
 "Prayer — work? Surely, Uncle, you're mistaken. 
 Prayer — work? Who ever heard the like?" 
 
 "Try it for one hour," he said, "for one half-hour; and 
 you'll be glad to get back to your needle." 
 
 The experiment was not needed. She admitted the fact. 
 
 "But, then it is useless — I mean, one cannot see the 
 utility of it, like teaching, or nursing?" 
 
 " Of course," he replied. " These are the stock argu- 
 ments of modern irreligion. Everything now must show 
 itself in order to be recognized. Men will beheve only 
 what they see. And yet," he continued, in a musing 
 manner, "they might see the magnificent, the unspeak- 
 able power of prayer, if they would but open their foolish 
 eyes to see. But no, the animal sees but the fodder 
 beneath its mouth; and the world will persist in looking 
 at things in a bovine manner forever. But to the eyes 
 of faith, what daily, hourly miracles are wrought by 
 prayer! But there, I'm speaking to a nineteenth-century, 
 up-to-date, fin-de-sikle young Yank; and she cannot 
 understand." 
 
 "No! indeed," said Annie, taking courage from the 
 kindly bantering. "All I can tell you. Uncle, is this. 
 America is to be the right-hand of the Church in the 
 immediate future. That's settled. When all your old, 
 outworn, old Churches are gone to pieces, America will 
 be the young athlete of Catholicity. But, we won't stand 
 any nonsense, mind you, over there! No old Middle- 
 Age institutions, with their hair-cloths, and chains, and 
 fastings; but useful, educational institutions for the young 
 and brave Americans — " 
 
 " Oh, for God's sake, stop that, Annie," he cried in dis- 
 may.
 
 260 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 She burst out laughing. 
 
 "Ah! there it is," she said. "No use trying to open up 
 your old world to see what the future is bringing. But 
 say, Uncle. You said, in speaking of Mary, that she had 
 to go. It is the Law! What law? Where is the law 
 that can bind a young girl to give up her youth, and love- 
 liness, and hope, to bury herself in a living tomb? I 
 don't believe God ever made such a law as that." 
 
 "Go and say your prayers, child," he said. "Learn to 
 pray! All the eloquence of the world wouldn't make it 
 clear to you now. It is speaking of colour to a blind per- 
 son. Pity that Miss Liston is going so soon. She would 
 teach you a good deal, Annie." 
 
 He paused, as if thinking. Then he went on: 
 
 " Yes! she would teach you a good deal — a good deal 
 that cannot be learned now except by the way of tears." 
 
 At which Annie marvelled a little; but only a little. 
 
 Only a little! Because she had already experienced 
 what it is to pass under the hands of the taskmaster who 
 demands his fees in tears. That word, that quotation 
 of four lines from " Hamlet," which Edward Wycherly 
 had whispered to her on the side-car the night she drove 
 with him from the school-house had smitten her with 
 terror and shame such as she had never known before. 
 A sudden blow on the face to a strong man is not more 
 of a surprise and insult than an indelicate word uttered 
 in the ear of a pure-minded girl. And when Annie 
 O'Farrell, hastily descending from the side-car, abruptly, 
 too, without a word of thanks or farewell, sought her 
 room, it was with a sense of insult and shame, that made 
 her eyes dilate and one hot blush after another mount 
 to her neck and face. She felt, as she afterwards described 
 it, as if some loathsome and fetid fluid had been flung 
 upon her, and had saturated her garments, and could 
 not be removed by any manner of chemical. It was a 
 hot head that pressed the pillow that night; and the 
 pillow was wet with tears. 
 
 When the morning came, however, it was not a girl,
 
 PARTINGS 261 
 
 gentle and joyful, that arose to face the labours of the day; 
 but a woman, strong and determined and angry with 
 herself and the world. There was a sense of shame sur- 
 rounding her that gave her unusual fortitude. She had 
 tasted of the bitter tree of knowledge of good and evil; 
 and, although she felt and knew that her conscience 
 could not upbraid her, and that she was as innocent as 
 on the morning of her first communion, she also felt that 
 she had been initiated into the mystery of mysteries — ■ 
 the iniquity that covers and encompasses the earth. And 
 a grave, solemn silence seemed to come down upon her 
 life; and when she spoke, it was with the assurance of 
 womanhood, and not the timidity of a girl. Her whole 
 character was stricken into precocity by one word, just 
 as one word sometimes reveals vice or genius. 
 
 Her uncle supposed that it was a sense of loneliness 
 and sorrow after her companion that weighed on her 
 spirits; and he strove to reason with her. Then one day 
 she revealed her intention of going away, and preparing 
 for life in some independent fashion. He was alarmed 
 and angry. He then felt how much she had grown into 
 his life. He then pleaded his growing infirmity. 
 
 "I had hoped," he said, "that you would stay with 
 me unto the end. Annie, you know what I anticipate, 
 partial if not utter blindness. That will be dreadful if 
 you abandon me. I shall go mad if I have no one to 
 read to me; to speak to me." 
 
 But he did not know that the strength and stubbornness 
 of his own character was reflected in that of his niece. 
 She shook her head. He then decided that she was cold 
 and selfish. 
 
 " Of course, it is your American training," he said, with 
 bitterness. "Everyone for herself there! Very good! 
 I cannot prevent you!" 
 
 "But, TJncle," she said, "you don't, you cannot under- 
 stand. Oh! It is so hard to explain. Believe me, I 
 am not ungi-ateful nor indifferent to you. But — " 
 
 He was silent.
 
 262 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 " I must go. Indeed, I must. I am not tired of Doon- 
 varragh ; and I don't want to see the world ; and I am not 
 ungrateful. Oh, Uncle dear, don't think so! Perhaps, 
 one day, I'll explain. But I must go ! " 
 
 "Very well!" he said, coldly. 
 
 " But I'll come back on all my holidays, and this will 
 always be my home — that is, if you allow me. Say you 
 will, dear Uncle. Say, 'Come back, whenever you like. 
 This will always be your home, Annie.' " 
 
 "Well," he said, "you're an ungrateful hussy. But, 
 I suppose, I can't turn you out, if you care to come." 
 
 "Oh, oh! That won't do at all, at all! Say, 'Annie, 
 you go with my blessing, and with my full free will and 
 consent. And you're always to come back here when 
 you are disposed, or I need you. And when I'm very 
 old, you shall come back altogether to nurse me; and — ' " 
 
 So there were pleadings and counterpleadings between 
 two strong spirits for many months, nature and habit 
 struggling with the strong man to retain the companion- 
 ship of his niece; instinct and an undefinable desire to 
 flee from danger prevailing with his niece. Then, one 
 day, wearied by her importunity, he said to her: 
 
 "There now, there now! Go, child, in God's name! 
 I'm not going to set my face against Providence. And 
 perhaps, after all, you are right, and it is for the best. 
 When we are nearing eternity, it is foolish to entangle 
 ourselves in human ties." 
 
 It was not very soothing; but Annie had her way. And 
 hence, some years have elapsed, and Mary Liston, long 
 since professed, is treading the flagged corridors of her 
 convent with bare or sandalled feet; and her little friend, 
 Annie, is a qualified surgical nurse in the wards of a city 
 hospital.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 And Prophecies 
 
 One evening in the October of this year, Judith sat on a 
 hillock, clothed with the beautiful sea-thistle far down on 
 the yellow sands of the little bay inside the fiord that ran 
 up into the land beneath Dunkerrin Castle. She swept 
 the sea-horizon from time to time with her keen eye; but 
 neither ship, nor boat, nor yacht was visible. She mut- 
 tered some expressions of impatience; and began to croon 
 some old Romany song, and mark some figures on the 
 sands, as if she were weaving spells for an enemy. It was 
 a lovely, calm evening with a hush upon all things, except 
 where the tide washed up and broke upon the sands, and 
 troubled here and there a tiny shell or pebble. The 
 solemn gray of October hung over sky and rock and sea; 
 and made all things grave and sedate, even the gulls and 
 sea-larks, that ceased their cries as they poised themselves 
 over the still deep, or scampered in and out, as the tide 
 washed clean on the sands, and the worms pushed up 
 their little globules and hillocks of soft sand as the tide 
 receded. It was a time and season that moved to medi- 
 tation, or that most supreme self-engrossment which we 
 call sleep; and perhaps Judith had gone into the Land of 
 Dreams when Edward Wycherly, after running out the 
 anchor of his yacht in the soft sands near the shore, shot 
 his Uttle punt high up on the shelving beach. He stepped 
 lightly ashore and, standing silent for a few minutes over 
 the silent woman, he said: 
 
 "I thought the devil never slept, nor his children." 
 "There is sleep and sleep," she said without lifting her 
 head or betraying the slightest sign of surprise or emotion, 
 
 263 
 
 ill
 
 264 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "There are those who see less with their eyes open than 
 Judith sees in her dreams." 
 
 "Good again!" said Wycherly, smiling pitifully at her. 
 " Now what are you going to prophesy? Is there a fair- 
 he ired woman coming over the sea?" 
 
 "No!" she said slowly, still drawing lines on the sand, 
 " But a black hawk sits on a rock and he is still watching 
 the dove. He'll never strike his quarry; nor ever return 
 to his nest." 
 
 Wycherly saw the allusion and his brow darkened. 
 
 "Speak plainly," he said, angrily. "These things are 
 for the firesides of peasants." 
 
 "He stood lightly enough on my lady's wrist," she 
 replied, "whilst he was leashed and hooded. But he 
 hath seen the white dove and he has drawn higher and 
 higher circles in the heavens to make her his prey." 
 
 "If you mean that any of these poor peasants is in 
 danger," he said, "go tell the priests." 
 
 "Eagles don't catch flies!" she said. 
 
 "You don't like the priests, Judith?" he answered by 
 way of interrogation. 
 
 "I don't dislike them," she said. "I tolerate them." 
 
 " Complimentary to the cloth," he said. " It is a good 
 joke. I must remember it." 
 
 "All the strong ones of the earth hate them," she 
 continued. "All the weak things of the earth lean on 
 and love them. You and I are strong, therefore — " 
 
 "Who is the black hawk, Judith?" he said in a bland 
 and coaxing manner. 
 
 She raised her hand and, pointing her long forefinger 
 to the west, where the coast bent round and sheltered 
 far away the Coast Guard Station, she said: 
 
 " Don't heed the dove, but mind the nest," she replied. 
 " I see far off and behind the future, desolation after deso- 
 lation. And then, from behind a blood-i-ed cloud and a 
 blinded sun, I see the dove return and settle here for- 
 ever." 
 
 "Happy dove!" he said laughingly. "But now we'll
 
 AND PROPHECIES 265 
 
 drop the Sybil, if you please, and come to business. Have 
 you or Pete heard anything from yonder?" 
 
 And he nodded toward the west where the Coast Guard 
 Station lay. 
 
 "No!" she said languidly. "Have you?" 
 
 " I have heard nothing," he said, " but I know something. 
 There's a traitor somewhere. We have to be careful 
 now, or all is lost." 
 
 " You have been talking that way for four years, 
 Edward Wycherly," she said, "ever since the day you 
 came hither from your ship. Men with scorched hands 
 shouldn't play with fire." 
 
 " You mean I'm a coward," he said, his face darkening 
 in the twilight. " You're wrong. If I cared to tell, I 
 could prove it to you. But, just now, I have everything 
 to gain, and everything to lose; and one needs caution." 
 
 "You must remember," she said, "Edward Wycherly, 
 that you came into this business on your own invitation. 
 We didn't ask you to join us. Nay, if you remember 
 rightly, we were somewhat reluctant about it; and you 
 resented this, and — you threatened ! " 
 
 He knew the allusion, and blushed beneath his sallow 
 skin. 
 
 " You threatened," she continued, " — you remember 
 what you threatened. If there be a traitor, let him be 
 judged out of his own mouth." 
 
 "There, Judith," he said. "I didn't want to offend 
 you. You know that; but your southern blood is hasty. 
 But you know how I stand now. The fact is, I am anxious 
 to get out of this business. 'Tis dangerous. You and 
 Pete have nothing to lose; I, everything. Just now, my 
 father is tottering into his grave; and all this," he swept 
 his hand backward, "is mine. My name is already gone 
 before the Lord Lieutenant of the County for the Com- 
 mission of the Peace; and I want to settle down — " 
 
 "And bring the white dove hither," she interrupted. 
 "A pretty programme, Edward Wycherly; but there's 
 many a pretty plan foiled in the working."
 
 266 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "I know that!" he said, furtively looking at the sinister 
 face of the woman. "And hence I want a fair field. I 
 want to remove the obstructions, one by one. And then, 
 you know, Judith, it will be all the better for you and 
 Pete. You, too, are running risks; and, after all, the old 
 castle is more comfortable than the County Gaol. Let 
 us clear this cargo, bury the past, and settle down to a 
 decent and lawful life. You and Pete may be sure, you 
 can trust me!" 
 
 She seemed to ponder earnestly over the question, still 
 drawing lines on the sands. Then, raising her head, she 
 looked him full in the face, and said : 
 
 "Settle your affairs with Pete, Edward Wycherly. A 
 woman's brains are no match for yours." 
 
 " Your brains are more than a match for any man's," 
 he replied. " But there is no question in dispute between 
 us. It simply amounts to this. We have been running 
 risks for some profits. If, as I suspect, the authorities 
 have got wind of it, they will watch and search; and, 
 even though we may foil them for a time, they will succeed 
 in the end. That means ruin." 
 
 " Of course," she said drily. 
 
 "Then, is it not better to suspend operations? I can 
 make up the loss to Pete." 
 
 "How?" she asked. 
 
 "Well, you see," he answered with some reluctance, 
 "there are many ways. Pete can get constant employ- 
 ment on the property. We can get Cora into the house 
 — that is, if she and you care. And you can always 
 have a home here." 
 
 " One would like — I mean Pete would like a little 
 better security," she replied. 
 
 "Then," he went on, apparently not noticing the re- 
 mark, "old Kerins can't stand. He's drinking too hard. 
 Poor devil, he's driven to it, and no wonder. No man 
 could go around, day by day, carrying his life in his hand 
 without taking to drink. He's an awful fool not to sell 
 out and clear off to America."
 
 AND PROPHECIES 267 
 
 " But you were saying," she persisted, " that old Kerins 
 can't stand. What then?" 
 
 " Well, then," he said uneasily, " you know the Duggans 
 have no chance. They cannot buy the place at his price. 
 Someone else will offer — " 
 
 "Who?" she asked, studying his features closely. 
 
 " Well, Pete has saved enough now by — by — this 
 business to offer a good price." 
 
 "And settle down into a Gorgio farmer?" she said, 
 laughing. "Not likely, Edward Wycherly. Think of 
 some other bribe, and offer it at your leisure — at your 
 leisure," she repeated, "to the little father." 
 
 He ground his teeth and walked away sullenly, cursing 
 the old " catamount " and — himself for having been 
 betrayed by the lust of wealth into courses that brought 
 him within the law, and within the terrible power of these 
 uncanny heathens, who, he knew, would sacrifice him at 
 a word to save themselves. How often he wished now 
 that he had cleared out this gypsy family from the old 
 castle; and how often he regretted the steady opposition 
 to the parish priest he had inculcated by word and ex- 
 ample amongst the rebellious and disaffected in the dis- 
 trict. It seemed too late now, unless in some mysterious 
 manner the Fates came to his aid. 
 
 He entered the mansion, now practically his own, with 
 a heavy heart. The dinner bell was rung; but he seemed 
 not to hear it. The old servitor, clad in a suit of faded 
 black, had to knock at his bedroom door and tell him 
 that the doctor was already at the dinner-table. He 
 dressed hastily and came down. 
 
 He thought the dining-room never looked so gloomy. 
 The darkened panels and ceiling seemed black as a funeral 
 pall ; the silver glinted and shone ; but its very massiveness 
 seemed to weigh upon his spirits. The cloth was covered 
 with bunches and sprays of early chrysanthemums in 
 all their varied and flaming colours; but just then they 
 seemed to mock him with their fragile beauty. It was a 
 frugal dinner, as the old doctor's tastes were simple — ■
 
 268 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 a little soup, served in a silver tureen, a dish of steak and 
 several dishes of vegetables. Then came piles of rich 
 autumnal fruit from their own gardens and hothouses; 
 and biscuits with little flakes of cheese and butter lay 
 on highly-decorated china, old and cracked, but valuable 
 to the eye of a connoisseur. 
 
 Edward Wycherly took a pear and ate it hastily. Then 
 he swallowed in single gulps two glasses of wine. 
 
 His father pushed away his plate and said softly: 
 
 "Strange I haven't heard from Dion for ever so long. 
 He wrote punctually the first weeks he was at sea; but 
 not a note has come for months. I fear some trouble. 
 And — his mother came to me in my dreams last night." 
 
 "I think you needn't be troubled, sir," said his son. 
 "His ship, I think, has gone round the Horn, where it 
 is always blowing big guns; and probably he won't touch 
 at port, nor have a chance of posting a letter till he gets 
 to 'Frisco." 
 
 " I don't know," said his father uneasily, " I have got 
 some presentiment about the boy. And then — his 
 mother came to me in sleep last night!" 
 
 '•'I remember," said Edward Wycherly, "when I was 
 rounding the Cape in the Nevada, we had to lay to for 
 days, keeping her head to the seas. There was no going 
 forward in the teeth of a head-wind. I think that run 
 took a good six months." 
 
 "I don't know," said the father dreamily, "I cannot 
 shake off some sense of danger. It is strange that I 
 shall not spend my old age in peace. Doesn't a man 
 deserve peace in his declining years?" 
 
 " Of course, sir," replied his son. " And I think you 
 are needlessly troubled. You may be sure Dion is all 
 right. And then, he's a hardy chap." 
 
 "Ah, yes! no fear there," said his father in the same 
 moody manner. "No fear there! Poor Jack is the one 
 to fear there. I was hoping that all would be right. 
 But his mother came to me in sleep last night!" 
 
 Edward Wycherly was so utterly depressed by his
 
 AND PROPHECIES 269 
 
 own thoughts and by the lugubrious laments and fore- 
 bodings of his father that he felt he could bear it no longer. 
 But he thought it was his duty to say some strengthen- 
 ing words to his father. 
 
 "You shouldn't be needlessly fretting, sir," he said. 
 "There's no fear of Jack. A year or two more and he'll 
 have his degree and then he can look around." 
 
 Dr. Wycherly reached to the mantelpiece and took 
 down a letter in the same dreamy, listless manner that 
 characterized all his actions. 
 
 "Here is a letter that came this morning," he said, 
 opening it and reading: 'A dear friend would advise 
 Doctor Wycherly to remove his son from the city imme- 
 diately. He can complete his studies elsewhere. This 
 place is not the best suited to the interests of mind or 
 body.'" 
 
 He handed the note to Edward. It was written in a 
 disguised hand and was, of course, unsigned. 
 
 "Some fellow," he said, tossing it back, "who wants 
 to get Jack out of his way for the half-yearly exam. It 
 is quite enough that the letter is anonymous." 
 
 "Quite so!" said Dr. Wycherly, taking back the letter 
 and folding it. "But his mother came to me in my 
 dreams last night!" 
 
 " I'm not much of a preacher or a consoler," said his son, 
 " but I have often heard it said that the worst misfortunes 
 are those that never happen, and that it is always foolish 
 to anticipate evils. Now, as you have said, you have 
 a right to peace after your long and laborious life. Where's 
 the use then in fretting about fanciful troubles?" 
 
 He had a keen underthought that his own substantial 
 troubles might very soon come to the front. 
 
 "All that you say is true," said his father in the same 
 lugubrious manner. " But ' coming events cast their 
 shadows before.' And I cannot shake off the impression. 
 Your mother came to me in my dreams last night!" 
 
 Edward Wycherly was silent. He could not argue 
 further. Then he rose and went out.
 
 270 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 He had not gone far in front of the house when he 
 heard a long low whistle. He knew what it meant. He 
 passed beyond the precincts of the house, and Pete 
 leaped lightly over the ditch. 
 
 "The lugger is in the offing," he whispered. "We 
 have no time to lose." 
 
 "All right!" said Edward Wycherly in a tone of 
 despair. " Was your mother speaking to you of our con- 
 versation?" 
 
 "No!" said the little father in a tone of surprise. 
 "Shall we take the yacht or the boat?" 
 
 "How goes the wind?" 
 
 " In the right quarter, blowing gently ofif the land." 
 
 "How will the night be?" 
 
 "Dark as hell. The quarter moon has sunk in the 
 sea." 
 
 "All right. Get ready the yacht and I shall be with 
 you at the creek." 
 
 He turned away, but he had gone only a short distance 
 when he called after Pete. 
 
 The Httle father came up wondering. 
 
 " Never mind ! " said Edward Wycherly. " Have all 
 things ready in the punt and I shall presently be with 
 you."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 A Stern Chase 
 
 Captain Nesbit, Chief Coast Guard Officer and Inspector, 
 sat on a wicker chair outside the white wall that sur- 
 rounded the Coast Guard Station. This was his fourth 
 visit within a few months. He was much disturbed in 
 mind this evening. He indicated it by biting his nails 
 and looking anxiously and angrily across the heaving 
 waters. The truth was that he had been reprimanded 
 severely from headquarters. He had been sent down to 
 ferret out and destroy a nest of smugglers that were 
 hidden somewhere along the western coast, and he had 
 ignominiously failed. Every effort had been thwarted, 
 and he had long since fallen back on the belief that the 
 authorities had been hoaxed. In this view he was con- 
 firmed by the belief of his men, who assured him that 
 the thing was quite impossible in these days of vigilance 
 and circumspection, when the whole coast from station 
 to station could be swept by the long glasses of the men; 
 and when a diver could not cross the horizon without 
 being noticed. But here were his peremptory orders. 
 Clearly, the revenue authorities believed that something 
 illegal was in progress, and he it was who should seek it 
 out and destroy it. 
 
 He lit a cigarette just as the dusk of evening fell and, 
 after a few minutes' reflection, he called over Pelham, a 
 shrewd, cautious Englishman who had been warrant- 
 officer in the service and who was now in charge of the 
 station. 
 
 "Any news, Pelham?" he asked anxiously. 
 
 "None, sir!" said Pelham, saluting. 
 
 271
 
 272 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Were the men out last night?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. I myself was in charge." 
 
 "How far did you go?" 
 
 " Six miles to the west, where we ambushed in a creek. 
 Then we pulled out to sea and skirted the coast down to 
 Redcarn." 
 
 "And saw nothing?" 
 
 "Not a sail, nor an oar, sir, except Mr. Wycherly's 
 Water-Witch." 
 
 "You didn't follow her?" 
 
 "No, sir," said Pelham, looking with surprise at his 
 officer. "Mr. Wycherly, sir, is the young gentleman 
 at Rohira — an ex-naval hofficer." 
 
 Nesbit was silent. He thought long and earnestly. 
 
 "We have swept every inch of the coast," he said at 
 length, "up from Waterford, and down again from Kin- 
 sale. If there's anything wrong, I don't see how it could 
 have escaped us. But — can that boat well carry a 
 sail?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, if we manage careful and the wind lies low." 
 
 "All right. When does the moon set?" 
 
 "Sets early, sir. It will be pitch-dark at ten." 
 
 "So much the better. Have the boat and four men 
 ready at half-past nine. And bring your arms." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir!" said Pelham, saluting. But he lingered 
 round. 
 
 "Any suggestions, Pelham?" the officer asked, notic- 
 ing his hesitation. 
 
 "No, sir! But that gypsy woman comes around here 
 pretty often; and I don't like her tampering with the 
 men and fooling the women." 
 
 "Certainly not," said Captain Nesbit. "You must 
 sternly forbid her coming near the station again. When 
 was she here last?" 
 
 " I think she was here this hafternoon, sir," said Pelham. 
 
 "Is this one of the gypsies at the castle?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. You remember me telling you about them 
 at your last inspection?"
 
 A STERN CHASE 273 
 
 "Yes, I do," said the officer, reflecting. "Has that 
 apparition been seen since?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir!" said the man. "It is quite a usual 
 thing, especially on moonlight nights!" 
 
 "And you think still that these people get out thia 
 property-ghost to please the old doctor?" 
 
 "I do, sir," said Pelham. "The men don't." 
 
 "Then they believe it is a real ghost?" he asked in 
 amazement. 
 
 "Some do, sir, and they are thoroughly frightened. 
 Some are doubtful. I tells them that these gypsies are 
 simply trying to please the old man, so that he may not 
 disturb them. The young master wanted to clear them 
 out long ago, but the doctor would not allow him." 
 
 " What? Do you mean that Mr. Wycherly was anxious 
 to remove these people? Have you heard that?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Judith has mentioned it again and again 
 to our people. And she says they can defy him, so long 
 as the old master lives." 
 
 "Another theory knocked on the head," muttered 
 Nesbit to himself. "All right, Pelham. I'll have some 
 tea at nine o'clock, and have the men ready as I've said." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir!" said Pelham, saluting and entering the 
 station again. 
 
 When the moon had set, the men got out their long 
 boat and pulled silently into the deep. Outside the 
 shelter of the land, when the light wind caught them, 
 they hoisted a sail and moved noiselessly in a direct line 
 southward from the shore. Nesbit steered. They car- 
 ried no lights, but a dark lantern was hidden beneath 
 the seats. When they had sailed three or four miles 
 from shore, they veered round and, altering their course, 
 sailed in an easterly direction and almost parallel with 
 the coast. The men kept a good lookout; but it was 
 weary work and waiting; and after a time they lowered 
 the sail and lay to. It might have been an hour from 
 midnight when the lookout whispered: 
 19
 
 274 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "A sail to the windward, sir! Keep her helm steady!" 
 
 And Nesbit had hardly time to grip the rudder-ropes 
 when the full wing of the Water-Witch swept within a 
 few yards of the coast guard boat and vanished in the 
 darkness, leaving a white wake behind. " Hoist the sail 
 at once, Pelham," shouted Nesbit, "and after her. By 
 Jove, that was a close shave. Keep in her wake and 
 tack if you come too near!" 
 
 '"Tis the Water-Witch, sir — Mr. Wycherly's boat," 
 said Pelham. 
 
 "How do you know?" said Nesbit, somewhat impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 " By the cut of her sail, sir ! " the man answered. " I'm 
 sure 'tis the Water-Witch. Isn't it, Orpen?" 
 
 "I think so," said one of the men, who was pulling 
 the sail-ropes through their pulleys. "There's no other 
 yacht around here, except Wycherly's." 
 
 "Never mind!" said Nesbit. "Keep after her. If we 
 can overhaul her, no harm's done!" 
 
 Then commenced a race upon the midnight waters; 
 and there was no rivalry, only the anger of the pursued 
 and the zeal of the pursuers. For Edward Wycherly 
 felt now that the authority of England was on his track, 
 and he shook out every bit of canvas his little yacht 
 could bear until her pennant almost dipped in the seas. He 
 guessed at once why and wherefore he was pursued; and 
 he determined to give them a night of it. "But a last 
 night," he muttered so that Pete could not hear him. 
 There was a faint starlight on the waters; and far down in 
 the west a reflection from the sunken moon. Now and 
 again Nesbit could see the white swallow-wing flashing 
 in the darkness; and Wycherly watched the broad sail 
 that came lumbering along in his wake. But it was swan 
 against swallow. The Water-Witch sprang, as if to the 
 voice of her master, over the curdling waves, and down 
 dark hollows; and in less than half an hour she was be- 
 yond the sight or reach of her pursuers. She was then 
 far out at sea; and a great dark object loomed up on her
 
 A STERN CHASE 275 
 
 lee side and a flash, so faint that only expectant eyes 
 could see it, lit up the waters for a moment. Wycherly 
 put down his helm and glided under her stern; and 
 answered in reply to a muffled "Boat ahoy!": 
 
 "Quick! Put her round and hoist every stitch of 
 canvas. The coast guards are at hand!" 
 
 He made the circuit of the schooner repeating his 
 orders and then flew back to where the coast guard boat 
 was still lumbering through the waves, drew it completely 
 out of the track of the smuggler and into his own creek 
 beneath Dunkerrin Castle, pulled down his sail, got Pete 
 out in the punt, and awaited events. 
 
 Nesbit in the eagerness of his pursuit, and forgetting 
 altogether that he was only acting upon suspicion, almost 
 ran his boat upon the rocks. Yet he dreaded from 
 lack of power or lack of evidence to proceed further. 
 Wycherly challenged: 
 
 "That you, Pelham?" 
 
 "Yes, sir!" said Pelham. "Captain Nesbit is on 
 board." 
 
 "You have had a hard run. Did you take me for a 
 smuggler?" 
 
 " No, sir. But — " 
 
 Here he seemed to consult his officer, 
 
 "Mr. Nesbit, sir, would like to know what you were 
 doing out on the deep seas at such an hour." 
 
 "Tell Mr. Nesbit that that is my own affair, I shall 
 go and come upon the high seas at my pleasure." 
 
 "Oh, of course, sir! Meant no offence, sir, I'm sure." 
 
 But Nesbit had drawn in his boat till she glided almost 
 stern to stern with the yacht; and with the dark lantern 
 he threw a yellow glare across the deck of the boat. It 
 revealed nothing. But Wycherly affected the fury of 
 insulted innocence. 
 
 "If you are not satisfied, sir," he said, glowering down 
 upon Nesbit, "with your most impertinent examina- 
 tion of my boat, you are at liberty to come aboard. 
 And, if you are not satisfied with that, you can bring
 
 276 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 your men up to my father's house and pursue your 
 
 investigations there." 
 
 " You have been an officer, Mr. Wycherly," said Nesbit, 
 half ashamed but yet suspicious, " and you know that an 
 officer has duties to perform which are sometimes 
 unpleasant." 
 
 "Quite so!" said Wycherly, seeing that he had now 
 the victory. "It is because I recognize the call of duty 
 that I invite you to a further search, so that you should 
 be perfectly satisfied." 
 
 "It is late!" said Nesbit, consulting his watch, but 
 still eagerly scanning every corner of the yacht under 
 the yellow glare of the lantern. " And besides, no sus- 
 picion can attach to you, Mr. Wycherly. In fact, I 
 should be disposed to call upon you to help in our search 
 for smugglers along this coast." 
 
 "Then you believe that smuggling is going on?" asked 
 Wycherly. 
 
 "Well, so it is reported," said Nesbit. "But perhaps 
 I could see you again at a more opportune time and we 
 could discuss the matter together." 
 
 "Certainly! I shall be most happy," said Wycherly. 
 "Meanwhile, you will allow me to throw out my anchor. 
 There!" 
 
 "Well,^ good night!" said Nesbit. "And a more 
 pleasant introduction next time." 
 
 And the boat swung round under the strong arms of 
 the men and vanished in the darkness. 
 
 In a few seconds the little punt, guided by Pete, glided 
 out and ran alongside the yacht, and the two men stepped 
 ashore. Pete remained behind, tying up the boat; but 
 Wycherly went forward and strode into the Witch's 
 cave. 
 
 A dark lantern was faintly smoking in a corner. Against 
 the dim light and faintly outlined against the irregular, 
 arched entrance, like a statue in a niche, was the tall 
 form of Judith. She stood still and almost unbreathing, 
 her hood covering her head and her hands folded beneath
 
 A STERN CHASE 277 
 
 her cloak. The tide washed over the weed-fringed rock 
 and lapped her bare feet, for the gypsy preferred to go 
 barefoot at all times. Not a sound broke the stillness 
 until she said: 
 
 ''Well?" 
 
 "It was a close shave this time," he said. "They are 
 on our track at last." 
 
 "The owl is heading the hawk," she said. "It is 
 unpleasant. Do they suspect Crapaud?" 
 
 " Hardly, I think," he said wearily. " But it cannot 
 remain a secret. The revenue cutter may be here in a 
 week." 
 
 "Buy off Pelham!" she said. 
 
 "Nonsense!" he replied. "That is, give everything 
 away and betray ourselves!" 
 
 "Every man has his price!" she said. "If we had 
 only a free hand for six months more, we could retire." 
 
 "Six months! Three months! One month! To-night! 
 I'm done with the matter from this moment and will take 
 the consequences." 
 
 "Very good, Edward Wycherly!" she said. "The 
 consequences may be much, or little. But what shall be 
 done with the stuff already on our hands?" 
 
 " You and Pete dispose of it, as you please!" he replied. 
 
 "You claim no share?" 
 
 "None! I simply want to have nothing more to do 
 with the nefarious business." 
 
 "Very good!" she replied. "Edward Wycherly, it 
 is not men like you that win empires." 
 
 "I suppose not!" he said, turning away. 
 
 "Come, little father!" she cried, accosting Pete. "The 
 night waxes late!"
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 A School Inquiry 
 
 The burning of Kerins's hay-rick on the night of the 
 concert did not improve matters in the parish. Kerins 
 at once appUed to the necessary authorities for compen- 
 sation; and he was awarded a large sum, more than suffi- 
 cient to cover his losses, and it was levied exclusively on 
 the parish. The rate fell heavily on the farmers around; 
 and, although it was quite impossible to blame Kerins for 
 defending himself, yet the taxation was so heavy that 
 each felt he had a grievance against Kerins personally, so 
 utterly unreasoning are men where their moneyed inter- 
 ests are concerned. He became therefore more widely 
 unpopular than ever in the parish; and Dr. Gray, the 
 parish priest, who had denounced the outrage in un- 
 measured terms from the altar, shared his unpopularity. 
 But somehow now the latter had begun to heed such things 
 less than ever. He had turned away his face from the 
 noise and battling of men and was striving with all his 
 might for eternity. Annie's departure, too, so mysteri- 
 ous and unintelligible, seemed to snap the last link in 
 the chain of human sympathies that bound him to earth. 
 The great gap which her absence created had closed up, 
 although he still retained his deep affection for her; and 
 she was still in the habit of spending her holidays with 
 him, and an occasional Sunday when she was off duty. 
 But the intervals were not too dreary; and if his sight 
 had not been growing more impaired under the steady 
 progress of the disease, he could say that the evening 
 of his life was the best, and that he could anticipate the 
 peace of eternity. But there were hours and days of 
 
 278
 
 A SCHOOL INQUIRY 279 
 
 deep melancholy, when he felt absolutely alone and when 
 his books could be no solace, and now he had to fall back 
 on the benevolence of his curate for society and the spirit- 
 ual offices of his calling. 
 
 He had got from Rome a dispensation to say the Mass of 
 the Blessed Virgin each morning, instead of the Mass of the 
 day. This was a great favour and shed its blessedness and 
 sweetness across many weary hours. But he was obliged 
 by his growing blindness to abandon the daily Office; and, 
 although he had again received a dispensation from that 
 daily duty, he felt the tremendous loss of such hourly 
 communication with the Infinite through the transcen- 
 dent beauty of the Psalms and Lessons of the Office. For 
 a long time he bore the privation in silence. Then a few 
 times he murmured in the presence of his curate. And 
 one day Henry Liston, in the fervour of pity and self-sacri- 
 fice, volunteered to come down every day after noon and 
 go over, verse by verse, the daily Office with his pastor, 
 reading it in choro, and thus fulfilling his own obliga- 
 tion at the same time. He did not quite understand the 
 burden^ and the trial he was assuming. But he perse- 
 vered grandly, and it was the source of numberless helps 
 and graces to himself. 
 
 It was a noble act too, because he had to bear with the 
 imperiousness and fretfulness of the old man and because 
 he had already witnessed one or two painful scenes 
 just before the darkness had closed down on the pastor's 
 eyes, and he could no longer leave home, except for the 
 short journey to the church. 
 
 The worst of these scenes had taken place a few months 
 after Mary Liston had become a religious and Annie had 
 gone for training as a nurse. The pastor had driven over 
 to the schools at Athboy to assist at an investigation. 
 It had been reported to the Commissioners of Education 
 that Carmody, the assistant-teacher and nephew of the 
 hated Kerins, had used some children cruelly. And this 
 was set down to personal hatred and dislike toward the 
 children on account of the attitude of their parents. It
 
 280 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 was a manifest calumny, but the Commissioners deemed 
 it a subject for inquiry, and accordingly ordered the 
 Inspector of the district to hold a formal investigation. 
 Fortunately, he was an experienced man and perfectly 
 understood human methods of reasoning when personal 
 interests are at stake. He requested the manager's 
 presence, and the latter and his curate attended. The 
 inquiry was formally opened by a brief speech and the 
 prosecutor was called to give evidence. She was the 
 mother of one of the children. 
 
 "I'm a poor widda, your honour," she said, "an' sure 
 the poor have no frinds now." 
 
 She cast a withering look on the parish priest and 
 went on — 
 
 "I've only a small little holdin' an' I'm only milkin' 
 two cows (their calves died last spring) ; but if I'm poor, 
 I'm honest, an' no wan can say that he has the black of 
 his nail agin me." 
 
 "I'm quite sure," said the Inspector mildly, "my 
 good woman, that all you say is correct; but it has nothing 
 to say to the subject of this inquiry. I must ask you to 
 keep close to that." 
 
 "An' I am, your honour," she said, "I'm comin' to it; 
 but you must lave me tell me shtory me own way, or I've 
 no bisniss comin' here at all." 
 
 " You must remember," said the Inspector, " that it 
 was you solicited the inquiry and formulated certain 
 charges against this teacher — " 
 
 "An' good right I had, the blagard," she said. "An' 
 how could he be good, wid the black dhrop in him from 
 two sides. Sure ivry wan knows that the Carmodys 
 were a bad lot; an' as for the Kerins — " 
 
 "Now look here, my good woman," said the Inspector, 
 "I have not come hither to hear about family virtues 
 nor failings — " 
 
 "Vartues?" she cried scornfully. "Faith, thin, you 
 needn't come inquirin' afther their vartues. It would 
 be like hunting for a needle in a bundle of sthraw."
 
 A SCHOOL INQUIRY 281 
 
 "All right!" said the Inspector. "Now come to the 
 point! What is your charge against this teacher?" 
 
 "That he bate and ill-thrated me child," she said, 
 sobbing, "that's without his father to protect him. Ah, 
 you ruffian," she said, turning to the unhappy teacher 
 and shaking her fist at him, "if Mike Ryan wasn't over 
 there in his cowld grave this blessed and holy day, 'tis 
 you'd be laughing at the other side of your mouth, you 
 ugly bodach! 'Tis a nice thing to have the childhre of 
 dacent parents in the parish taught by the Hkes of you!" 
 
 "Very good now," said the Inspector; "but, Mr. Car- 
 mody, this is a serious matter for you. I don't think 
 there's occasion for laughter." 
 
 "I assure you, sir!" said Carmody, stepping forward, 
 "that so far from laughing, I am greatly pained by the 
 statements of this woman!" 
 
 "Woman!" she cried. "Who do ye call 'woman,' 
 you cawbogue? I wouldn't demane meself by comparing 
 me family wid yours — " 
 
 "Look now, look now," said the Inspector in despair, 
 "this must stop, or I shall be here till Doomsday — " 
 
 "I assure you, Mr. ," said the parish priest, 
 
 unwisely breaking in, "that I have been watching the 
 whole proceedings, and so far from Mr. Carmody 's laugh- 
 ing at this poor woman, he appears to be deeply affected 
 by the situation." 
 
 "Av coorse, av coorse, yer reverence," said Mrs. R.yan, 
 making a profound curtsey to her pastor, which she in- 
 tended to be killingly sarcastic, "you must take the part 
 of the grabber, as ushal. Every wan knows that you 
 are agin the people, and always wos, ever since you sot 
 foot in the parish. But there's a good God above us 
 to-night — " 
 
 "Look here, Missus," said the Inspector, taking out 
 his watch, " there's already half an hour gone by, and I'm 
 not nearer the subject of this inquiry. If this is to go 
 on — " 
 
 "Yerra, an' who's shtoppin' yer honour?" she said.
 
 282 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Sure I'm not to blame. But ye won't listen to a poor 
 'uman who has no wan but herself and the great God 
 to look afther her little childhre. Sure, you have only 
 to ask me anything you wants to know and I'll tell you 
 the thruth the same as if I was on me Bible oath." 
 
 This seemed to clear matters a little and the Inspector 
 said calmly and encouragingly: 
 
 "Very good. Now that's quite reasonable. I'm sure 
 you're a truthful and honourable woman — " 
 
 "Ah thin, your honour, if poor Father Ned Mahony was 
 here, 'tis he could tell you all about me — me poor dead 
 priesht, that had the feel for his people." 
 
 "Very good! that's very consoling!" said the Inspec- 
 tor. " But now come to the point. You say this teacher 
 treated your child inhumanly?" 
 
 "He did, your honour; an' I've plinty to prove it." 
 
 "All right. But before we proceed to proofs, in what 
 exactly did the cruelty or unnecessary punishment con- 
 sist? Did he beat the child unnecessarily, or what?" 
 
 "Bate the child? Yerra, sure he's always batin' 'em. 
 He bates 'em whin he's cowld to get up the hate in his 
 blood; and he bates 'em whin he's hot to cool off his anger. 
 He bates them whin his stummuck is full of mate; an' 
 whin he has only cowld praties and salt ling for his dinner 
 on Fridays, he's the d — out an' out ! " 
 
 "Very good. Then you have noticed some marks of 
 violence on the child's person?" 
 
 "Vilence? Why, all his little body is black and blue 
 from the batin' sometimes; and sure 'tisn't a month 
 ago whin he kim home wid his little nose dhropping 
 blood like a stuck calf, and wan of his eyes as big as a 
 turnip." 
 
 "Ajid do you connect that with the teacher? Do you 
 mean to say that the teacher used your boy in such a 
 brutal manner?" 
 
 " I do, your honour," she said boldly. " You can ax 
 the child yerself and see what he says." 
 
 "Very good!" said the Inspector, writing rapidly.
 
 A SCHOOL INQUIRY 283 
 
 "And now, before I proceed to the evidence, have you 
 any other specific charges to make?" 
 
 "Isn't it enough what I've said," she shouted, "to get 
 him thransported for life? Yerra, what more do you 
 want, only to take him now by the showlder and put 
 him outside the dure?" 
 
 "Well, we'll see," said the Inspector. "But these are 
 all the specific charges you make?" 
 
 " Oh, as for that," she replied, " I could bring a hundred 
 more av I liked. I could tell you how he makes the poor 
 childhre kneel in their bare shins on the edge of a furrum 
 that is as sharp es a razhure — " 
 
 "You must confine your charges to any violence in- 
 flicted on your own child," said the Inspector, "Now, 
 do you assert that the child was compelled to kneel, as 
 you say, and for what space of time?" 
 
 " Well, I'm only saying what everybody does be saying," 
 she replied. " Sure 'tis the common talk of the parish 
 from ind to ind — " 
 
 "Very good. Now, we'll take evidence. Where's 
 your boy?" 
 
 Patsy Ryan, a stout, ruddy lad, was summoned, and 
 took his place, not without some trepidation, before the 
 tribunal. 
 
 "Shpake up now to the gintleman. Patsy," said his 
 mother encouragingly, "and don't be afraid to tell the 
 thruth over right the prieshts." 
 
 " What's your name? " inquired the Inspector. 
 
 "Patsy Ryne, sor," said the boy, rubbing his hands 
 nervously on his breeches. 
 
 "Very good, Patsy. How old are you?" 
 
 "Sure, he'll be eight, come Michaelmas," put in his 
 mother, "and sure more betoken, 'twas the night of 
 the tundher and lightnin', whin we thought the ind of the 
 wurruld was comin'." 
 
 "Very good. What book are you reading. Patsy?" 
 said the Inspector. 
 
 "Furst Book, sor!" was the reply.
 
 284 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "You're a big boy and should be beyond the First 
 Book," said the Inspector. 
 
 " An' sure he would, your honour, in any other school 
 in the wurruld. But what can the childhre learn with a 
 pizawn hke that," pointing to Carmody, "who'd rather 
 be oilin' his hair an' gaHvantin' wid the girls — " 
 
 "Now, now, Mrs. Ryan," said the Inspector, "this 
 won't do! I gave you full latitude and you must now 
 keep silence, please, while I examine your son." 
 
 "All right, your honour," she replied. "I'm not goin' 
 to say another word, Iss, Aye, or No!" 
 
 "Now, Patsy," continued the Inspector, "have you 
 ever been punished by the teacher?" 
 
 "I have, sor," said Patsy. 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "I was shlapped, sor," said the boy. 
 
 "On the hand?" 
 
 "Yes, sor!" said Patsy, rubbing his hands harder on 
 his breeches, as if he was anxious to wipe out the very 
 memory of the pain. 
 
 "What did the teacher slap you with?" 
 
 "Wid the shlapper, sor," said Patsy. 
 
 "Get me that slapper," said the Inspector to Carmody. 
 
 The instrument of torture was put on the table. 
 
 "Is that it?" said the Inspector. 
 
 Patsy eyed it ruefully, still rubbing his hands. He 
 suspected it was about to be requisitioned again. But 
 he recognized his old acquaintance. 
 
 "'Tis, sor!" he replied. 
 
 "Were you ever punished with any other instrument?" 
 
 " Wha'?" said Patsy. These big words were too much 
 for him. 
 
 "Did the teacher beat you with anything else?" was 
 the modified question. 
 
 "No, sor!" said Patsy. 
 
 " But your mother says you have had marks or weals 
 on your body." 
 
 " Black and blue, your honour, an' all the colours of the
 
 A SCHOOL INQUIRY 285 
 
 rainbow. Who marked you, agragal? Who bate you 
 about the legs and arrums?" said his mother. 
 
 " Billy Fitz, your honour," said Patsy. " He does be 
 kicking me ondher the desk. But he isn't me match, 
 and whin I grows up I'll lick the d — ■ out of him." 
 
 "There's the tachin' now they're gettin', your honour," 
 said his mother. " There's the tachin' goin' on in this school. 
 Shure they might as well be among blacks or haythens." 
 
 " I see," said the Inspector gravely. " But, my boy, 
 you went home one evening from school with your nose 
 bleeding and your eyes swollen. Was it the teacher 
 punished you?" 
 
 '"Twas not!" said Patsy. '"Twas Billy Fitz agin; 
 but whin I'm growed up — " 
 
 "Yes, yes!" said the Inspector hastily. "I under- 
 stand. Then why did you tell your mother that it was 
 the teacher that ill-used you?" 
 
 "'Twas Dicky Duggan made me, sor," said Patsy. 
 
 "Who is Dicky Duggan?" 
 
 "Ohj thin, wan of the dacentest and quitest byes in 
 the parish," broke in his mother. "A good nabor an' a 
 kind frind to the widda and the orfin. Sure 'tis he ploughs 
 me little haggart for me every spring and gives me the 
 seed for the praties." 
 
 "Then you told a lie to your mother," continued the 
 Inspector, "when you said it was Mr. Carmody that ill- 
 used you?" 
 
 Patsy was silent. His warlike ardour against Billy 
 Fitz had evaporated. He rubbed his breeches in a ner- 
 vous and melancholy manner. 
 
 " You told a He? " persisted the Inspector. 
 
 "Av coorse, he did," replied the mother. "How could 
 he tell anythin' else wid the tachin' they're gettin' here? 
 Sure how can they be good or graceful wid a blagard like 
 that over 'em?" 
 
 "I think that closes the evidence!" said the Inspector. 
 "Just one word more. Were you ever put kneeling on a 
 form or desk, Patsy?"
 
 286 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "I was, sor!" said Patsy. 
 
 "Just kneel up there. Let me see how you knelt!" 
 
 And Patsy knelt comfortably on the seat and leaned 
 rather luxuriously on the desk. 
 
 "That will do!" said the Inspector. And Patsy re- 
 tired with much satisfaction. 
 
 The Principal of the School was summoned. 
 
 " Have you ever noticed any undue or harsh treatment 
 of the children at the hands of Mr. Carmody?" 
 
 "Never, sir! He is very kind and gentle with the 
 children." 
 
 " Begor," said Mrs. Ryan, talking to an imaginary and 
 sympathetic audience on the ceiling, "that's a quare 
 question. As if they wouldn't stick together like pick- 
 pockets." 
 
 "Mr. Carmody!" 
 
 "Yes, sir!" 
 
 "You have heard this — ahem! woman's evidence, or 
 rather her specific charges against you. Have you any 
 observations to offer?" 
 
 "None, sir," he replied, "except to deny them in toto. 
 It is a matter of pure spite, dictated — " 
 
 "Now, now, now, Mr. Carmody, I cannot allow that. 
 I cannot listen to any imputation of motives — " 
 
 "That's right, your honour," said Mrs. Ryan. "Take 
 that, now, you blagard, you! There's fair play for the 
 poor somewhere, thank God!" 
 
 "I just want you to answer my questions briefly," 
 said the Inspector to Carmody, "and to make no comments 
 or explanations. Are you conscious of having ever, in 
 a fit of temper or resentment, ill-used that boy?" 
 
 " Never, sir," said Carmody, somewhat nettled. " I've 
 never punished that boy except in the manner already 
 described." 
 
 "Oh, glory be to God! Oh, sweet mother above, 
 listen to that!" said Mrs. Ryan. "Yerra, aren't you 
 afraid the ground would open and swally you up, you 
 black-hearted scoundrel, to tell such a lie an' before the
 
 A SCHOOL INQUIRY 287 
 
 ministers of God? Yerra, your honour, ax him no more 
 questions, or he'll damn his sowl out an' out. Only take 
 him now and put him outside that dure and sind us some 
 dacent bye that'll tache our childhre widout massacray- 
 ing them — " 
 
 " I think I'll adopt one of your suggestions at least," said 
 the Inspector, folding up his papers and placing them in a 
 small handbag. " I shall ask no further questions. This 
 inquiry is now closed; and I shall place the evidence be- 
 fore the Commissioners and let you know their decision." 
 
 "An' if you just tell 'em, your honour," said Mrs. Ryan, 
 " that there's a dacent shlip of a bye, a grandson of ould 
 Mike Lynch's at the forge, and he's just the wan to take 
 Carmody's place here." 
 
 "Very good," said the Inspector, rising, "but the 
 desirable vacancy does not exist as yet." 
 
 ThaJnspector lunched at the curate's house and imme- 
 diately departed; and the two priests were face to face. 
 After a long interval of silence, which Henry Liston was 
 afraid to break, his pastor said: 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 And Henry answered: 
 
 " It is an ugly symptom. I shouldn't care much, but 
 what of the children when such things are drilled into 
 them?" 
 
 "Yes!" said Dr. William Gray, "what of the children? 
 What of the next generation?" 
 
 Then after a pause he said, as he rose up: 
 
 "There! It shouldn't concern me much. I shall be 
 sleeping down there under the elm in the old church- 
 yard. But I don't envy the lot of the coming priesthood. 
 They will have sharp work cut out for them." 
 
 "They will be equal to it," said Henry gallantly, 
 although his heart misgave him. " They are getting new 
 weapons and adopting a new system of warfare; and be- 
 lieve me, they'll be more than a match for the revolution." 
 
 "I have been hearing that ad nauseam and I don't
 
 288 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY |] 
 
 believe a word of it/' said his pastor angrily. "There 
 would be some meaning in that, if you were dealing with 
 educated and intelligent opposition, but of what avail 
 are your new weapons by which, I presume, you mean 
 new books and new systems, when you have to deal with 
 Dick Duggan and Mrs. Ryan?" 
 
 There was no answer this time. 
 
 "So you're keeping to your new-fangled authors, in 
 spite of all I have said to you. Believe me, Father Liston, 
 you are on the wrong track. There's nothing there but 
 what one of the Fathers called 'the wine of devils.'" 
 
 " It is these mediaeval conceits that are playing the 
 mischief with the Church," said Henry, "Modern 
 thought will not stand those terrible maledictions of the 
 Middle Ages on everything that is beautiful and refined. 
 'The body — an open sewer; women — so many devils; 
 poetry — the wine of demons; art — the handmaid of 
 iniquity'; — that kind of thing won't do now, sir! Tak? 
 my word for it. It won't." 
 
 The old man was fumbling with a book which Henry 
 had left open on his desk; and, half in contempt for what 
 his curate was saying, half through curiosity, he was 
 peering at its pages with dim eyes held close to the print. 
 
 "Who wrote this?" he said at last with an accent of 
 stern anger in his voice that sent the blood from his 
 curate's face. 
 
 "Oh! that?" said Henry, rising and coming over to 
 where his pastor was sitting. " That's the Gestdndnisse of 
 Heine — a profession of faith — " 
 
 "A profession of ribald blasphemy!" said his pastor in 
 a voice of thunder. And he sent the book flying through 
 a pane of plate-glass, which was smashed into atoms. He 
 then strode furiously from the room. 
 
 He had stumbled on a pitiful, but audacious, passage 
 in which the little broken German Aristophanes makes a 
 comparison between himself and the Almighty. 
 
 Hence., when a few dajys after, Henry Liston volun-
 
 A SCHOOL INQUIRY 289 
 
 teered to come down every day and read the Office with 
 his blind pastor — a task of patience and much pain — 
 he was doing a noble thing, a self-sacrificial act, which 
 was sure to reap a rich reward. 
 
 20
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 A Reverie and a Night Call 
 
 Nurse O'Farrell was sitting alone one of the nights of 
 that winter in the nurses' room off the main corridor of a 
 certain hospital in the City. She had been four years or 
 more in the profession, had passed through the stern 
 novitiate, had seen life abroad at some private houses, 
 where wealthy patients were under her hands; but her 
 heart had not yet hardened at the sight of suffering, nor 
 had it been closed up to the gentle influences that rained 
 upon it, even though at widely separated intervals, from 
 old and cherished friendships. From time to time she 
 rose and passed into the adjacent ward, walking very 
 gently in her soft felt slippers, and peering under the faint 
 light of the lamps at the faces of the sufferers. Some- 
 times she had to raise up the bed-clothes, fallen from the 
 arm of a restless sleeper; sometimes she had to raise and 
 smooth a sunken pillow; sometimes she watched for 
 minutes in silence to detect any morbid symptoms in 
 some patient who had undergone an operation; and 
 sometimes she had to speak a soothing word to some poor 
 invalid, tortured by insomnia and staring half frantic 
 from ceiling to floor to get some rest for that throbbing 
 brain. She was too young to philosophize much on such 
 matters; but the constant sight of suffering made her 
 very humble; and, it was always with a little silent sigh of 
 gratitude, she went back to the lonely room. This night, 
 too, her thoughts had taken an unusually deep and rever- 
 ential turn, for she had been reading a letter which had 
 come by the evening mail from the far-off convent where 
 her friend, Mary Liston, was carrying on another heroic 
 
 290 
 
 II
 
 A REVERIE AND A NIGHT CALL 291 
 
 woman's work in prayer for smitten humanity. Annie 
 had read the letter hastily when the post came in. Then 
 she had been summoned to tea. Now, in the intervals 
 of her solemn watchings, she had more leisure to take up 
 the precious paper and study it, line by line. 
 
 They were the words of a fine soul, which by one stu- 
 pendous act of self-sacrifice had emancipated itself com- 
 pletely from the things of earth and was walking in the 
 eye of heaven. And beneath the sweet, solemn words 
 there breathed a tone of gentle humility that brought 
 tears into Annie's eyes. 
 
 "You know," she said, "we have the same vocation — you, to 
 work; I, to pray, for those who are so dear to God. Sometimes I 
 think that yours is the higher calUng; and I say to myself: 'Won't 
 you be surprised if you see httle Annie very much higher than you 
 shall be in Heaven?' Then, to reassure myself, I put out my 
 hand, for these thoughts always come in the watches of the night, 
 and I toiich the rough rug, or the coarse habit, or the masonry on 
 the wall, that is not even plastered. I do this to give myself a 
 little courage, so that I may be able to say I'm doing a little for 
 our Lord. But then the thought occurs: 'Ahl but now the little 
 martyr, Annie, is up and watching and alone ; and I see her as the 
 hands go round slowly on the clock; and she must not sleep, nor 
 even doze ; for there beneath her hands are precious Uves that must 
 be protected so that the little flame shall not flicker, nor go out in 
 the darkness. And I — I can sleep and sleep soundly ; and I have 
 no great responsibility; and therefore, I shall have no great reward. 
 And then, Annie can pray as well as watch and work ; and I see her 
 dear face bent over her prayerbook or her book of meditations there 
 under the gas-lamp when not a sound breaks the silence or inter- 
 rupts her communion with God. Ah me! it is all very grand and 
 beautiful; and I think how our dear Father, St. Francis, would love 
 you, because of all your kindness to the Uttle ones of Christ. And 
 don't be surprised, dear Annie, if some night, when you are lifting 
 up and soothing some poor sick child — don't be surprised if St. 
 Anthony comes and places the Divine Infant in your arms. There 1 
 you'll say, I suppose, I'm rhapsodical; and these are the dreams of 
 a sick nun, but stranger things have happened; and then, nothing 
 can be too great or good for my Annie. 
 
 "I wonder do you often go down to the dear old spot where we
 
 292 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 spent a few happy weeks together. Rohira comes to me some- 
 times as in a dream — the sea, and the old gray castle, and the 
 gentle old Doctor, and that poor boy, whom the Gypsy said his 
 mother was calling — " 
 
 But here the letter fell from Annie's hand ; and she began 
 to muse and think. And she saw two sad pictures, which 
 she would have liked, if she were able, to blot from mem- 
 ory. The one memory was of a certain winter night, 
 when she was hastening to her night-duty across the City; 
 and she passed at a certain street corner a group of young 
 men; and they whistled and chirped; and, turning round 
 indignantly, she thought she recognized the face of Jack 
 Wycherly, and that he slunk back into the darkness 
 before her eyes. The other memory was of another 
 night, when the streets were deserted, but for a group of 
 giddy students and shop-girls who were chatting and 
 laughing boisterously at a street corner; and she thought 
 again that the lamp-light fell on the familiar face. Then, 
 one day, he came enrolled as a clinical student to the 
 very hospital where she attended. But she passed him 
 by. She heard his name mentioned as the most brilliant 
 and promising pupil of a leading surgeon in the City; 
 and she watched the operations with renewed interest 
 when he was there. Once she thought her heart stood 
 still when she heard the operating surgeon call out: 
 
 "Wycherly, come here, and take that forceps. I can 
 depend on you." 
 
 But she never spoke to him — partly because it was 
 more or less against the etiquette of the hospital; but 
 principally because he had been gravely lowered in her 
 esteem. But she noticed him; noticed that he had grown 
 rapidly into manhood, that the broad forehead seemed 
 to have expanded under the clusters of hair that now 
 seemed deepening into auburn; and she noticed, or thought 
 she saw the fires of genius kindling in those deep blue 
 eyes, which had looked up at her so reverential and 
 so timid ever so many years ago. Then, one day, she 
 nearly fell when a strangely familiar voice behind her,
 
 A REVERIE AND A NIGHT CALL 293 
 
 as she walked along the hospital corridor, said deferen- 
 tially: 
 
 "Miss O'Farrell — Annie — why do you avoid me? 
 Do you forget Jack Wycherly, your old pupil?" 
 
 But in a moment her woman's wit and self-possession 
 came back; and, looking him steadily in the face, she 
 said coldly: 
 
 " You are not the Jack Wycherly that I knew." 
 
 "Oh, but I am, Miss O'Farrell," he said, not under- 
 standing the sinister meaning of her words. "Surely, 
 I haven't changed so much in appearance that you can- 
 not recognize me?" 
 
 "In appearance not much," she said. "But you are 
 not the boy, so gentle and so proud, that used to come to 
 uncle's; and you are not the Jack Wycherly that did the 
 honours of Rohira to me and my friend." 
 
 Something in her tone of voice struck him. It was an 
 echo of his own conscience; and the hot blush ran to his face. 
 
 "How is that, Miss O'Farrell?" he asked with an 
 offended air. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, unwilling to offend or 
 give pain, for that sudden flush of face showed how deeply 
 he felt her words. But her strong will came to her aid. 
 
 "The young medical student," she said slowly, but 
 now she had grown pale with pain — the pain she knew 
 she was inflicting, "who insults ladies in the streets at 
 midnight, and spends valuable time in flirting with giddy 
 girls under gas-lamps, is not the Jack Wycherly whom I 
 knew long ago!" 
 
 He was silent, looking at her, wonderingly, doubtingly. 
 Then, suddenly, a great wave of offended pride seemed 
 to sweep over his soul, for he turned away muttering: 
 
 "These are the things that drive men to the devil!" 
 
 Since that day they had not spoken. They met but 
 seldom; and then only in the operation-room, or in the 
 wards, where there were always many students and a 
 few nurses and doctors; and there seemed to be a tacit 
 understanding that they should not recognize each other.
 
 294 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Yet at times her heart was troubled at his words : " These 
 are the things that drive men to the devil!" and she used 
 to watch him carefully when he was engrossed in his 
 patients, to see whether there were any signs of dissipa- 
 tion — any of the slight hints that Nature gives when 
 she is undergoing ill-treatment. But no! he was always 
 the same handsome, clever Jack Wycherly; and every 
 day seemed to add something to his reputation. 
 
 One day a young nurse said to her: 
 
 "That young student, whom you notice so much, has 
 the most perfect Grecian face I ever saw. It is the face 
 of a young god!" 
 
 She had been reading French novels. But Annie was 
 annoyed; and from that day forward, she was more cir- 
 cumspect in her looks. But the vision had not faded; 
 and now, as the clock struck midnight and the letter of 
 the young Collettine lay open in her lap, she went over 
 all these details again, as a young girl will, who has come 
 to the years of idle musing and reverie. 
 
 She sighed a little and took up the letter of her young 
 friend again. 
 
 " It is idle to hope, I suppose, that they will ever become Cath- 
 olics; but then, in their own way, they may serve God. I am quite 
 sure that the good old doctor will get many and great graces before 
 he dies, for all his kindness to the suffering poor. And I think 
 that boy has a future — that is, if his mother does not come for 
 him. But, there I these are melancholy thoughts. Let us dismiss 
 them I Will you ever come to see me? I am dying to see you, 
 dear Annie, and in your nurse's uniform. Is it blue, navy blue, or 
 brown? I hope the latter, because that is the colour of our Order 
 and our habit. Won't you laugh when you see my rough brown 
 habit and leathern belt (but that's fashionable now, I believe) and 
 sandals? You will be a little shocked at our flagged floors, and the 
 arched ceilings of brick over our cells, and the rough masonry of 
 our walls. But you will have no occasion for hygienic (is that the 
 word?) lectures. Everything is spotless and clean as your own 
 room at the hospital. — Hark! there goes the vigilante to ring the 
 bell for Vespers ; and you know our rule — letter unfinished I meals 
 untasted, etc. — good-night and pray for me'"
 
 A REVERIE AND A NIGHT CALL 295 
 
 But the letter, interesting as it was, did not set aside 
 the vision of the student and its pain. The night wore 
 on; and the darkness and lonehness seemed to deepen. 
 Annie rose more frequently than her duties demanded, 
 and walked her ward on tiptoe. It was the deepest hour, 
 preceding the dawn, and sleep seemed to hang heavy 
 on the eyelids of the sufferers. At least, she thought, 1 
 shall have little more to do to-night until the day-nurse 
 comes at eight. I shall read a little, think a Httle, dream 
 a little; ah! if I could only pray much, and not a little. 
 Ah ! my little Collettine, you are up now after your four 
 hours' sleep. I see you in the dim, cold choir, where 
 the yellow lamps are smoking and giving barely light to 
 read the Office. I see you in your choir-stall, bending 
 down very low in adoration. The great darkness over 
 your head is alive with angels; and now you raise your 
 head arid look where the red lamp is burning in the mystic 
 oil before the Holy of Holies. Are you thinking of me, 
 as I of you? You are, I know it, else why do I feel so 
 fairly happy — 
 
 The deep clangour of the night-bell rang shrill and harsh 
 down in the hall, just as she was passing into her room, in 
 a half-dreaming mood. She paused on the threshold. She 
 knew what it meant. Then, swiftly, as if by instinct, she 
 ran to the surgery; and put together some surgical instru- 
 ments and lint; and turned on the hot-water tap into a 
 white basin. 
 
 Then she waited. 
 
 She heard with all the indifference of one now hardened 
 to such things the hurried steps in the hall, the banging 
 of doors, the whispered orders of the doctors, the sound 
 of hurrying feet, until an attendant, rushing up the stairs, 
 met her and said: 
 
 "The doctor wishes to know, Miss, can you have No. 
 12 ready at once?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "in a few minutes. I'll ring. An 
 accident, I suppose?" 
 
 "No, Miss, 'tis one of our young men, who was brought
 
 296 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 here by the poHce. I think there was a row, and he's 
 pretty bad." 
 
 • Her heart seemed to stand still with apprehension; 
 but she said calmly: 
 
 " I shall ring when I'm ready." 
 
 She at once got the bed-clothes and other necessaries 
 from the hot-press; swiftly lighted the fire in the bed- 
 room; brought in all the surgical and medical appliances 
 she deemed necessary; took one look around to see that 
 nothing was wanting, and then touched the bell. 
 
 Through a sense of duty she remained standing in 
 the room, although she would have given v/orlds to get 
 away from the stifling apprehension that oppressed her. 
 Her heart beat quicker as the muffled tread of the attend- 
 ants came near; she opened the door, and held it open for 
 them, then she gave one quick glance at the insensible 
 form that lay on the stretcher; and she saw her worst 
 fears verified. It was Jack Wycherly, quite insensible, 
 and there was a froth of blood around his mouth. 
 
 Silently, she helped to undress him, not daring to ask 
 a question. Once, as she had to stoop over his face, the 
 odour of spirits, mingled with the rank odour of blood, 
 seemed to exhale from his lips. And then, as the form 
 of the prostrate student swayed helplessly to and fro 
 under her hands, and she saw the degradation, as well as 
 the sorrow of the thing, her firm will gave way, and she 
 found to her intense humiliation that she was weeping. 
 The doctor saw it, stared for a moment at her, and then 
 went over to contemplate the fire, twirling his stetho- 
 scope between his fingers. 
 
 When all was right, and the student lay back on the 
 dry, cool pillow, the doctor came over, bade the nurse 
 uncover the chest of his patient, applied the stetho- 
 scope, moving the hollow tube gently over every region 
 of the chest. There was no need of examining the back 
 or shoulders. He raised himself up, and pointing to one 
 conspicuous spot beneath the left collarbone, he said: 
 
 "Just there the trouble is."
 
 A REVERIE AND A NIGHT CALL 297 
 
 Then he added, looking at the nurse, who had now 
 regained her perfect composure: 
 
 "It is a case of violent hemorrhage, Miss O'Farrell. 
 There was a street-row. He was struck just there, and 
 somewhat violently, I should say. Look, there is a 
 livid mark. You know the rest. He has had occult 
 phthisis for some time; and the lung was weakened." 
 
 " But this coma — this stupor? " said Annie anxiously. 
 
 " Oh, that's nothing," said the man of science, smiling. 
 "That will pass off. But, you understand, he must be 
 kept absolutely quiet. If there is any recurrence of the 
 bleeding, I shall leave a little ergotine with you to inject. 
 And you understand the rest." 
 
 She took his directions in silence. Then, as he folded 
 up the instrument and was turning away, she said: 
 
 "I suppose it is the beginning of the end?" 
 
 ''Ok, not necessarily," he said. "These hemorrhages 
 are not always the worst sign. It all depends on himself. 
 'Tis a great pity. He was the most brilliant student 
 that ever walked these wards." 
 
 She hardly heard him. The words were ringing in 
 her ears: 
 
 " It is things like these that drive men to the devil."
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 A Contested Election 
 
 We have already said that the rate levied on the 
 parishes of Athboy and Doonvarragh for the burning of 
 Kerins's hay was pressing hard on many a poor farmer and 
 labourer. And in such cases the aggrieved ones never 
 consider the justice or the injustice of the demand. They 
 only know that they have to pay; and their wrath is 
 directed not against the perpetrator of the evil, but 
 against the victim who has sought to defend himself. 
 Hence the anger of the people during these months was 
 directed partly against Kerins, partly against his pastor, 
 who, in his old zeal for the maintenance of law, thundered 
 denunciations against the criminals. No one seemed to 
 care to ask who was the criminal, although there was a 
 common opinion that the torch that fired the rick of hay 
 came from the boundary ditch that separated Crossfields 
 from the Duggans farm. Some people thought that the 
 altar denunciation was directly aimed at the Duggans, 
 although so veiled that no one could prove it. But Dick 
 Duggan swore that it was he that was aimed at; and, at 
 the same time, he protested his innocence, and that the 
 real culprit would one day be discovered. 
 
 Mr. Reeves, the member of the Defence Association, 
 who had taken Kerins's farm under his protection, was 
 promptly on the scene, and aided by every means in his 
 power the cause of his chent. He again called on Dr. 
 Gray. The old man was getting feeble, and he had run 
 almost blind. His proud spirit was almost broken under 
 the trials of life. He felt how powerless he was under the 
 blows of fate; how useless were great resolves and high, 
 impartial desires in conflict with resistless circumstances. 
 And the keenest pang of all was that he was now con- 
 
 298
 
 A CONTESTED ELECTION 299 
 
 vinced that his people were passing through a dread 
 revolution, when every principle would be discarded and 
 set aside. He had come to that sad pass when a man 
 looks to the grave as his only hope. 
 
 Reeves was surprised at the sudden alteration in the 
 old man's appearance. He expressed some solicitude 
 which was curtly, if courteously, received. Then once 
 more he repeated his thanks for the stern denunciations 
 levelled against crime by the aged pastor. The latter 
 made no reply. He did not seek thanks from that 
 quarter. Quite unabashed, Reeves explained that he 
 was now a candidate for the honour of being appointed 
 Local Guardian, and he felt sure that the good pastor, 
 being a man of law and order, would lend him his vote 
 and influence to secure the coveted honour. 
 
 Then the old fires blazed forth again. 
 
 "Ko!" he said emphatically. "I cannot give you my 
 vote; and whatever little influence I now possess shall 
 be directed against you. I have no wish to be discourte- 
 ous, and therefore I shall say nothing as to the attitude 
 your class has always assumed toward the country's 
 best interests. But all my life long I have been a Nation- 
 alist. All my sympathies are with the people from whom 
 I have sprung. If any Nationalist candidate steps for- 
 ward, I shall support him. If none, I shall not record 
 my vote." 
 
 "I was hoping," said the other with unruffled temper, 
 "that the time for those distinctions had gone by, and 
 that all classes were now united in view of the common 
 welfare." 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 "You are mistaken, sir," he said. "At least, so far 
 as I know, we have not reached that point as yet." 
 
 "I think," said Mr. Reeves, "that bygones should be 
 bygones. The worst of our people is that they are so 
 retentive of things that should long ago be forgotten and 
 forgiven. So long as the classes are at war with one 
 another, what hope can there be for the future?"
 
 300 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Not much, perhaps," said the priest. "But, you 
 see, our ideals and principles are wholly irreconcilable. 
 At least," he said, correcting himself hastily and speaking 
 with the methodical accuracy that years of close reason- 
 ing and training had taught him, "our larger ideals do 
 not meet with mutual acceptance. In small matters, 
 such as industries and such things, we may agree; but 
 no amount of material prosperity can or rather ought to 
 wean away the minds of the people from the great ideal 
 of their own nationhood." 
 
 "An impossible ideal!" said Reeves. "Why should 
 the people forget the solid advantages of life and grasp 
 at shadows?" 
 
 "Why? Because God has made them thus," said the 
 priest. "They can no more get rid of that idea of inde- 
 pendent nationhood than they can level their mountains 
 and drain their rivers dry." 
 
 "Well," said Reeves, rising, "I have nothing to say 
 to such matters. I'm not a politician. I have no 
 politics. I'm not a Unionist, nor a Conservative, nor a 
 Nationalist. I only wish to do good to the people and 
 to wipe out the past." 
 
 The old man smiled. 
 
 " We have heard that kind of reasoning a hundred 
 times, Mr. Reeves," he said. "It won't do. It won't 
 do. You are with the people, or against them; that is, 
 you embrace the entire programme, or reject it." 
 
 " I'm very sorry to hear you say so," said Mr. Reeves 
 sadly but courteously. " It makes one despair of Ireland 
 to hear a man of your education and high principle 
 speak thus." 
 
 " I have spoken but the truth," said the aged pastor. 
 "There never is harm in speaking the truth." 
 
 "Yes! But what is Truth?" said Reeves, as he bade 
 the old man good-day. 
 
 Reeves was opposed by a prominent young Nation- 
 alist, a farmer in the locality, who had been a prominent
 
 A CONTESTED ELECTION 301 
 
 Leaguer in his time and had spent one month in gaol. 
 As a Leaguer and a leading spirit amongst the politicians 
 of the parish, he had been in open sympathy with the 
 Duggans and had done all in his power to compel Kerins 
 to give up Crossfields and go back to America. Although 
 he made no attempt to conceal his feelings and sym- 
 pathies, he had never been offensive and had drawn 
 the hne rigidly between what he considered a legitimate 
 diversity of view from his parish priest and open rebellion 
 against the authority of the Church. Hence, although 
 he had espoused the cause of the Duggans, his refusal 
 to support them in their opposition to the pastor had 
 diminished their friendship; and, considering the power 
 they exercised in the parish, it made him nervous about 
 his success. 
 
 Recalled also on the parish priest, but with fear and 
 trembling. His Irish heart softened when he saw the 
 debility of the old man, as he felt his way along the hall 
 and opened the dining-room door. He twirled his hat 
 nervously between his hands as he entered and was 
 bidden in a cold and formal manner to sit down. 
 
 "I'm going in for the vacant place in the Union, yer 
 reverence," he said, "and I came to ask your support." 
 
 " You don't deserve much consideration from me, 
 Gleeson," said the old man. 
 
 Gleeson hung his head. 
 
 " You have taken a wrong stand against Kerins," con- 
 tinued the priest relentlessly. " You have taken the 
 side of injustice against justice; and you have aided and 
 abetted crime in the parish." 
 
 "How is that, yer reverence?" said the young man, 
 bridling up. " I certainly thought that the Yank might 
 have stayed where he was and left the Duggans that 
 little bit of land that they wanted. But I have committed 
 no crime; and I offinded the Duggans by not goin' agin 
 you." 
 
 ' I have no feeling one way or the other about myself," 
 said the priest. "What I consider is the law of God.
 
 302 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 And the man that committed the crime of firing Kerins's 
 haggart and putting a heavy tax on the parish was guilty 
 of a terrible crime and is unquestionably bound to resti- 
 tution." 
 
 "You don't mane to say, yer reverence, that I did it?" 
 said the young man, deeply aggrieved. 
 
 "I have no evidence one way or the other," said the 
 priest. " But suspicion points in one direction and takes 
 in all their friends and sympathizers." 
 
 "Thin I may tell your reverence," said the young 
 man, "that it was nayther Duggan, nor any friend of the 
 Duggans, ever sot fire to Kerins's hayrick. The people 
 well know who did it, and can put their hand on them." 
 
 " Then why don't they do it? " asked the priest, although 
 he knew it was a foolish question. 
 
 " Because thim that did it would do worse," said Glee- 
 son. "But it will all come out a-yet." 
 
 Then, after a pause, he rose up, saying: 
 
 "I may take it thin, yer reverence, that I'm not goin' 
 to get your support?" 
 
 " You may take nothing of the kind," said the priest. 
 "Mr. Reeves was here this morning, and I refused him." 
 
 "What?" said the young man in surprise. "Every- 
 wan says that Reeves is your man." 
 
 "Then what brought you here?" said the priest. 
 
 "I wanted to get the refusal from your own mouth," 
 said Gleeson. 
 
 " My God ! " said the old priest in despair, " these people 
 will never understand me. What right have you, or any 
 of your likes, to say that I have given a wrong vote in 
 my lifetime, or done aught else against my country? 
 I, who have always been on the side of the people, who 
 have fought their battle, who knew the bravest of the 
 men that fought for Ireland, before any of you, you inso- 
 lent and ignorant young puppies, was born — I, to be 
 taken as a traitor and a backslider by fellows that do not 
 regard the laws of God or man, and who would thank 
 God that they had a country to sell — oh I what an age
 
 A CONTESTED ELECTION 303 
 
 to live in I 'Tis long, Gleeson, since your father, or your 
 brave old grandfather, who carried his pike in '48, would 
 think and speak as you have spoken." 
 
 The violent emotion of the old blind priest seemed to 
 touch the sensibilities of the young man deeply and he 
 made an abject but fruitless apology. The shame of 
 being thought a traitor to his principles, even when he 
 was most deeply attached to them, had gone too far into 
 the breast of the old man to be relieved by mere excuses. 
 He made a gesture as if to bid the young man go; and 
 the latter, shamed and sorrow-stricken, departed. 
 
 Late in the evening he went up the hill toward the farm 
 where the Duggans lived. He was heavy at heart after 
 his rencontre with his pastor; but he was anxious about 
 his election and came to consult his supporters. His 
 visit '^as taken coldly. He affected a confidence which 
 he did not feel. 
 
 "Things are going well, Dick," he said, as the young 
 man met him in the haggart. " I'm pretty sure now that 
 we'll give Reeves the divil of a lickin'." 
 
 "Indeed?" said Dick, plunging his hands in his trou- 
 sers' pockets, and looking over the landscape. 
 
 "Yes!" said Gleeson, noticing the coldness, "I think 
 that we'll give the landlords such a lesson this time that 
 they'll never show their faces here agin." 
 
 "That 'ud be a pity," said Dick. "Some landlords 
 are good, and some are bad, and some are middlin'." 
 
 "An' what is Reeves?" said Gleeson with some anxiety. 
 
 " Well, some say he is a good man enough," said Dick 
 coolly. "They sez he's good to the poor and gives 'em 
 tons of coal at Christmas." 
 
 "But he's a Unionist, he's the president, or secretary, 
 or something in the Defence Union, an' he's a landlord," 
 said Gleeson. 
 
 "The people doesn't mmd thim things now," said Dick. 
 "These are ould-fashioned things. And sure now 'Tis 
 everywan for himself, and God for us all."
 
 304 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Gleeson looked away and began to whistle softly. Then 
 his temper rose. 
 
 " Perhaps you mane that you and your father are going 
 to go back of all ye ever said or done; an' goin' to vote 
 for the inimy?" 4! 
 
 "Better an honest inimy than a desateful frind/' said 
 Dick. 
 
 "Do you mane me?" said Gleeson, with blazing eyes. 
 
 " I mane thim that are supportin' you, or sez they are," 
 said Dick. 
 
 "To cut it short," said Gleeson, "you mane that you 
 and your father are goin' back of your counthry and your 
 creed; an' goin' over to the landlord an' the souper?" 
 
 " You may put it anny way ye like," said Duggan. 
 "But me and me father will vote for Reeves, av it was 
 only to shpite thim that's backing you.' 
 
 "May it do you good!" said Gleeson, moving away. 
 "But you may be sure 'twill nayther be forgiven or 
 forgotten for ye." 
 
 And Reeves, landlord. Unionist, Member of the De- 
 fence Union, Head Emergency man, etc., was elected 
 by the votes of the people over the head of the young 
 Nationalist, who had slept on the plank-bed and walked 
 the treadmill for his country. 
 
 But the latter had his revenge. It soon became quite 
 clear that the Duggans were exceedingly hopeful that 
 their ambition was at last to be realized. Crossfields, 
 the snug farm on the hill-side, with its trim hedges, its 
 deep, dewy soil, its comfortable dwelling-house and 
 spacious out-offices, was practically theirs. For now 
 Kerins had become, under the burden of much trouble, 
 a stooped and worn man. All the fires of independence 
 which he had brought from the Western States seemed 
 tc have smouldered down into white ashes of despair; 
 and, although still, with the instinct of industry and 
 thrift, he kept his place neat, it was quite clear that he 
 was taking to that solace of the wretched — drink; and
 
 A CONTESTED ELECTION 305 
 
 that it was only a matter of time that he should become 
 a hopeless bankrupt. Many a morning, before the larks 
 rose up from their dewy nests in the thick clover, Dick 
 Duggan watched across the boundary-ditch that sepa- 
 rated his farm from Kerins's — watched with eager and 
 covetous eyes the rich meadows, where the purple and 
 white clover was smothered beneath the rich, sweet 
 grass, which was rapidly shooting into the yellow tassels 
 of the hay; watched the cattle knee-deep in the succulent 
 pasture, and the long parallel ridges, where the tender 
 grass-corn was springing from the red earth. Many a 
 time his gaze wandered across the fields to the long white- 
 washed walls of the farm-house, nestling beneath its 
 roof of thatch; and a very sweet and gentle vision (for 
 such visions do come even to such hardened natures as 
 Duggan's) of domestic felicity, shared by one of the bon- 
 niest -maidens of the parish seemed to arise and shed its 
 radiance across the dull, gray monotone of the now 
 wifeless and childless home. Yes! Even Dick Duggan 
 was so cocksure of Crossfields that he had almost made 
 his formal engagement with Martha Sullivan; and had 
 even indulged the imagination of his future bride with a 
 repetition of all those blissful fancies that were haunting 
 himself. Hence when Reeves, with all the coolness and 
 effrontery of his class, called to solicit his vote, Duggan 
 hesitated, asked questions, delayed answers, and prac- 
 tised all the arts of a skilled diplomatist, until he had 
 extorted a half-promise from the wary landlord that, 
 should Crossfields again become tenantless, his own 
 priority of claim should be admitted. Then he gave 
 his vote. 
 
 There was some shrugging of shoulders, and many 
 questions, and some comments when it was known that 
 Dick Duggan had actually supported the most obnoxious 
 man in all the land. But then men shrugged their shoul- 
 ders and dismissed the subject with the reflection: 
 
 " 'Tis now every man for himself and God for us all 1 " 
 
 And — Dick Duggan had the majority on his side. 
 01
 
 ■% 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 The Great Renunciation 
 
 Meanwhile, Henry Liston had been passing through a 
 singular mental revolution. That painful scene with his 
 pastor, when the latter in a fit of furious zeal flung the 
 offending volume through the window, awakened new 
 thoughts, and threw the young priest further back upon 
 himself. Up to that time he had formed the judgment 
 that his pastor, otherwise and in every way an excellent 
 type of a great shepherd of souls, was, however, somewhat 
 of an extremist, because old-fashioned and conservative 
 and without that flexibility of character that fits in with 
 changes in the times and circumstances of life. Hence 
 he had disregarded the very plain criticism and sarcasm 
 which the old man flung broadcast upon his more liberal 
 and modern studies. They were, he thought, the privi- 
 lege of a class that was rapidly passing away; and it was 
 hardly worth while to controvert them, or reason the old 
 man into broader and freer methods of thought. But, 
 just as the sharp report of a pistol in some Alpine valley 
 will precipitate the fall of an avalanche, so that act of 
 violence of which his pastor was guilty seemed to fling 
 across the soul of the young priest vast doubts and diffi- 
 culties, which hitherto were only poised in solution and 
 mildly threatening. 
 
 He took up the offending volume of the unhappy poet 
 from the grass where it lay beneath the broken window. 
 It was uninjured, except for one sharp cut across the 
 smooth binding; and he opened and read with deliberation 
 the passage that had so moved his pastor's passion. It 
 was infinitely pathetic — a cry, a complaint, as of a 
 
 306
 
 THE GREAT RENUNCIATION 307 
 
 wounded thing, to the Being who had wrought such 
 havoc into its life. He thought he could see the unhappy- 
 man on his bed of mattresses far away there in the room 
 above the seething life of a Parisian boulevard — par- 
 alyzed, his spine broken, his limbs emaciated, his eyelids 
 closed down helplessly over the burning eyes. It was a 
 pitiful vision of the fancy; and the pleading and com- 
 plaining words almost brought tears into the young 
 priest's eyes, for they appeared to be the voice of bruised 
 and wounded humanity; but suddenly he saw the worn 
 hand lift up one eyelid; and looking toward him, he saw 
 that eye leering at him in very scorn for his maudlin pity. 
 And then came the words of blasphemous anger, that had 
 set ablaze the pious soul of his pastor; and the strong, 
 scornful nickname that, half a jest, was wholly an insult 
 to the Almighty. 
 
 He^ut down the book and began to think : 
 " Is it right for me to find pleasure in such things? Am 
 I not a priest, chosen from thousands to be the loyal 
 servant and faithful subject of my King? Did I not 
 swear, whilst my hands were clasped within my bishop's, 
 fidelity and loyalty to Him, who had predestined me from 
 eternity to be one of His holy and anointed band of 
 priests, who were to carry His banner, and extend His 
 empire? And am I serving Him loyally whilst my book- 
 shelves are lined with literature, every line of which 
 seems to be a fierce indictment of His sovereign good- 
 ness? Is it not treasonable to keep treasonable produc- 
 tions in one's possession and to relish their disloyalty 
 for the sake of their art? True, I wouldn't for the world 
 place one of these dangerous and unholy things in the 
 hands of the most enHghtened of my parishioners, lest 
 I should outrage his faith, or scandalize him by the very 
 toleration of such iniquity. But have I the right to 
 indulge in secret a certain morbid if enlightened taste 
 for such forbidden things, that if I were to utter them 
 from the pulpit, I should be stripped of my priesthood 
 and silenced forever? And is there not some inconsistency
 
 308 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 in uttering several times a day the magnificent praises 
 of the Shepherd-King and Poet of Israel and then laying 
 down the harp of Sion to take up the viol of Satan? Is 
 there not a gulf, wider than heaven, deeper than hell, 
 between the souls of the kingly Psalmist and the smitten 
 German Jew? Between that terrible, mocking Spitz- 
 name, "The Aristophanes of Heaven," and the seraphic 
 rapture which made the subhme convert, Augustine, 
 exclaim : 
 
 Whence therefore have I known Thee, O Lord, most high God 
 above the heavens and the earth, whom neither Cherubim nor 
 Seraphim can perfectly know, but veil their faces with the wings 
 of contemplation before the face of Him who sits upon the throne, 
 and proclaim: Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God of Hosts, all the 
 earth is full of Thy glory? The Prophet trembled and said: Woe 
 unto me, because I have been silent, because my lips are polluted. 
 And my heart has trembled and said : Woe unto me, because I have 
 known Thee. Nevertheless, Lord, woe unto those who are silent 
 concerning Thee, for without Thee the most eloquent are dumb.* 
 
 The lesson struck home to the heart of the young priest 
 whose mobile disposition was capable of great things, or 
 could be subdued to lower levels. Again he gave one 
 whole day to an examination of the question in all its 
 details. It was a day of much anguish of thought, of 
 such searchings and inquiries into the most secret recesses 
 of the soul that the probing becomes infinitely painful, 
 and the wavering of the judgment causes almost physical 
 anguish. He had gone through these spiritual autopsies 
 again and again ; but his decisions were prompt and pain- 
 less. Under the influence of his sister's letters urging 
 him to the higher life, he had gradually, but without 
 much mortification, weaned himself from those sensible 
 pleasures which, perfectly innocent, began to appear 
 somewhat incongruous with his profession. Graceful 
 little etchings and engravings of such pictures as " Merfin 
 and Vivien," or "The Lily Maid of Astolat," were quietly 
 
 * Soliloquia S. Aug. Cap. XXXI.
 
 THE GREAT RENUNCIATION 309 
 
 disposed of; bit by bit, his little silver treasures were 
 melted down and passed in coin into the pockets of the 
 poor. He hesitated a long time about his piano; but 
 finally decided it might be useful. But he parted with 
 his Operas and bought Oratorios. Even his love for 
 flowers, with all other beautiful things, he subdued so 
 far that he kept them only for his altar. But now he 
 was called upon by some mysterious voice to part with 
 his beloved books — those silent, but delightful compan- 
 ions, which had shed such a glow of happiness over his 
 life. The tears came into his eyes as he cast them over 
 the well-filled bookcase. But the voice seemed to be 
 peremptory. Finally he compromised with the voice and 
 his conscience. He drew down a red silk lining inside 
 the glass doors of his bookcases and turned the keys 
 in the locks. Then he went out. He passed down 
 along/the ridges that sentinelled the sea until he came to 
 the rude ditch that was built above the steep, red rocks, 
 whose feet were washed by the tide. For a few moments 
 he hesitated. He felt the agonies of one who did not 
 know whether he was going to perform a heroic deed or 
 perpetrate an atrocious crime. But just then the mock- 
 ing voice of his pastor seemed to echo in his ears: 
 
 Rdslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden, 
 
 and swinging the keys above his head, he flung them far 
 out into the deep. He just watched until the waters 
 leaped at the impact and then subsided; and he went 
 back to his home not at all unhappy for the sacrifice. 
 
 From that moment his spiritual duties, which some- 
 times had become irksome, began to afford him unusual 
 pleasure. He threw himself into them, heart and soul, 
 and a new life seemed to dawn upon him. He was con- 
 scious, too, as he advanced along the road of penance 
 and spirituality, of a strange vigour which seemed to be 
 infused into his character by the steady self-control 
 and spiritual illumination that followed. Gradually he
 
 310 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 made up his mind that he had to find all his recreation, 
 as well as his work, in the religious regeneration of the 
 people. He shut his eyes to all their defects; he closed 
 his ears to all siren calls of patriotism and politics; he 
 plunged blindly forward, his strength of soul increasing 
 at every step, into a work where there seemed to be 
 neither recognition nor reward, not even the reward of 
 apparent or even transitory success. 
 
 He was helped along a good deal by his daily confer- 
 ences with his pastor. Every afternoon he rode down 
 to the presbytery; and after a few words the two priests 
 
 — the old man, with the gray hairs and the extinguished 
 sense of sight; and the handsome, strong, young curate 
 
 — knelt side by side, or sat, whilst the younger of the 
 two read out, line by line, the Office of the day. He had 
 to go right through it without pause or stop, his pastor 
 repeating the alternate verses or antiphons, which were 
 familiar to him after fifty years, and then listening atten- 
 tively and reverently to his curate reading out slowly 
 and solemnly the stately passages from the Scriptures 
 and the Lessons in the Second and Third Nocturns. 
 The slow, distinct utterance and dwelling on syllables 
 were a wonderful help toward correcting his too rapid 
 pronunciation. He had now time to notice and relish 
 the sublime sweetness that underlies the noble Psalms 
 in the Office; and, unlike his private recitations, when 
 he felt sometimes that the Office was a burden, these 
 choral readings became so sweet and significant to sense 
 and intellect that he almost regretted their termination. 
 But then he had to take up Suarez or St. Thomas and 
 read out at least one proposition with all its scholia and 
 objections for his blind pastor; and this became, too, 
 after a time, a source of intense pleasure. He felt at 
 last that he was on the summits of the everlasting hills. 
 
 Occasionally he pulled from his pocket a little vellum- 
 bound volume, containing the Meditations, Soliloquies, 
 and Manual of St. Augustine, and anticipated his pastor's 
 request for such spiritual reading. But these sublime
 
 THE GREAT RENUNCIATION 311 
 
 canticles were not quite methodical or controvertible 
 enough for the pastor's taste; and Henry had to go back 
 to the hard, dry, terrible reasoning that pervades the 
 modem theologians. 
 
 Then they would talk about parish affairs. 
 
 "How can we bring them back," the old man would 
 say, reverting forever to the old theme, "how can we 
 bring the people back to their old selves? They appear 
 to have fallen under some malignant spell of selfishness. 
 How I do hate to hear them say: ' Every man now for him- 
 self!' It is so unlike the old generous spirit that made 
 their ancestors throw up everything for God and their 
 country." 
 
 "I think," said his curate meekly, "that we have to 
 blame ourselves. I fear, sir, that in helping to work 
 out the material prosperities of the race, we have lost 
 hold of what is more important." 
 
 " Frecisely. Just what I was saying to you about the 
 new patriotism. It is all self, self — the land, and then 
 something else, and then something else, until the whole 
 thing will end in a species of Socialism, and the people's 
 desires become insatiable." 
 
 "God forbid! And yet 'tis possible," said his curate. 
 " It is so hard to pursue the material thing and conserve 
 the ideal at the same time." 
 
 "Well, keep the ideal before them," said his pastor. 
 "Hold them up and make them fix their eyes steadily 
 on the highest national and spiritual ideals. That is 
 our only hope." 
 
 "How is Miss O'Farrell, sir?" said his curate after a 
 pause. 
 
 "Well, very well, indeed. She always desires to be 
 remembered to you. She appears to be very happy 
 in her profession. You know it was a big gap in my 
 hfe in the beginning; but now I see 'tis all for the better. 
 It was selfish of me to try and keep her here always. 
 She had a right to choose for herself." 
 
 "Do you know, sir," said Henry Listen abruptly, "I
 
 312 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 had always an idea that she wanted to escape from the 
 attentions of that fellow Wycherly?" 
 
 It was a secret of some years' standing; and Henry was 
 appalled at his rashness in revealing it so suddenly. It 
 was utterly unpremeditated. 
 
 "Ha!" said the old man sharply, a sudden pallor 
 deepening on his white face. He then became silent. 
 And his curate waited in trepidation, not knowing what 
 was coming next. It might be a volcanic explosion, or 
 the puff of a deadened heart. 
 
 After a pause which Henry Liston thought would 
 never end, he heaved a deep sigh and said: 
 
 "You never mentioned this before!" 
 
 "It was only a conjecture," said his curate. "The 
 putting together of one or two things that seemed to fit 
 each other." 
 
 There was another pause. 
 
 "I had always some suspicion, some idea, that this 
 introduction to the Wycherlys through these boys was 
 not altogether wise. Now I see it," said the old man. 
 
 "You meant well, sir!" said the curate soothingly. 
 "And after all, it was a noble lesson in toleration." 
 
 "And like all noble lessons, a dangerous personal 
 experiment," said his pastor. 
 
 " I understand there is much trouble brewing amongst 
 them at Rohira!" said Henry Liston. "This returned 
 mate, or captain, or whatever he is, does not agree with 
 his father." 
 
 " I suppose the fellow is a ne'er-do-well," said his pastor. 
 
 "There is some dark suspicion hanging over his rela- 
 tions with those gypsies," said his curate. "The father 
 has come to hear it and, with his old sense of honour, he 
 is indignant about it. I think if Jack survives, and would 
 give up his profession, the father would probably leave 
 him Rohira." 
 
 " Or perhaps Kerins would come back into his ancestral 
 home?" said the pastor. 
 
 "Not likely, I fear," said his curate. "He has been
 
 THE GREAT RENUNCIATION 313 
 
 rushing to ruin, as you know, but I think I've pulled him 
 up and that he is on the mending-tack. If I could get 
 him married to Martha Sullivan, she would be his salva- 
 tion." 
 
 " Martha Sullivan? Martha ? " 
 
 " You remember her, sir — that handsome girl over 
 at Carrig — old Mick Sullivan's daughter?" 
 
 "Dolly? Of course. Is it Dolly? Why, 'tisn't two 
 years since we had her confirmed." 
 
 "Yes, she has sprung up to womanhood quickly; and 
 she is a most excellent girl. But Duggan and she have 
 been rather thick. The chances are that it is one of the 
 reasons why Kerins seems to leap at the notion." 
 
 "Bu^ won't it make matters much worse there?" 
 
 "Worse and better!" said Henry Liston. "It will 
 save this poor fellow from ruin; and then it will bring 
 round the Sullivan faction to his side, and they have a 
 big following." 
 
 "Kerins is not a bad fellow, I believe?" said the old 
 man. 
 
 "Not at all. He's a little careless, like so many who 
 go abroad. But 'tis easy to get at the soft side of him. 
 I think I'll get him to his Easter duty this year. And in 
 the end, I think, he'll balk them all. The Duggans will 
 rage a little and then subside. I wish that ruffian, Dick 
 Duggan, would go to America. The rest of the family 
 are fairly quiet." 
 
 "Wasn't it an extraordinary thing that they voted 
 for Reeves? I didn't think that there was an Irishman 
 in the parish that would side with him." 
 
 "It is the 'New Ireland,' sir!" said his curate, "of 
 which we were speaking. There were injured feelings, 
 filthy lucre, and then the 'gintleman' came on the scene, 
 and more than the ' gintleman ' — the lady came with 
 her lavender gloves, and her perfumes, and her seal- 
 skins, and what Irishman could resist that? They'd 
 put the rope round Robert Emmet's neck for such an 
 honour."
 
 314 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Yes, 'the gintleman/ 'the gintleman!"* echoed his 
 pastor. "How well I remember the word! But I had 
 always been hoping that the Land League had killed all 
 that." 
 
 "Not a bit of it!" said his curate. "They are more 
 abject slaves to the gentry than ever ! If I hadn't stopped 
 him, Kerins would have sold his farm to young Wycherly. 
 The fellow has money, and he'd have given him double 
 what he had paid for it. And then, as I was saying, he 
 was impatient of his father's tenure of Rohira and he 
 had set his heart on marrying Miss O'Farrell. He told 
 Kerins so." 
 
 "My God! what an escape!" said the old man. "I'd 
 rather see her dead." 
 
 "There was no danger!" said his curate. "I think 
 she must have expressed herself pretty freely, when the 
 matter was even hinted at. And now, I think, Wycherly 
 will cut. He'll go back to sea; but, they say, he's blocked 
 there and that he was expelled from his ship." 
 
 "Strange that Annie never told m.e!" murmured the 
 old man. "She might have told me, I think!" 
 
 " I don't think so," said his curate. " It was rather a 
 delicate matter; and then she has such superb self-reliance 
 that probably she thought she would spare you pain, 
 whilst protecting herself." 
 
 "My brave little girl!" murmured the old man. 
 
 " Yes ! she is a brave girl ! " echoed his curate. 
 
 "I shall never attempt to cross her will again," said 
 the old man. " I see now I can rely on her sagacity and 
 firmness in every emergency."
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 A Full Confession 
 
 Annie O'Farrell had lifted the blinds, lowered the 
 gas-jet, and allowed the gray light of the dawn to stream 
 into the/room; and still her patient had not recovered 
 from the heavy coma, or unconsciousness, in which he 
 had been brought from the city streets to the hospital. 
 His face, which had been flushed when he was brought 
 in, assumed under the more searching light of the morning 
 a gray, ashen hue, which was made all the more ghastly 
 by the hectic purple beneath the cheek-bones, and the 
 thick masses of auburn hair that lay matted and clotted 
 on his forehead. A great pain was in her heart as she 
 watched him, dreading the first signs of returning con- 
 sciousness and her own recognition. For the words, as 
 of a despairing soul, came back and smote her with their 
 dread significance: 
 
 "It is things like these that drive men to the devil." 
 
 She thought of her proud aloofness and coldness toward 
 him with a remorse that no reasoning could stifle; for a 
 generous heart will admit of no excuse for itself where it 
 has erred. She argued: I was not bound to recognize 
 or notice him. The accident of our acquaintance some 
 years ago did not oblige me to resume that acquaintance 
 under altered circumstances. I was quite justified in 
 what I did, and also in what I said, bitter though it might 
 have been. I meant it as a corrective and I hoped it 
 would have such an effect. 
 
 But what woman's heart would accept such reasoning 
 in face of a stricken thing? All in vain. She bathed the 
 temples of the boy in camphor and vinegar, and it is 
 possible they were diluted with a tear. 
 
 315
 
 I 
 
 316 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 The day nurse came on duty at eight o'clock; and 
 Annie prepared to depart. 
 
 "One of our young hospital students," she said, ex- 
 plaining, "brought in during the night." 
 
 "Apoplectic?" 
 
 "No! He has had one violent hemorrhage, and it 
 may recur. This is the prescription, should it have to 
 be renewed; but I think there is sufficient in this bottle 
 for the day. And here is the ergotine for injection." 
 
 "Wycherly?" said the young nurse, reading. "Is 
 that it? Oh! that briUiant young lad! What a pity. 
 It seems phthisis, I suppose?" 
 
 " I hope not. We must do our best to ward it off." 
 
 "Of course," said the nurse with a little smile. "We 
 must use particular care in Mr. Wycherly's case." 
 
 "He is one of our own students," said Annie, biting 
 her lips. " And I know Surgeon Cleeve is deeply interested 
 in him." 
 
 "Of course, I'm sure a good many people are inter- 
 ested in Mr. Wycherly. He's from the country, is he 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes! His father is a retired navy-surgeon. His 
 mother is dead," said Annie, who was trying heroically 
 to keep her temper and suppress her mortification, 
 
 "Ah well! then, we must do all we can for him. Any 
 other bad cases?" 
 
 "No! That little girl, who was operated upon, was 
 restless during the night. And I fear Mrs. Williams's 
 temperature will be found abnormally high. Call Dr. 
 Alison's attention to it. Don't forget. And that girl, 
 AUce Lane, has had no sleep still. I don't think she 
 closed her eyes during the night. But here is the chart. 
 I'm dying for a cup of tea." 
 
 Despite the presence of her watchful and critical fellow- 
 nurse, she went over and examined her patient minutely 
 again. But he was still unconscious of her presence. 
 She re-arranged his dress and the bed-clothes, bathed 
 his forehead and lips again, put back the matted hair,
 
 A FULL CONFESSION 317 
 
 and glanced around. The little nurse had thoughtfully- 
 gone out, and Annie followed her. 
 
 When she returned in the evening for night-duty, Jack 
 Wycherly was quite conscious, and somewhat better. 
 There had been no recurrence of hemorrhage during the 
 day. But he lay very still and quiet; and for some time 
 he did not notice the change of nurses, everything had 
 been done so gently. He appeared to be quite absorbed 
 in his own thoughts, as he stared before him; and Annie 
 gHded >6bout the room unnoticed, went out, and came 
 back again. 
 
 Then suddenly she spoke and he recognized her, and 
 a deep flush shot up and changed the pallor of his face. 
 She noticed it and said at once : 
 
 "You are ever so much better, Mr. Wycherly. But 
 you must keep awfully quiet. You had a slight hemor- 
 rhage, and we must prevent its recurrence." 
 
 " Was it slight? " he said. " Because there is some pain 
 here." 
 
 He pointed to the apex of the left lung. 
 
 "I mean slight, that is, of no consequence," she an- 
 swered, "provided it does not come on again. And you 
 know that the least excitement will bring it on." 
 
 "I am altogether in your hands, Annie," he said 
 simply. " Do with me what you please." 
 
 Ajid during the greater part of the night very few 
 words passed between nurse and patient; only the latter 
 seemed to follow her with his eyes everywhere when he 
 was awake. He thanked her very gently for all the little 
 offices she performed for him, but did not seem anxious 
 to enter into fuller conversation. 
 
 The senior surgeon, with whom Jack Wycherly had 
 been a favourite pupil, came in during the next day to 
 see him. He treated the boy with rough good-humour, 
 but examined the lung carefully. He then made a few 
 inquiries about his history, parentage, etc., and went 
 out looking very grave.
 
 318 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "I never thought that fellow would drink," he said 
 to another surgeon. " He struck me as a model of steadi- 
 ness. Still I can't account for that sudden hemorrhage. 
 There was a street row, you say?" 
 
 "Yes, and I think he was struck violently just there. 
 It was an unfortunate affair." 
 
 "We must do something with these young chaps. 
 Hallo! there, Fleming!" 
 
 A young student came over. 
 
 "Do you know anything of Wycherly's accident?" 
 
 "No, sir!" said the student promptly. 
 
 "And, of course, if you did, you wouldn't tell." 
 
 "No, sir! But I don't think there's much to tell. 
 Wycherly was the steadiest fellow in the College; and 
 I'm sure 'twas none of our fellows he had the row with." 
 
 "Did you ever see him under the influence of drink?" 
 
 " Never, sir, 'pon me — ahem! He might take a liquor, 
 like any of us, but that's all!" 
 
 "I'm afraid he has taken one too much!" said the man 
 of science meaningly. 
 
 Toward evening Wycherly became very restless and 
 his temperature ran up to 102°. There was no exciting 
 cause apparently; but the nurse thought it necessary 
 to summon the resident surgeon. It was quite true. 
 The temperature had risen. Of course the approach of 
 night would account for a little increase, but not for so 
 much. 
 
 "Wycherly," said the surgeon, "you are worrying or 
 fretting about something?" 
 
 "No!" said the patient feebly. "But I feel feverish." 
 
 "And you are feverish," said the surgeon. "Now, 
 will you keep your mind absolutely quiet; and. Miss 
 O'Donnell, will you mention to the night-nurse that she 
 is not to allow Mr. Wycherly even to speak, except when 
 absolutely necessary? This night's rest is of supreme 
 importance." 
 
 But during the lone evening hours, when the failing
 
 A FULL CONFESSION 319 
 
 sunlight trembled in the sick-room, and the twilight was 
 gathering, he seemed to become still more restless, until 
 at last Annie arrived, looking ever so neat and cool and 
 spruce after her morning's rest, when he heaved a deep 
 sigh and closed his eyes as if in peace. 
 
 During the next few days he advanced, retrograded, 
 was sometimes in his normal mood, sometimes excited, 
 to the great astonishment of the surgeon. 
 
 " Look here, Wycherly," he said one day, after making 
 a patie^^ and searching examination of symptoms, " there 
 is something on your mind which you ought to get rid 
 of. You should be up and moving about now; but I 
 can't let you get up with such a pulse as that. And the 
 lung is healing up. Can't you keep quiet and let mind 
 and body rest together?" 
 
 "There's nothing on my mind," said Jack Wycherly. 
 " You're quite mistaken, doctor. It must be some febrile 
 symptoms lurking in the system." 
 
 " Of course, it is," said the doctor sententiously. " They 
 are lurking in your brain somewhere; and, until you get 
 them out, you'll not be well." 
 
 Far out in the night, indeed in the very creeping in- 
 ward of the dawn, the patient called Annie gently to his 
 side. She came over. He said: 
 
 "Sit down!" 
 
 Then, after a few seconds staring at the ceiling, he said, 
 almost in a whisper: 
 
 "Annie?" 
 
 "Well?" she said, very unwilling to enter into con- 
 versation for many reasons. She was always afraid 
 now that he would reveal himself. 
 
 "The doctor says that I am feverish because I have 
 something on my mind. He's right. I have!" 
 
 She became very nervous now and began to ask herself 
 if she were concerned. 
 
 "Then wouldn't it be well to see a clergyman?" she 
 suggested, half frightened at the possibility of being
 
 320 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 made the recipient of his confidences. "It will be quite 
 easy to send for any clergyman of your church whom you 
 may desire to see." 
 
 "No!" he said faintly. '"Tis no crime, although God 
 knows I'm not faultless. It is something that concerns 
 you; and it is to you I must tell it." 
 
 Annie became very nervous now, and to gain time 
 she said: 
 
 "I think I hear something in the ward. I shall be 
 back in a moment." 
 
 The little run around the adjacent ward did compose 
 her a little. Then, on the threshold of the door, as she 
 returned, she paused to make up her mind. The question 
 was, would she listen or refuse to listen to the young 
 student's explanations. She knew it meant pain and 
 anguish of spirit to herself — perhaps some revelation 
 that would banish her peace of mind forever. She was 
 studying the gas-jet over her head as she stood outside 
 the door. He coughed gently inside; and, casting all 
 thought of self aside, she made a swift, generous resolu- 
 tion, and entering she sat down calmly by the student's 
 bedside. 
 
 "I don't wish to pain you, Annie," he said, "and I 
 shall be very brief. You know — no, you don't know, 
 how I hate and abominate myself for having appeared 
 before you, once, twice, thrice, under a shameful aspect." 
 
 "If that's all. Jack," she said consolingly, "dismiss 
 it from your mind. Boys will be boys. Forget it and 
 try to do better." 
 
 "That's your goodness," he said, feebly picking the 
 counterpane, "but it is not my excuse. Do you know 
 I'm glad this has occurred," he pointed to his chest. "I 
 was on the high road to ruin — through despair." 
 
 She now remembered his words with a pang. 
 
 "I'm all right now," he said; "I have been stopped on 
 the very brink of perdition. My life is forfeit, but I am 
 saved." 
 
 She thought these were evangelical ideas belonging to
 
 A FULL CONFESSION 321 
 
 •his religion; and she paid no heed to them. She felt 
 relieved. 
 
 "Tell me, Annie," he said after a pause, "does your 
 religion bind you to believe in hell — retribution?" 
 
 "Yes!" she said. "But, my dear Mr. Wycherly, I am 
 awfully ignorant. I know nothing of these things. 
 Won't you consult your clergyman?" 
 
 He smiled grimly. 
 
 "I am not going to force rehgion on you," he said. 
 "It was one of our bargains long ago, Annie, when you 
 taught me the Latin grammar! But there is a hell, 
 Annie, and I have gone through it. It is to worship 
 far away and far off some great being, and then to know 
 that you have made yourself forever unworthy of 
 her!" 
 
 Annie stood up to go. He was startled, and piteously 
 begged her to remain. 
 
 " I promise — my head is somewhat light, Annie, and 
 I have weakly betrayed myself — not to hurt your feel- 
 ings again. Would you let me have a little milk?" 
 
 She got some milk and soda; and raised and supported 
 the boy's head, whilst he sipped it. 
 
 He lay back refreshed on his pillow, and she was hoping 
 that she would hear no more. But after a few seconds' 
 pause he continued: 
 
 "Let me come to the point at once and have done 
 with it. You know, Annie, that I was struck on that 
 night when I was brought in here?" 
 
 " Yes!" she said. " So the report has it. " 
 
 " And probably you supposed it was a wretched street- 
 brawl?" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 "Unfortunately no," he continued. "It was my 
 brother, Ned — you remember Ned — who gave me my 
 death-blow, and it was all on your account." 
 
 She gave a gasp of surprise and horror. 
 
 "Yes!" he went on, as if to himself, "you have a right 
 to be shocked and even to feel that it is an insult. Many 
 22
 
 322 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAl 
 
 a time I have regretted that you should have ever known 
 
 us." 
 
 " I have never regretted it," she said. " If it was only 
 to have made your good father's acquaintance, I should 
 be glad of it." 
 
 "Thank you, Annie," he said. "These are kind, and 
 I know they are truthful words. And — he is grateful. 
 But for other reasons, I regretted it. Tell me, did 
 Edward, Ned, ever insult you?" 
 
 "I think, Mr. Wycherly," she said, "you are not serv- 
 ing any good purpose in calling up such things. They 
 have long since passed from my memory and I would 
 rather not recall them." 
 
 "That's because you are generous and forgiving," he 
 said. "But Ned and my father have fallen out about 
 something — something serious. My father has told him 
 he must never inherit Rohira, nor any of his property." 
 
 He stopped to recover breath, 
 
 "In fact, I think father intends that I should be the 
 future owner of the place; and he has written to me to 
 ascertain if I would abandon my profession. On the 
 other hand, Kerins — you remember Kerins, who holds 
 Crossfields, just above Rohira? — is leaving for America, 
 and Ned, who has money, is negotiating for the purchase. 
 He intends to settle there." 
 
 "That would be disagreeable for your father, would 
 it not?" asked Annie. 
 
 "Certainly, he will not like it," said the boy. "But 
 Ned will only buy Crossfields on one condition, namely 
 that you will be his wife!" 
 
 It would be difficult to describe the tumult of anger, 
 shame, and wounded pride that swept over the soul of 
 the girl at these words. She was silent for a while with 
 indignation and could only say in a tone of astonishment 
 and incredulity: 
 
 "Me? What a shame! You shouldn't have said such 
 a thing, Mr. Wycherly. I would take it as an insult 
 from any other person."
 
 A FULL CONFESSION 323 
 
 "And you would be quite right," he continued, more 
 calmly, as if he had been reassured on an important 
 point. " But you understand my motives. Let me con- 
 tinue. The rest is brief. He came up to town that day 
 for no other reason than to find out where you resided 
 and place his wishes before you. He dined at my lodg- 
 ings, apd far out in the evening, when he had taken 
 drink, he opened up his mind to me. I couldn't conceal 
 my disgust, and — alas! — I, too, drank freely then. 
 Several times he urged me to communicate with you; 
 and, when I refused, he wanted me to tell him where 
 you lived, at what hour he might call, at what hour he 
 might see you, etc. I gave no information; and to rid 
 myself of the annoyance I left the house, and went into 
 the street. Half-mad from drink and anger, he followed 
 me and persisted in annoying me. Then, suddenly using 
 words that I shall not repeat, he struck me violently 
 in the chest, and instantly I knew my mouth was full 
 of blood. 'Ned, you've killed me,' I said. And then I 
 fell senseless." 
 
 The little gas-jet was singing softly to itself as the stu- 
 dent ended his story, and there was much silence in the 
 room. He appeared relieved, but Annie was struck with 
 horror at the thought of this man's pursuing her. Then 
 a more gentle idea swept across her mind, and she remem- 
 bered that this boy had given his life for her sake. She 
 instantly recalled herself to a sense of duty and stood up. 
 
 "I hope your mind is quite relieved?" she said. 
 
 "Quite so," he replied. "But I fear I have thrown 
 over the burden upon you. But, Annie — " 
 
 "Well?" she said, somewhat impatiently, for her 
 mind was torn with anguish. 
 
 "I mustn't distress you further," he murmured, "but 
 surely — no ! — I cannot say it ! " 
 
 " Say what you please," she replied rather coldly. 
 
 " I mean, Annie, that I hope, in fact I'm sure, you will 
 never dream of entertaining for a moment the idea — " 
 
 He stopped short. He could not utter the word.
 
 324 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "I mean," he continued, trying to get a mild equivalent 
 in words for the thought that was burning his mind, 
 "that you will never allow Ned to address you on that 
 subject." 
 
 "Make your mind at rest," she said. "He will never 
 address me." ij 
 
 The day-surgeon found in the afternoon of the next 
 day that the patient's temperature was quite normal. 
 And in a few days he was permitted to leave his room. 
 But to every anxious inquiry as to whether the disease 
 would disappear, or reappear under more alarming cir- 
 cumstances, the senior surgeon only shook his head.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 Conspiring 
 
 Dick Duggan was growing impatient. In his constant 
 supervision over Kerins and his covetous watchfulness 
 over Crossfields farm, he had noticed that Kerins was not 
 drinking himself into his grave half-fast enough for his 
 wishes. He would have put a distillery at his door, if 
 he could expedite the ruin of this man, who stood in the 
 way of his felicity. But, somehow, Kerins seemed to 
 have stood still and paused on the brink of ruin; and to 
 Dick's intense disgust, after some weeks had passed by, 
 it was noticed that the young priest. Father Henry Liston, 
 was in the habit of visiting there; that, as a probable 
 result thereof, Kerins had given up drink absolutely; and 
 that, as a climax to the calamity, Mass had been said in 
 Crossfields, and rumour had it that Kerins had been to 
 Confession and Communion. 
 
 This was intolerable. The hopes that had been sud- 
 denly raised were now dashed to the ground. It was 
 quite clear that, under the care and zealous watchfulness 
 of the young priest, Kerins had turned over a new leaf 
 in life, and might now be considered once more on the 
 high road to prosperity. Dick Duggan gave up his morn- 
 ing vigils and remained in bed, instead of sullenly con- 
 templating the gray thatched roof and the dewy fields 
 that lay around the coveted farm. But it created an 
 additional grievance against the priests, whose untimely 
 zeal had wrested, as he thought, the prize from his grasp. 
 It roused at the same time a secret fury in his soul against 
 the man on whose misfortunes he had been hoping to 
 build up his own prosperity. 
 
 325
 
 326 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 There was another person, also interested and still 
 more deeply annoyed by the sudden conversion of Kerins 
 from a sot to a decent, industrious man. Ned Wycherly 
 now saw clearly that a prize was slipping from his grasp 
 — perhaps a double prize, because how could he ask Annie 
 O'Farrell to marry him, if he had no home to offer her? 
 Again and again he approached Kerins on the subject, 
 always meeting evasive answers, which became by de- 
 grees emphatic refusals. It was just before that period, 
 and whilst he still clung to the hope that he would pur- 
 chase Crossfields, that he went to the City to see Annie 
 O'Farrell and strive to gain her consent. 
 
 All these dreams had now vanished, and he saw him- 
 self an outcast from his father's home and with little but 
 a hopeless future before him. 
 
 It was in one of his angry and despairful moods he met 
 Dick Duggan one evening and gradually brought the 
 subject about in their conversation. They met in the 
 boreen that ran down from the rear of Crossfields farm 
 toward Dunkerrin Castle. Wycherly was coming up 
 from the beach, and Dick was going to see Pete on some 
 secret errand. 
 
 "You needn't go down," said Ned Wycherly. "Pete 
 is coming up to the house with some messages after me 
 and will be here directly." 
 
 "We do be sayin', Masther Ned," said Dick, "that 
 some day or another that same Pete will be after getting 
 himself and others into throuble." 
 
 "How is that?" said Wycherly. "Pete is an honest 
 fellow enough — that is, as honest as any half-dozen of 
 my acquaintance. He works well; and, if his women 
 steal a little, sure that's in their gypsy blood." 
 
 " Thrue for you ! " said Dick. " But the law of the land 
 is a wondherful thing intirely. It has very long arrums 
 and very sharp eyes." 
 
 "Not sharper than a g}Tsy's> especially a gypsy 
 woman's," said Wycherly. " Besides, no one around 
 here is going to bother about an occasional goose or hen."
 
 CONSPIRING 327 
 
 "If you were to hear the Yank in his liquor swearin' 
 at 'em, you wouldn't think so," said Dick. "I heard 
 him wan night some months ago; an' he was sayin' things 
 that would wake up even a barrack of police." 
 
 "They say he's not going to America now," said 
 Wycherly, anxious enough to turn the conversation, 
 which -^as verging on dangerous issues. " He has sobered 
 up; and some of my men told me they saw a van of 
 furniture going in there this week." 
 
 "'Twill go out agin the same way," said Dick. "And 
 that before long. Here's Pete!" 
 
 The g>' psy, holding a coil of rope loosely on one arm 
 and the rudder of a small punt in the other, came lightly 
 up the pathway. He had seen the two men in close 
 conversation whilst he was far away, but he now seemed 
 to start slightly and to be somewhat disturbed at meeting 
 them. He drew back a little, but Wycherly said cheerily: 
 
 "Come on, Pete! There's no one here but Duggan, 
 and he has some business with you." 
 
 "Oh, 'tis nothin' at all, nothin' at all," said Dick 
 with affected cheerfulness. "Only the loant of some- 
 thin' I wanted down at the ould castle. But it can 
 wait." 
 
 " Did you hear that Kerins had given up the notion of 
 America?" said Wycherly, addressing Pete. 
 
 "Yes!" said Pete, looking earnestly at Dick Duggan. 
 "He's furnishing up the old place and is about to be 
 married." 
 
 "There, Duggan, you see I was right," said Wycherly 
 maliciously. "The 'little father' knows everything 
 worth knowing. But Dick says he can't hold it long," 
 he continued, addressing Pete. "He says that the 
 new furniture will be soon going out the way it came 
 in." 
 
 "I doubt that," said the little father gravely. "He's 
 a stubborn fellow, that Kerins, and when he once takes 
 a right turn he'll stick to it." 
 
 "Unless some wan gives him a showlder and puts him
 
 328 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 in the wrong turn agin," said Dick, whose temper was 
 gradually rising. 
 
 "Well, in any case, I fear you'll have to wait for 
 the young mistress and Crossfields, Dick," said Wych- 
 erly, who was anxious to get from Dick all that he 
 knew. 
 
 "Yes! Masther Ned," said the angry peasant. "And 
 I'm afraid your honour will have to wait, too, before you 
 add Crossfields to Rohira and bring the priesht's niece 
 in wid you." 
 
 "There was no danger of that," said Wycherly, coolly 
 fanning the flames of the poor fellow's passion. "There 
 was religion barring the way there. But why should 
 Dolly Sullivan give you the 'go-by,' Dick, and take to 
 the Yank? It is a shame for a fine fellow like you to 
 allow that splendid girl to throw herself away on an old 
 dried-up curmudgeon like Kerins." 
 
 It is the unhappy lot, hitherto, of the Irish peasant that 
 he has never learned to curb his temper. It is the great 
 traitor of his race. When it is touched, there is no secret 
 so deep that it may not be revealed, no resolution so 
 strong that it may not be repealed. Wycherly knew 
 well how to play on the double organ, whose keys eHcit 
 truth, even though they drive out dangerous sparks with 
 it — the double organ of jealousy and hate. 
 
 Some faint suspicion that Martha Sullivan had been 
 won from his side by this detested Yankee had already 
 winged its way to Dick Duggan's ears, but had been 
 promptly rejected as impossible. Now, apparently, it 
 was the talk of the parish, and, coupled with the refur- 
 nishing of the house, it brought a terrible conviction home 
 to the heart of the unhappy man. He had lost Crossfields 
 forever, and he had been jilted in favour of a detested 
 rival. His cup of bitterness was full. His dark, swarthy 
 face became livid under the terrible excitement, as he 
 clenched his fists together and said : 
 
 " You may be jokin,' or you may be in aimest, Masther 
 Ned, an' I'm thinkin' the joke will be turned agin you
 
 CONSPIRING 329 
 
 yet, and that you'll laugh at the other side of your mouth, 
 if all the people do be sayin' is thrue. But that's your 
 own affair. An' 'tis your own affair, too, that the priesht's 
 niece, widout a pinny to bless herself wid, have given 
 you the cowld showlder. But, in respect of Kerins, 
 don't bt afeared that anny man or 'uman in the parish 
 'ud laugh at me. For, by the Lord God, I'll make sich 
 an example of Kerins, an' all belonging to him, an' all 
 that have anythin' to say to him, that it'll be remimbered 
 in the parish as long as the ould castle shtands there 
 forninst the sea." 
 
 "Take care!" said Wycherly carelessly, "he carries 
 his shooting-irons with him wherever he goes, and a 
 bullet goes faster than a shillelah." 
 
 "An' there's somethin' faster than a bullet," said 
 Dick savagely, as he moved away, "and it makes no 
 noise.'' 
 
 "He's a dangerous man," said Wycherly to Pete, as 
 Dick passed out of sight. "I shouldn't care to meet 
 him in the dark, if he had anything against me. But 
 look here, Pete! He was hinting at our own affairs just 
 before you came up. The chase is getting hot again, 
 and I think I shall take another run to sea." 
 
 " The last didn't serve you much," said Pete. " I told 
 you you made a mistake in leaving the old man too much 
 alone. You have given in too easily. You may not win 
 the wife you hoped for; but, as the people about here 
 say, 'There's as good fish in the sea as ever were caught.' 
 But there's only one Rohira." 
 
 "True!" said Wycherly, musing. "But you don't 
 know how stubborn the old man is. He never Hked me. 
 Everything is coming out against me. And we are cer- 
 tainly in some danger now. There are spies somewhere. 
 You heard what Duggan said about Kerins and his talk 
 when he's in liquor." 
 
 " Yes," said the " little father," " Kerins stands in every- 
 body's way."
 
 330 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 And the remark led him into a mood of musing from 
 which the impatient Wycherly aroused him. 
 
 "I suppose you've heard that Jack has been very 
 unwell and is coming home?" 
 
 "Yes! I have heard," said Pete. 
 
 " He may get over this, or he may probably be ordered 
 abroad," said Wycherly. "I was thinking that perhaps 
 we might get a message from the — sea-spirit to my 
 father in connexion with Jack." 
 
 "A message? Yes!" said Pete, not comprehending. 
 
 "I mean a word from — my — my — ," the horrid 
 words seemed to choke him, "my mother to the effect 
 that this illness of Jack's is a punishment, a retribution, 
 or something for my father's treatment of me." 
 
 "Ha!" said Pete, grasping at the idea. 
 
 "You know, Pete," said Wycherly, appealing to the 
 selfish nature of the man, "you and yours can never be 
 safe under a stranger. If Jack comes in, out you go. 
 If I can take my rightful place as master here, you and 
 the old woman and your children are safe forever." 
 
 "Unless I am jugged," said Pete, with a shrug of the 
 shoulders, "which is as likely as not. But," he added, 
 his dark eyes kindling into a blaze as he spoke, " I won't 
 go down without bringing many with me." 
 
 ''That's quite right!" said Wycherly. "But the 
 quietest way of working our point is the best, so long 
 as we can pursue it. If we can wind up this little busi- 
 ness of ours, which is becoming more dangerous every 
 day, and if we can get the old man to change his mind, all 
 will be well. I look upon Jack as already out of my way." 
 
 "The old woman foretold it," said Pete. "The even- 
 ing these young ladies were here, Judith told them that 
 the spirit of his mother was calling him to come." 
 
 "Ha! very good," said Wycherly. "Let us have 
 another message from the dead, and all will be right 
 with father." 
 
 "I'll see!" said Pete. Then, as if another idea was 
 preoccupying him, he said:
 
 CONSPIRING 331 
 
 " Which of the two is the more dangerous for us — 
 Kerins or Duggan?" 
 
 Wycherly reflected a little. 
 
 "Kerins, certainly! Duggan is little better than a 
 fool! Have you got away the last of that ensilage?" 
 
 "Not all. There are a few packages still left. But 
 all's right now. That pressed hay was a good idea. 
 There isn't the slightest suspicion." 
 
 He turned away, muttering: 
 
 "Pity you haven't more nerve. What a fortune was 
 in our hands."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 The Sea-Spirit Vanishes 
 
 Christmas came in that year, not softly and muggily, 
 with down-hanging skies and weeping clouds, bringing 
 to many lips the old adage: "A green Christmas makes 
 a fat churchyard"; but it came in its white ermine and 
 diamonds of frost and white pearls of icicles pendent 
 from slated roof and lowly thatch ; and the snowy raiment 
 stretched down thick and soft, from the roofs of Rohira 
 along the steep slope that plunged downward to the sea, 
 whose dark expanses, unflecked even by the foam of 
 breakers, extended in one unbroken line towards the 
 melancholy horizon. Picturesque and coldly beautiful as 
 it was, there was an aspect of sadness and loneliness 
 around it, as of a land of death and a sea of desolation; 
 where the imagination could hardly conjure up the dream 
 of departed summers, or summers yet to be, but now 
 coiled up and hidden beneath the fierce frown of a wintry 
 landscape. 
 
 So thought Jack Wycherly, as he walked from the fire 
 to the window, from the window to the fire, gazing into 
 the latter as if he saw there his life and fortunes crum- 
 bling into white ashes under the blaze of destiny, and 
 watching the dreary prospect from the window, as one who 
 was studying a scene which he was not to see again. He 
 was deeply depressed. Conscious of great powers, and 
 with that consciousness confirmed by the verdict of his 
 superiors, he had been pushing along the paths of his 
 profession with all that buoyancy and hope that belong 
 to gifted and impassioned youth. He saw a great career 
 opened before him, leading on to honours and emoluments, 
 
 332
 
 THE SEA-SPIRIT VANISHES 333 
 
 and terminating only at the highest pinnacle of earthly 
 success. And now, suddenly, there trickles across that 
 sunlit path a tiny stream of blood; and the whole vision 
 is blotted out forever. For he knew quite enough of 
 medical science to understand that he was now drifting 
 into that state where medical skill was practically un- 
 availing; and all that could be done was to avert the evil 
 day. And so the young student strode from the fire to 
 the window, from the window to the fire, his dreary 
 thoughts broken only by the harsh, dry cough, which 
 instantly brought out the handkerchief and the terrible 
 inquisition, was blood there? 
 
 Edward Wycherly had left the house and had gone no 
 one knew where, except perhaps Pete the Gypsy. Whether 
 it was a second or third angry altercation he had with 
 his father, or that he dreaded meeting the victim of his 
 drunken passion, he had fled the place; and the common 
 report, "Gone to sea," had to satisfy the imagination 
 of those who knew nothing of the many secrets of his 
 life. 
 
 "I am afraid," said Dr. Wycherly, coming into the 
 room where Jack was striding up and down, "we shall 
 have a lonely Christmas. I was expecting a letter from 
 Dion. He ought to have written at least at such a time. 
 We are rather a scattered flock now." 
 
 Jack strode up and down the well-worn carpet in 
 silence. Then he went to the window. 
 
 "Most families are scattered abroad at Christmas 
 time," he said. 
 
 "Of course," said his father, plunging his hands deep 
 into the pockets of his velvet jacket, "that is the case 
 where the young are grown up and have left the nest. 
 Although I don't like the fellow at all, I'm half sorry 
 Ned didn't remain over the New Year." 
 
 Jack coughed slightly at the window and looked at 
 his handkerchief. 
 
 "There is no sign of blood?" said his father, who saw 
 the action.
 
 334 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "No!" said Jack. "And I know it is foolish to be so 
 nervous about it. But when one has got a bad fright, 
 it sticks to him." 
 
 " I still can't bring myself to believe that it was entirely- 
 constitutional, as your doctors say. I don't believe the 
 lung could have softened so much without some symp- 
 toms revealing themselves. I'm sure it was some accident. 
 You pushed against something, or strained yourself in 
 some way. And you know that doesn't count for much. " 
 
 "I'm afraid you are too sanguine, father," Jack replied. 
 "I don't deceive myself. The symptoms are unmis- 
 takable." 
 
 "That means you're going abroad also?" said his 
 father querulously. "If phthisis reveals itself, this 
 would be no climate for you to dwell in." 
 
 And the white, dismal landscape and the steel-gray 
 sky and the melancholy ocean seemed to reply: "Yes! 
 This is no place for an invalid. Let him go, and as speed- 
 ily as possible!" 
 
 That evening after dinner the doctor introduced the 
 subject again. 
 
 " Strange," he said, "not a line as yet from Dion. One 
 would think he could not forget the old home at such a 
 time." 
 
 The old butler in the faded coat had put a few sprigs 
 of holly here and there in heavy vases on the mantel- 
 piece, in crevices on the great massive sideboard, in the 
 heavy mouldings of picture-frames which held the cracked 
 and crumbling portraits of bygone Wycherlys. But 
 nothing, not even the heavy silver, nor the crystal of the 
 cut-glass, nor the masses of violets and early primulas 
 that filled the room with the odours of spring, could dis- 
 sipate the gloom that hung down on that dark chamber 
 and seemed to interpenetrate every nook and cranny of 
 it, even to the inmost recesses of the human hearts that 
 beat there. 
 
 " Strange," said the old doctor, as if he were unravel-
 
 THE SEA-SPIRIT VANISHES 335 
 
 ling the threads of several incidents that had occurred 
 during the day and was trying to frame something co- 
 herent from them, " strange that old woman — that old 
 gypsy woman, Judith, challenged me to-day in the hall 
 and told me that the spirit of my dead wife would come 
 no more. She spoke in that prophetic manner she as- 
 sumes^ sometimes, as if she had direct communication 
 with the Unseen. I tried to shake it off — the spell, I 
 mean — the fascination she seems to exercise over me 
 when she assumes that style of talking." 
 
 "She's a thorough schemer and humbug," said Jack 
 Wycherly hotly. " I am ever so sorry, father, that you 
 allowed that vicious family to remain on your estate. 
 I trace all the evils that have befallen our family to their 
 presence." 
 
 "That's quite an absurd prejudice," said his father 
 moodily. "They are harmless, if rude; and then they 
 always seemed to be a link with the dear dead past. 
 They have always told me when the spirit of my dear 
 wife appeared to haunt the dear old spot that was so 
 much beloved by her. I shouldn't know it but for them. 
 An ordinary Irish family would be scared and frightened. 
 Not so these people! I suppose," he went on dreamily, 
 "it is their Egyptian origin, their handling strange and 
 mysterious things for centuries, that makes them familiar 
 with the powers that lie outside our vision. But it has 
 been for these few years a strange consolation to know 
 that your dear dead mother was not cut away from us 
 forever, but came as a kind of sea-spirit to show us that 
 the things of eternity had not altogether cut her away 
 from sympathy with those whom she loved in the flesh." 
 
 There was a sharp struggle in the boy's mind as to 
 whether he would dissipate that foolish, if fond, dream 
 forever, or leave his father in happy ignorance of the 
 deception. But he inquired further: 
 
 "And Jude thinks the apparition has ceased and will 
 not trouble the slumbers of the people again?" 
 
 "Yes! But that's a harsh way of putting it, Jack.
 
 336 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 The spirit of your mother, the sea-spirit, has troubled 
 no one — nay, has been a consolation to many and a 
 strengthening of fainting faith." 
 
 " But did Jude give any reason why this apparition 
 should cease?" asked his son. "Why now, and not at 
 any time these past four or five years?" 
 
 "Yes!" said his father uneasily. "She seems to hint 
 that it is because the natural heir of the house has — gone 
 away and will not return, and because — " 
 
 But here he stopped, unwilling to hurt the feelings of 
 the stricken boy. 
 
 " You mean, dear father," said Jack, "that my mother's 
 wraith, as you believe, has departed in anger, because 
 there is no longer an heir to Rohira?" 
 
 "Not in anger! I didn't say in anger, Jack," said his 
 father piteously. " But, you see, very naturally, when 
 the fortunes of our house are falling into decay, the good 
 angel of the house deserts it." 
 
 The boy coughed slightly and looked at his handkerchief. 
 
 "We must now," said his father, noticing the gesture, 
 "or immediately after the holidays, ascertain if there 
 are bacilli in that sputum. I don't think myself there 
 are. In fact, from experience I would rather judge that 
 there are not. These hemorrhages, and you had only 
 one. Jack, are not the dangerous symptoms. They are 
 quite compatible with perfect health. But should there 
 be any symptoms of phthisis, we must get you away 
 to a warm, dry climate — South Africa, by preference, 
 for some time. But there's time enough, time enough." 
 
 "That's the opinion of our senior surgeon, too," said 
 Jack Wycherly. "It is not a pleasant prospect, but we 
 have to submit to our destinies." 
 
 The poor lad was suffering under violent emotion and 
 he went over and lay down on a sofa near the fire, think- 
 ing of many things. 
 
 Down at the presbytery the same three persons who 
 were assembled together that Christmas night four or
 
 THE SEA-SPIRIT VANISHES 337 
 
 five years ago, th*? old blind pastor, his curate, and his 
 niece, were also met together on this Christmas night. 
 The room was unchanged in appearance. One would 
 have thought it was the identical fire that was leaping 
 and sparkling in the grate. It was certainly the same 
 picture of the Holy Family that looked down upon the 
 living, as it was the self-same carpet, though more worn 
 and frayed, that was beneath their feet. The self-same 
 lamp threw its mellow, softened light on the table and 
 lit up the long rows of leather-covered books, that seemed 
 never to have been removed from their places. But the 
 living were changed, fearfully changed, even to their 
 own eyes. 
 
 Darkness, almost absolute, had come down on the old 
 priest's eyes, which were shaded by glasses so darkly 
 blue that they seemed black in the lamp-light. His 
 hair had thinned to baldness and his cheeks were more 
 deeply furrowed, either by anxious thought or the very 
 absence of that intellectual exercise which alone could 
 dissipate it. His strong fierce temper had degenerated 
 into a kind of gentle moroseness, which was seldom 
 lighted up by the old flashes of humour that made his 
 companionship so delightful. His sun was sinking under 
 clouds, growing deeper and darker as they approached 
 the horizon. 
 
 His curate was also changed, not so much in appearance 
 as in thought and experience. Yet the new spiritual 
 life he had been leading had matured and ripened his 
 intellect so far that it became apparent in manner, which, 
 soft and refined as ever, had yet lost that elasticity and 
 boyish eagerness that had formerly characterized him. 
 He had become sober, without being dull; calm without 
 being stolid ; and there was a certain halo of peace around 
 his eyes and forehead that spoke of a spiritual life not 
 altogether sequestered from human interests and passions. 
 
 The change in Annie O'Farrell was only the change 
 from girlhood to womanhood, a little emphasized by her 
 training and habits, and also by some new strange experi- 
 23
 
 338 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 ence that seemed to be kindling itself in her heart and 
 that gave to life a new idealization and pleasure, and not 
 a little pain. 
 
 She had put aside her nurse's uniform and was dressed 
 in a close-fitting gray costume that seemed to suit her 
 tall and graceful figure. Her coiled hair marked her 
 entrance into the sphere of womanhood, and her pro- 
 fession seemed to have stamped on her manner a certain 
 decision and promptness, that at once demanded obe- 
 dience and respect. Somehow, these excellent qualities 
 seemed also to detract a little from feminine gracefulness 
 and helplessness, so true is it that no accomplishment 
 or grace is acquired except at the cost of something cor- 
 responding. But this apparent loss vanished on ac- 
 quaintance, and the old, gentle, playful, feminine if firm 
 nature revealed itself through the cloak of professional 
 strength and severity. 
 
 There seemed, too, to be a slight restraint hovering 
 over this family party on this Christmas night — a re- 
 straint which only wore away when the icy barriers 
 melted down on closer fellowship. The long absence 
 of Annie had driven her uncle back into the old impa- 
 tience of society and love of solitude, which even now 
 was unwillingly broken, and the spiritual and ascetic life 
 which Henry Liston had been leading seemed to make 
 even such jejune and harmless felicities foreign to his 
 tastes. And Annie had been so much accustomed now 
 to the daily helping and tending on the helpless, and she 
 had seen so much of the more easy and less restrained 
 habits of mind of gentlemen of the world, that an uneasy 
 feeling crept down on her spirits, and there was an 
 incipient yearning for the fuller felicities of life. 
 
 But all these little wisps of cloud vanished as the Christ- 
 mas night wore on and the topics of human interest came 
 up to be discussed. 
 
 " Do you know, sir," said Henry Liston, as the name 
 "Rohira" turned up in the conversation, "I think there's 
 a crisis approaching in the affairs of that house?"
 
 THE SEA-SPIRIT VANISHES 339 
 
 "Why do you think so?" asked the pastor, but in a 
 tone of little interest. 
 
 "Well, it seems slightly absurd to say it, but the report 
 has gone abroad that the ghost of Dunkerrin Castle has 
 disappeared and is not to return." 
 
 " How? Have you banished her to the bottom of 
 the Red Sea for seven years, and is she so offended that 
 she will not return again?" 
 
 "No!" replied his curate. "I am happy to say I have 
 had nothing to do with the lady. But the report has 
 gone abroad and is widely believed. The credulous 
 seem to take it for a sign of 'something,' as they say. 
 The more sceptical also take it as a sign of 'something,' 
 — more concrete, however." 
 
 "Well, now, although you are Irish enough to love an 
 enigma, suppose you explain it. Not that it much mat- 
 ters," said the old man, passing his hand across his fore- 
 head wearily, "these things are of very passing interest 
 now." 
 
 " It is only the usual foolish village gossip," said Henry 
 Liston. "I think our friend, Jude, has so pulled the 
 ropes that the spectre will not be seen again; and she has 
 had it conveyed to our good friend, the doctor, that it 
 will forebode the annihilation of his house." 
 
 Annie was now listening with all her ears, although 
 she said nothing and tried to persuade herself that the 
 subject did not concern her. 
 
 "It is wonderful," continued Henry, speaking to his 
 pastor, "how the dear old doctor clings to that singular 
 delusion about his wife's appearance. I suppose it is 
 almost unique, at least in the case of an educated man." 
 
 "I have seen more remarkable delusions," broke in 
 Annie, " far more harrowing fancies or visions, and always 
 in the case of the educated and intelligent. The ruder 
 people accept the stories of others, but seem never to 
 come under the spell of such delusions themselves." 
 
 "Well, that is singular," said Henry. "I thought the 
 thing first impossible, and then, unprecedented. But
 
 340 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 the doctor is now fully persuaded that the spirit of his 
 dead wife has disappeared forever in anger, or as an omen 
 of some impending trouble." 
 
 "Why in anger?" asked his pastor. "What could 
 have enraged the ghost?" 
 
 "Oh, the quarrel between the eldest boy and his 
 father," said Henry Liston, "or rather, the repeated 
 quarrels, culminating in his final disinheritance and 
 departure." 
 
 "I thought he had gone back to sea again and failed 
 in his attempt," said the old man. 
 
 " Yes I He was away for a considerable time, but he 
 seems always to have some great attraction here. But 
 he's gone now forever. And then, as I have mentioned, 
 the younger lad, Dion, has never been heard from, and 
 Jack, the fair-haired lad (you remember him, Annie, he 
 was your first pupil) is at home in a hopeless decline." 
 
 "Not quite hopeless," said Annie O'Farrell. "He 
 was at our hospital and the doctors give hope, if he can 
 be induced to go abroad." 
 
 "They say, that is the common report has it," added 
 Henry Liston, "that there was a quarrel, some street- 
 scuffle between students, and that he sustained a rupture 
 in the lung." 
 
 "What was the exact cause of quarrel between Dr. 
 Wycherly and his son?" asked Annie O'Farrell eva- 
 sively. 
 
 "The real cause was his wild life and the report that 
 had reached the doctor's ears from certain sources that 
 he was engaged in illegal work. There is no secret about 
 the fact that smuggling to a large extent was going on 
 along this coast, and I don't think there is much doubt 
 now that Wycherly and Pete the Gypsy were engaged in 
 it. A sudden swoop was made on the castle four years 
 ago by a clever officer, but he was disappointed. They 
 were too well prepared. But the report came to the old 
 man's ears, and you know with these people a violation 
 of the law is the worst of crimes. There were some 
 
 Ml
 
 THE SEA-SPIRIT VANISHES 341 
 
 angry scenes between the father and son; and young 
 Wycherly has left — it is supposed forever." 
 
 "It is sad to see a family broken up so completely," 
 said Annie, as if speaking to herself. "And there was 
 such brilhant promise. Dion has never been heard of?" 
 
 "Never, they say. Some think he is ranching in 
 America; some say he is farming at the Cape. Many 
 think he is dead — lost at sea." 
 
 "It is very sad," said Annie musingly, "to think of 
 that old man, who has been so good and kind, left desolate 
 in his old age; and perhaps he will live to see Rohira in 
 the hands of strangers. Isn't it hard to see an old name 
 passing away? I'm sure Mary would be sorry to hear 
 it." 
 
 "Mary has said good-bye to all human associations," 
 said Henry Liston. "She has forgotten all these things 
 long ago." 
 
 "I cannot believe that," said Annie, who had a strong 
 prejudice against that kind of sanctity. " Her last letter 
 to me mentioned Rohira and recalled the few happy 
 evenings we spent there." 
 
 "Do you know it strikes me that you two are mighty 
 solemn for young people?" said the pastor. "I'm just 
 thinking how sober you have both become since that 
 first Christmas you both spent here. What is it?" 
 
 But they could not answer. And in like sober, if not 
 sombre, fashion the hours crept by to bed-time; and 
 Henry had to get out his trap for his journey homeward. 
 
 It was still early in the night, and Annie, kept long 
 awake by thinking of the many things about which they 
 had been conversing, had sunk into an uneasy slumber, 
 when the very unusual pealing of the hall-bell, pulled 
 violently by some excited person, woke her up to perfect 
 consciousness. After a long interval, during which the 
 jangling of the bell never ceased, she heard the hall-door 
 opened and a loud conversation in the hall. And pres- 
 ently her uncle, who had risen from bed and answered 
 the bell, tapped at her door.
 
 342 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Are you awake, Annie?" he said. 
 
 "Yes! What's the matter?" she asked. 
 
 "A messenger from Dr. Wycherly that his son has 
 had another violent hemorrhage and requesting you to 
 go up. I'd just as soon you wouldn't go!" 
 
 "How can I help it, Uncle?" she replied. "I suppose 
 there's no other nurse available ; and this may be a matter 
 of life or death." 
 
 "Please yourself!" he said reluctantly. "The doctor's 
 carriage is at the door. I suppose you'll hardly return 
 before morning." 
 
 "I dare say not!" she replied. 
 
 " I don't like it ! I don't like it ! " he murmured, moving 
 away. "Oh, why did I ever bring them here?"
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 Uncle and Niece 
 
 The New Year dawned, cold and wet and chill. The 
 Christmas snows had disappeared, except here and there 
 in nooks and clefts, for the sea-air had come vn and hov- 
 ered above the fleecy drifts and breathed so softly on 
 them that they had not the hardihood to remain longer, 
 but gently melted away md relieved the suffocation of 
 grass and herb that had been pining in the darkness 
 beneath. But the skies were lowering and heavy, and 
 haning too closely with their weeping burdens on the 
 earth; and the whole landscape and sea vista was tinted 
 in a melancholy grayness of colour, that made men sit 
 down and think, rather than stir themselves to work 
 within or without of doors. 
 
 Gray was the old Dunkerrin keep against the steel 
 face of the sea; gray were the granite walls without, 
 where they held up their faces to be lashed by wind and 
 wave, gray were the walls within, except where they 
 were blackened with the smoke that crept out from the 
 gypsies' fire and coiled itself round and round the great 
 stone chamber and lingered on the arched roof and left 
 it darkened and grimy with its sooty paint. Gray, too, 
 was the face of the wrinkled hag bent over the peat and 
 wood fire upon the hearth — gray, with an ashen pallor 
 as of a life that was consuming itself in a fierce struggle 
 of overmastering passion. 
 
 The gloomy day wore on to evening, and the deep 
 shades drew down at four o'clock, shutting out all light 
 from that dark chamber except a few feeble rays of twi- 
 light that lingered still about the narrow slits that served 
 
 343
 
 344 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 for windows. The dusky brood of children were still out 
 upon the cliffs playing their noisy games; the old woman 
 gazed musingly but anxiously into the fire ; Cora, the ugly 
 gypsy girl, was munching apples in a comer, seated on a 
 kitchen table and swinging her legs to some imaginary 
 Romany ditty. 
 
 At last the old woman woke up as if from a reverie 
 and without turning round she addressed her grand- 
 daughter: 
 
 "The little father is late to-night. Dost thou hear any 
 noise of his coming?" 
 
 Without moving or making a single sign of interest, the 
 girl went on munching apples, just pausing a little to 
 mumble : 
 
 " None. Wouldn't be surprised if he fell into the hands 
 of the engroes and found the darbies on his wrists." 
 
 "Why dost thou say such a thing?" cried the old 
 hag with the addition of an oath and an opprobrious 
 name. 
 
 " Because his pal or someone else has peached," said 
 the girl, without moving from her place or resenting the 
 insult. 
 
 " His pal? Wycherly, dost thou think?" asked the old 
 woman anxiously and turning round to face her hopeful 
 grandchild. 
 
 " Yes! or I'm nashkado," said the girl. 
 
 The old woman turned back, muttering something and 
 looking steadily at the fire. 
 
 A little later on the sound of hoofs was heard, as they 
 crept down the boreen that led to the castle, and the 
 heavy cart jolted over the rough stones, or tore through 
 the bushes and brambles that closed in in wild profusion 
 across the narrow passage. Then the stable door was 
 opened, the animal unharnessed and housed for the night, 
 and Pete came in, calm and unconcerned as usual. 
 
 The old woman received him so effusively that he ex- 
 pressed his surprise. She explained the suspicions of his 
 hopeful daughter.
 
 UNCLE AND NIECE 345 
 
 "I didn't know but that you would be in the nashky 
 to-night," she said. "And we — " 
 
 "The engro is not kidded yet," said the little father, 
 "that could match a Romany chal." 
 
 And lifting up the heavy cover of an iron pot, he flung 
 it Vith all his strength at his daughter's head. She 
 quietly dodged the missile and, picking up a couple of 
 apples, she passed out into the night that had now fallen, 
 chanting in the most unconcerned manner : 
 
 The Romany chi 
 And the Romany chal, 
 
 and calling to the dusky little savages who were playing 
 around the cliffs to come back to their grandbebee. 
 
 "She said," said the old granddame, shuffling nearer 
 the fire with the sense of satisfaction of one who has 
 escaped a danger, "that the young master had peached! 
 Can that be true?" 
 
 "How could it be true?" said the little father. "I 
 carried my cargo to-night through the midst of the en- 
 groes, bade them Good-night! saw it in the wagon, safely 
 consigned. What more?" 
 
 " Nothing more," she said. " How is the young master 
 to-night?" 
 
 "Better and worse!" said the little father. "Better 
 because the bleeding has stopped; worse because he is 
 craving for a sight of that girl and she cannot always 
 be there." 
 
 "Ha!" cried the old woman with a certain note of 
 exultation in her voice. "She has had enough of the 
 tribe, I wot. And yet," she continued, gazing intently 
 into the red ashes that dropped here and there on the 
 hearth from the blazing logs, "I have a vision; and 
 some day the dark dove will nestle beneath the roof of 
 Rohira." 
 
 "Thou art dreaming, little mother," said the filial Pete. 
 "Edward is gone never to return; Dion is lost and never 
 to be found; Jack is a doomed lad. Rohira will pass
 
 346 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 into the hands of the stranger and the very name of it 
 will be changed and forgotten." 
 
 "Pete, you are a fool and no better than a gorgio/' 
 said the old woman. " But why didn't you kill Kerins's 
 juggal?" 
 
 " Because no drow that was ever brewed could sicken 
 him," said Pete. "And he knows and suspects me, the 
 damned beast. Some day, I fear, he'll fly at me." 
 
 " It would be well if dog and man were out of our way," 
 said the old woman. " Cora, the slut, who knows every- 
 thing, says we're peached upon. It can't be the young 
 master and yet I wouldn't trust him. But Kerins — I 
 have watched him and I have little faith in him." 
 
 " No matter," said Pete airily. Nothing but the hang- 
 man's noose dangling over his head could disturb him. 
 "We have only one or two journeys more. And then we 
 quit. And grandbebee ! We, the tinker-gypsies, have not 
 done so badly after all." 
 
 "No!" she said. "We shall be remembered well! Go 
 call that hussy and the bebees from the cliff. She's only 
 fit to be a Christian!" 
 
 And she spat into the fire with disgust. 
 
 It was quite true that Jack Wycherly was better and 
 worse. The violent hemorrhage that had come on in the 
 early hours of St. Stephen's morning had been checked by 
 powerful remedies, but he had been confined to bed and 
 was suffering from great debility. And he was feverish 
 and restless, partly because he saw that he could not well 
 resume his studies, but principally because he craved and 
 hungered after the presence of the nurse, whose light 
 touch and sympathetic attentions seemed now to have 
 become indispensable to his recovery. She had remained 
 by his bedside all that dreary night, watching, side by 
 side with the old doctor, who was half-distracted with 
 grief and terror, for the cessation of the dangerous symp- 
 toms. It was only after breakfast she was allowed to 
 return to her uncle's.
 
 UNCLE AND NIECE 347 
 
 He was in no agreeable mood. Quite ignorant of the 
 modern methods of medical skill and science and still 
 more ignorant of the etiquette that now obtains in the 
 profession, he thought there was a certain impropriety in 
 the summoning of a young girl to attend at night the 
 bedside agonies of a young gentleman. Quite unaware 
 of hospital practice, he rather resented the idea of her 
 being summoned to a private patient; and he thought 
 there was a certain want of fitness and delicacy in the 
 whole thing that called for comment on his part. 
 
 "I don't know, Annie," he said when he had made 
 some ordinary inquiries about the boy's condition, "what 
 are your ordinary duties, but it seems to me that you 
 have gone as far in this matter as maidenly delicacy will 
 allow." 
 
 Annie opened her eyes in amazement. 
 
 "I know I want a right good sleep. Uncle," she said. 
 "But what in the world has maidenly delicacy to do in 
 the matter? Why, it is my profession." 
 
 "Of course, but surely there are distinctions in your 
 profession. There are certain rules or laws," he said, 
 reverting to his old ideas, "binding all professions, and 
 in yours there must be distinctions. I mean you have 
 no right to be called upon to attend patients indis- 
 criminately." 
 
 "We acknowledge no distinctions," she replied with 
 a certain independence that grated upon him. "Our 
 business, our vocation," she went on proudly, " is to save 
 human life and alleviate human suffering. Place, time, 
 circumstances do not concern us." 
 
 He was silent for a few moments. He felt he was in 
 the whirl of a revolution that he could neither stop, nor 
 stay. Events were crowding down upon him and his 
 old conceptions of inexorable laws and sweeping them 
 away into oblivion. 
 
 "But," he said at length, clinging to his old ideas even 
 while he felt them dragged down the tide of change, 
 " there are certain proprieties, Annie — certain minor
 
 348 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 moralities, that have at all times to be observed. I admit, 
 the vast progress and utilities of the science of medicine, 
 but there are tacit rules — little scholia, or consequences, 
 from Christian teaching, that make it undesirable for a 
 young lady — " 
 
 "You have never seen an operation, Uncle?" she said. 
 
 "Never, thank God!" he replied. 
 
 " Well, now," she continued, " let me be candid. There 
 are certain shocks in the beginning, certain things that 
 make you shiver, but you get used to everything. And 
 then you begin to understand that in our profession there 
 is only one thing considered — that is, as I have said, 
 to save human life and relieve human suffering." 
 
 He saw there was no use in prolonging the argument, 
 so he said testily: 
 
 "I don't understand and I'm not going to argue the 
 matter further. But," — he stopped suddenly, as if he 
 dreaded to go too far, for now he felt how powerless he 
 was becoming, how unequal to the unseen forces that 
 seemed to be conspiring from all sides against him. And 
 yet how could he be silent? 
 
 "I was about to say," he continued, with an attempt 
 at the old peremptoriness that almost broke down, " that 
 I have to consider my own position, Annie. We are 
 living here among a backward, primitive people, who 
 do not understand modern methods; and after all 
 we must yield to their prejudices. And I fear very 
 much — " 
 
 Here he stopped. He could not hurt the feelings of 
 the girl who was everything to him in the world. 
 
 "I think I know what you mean. Uncle," she said, 
 "and it would be most ungrateful of me to embarrass 
 you in any way. But I think the time has come when 
 the people should be taught to rise above these preju- 
 dices, and there is only one way of teaching them and 
 that is to defy them." 
 
 "That cannot be done," he said. "There! we've had 
 enough of the matter, and I don't want, Annie, that
 
 UNCLE AND NIECE 349 
 
 anything should come between us now, when my time 
 on earth is so short." 
 
 " Don't say that, Uncle," she said as the tears started 
 to her eyes. " You have many years before you yet, and, 
 wnen I have done with these professional studies, I shall 
 come back and nurse you to the end." 
 
 He shook his head. And, after a pause, during which 
 she seemed to be debating the prudence of what she was 
 going to say, she said quietly: 
 
 "I shall not go to Rohira again!" 
 
 But in the late afternoon one of the servants came 
 down to beg of her to go up, if it were only for a few 
 minutes. 
 
 "For, oh, Miss," said the girl earnestly, as she saw 
 Annie hesitating, " if you could only see the young master 
 and how he turns round and looks every time the door 
 opens and then turns back with the tears in his eyes and 
 a look on him, as if his heart was breaking; an' if you 
 could only hear him, Miss, when he wakes up out of his 
 sleep and looks round and says 'Annie!' 'Annie!' just for 
 all the world. Miss, as if a child were crying for his mother 
 — why, Miss, you'd go to the ind of the world to help him." 
 
 " You know, Nellie, that I was up all night and am 
 tired and worn out!" 
 
 "Of course, you are, Miss, though you're looking as 
 fresh as a daisy this morning; but sure. Miss, this is only 
 for a few minutes. And the poor doctor. Miss, is heart- 
 broke an' he said to me, 'Nellie,' he said, 'I'm ashamed 
 to be troubling Miss O'Farrell after such a long night, 
 but what am I to do? It is hard to hear Jack calling for 
 her and not to please him. ' " 
 
 Still she hesitated. She had given a spontaneous 
 promise, although it was exacted by affection, and she was 
 torn by a conflict of feeling such as she had never expe- 
 rienced before. Suddenly she turned around and went 
 straight to her uncle's door. 
 
 "The doctor has again sent for me," she said, "and 
 this poor boy is calling piteously for me. I must go!"
 
 350 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "You can please yourself!" he said. 
 
 So she went that day and every day until Jack 
 Wycherly was convalescent. And her uncle never alluded 
 to it again, but she knew that a great gulf had yawned 
 between them. And she was very soon made aware that 
 busy tongues were tampering with her name in the parish; 
 and that her ministrations of mercy were tortured into 
 deep designs of ambition, or at least flagrant violations 
 of that secret code which draws the invisible but impass- 
 able line between delicacy and forwardness or, as her 
 uncle would say, the things that are within the law and 
 the things that pass to their own retribution outside its 
 impregnable pale.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 Cora Bewitched 
 
 Nowhere did these thoughts rankle more deeply, no- 
 where were these things discussed so savagely, as in the 
 cabin of the Duggans. Every event seemed to be leading 
 up to an accumulation of disappointment that was hardly 
 to be borne by such fierce and vindictive spirits ; and these 
 disappointments in some mysterious manner appeared to 
 originate in the voluntary or unconscious movements of 
 the priests. Things seemed to have reached a culmina- 
 tion of agony when all preparations were made for the 
 marriage of Kerins to Martha Sullivan, and when under 
 the veiy eyes of the Duggans vans of furniture were 
 brought from the railway station to embellish the home 
 of the bride. It was hard enough to lose Crossfields just 
 at the time when Kerins's intemperance seemed to make 
 certain his ruin and their acquisition of the farm; and 
 now he had actually swept from the side of Dick Duggan 
 the fairest girl in the parish, whom he had already re- 
 garded as his own. His grief and disappointment were 
 so terrible that even the old woman, his mother, was 
 won over to his side; and, although her deep religious 
 feelings would never allow her to take part in any unholy 
 remarks about the priests, she still felt, in that strange 
 instinctive but utterly irrational manner so common 
 amongst the ignorant and uneducated, that they all had 
 a grievance against their clergy. Hence the matter 
 was warmly and angrily discussed about their hearth 
 these dark, winter days, whilst a few fields away Jack 
 Wycherly's life seemed ebbing softly onward towards 
 the unmeasured shores of eternity. 
 
 351
 
 352 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Fitter for him keep that galivanter of a niece of his 
 at home," said the old man one night, as they were talk- 
 ing about some altar denunciation of a scandal made 
 the Sunday previous by the old blind pastor. "Begor, 
 because she's his niece she can do what no other girl in 
 the parish dare do. What's sauce for the goose is sauce 
 for the gander, and begor whin he won't spare anyone 
 else he oughtn't spare her." 
 
 "If it was a poor man's son or daughter was spittin' 
 blood, I wondher would me fine lady be so ready to spind 
 her nights and days be their side?" said his daughter. 
 
 "Faix, you may be sure she wouldn't, nor would he 
 allow her unless she was well paid for it," echoed one of 
 the boys. 
 
 "Perhaps she has her eye on the place," said the old 
 man with a certain irony. "Quarer things happen and 
 sure we ought to be glad to see them Prodestans hunted 
 from the counthry and Catholics takin' their place." 
 
 " What are you sayin' about Prodestans and Catholics?" 
 said Dick Duggan savagely, as he turned in from the door^ 
 and his dark face grew more sallow and the stubby black 
 moustache on his upper lip seemed to bristle with anger. 
 
 "Nothin', nothin'," said his father. "Only people do 
 be saying that quarer things have happened than that 
 she should be at Rohira." 
 
 "What 'ud take her there?" said Dick. "Didn't she 
 give the go-by to Masther Ned and sure this poor dying 
 angashore will never come in for Rohira." 
 
 "Maybe she's lookin' afther the ould docthor himself," 
 said his sister. " Sure the wife's sperrit has gone away, 
 banished by the priest to the bottom of the Red Say for 
 as long as he wants to hould her there." 
 
 There was a burst of sarcastic laughter at this sally, 
 which was interrupted when the latch of the half-door 
 was unceremoniously lifted and Pete the Gypsy came in. 
 
 He never used the usual salutations of the country and 
 his presence never boded any good to the household, but 
 he was always welcome because he had all the news of
 
 CORA BEWITCHED 353 
 
 the country on his tongue and had a dry quaint way of 
 communicating it. 
 
 He went over coolly to the turf fire and lighted his pipe, 
 mferely saying: 
 
 "Your par'n, Ma'am!" 
 
 Then he sat on the hob and smoked calmly. After a 
 little while the old man said: 
 
 "We were just talking of the young master whin you 
 kem in, Pete. How is he? " 
 
 "Better because worse!" said the gypsy sententiously. 
 
 "Begor, 'twould take your mother to bate that," said 
 the old woman, who hated the whole tribe. 
 
 "I mean," said Pete, "that the bleeding is stopped, 
 thanks to his skilful nurse, but the boy is doomed. He 
 cannot get better. He must go abroad." 
 
 " I hope he'll take a wife wid him," said Dick Duggan 
 savagely. 
 
 " No ! " said the gypsy coolly after a pause. " Although 
 he ought; or rather she ought to take him, for it was for 
 her sake he got his death-blow!" 
 
 This was interesting, so the whole family began to 
 group themselves around the speaker, except Dick Duggan, 
 who kept apart as if the subject did not interest him, but 
 who nevertheless kept eyes and ears open for the narrative. 
 
 But Pete was rather leisurely in his movements, at 
 least in his hours of recreation, and only asked curiously: 
 
 "Have ye not heard it?" 
 
 "Dom your blood," said the old man in a passion, 
 "you know dom well we didn't. You and thim can 
 keep yere sacrets too well, although sometimes the best 
 mended pot will lake." 
 
 The allusion to his ordinary trade as a tinker and his 
 extraordinary calling as a smuggler would have raised 
 the hair on an ordinary man. But Pete was not an 
 ordinary man, but an extraordinary gypsy, and he held 
 down his temper with a strong hand. 
 
 "True, friend," he said at length and it seemed with 
 some significance, "it is well to be able to keep one's 
 24
 
 354 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 secrets. The spoken word cannot be recalled. But," he 
 added, dashing the ashes from his pipe, "this doesn't 
 concern me and so ye may have it. It is only this. That 
 Ned pursued this young lady, and a very beautiful lady 
 she is, with his attentions; that she rejected them; that 
 he followed her to the city and wanted Master Jack to 
 tell him where he could meet her. Master Jack refused. 
 There were hot words; and hot words generally end only 
 in one way, eh, Dick? and Master Jack got the blow that 
 has sped him on the way to the grave." 
 
 "And Masther Ned?" 
 
 " Has vanished and is not likely to return again." 
 
 " He's not much of a loss," said the old man. 
 
 "No-o!" said the gypsy. " He was a good young man, 
 a very good young man; and he had money, a little money, 
 just enough to buy and stock Crossfields." 
 
 "Crossfields? What the divil do you mane?" said Dick 
 Duggan, coming over and eyeing the dark face of the gypsy. 
 
 " Mean? " said Pete coolly. " I mean that Masther Ned 
 ■ — don't be so angr}% Dick, you'll have Crossfields yet — 
 I foretell it ! — wanted Kerins to sell out to him. He 
 offered him six hundred, and — Kerins would sell, but 
 then—" 
 
 He paused and left them eagerly expectant. 
 
 "But then the young lady wouldn't have him and he 
 flung up Crossfields, Rohira, and everything. You'll 
 never hear of him again!" 
 
 "Small loss!" said the old woman. 
 
 ''And a good riddance!" said her husband. 
 
 "Certainly in one way," said the gypsy, as if inter- 
 preting their thoughts, "for if, as might have happened, 
 Wycherly had secured Crossfields no power on earth 
 could wrest it from him. When men of his class get 
 hold of such things they hold on like bull-dogs. Now 
 Kerins is different. He has only the grip of a child or a 
 spaniel. Say, Drop it ! and he lets go. Say, Pass by that 
 girl an' don't let me catch you speaking to her again I 
 And 'tis done. " 
 
 Mib
 
 CORA BEWITCHED 355 
 
 "That's not the character he bears," said the old man. 
 " People say he's a black man and he knows how to use 
 his revolver." 
 
 Pete shrugged his shoulders and rose up to depart. 
 
 "That's because he's never met his match — I mean, 
 the man that would stand up to him and give him one 
 bad fright. If Ned Wycherly had been more lucky, he 
 could as easy get Kerins to clear out of Crossfields as I 
 could smoke a pipe. 'Tis a pity we haven't a gentleman 
 there instead of a skunk. And now I hear he's bringing 
 in the bonniest lass in the parish." 
 
 There was silence at these words. He had wrought 
 their tempers up to that point where speech is useless. 
 
 "Well, good night!" he said. "There's enough of us 
 to dance at the wedding." 
 
 He received no reply to the salutation, but went out 
 heedlessly into the darkness. He knew well he was fol- 
 lowed. The drawn face, and the gleaming eyes, and the 
 dry lips of Dick Duggan had not escaped his observation, 
 for unto that were all his cunning remarks directed. 
 
 He had not gone far when he heard his name called 
 huskily and cautiously. He turned round and waited. 
 
 "Did ye mane all that ye said, Pete, about the Yank?" 
 came the voice out of the darkness. 
 
 "Who's this? Oh, Dick! Did I mean what?" 
 
 "All you said about Kerins, damn you. You know 
 well what I mane." 
 
 "Oh, never mind," said the gypsy carelessly. "The 
 thing is settled now. It is too late to begin." 
 
 " Av I thought — " said Dick gloomily. But he stopped, 
 unable to frame his ideas into words. 
 
 "If you thought what?" said Pete encouragingly. 
 
 "Av I thought that Martha would have him, I'd think 
 no more of blowing out his brains than I would of shooting 
 a dog." 
 
 " That's foolish talk, Dick," said the gypsy. " First and 
 foremost, you have no firearms. Kerins saw after that 
 when he sent the pohce to search. Second, you would
 
 356 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 never have the courage to pull the trigger. Third, there's 
 the hangman's noose and 'tis a necktie one doesn't care to 
 wear again. Be said and led by me, Dick Duggan. Leave 
 Kerins alone. And, as for that girl (I saw him walking 
 with her yesterday down in the fields near her father's 
 house), well, there's many another in the parish; and where 
 are you going to bring her? Do you think she's going 
 to wait for you until she is a gray old woman?" 
 
 " Pete ! " said the dry tongue anxiously. 
 
 " Well. I must be off. The old woman will be sulky." 
 
 " They do be say in ', " said the dry voice in the darkness, 
 " that ye are all clearin' out soon — out av the ould castle. 
 Couldn't — couldn't the ould woman give the girl some- 
 thin' — somethin' — ?" 
 
 " You mean to drab her? " said the gypsy. 
 
 "Drab? What's 'drab'?" said -Dick. 
 
 "Why to 'drab' is to poison her. Why, of course, the 
 old woman knows all herbs — " 
 
 "I didn't mane that, you gypsy blagard," said Dick. 
 " An' you know I didn't mane it." 
 
 " What then did you mean?" said Pete. We're a law- 
 less lot enough, I suppose, so far as filching a chicken is 
 concerned, but we have kept our hands from blood. 
 That's only for Christians and gorgios." 
 
 "Begor, perhaps you're right," said Dick, afraid now 
 that he had gone too far, "although that isn't the char- 
 ackter ye bare. But sure I was only jokin'. I don't 
 care a thraneen for Crossfields; and, as for the girl, why, 
 there's as good fish in the say as ever was caught. An' 
 I'm dom glad it is wan of ourselves and not a shoneen 
 like Wycherly that houlds the ould place." 
 
 "Exactly," said Pete, moving away. "It only re- 
 mains now that Kerins should have you as best man. 
 I'll be speaking to him to-morrow or after and I'll tell 
 him how nice and friendly ye all are since ye heard of 
 his marriage." 
 
 The reply was lost in the darkness of the night and the 
 distance, but if Pete could smile, and he never did, he
 
 CORA BEWITCHED 357 
 
 would smile at the sudden change in Dick's manner. He 
 only tried to remember every word of their conversation 
 as he went along, and he commanded his daughter to 
 take down certain things on very dirty paper, as mnemon- 
 ics for future use. 
 
 "You have been riling that boy again," said the old 
 woman, as she leaned over the fire. 
 
 "No!" said Pete. "But on my honour, as an honest 
 Romany chal, I say 'tis a shame that this juggal should 
 win land and bride so easy." 
 
 "What is it to us, little father?" said his mother. 
 "What is it to us? It behooves us to think where we 
 shall pitch our tent next, for I tell you, these black walls 
 choke me and I pine for the wood and the heath and the 
 freedom of the Romany life. But, where shall we pitch 
 our tent, that is the question for us, and not whether 
 Dick will cut Kerins's throat or poison his wife that shall 
 be?" 
 
 "You are right, bebee," said Pete admiringly, "you arc 
 always right. But may not these things, too, help the 
 Romanys onward?" 
 
 "How? What to us are the squabbles of these folk? 
 We shall be far from here before these things are settled." 
 
 "You are always wise, bebee," said her son. "Could 
 we only get our legs loose from the mantrap now, and 
 enough to take us onward to the Romany camp and out 
 into the fields and mountains again, all would be well." 
 
 "Then, why not, Httle father?" asked the old woman 
 querulously. 
 
 " Because the little father is more likely to find himself 
 in the nashky," broke in the daughter, Cora. "I tell 
 ye, but ye will not heed, that the engroes are on the 
 prowl, and they are only waiting to get the leg as well as 
 the foot into the mantrap, before they snap the spring." 
 
 The old woman snarled and cursed the girl, who seemed 
 to find a certain delight in foretelling the ruin of her father. 
 But the girl was heedless. It didn't seem to matter 
 much to her.
 
 358 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Whence have you got your information?" asked her 
 father sternly. 
 
 "Pay me and I'll tell you!" she said. 
 
 The payment was the swish of his whip across the girl's 
 back. She swore and went out. 
 
 "The devil has some information," said the gypsy to 
 his mother. " But, if I can run in two or three bales 
 more, I'll say quit. It's an exciting but uncanny trade. 
 Ah, if that coward, Wycherly, had stood by me, what a 
 fortune we'd have made. I owe a grudge to that girl 
 for refusing him and to Kerins for keeping Crossfields." 
 
 "The clouds sank red to-night, little father," she said, 
 " and the planet was a blotch of blood in the sky. I see 
 strange figures moving down there in the valleys, where 
 the logs are burning. There are two coming up towards 
 each other out of the valley. And, look, the light has 
 died out now and there is darkness, but still I see them 
 moving slowly, as if driven on by fate. 'Sh! They 
 approach. They meet. Look ! One creeping spark is ex- 
 tinguished. The other moves on, on, on. Who are they? " 
 
 The girl, Cora, had come back and seemed to be listen- 
 ing intently. 
 
 "Duggan and Kerins, I suppose," he said carelessly, 
 "or Jack Wycherly and his nurse; or the old grandbee 
 and the bride that is to be. Did I tell you that Dick 
 wanted you to brew a love philtre for the girl? Yes! 
 Poor devil! 'Can Jude,' he said, 'brew something for 
 me?' These were his words, 'Can Jude brew something 
 forme?'" 
 
 "She can and she shall!" cried the girl, as if she were 
 suddenly bewitched and gone mad. "I'll brew the 
 philtre, yea, even I. 
 
 The Romany chi 
 And the Romany chal 
 Shall jaw tasaulor 
 To drab the bawlor, 
 And dook the gry, 
 Of the farming rve."
 
 CORA BEWITCHED 359 
 
 She went out singing and yelling into the night-air. 
 
 "The devil has got that girl," Pete said to his mother. 
 "(There's something strange the matter with her." 
 
 But the old woman hung silent above the fire, only 
 muttering : 
 
 " The time is come ! Let us go ! Let us go ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 A Dread Ordeal 
 
 During these sad days in the opening of the New 
 Year, Annie O'Farrell was torn asunder under the agony 
 of conflicting feelings. She had not openly disobeyed 
 her uncle, to whom she was so much indebted, but she 
 knew that he strongly disapproved of her visiting Rohira, 
 and that there was a strain in their relations towards 
 each other that might possibly widen into an open breach. 
 She went every day to see the lad, who was clearly under 
 sentence of death from the dread malady, and every day, 
 as she pulled on her gloves and left her home, she felt 
 she was giving great pain to her benefactor. Yet, she 
 argued, how can I do otherwise? I have adopted a pro- 
 fession, which demands a sacrifice of feelings where the 
 interests of suffering humanity are at stake. Would it 
 not be selfish, nay cruel, to refuse the little help and 
 sympathy I can render? She made up her mind on the 
 matter, and if she ever hesitated, that piteous look of the 
 stricken lad and his piteous cry " Annie!" would instantly 
 strengthen her resolve to do everything in her power to 
 relieve him. The gratitude of the old doctor, too, quaint 
 and strange in his manner, but always a gentleman, was 
 veiy touching. He said little, but by every sign and gesture 
 he made it clear that he appreciated deeply the solici- 
 tude with which this young and accomplished nurse 
 watched over her patient. He could not help noticing, 
 too, how completely differences of religion were kept out 
 of sight. There was but one guiding principle — kind- 
 ness, humanity, charity. One day when Annie was com- 
 ing into the room unexpectedly, she heard the old man 
 saying: 
 
 360
 
 A DREAD ORDEAL 361 
 
 "Oh, that God had given me such a daughter in ray 
 old age!" 
 
 She drew back the door gently and retired. But it 
 was enough to prove how deep, if unspoken, was the 
 grateful appreciation of her services in that Protestant 
 household. And yet it was only her strong spirit that 
 helped her to persevere in face of the tacit opposition 
 of her uncle, and the knowledge, conveyed to her in a 
 hundred ways, that " the people were talking about her." 
 
 As the days lengthened. Jack Wycherly was able to 
 release his nurse and even to resume in part his studies 
 at the hospital. But the cold of January, the icy showers 
 of sleet, and the biting of the air at night made it soon 
 evident that, if he were to escape death, he would have 
 to run for his life. The senior surgeon, who was so deeply 
 interested in him, peremptorily ordered him abroad, and 
 after a consultation with the other members of the staff, 
 all of whom liked the boy, it was decided that South Africa, 
 with its dry, warm climate, was the one place on earth 
 that gave hopes of arresting the ravages of the dread 
 disease. 
 
 He promptly decided to go, but dare he go alone? He 
 thought not. He was too weak, too depressed by his 
 illness to face the ordeal of an ocean voyage. And then 
 — suppose that this terrible hemorrhage should recur 
 whilst at sea? He decided he would not go unless some- 
 one accompanied him. Needless to say — that someone 
 was Annie. 
 
 It was pitiful during these days of doubt to see how 
 the poor boy would follow with his eyes the figure of 
 the girl, who now seemed indispensable to him, as she 
 flitted through the wards, apparently unconscious of his 
 anxiety; but in reality full of doubt and terror at the 
 thought that he might ask her to accompany him abroad 
 and that she would not refuse him. To his eager ques- 
 tion to the senior surgeon, whether he might travel alone, 
 the decided answer was given, " Most certainly not! You 
 dare not travel without a skilled nurse." And he had
 
 362 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 not concealed it. Two things then were clear. Jack 
 Wycherly was to leave Ireland for the Cape on the first 
 of February; and one of the hospital nurses was to accom- 
 pany him. Many of the latter were eager to go. The 
 novelty of the thing, the desire to see life, the pleasures 
 of ocean travel, the wish to improve themselves, and to 
 obtain larger knowledge of their profession, were excel- 
 lent reasons for wishing to go abroad; and yet it was 
 mutely understood that the dying boy cared but for one 
 to be his nurse, companion, and friend. Yet he hesi- 
 tated about asking her and the day of his departure was 
 drawing near. 
 
 One afternoon the senior surgeon bluntly asked him: 
 
 "Well, Wycherly, have you made all arrangements? 
 The sooner you get away from this infernal climate the 
 better." 
 
 It was a bitterly cold afternoon, showers of sleet beat- 
 ing against the windows and a fierce wind howling along 
 the streets and sweeping them free of pedestrians. 
 
 " Nearly all, sir," said Jack. " But I fear I cannot 
 manage about the nurse." 
 
 "Why?" said the doctor impatiently. "Expense, is 
 it?" 
 
 "No!" said the boy, with a blush spreading over his 
 pale, hectic face. " Father has actually secured cabins in 
 the ' Castle ' Line. But — " 
 
 Here he stopped and the blush grew deeper on his face. 
 
 "Well?" said the surgeon. "What else? Can't you 
 get the lady? I'd imagine they'd jump at the offer." 
 
 " I am afraid I cannot get the nurse I need most," said 
 the boy. 
 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 "Miss O'Farrell. She took charge of me the night of 
 my first hemorrhage and I have known her at home — " 
 
 "That's quite right," said the surgeon. "In your con- 
 dition you will need sympathy and the feeling of confi- 
 dence even more than skilful nursing. But why has 
 Miss O'Farrell refused? That was selfish of her."
 
 A DREAD ORDE.IL 363 
 
 ("I haven't asked her," said the boy. 
 
 "And why not? The time is closing in; she'll be de- 
 lighted to go. You don't expect she is going to proffer 
 tier services?" 
 
 "It is not that, sir!" said the boy. "But I'm afraid 
 she won't go and I don't like to risk a refusal. Besides, 
 if Miss O'Farrell won't come with me, I shall stay at 
 home to die." 
 
 " But — but," said the bewildered man of science. 
 "I cannot understand. Why should Miss O'Farrell 
 refuse to go? You say she's an old friend!" 
 
 "I'm sure she'd like to go," was the answer. "But 
 Miss O'Farrell is a Roman Catholic, and you know they're 
 very particular, very fastidious about the proprieties 
 and all that." 
 
 "Oh, d d nonsense!" said the irascible doctor. 
 
 "There's no question of propriety or fastidiousness with 
 us. We have to save human life — that's all ! " 
 
 "I'm afraid," said Jack, mournfully shaking his head. 
 " And then her uncle, her guardian, is a parish priest — 
 a great scholar and theologian and all that! But a 
 terrible stickler for law and the right thing and so on — 
 a kind of Catholic Puritan, you know." 
 
 "Of course, I see. But is Miss O'Farrell dependent 
 on him?" 
 
 "Partly. But she's deeply attached to him. And, if 
 she comes with me, it means war. He'll never see her 
 again. At least, I think that's what is in her mind." 
 
 "Well! well," said the surgeon. "The thing looks 
 blue. But I'd advise you, Wycherly, to face the matter 
 at once. Ask Miss O'Farrell, and if she doesn't consent, 
 then ask someone else. But clear away from this in- 
 fernal climate as soon as you can! Ugh!" 
 
 And the great man shuddered, as an icy blast threw 
 pellets of snow against the windows, and the little streams, 
 melting, flowed down and washed them clean. Probably 
 this poor, doomed lad never underwent such an ordeal 
 in his life as the one he faced that evening, when the
 
 364 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 doctors had departed and he felt that he had to settle 
 the matter finally, or decide to remain and die at home. 
 In that silent, thoughtful, melancholy way in which such 
 stricken souls move through the narrowing paths of life, 
 he crept through the corridors, hoping to meet the girl 
 on whose word his happiness now depended. He knew 
 well he was no longer a prepossessing figure. All his 
 masculine energy, which had created his masculine 
 beauty, had ebbed away and left him a wilted and washed 
 out skeleton. The great brown masses of auburn hair, 
 which had clustered and curled so proudly on his broad, 
 white forehead, were now matted heaps that fell down 
 but could not conceal the deep valleys in his temples. 
 His cheeks had fallen in, leaving the cheek-bones high 
 and prominent. His lips were blue and dry. His hands 
 were worn and lengthened; and his frame, shrunken and 
 emaciated, seemed but a skeleton on which his garments 
 were hung. He coughed slightly, always with the dread 
 accompaniment of his handkerchief to his lips. He felt 
 lonely, miserable, unhappy, dreading, yet seeking this 
 interview with the one being, who alone could shed upon 
 his desolate path a little ray of hope and love. 
 
 He walked up and down the long corridor of the hos- 
 pital under the gas-jets, watching and listening for the 
 opening of every door, in the hope that the one face and 
 figure he desired to see might appear. Now and again, 
 at the sound of a bell, a nurse would appear, glide swiftly 
 along the corridor, exchange a kind word with the stricken 
 student, and pass on. But to all appearances Annie 
 O'Farrell had vanished. Then he began to ask himself, 
 could he be mistaken, and was she on night duty. But 
 he knew this was not the case. At last he was about to 
 leave for his lodgings, when, on turning around, he came 
 face to face with the girl. 
 
 She said a little word of kindness, walked slowly by 
 his side a little distance, and was then about to pass 
 into another ward, when he arrested her with the one 
 word:
 
 A DREAD ORDE.\L 365 
 
 '"Annie!" 
 
 She stood still, re-arranging some utensils she held in 
 her hands, until he said: 
 
 "Would you spare me one moment and walk a few 
 steps with me?" 
 
 She at once turned around and slowly accompanied 
 the weak footsteps of the boy. He moistened his dry 
 lips and said with a tremor in his voice : 
 
 "Annie, you know I'm ordered abroad?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied, looking straight before her, not 
 daring to look at the white face that was now drawn 
 down with the pain of great anxiety. 
 
 " Would it be too much to expect — that is, would 
 you do me and father the favour — Annie, will you go 
 with me?" 
 
 She started violently, although she expected the ques- 
 tion, and then she said quietly: 
 
 " Impossible, Jack. I would do anything to help you, 
 but that is impossible." 
 
 "I expected to hear you say so," he replied gently but 
 sadly. " It was too much to hope for. I know all the 
 difficulties and I admit they are insurmountable. But 
 it was my last hope. I shall die at home now." 
 
 "Don't say that!" she cried, alarmed. "The doctors 
 give you a chance for life by ordering you abroad. I 
 know you need a nurse — a trained nurse, but any of 
 the nurses — Miss Fortescue, Miss Langton, Miss O'Reilly 
 — any of them will be delighted to be asked." 
 
 "Perhaps so!" he replied. "But I shall not go unless 
 you come with me!" 
 
 "Now, that's foolish nonsense, Jack," she said almost 
 impatiently. " I know it is the result of your weak con- 
 dition. The moment you are on board the steamer all 
 that will vanish and you know you can rely on any of 
 the nurses here." 
 
 "Of course," he said. "But my mind is made up. 
 You won't come?" 
 
 He coughed slightly, took out his handkerchief, drew
 
 366 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 it across his lips, and looked anxiously at it. The little 
 action touched her and she had to look away to hide 
 her tears. 
 
 " You know my difficulties, Jack," she said, secretly 
 wiping her eyes. " It is cruel — no, I don't mean that 
 — but it is unfair to press me. You know how my uncle, 
 old and blind, will feel; and then you know how those 
 wretched people down there will talk. It will kill him!" 
 
 "I know right well I'm selfish," he replied, "brutally 
 selfish, but I suppose it is my malady. But I have the 
 most positive assurances, Annie, from Doctor Stanihurst, 
 and you know he is at the head of his profession, that in 
 the public mind there is absolutely nothing indelicate, 
 or imprudent, in any skilled nurse accompanying a poor 
 devil that has been sentenced to death." 
 
 "Of course, that's true," said the nurse, "in the pro- 
 fession and amongst educated people. But you see. 
 Jack — you know the class of people my uncle has to 
 deal with and how their malice will twist and turn the 
 thing to account against him." 
 
 "But," he said more cheerfully, for he felt he was 
 gaining ground, "all wise people ignore the prejudices 
 of the lower classes. Otherwise, the world could not 
 go on. Surely we should not be influenced by the 
 prejudices of the ignorant." 
 
 "I suppose we ought not to be," she replied. "But 
 my uncle is a priest and has to live amongst his people; 
 and he must be careful in these days when people, he 
 says, are so critical." 
 
 "Perhaps! But somehow it seems to me, Annie, that 
 the Lord Christ did not heed these things very much 
 when He went about doing good." 
 
 The appeal was so unexpected that she could not reply. 
 
 "I know," he went on, "that a deeply religious girl 
 as you are, Annie, must be shocked at my mentioning 
 such a name at all. Of course, I have no more rehgion 
 than a cow, but the little I have learned has taught me 
 that. And, do you know, Annie, it is not altogether for
 
 A DREAD ORDEAL 367 
 
 irly own comfort I am begging you to come. But I know 
 I am doomed. I must die in South Africa or elsewhere; 
 and somehow I feel, you know, that I should want you 
 with me at the last. You could pray for me, or read for 
 me, and perhaps, when I go over, they won't shut the 
 door altogether against me, if you knock a little. Do, 
 Annie! Come! If the Lord Christ were here, He would 
 say. Go! You cannot refuse Him!" 
 
 The appeal was irresistible and she felt now that she 
 should accompany the doomed life and remain even unto 
 the end. But, although she knew that it was certainly 
 arranged, she felt it a duty to temporize and ease her 
 conscience. After a few seconds' thought, she said: 
 
 "You've put things in a new light, Jack. But, be- 
 cause you have done so, I must consult those who are 
 my own guides in matters of the kind. Give me a couple 
 of days and I'll let you know. But oh! I shall have a 
 frightful struggle with poor uncle. He'll never forgive 
 me!" 
 
 Her anguish appeared so acute that the boy's heart 
 was deeply touched and, gently laying his hand on her 
 arm whilst she turned away her head, he said: 
 
 "There! Let us hear no more about it, Annie! I'm a 
 perfect brute to torment you. And 'tis only for a few 
 weeks of life, more or less! I'm utterly ashamed of my- 
 self to have pressed you. I'll end the matter now. And 
 after all I can die happier at home." 
 
 But she shook her head. 
 
 "That cannot be," she said. "You must go to South 
 Africa and I must go with you. It is Destiny!"
 
 II 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 Nature and Law 
 
 She did not make light of the ordeal before her. She 
 had calculated everything; and yet it was only when she 
 stood face to face with her trial that she realized its 
 magnitude. 
 
 She consulted her confessor in the city next day, telling 
 him candidly all her doubts and fears. He was struck 
 at once by the singular fact that she made nothing of the 
 dangers and trials of travel in an unknown land, weighed 
 down and hampered by the burden of a helpless and 
 hopeless invalid, unused to the climate, and possibly be- 
 yond the reach of the most ordinary advantages of civi- 
 lized life. The thought had not occurred to her and she 
 brushed aside the difficulty. But on the question of 
 disobeying and even abandoning her uncle in his old age 
 and with his terrible infirmity, he was peremptory, and 
 sternly bade her to abandon the idea at once. 
 
 Almost in despair, she remembered the words of the 
 wrecked and broken student and she timidly asked: 
 
 "What would our Lord do? What would He say?" 
 
 He said coldly: 
 
 "I don't know. I am only judging by my own weak 
 lights and they are against your going away." 
 
 Then as a final refuge she asked: 
 
 " If I go, will it be a sin? Am I contravening the will 
 of God?" 
 
 And he decided that it might be rash, imprudent, un- 
 dutiful ; but she was of an age to decide her own future and 
 he could not say that it would be a sin. 
 
 Meanwhile a letter she had written to her little friend, 
 
 368
 
 NATURE AND LAW 369 
 
 ( 
 
 who was far away, hidden in the cold, rough cloisters of 
 her convent, praying and suffering for a sinful world, had 
 reached its destination and was the subject of anxious 
 prayer to this devoted soul. And like other saintly 
 spirits, she did not put her judgment to the rack, nor 
 torture her weak faculties by balancing arguments. But 
 she redoubled her austerities and sought light from the 
 only source whence it is attainable by poor mortals, 
 namely from that Supernal Wisdom that lends to feeble 
 reason the supreme power of ''right judgments and just 
 works." 
 
 Then after a day or two, and haVing obtained permis- 
 sion from her superior, she sat down and indited a long 
 letter to her friend, writing in a half conscious manner and 
 leaving herself almost passive in the hands of Him who, 
 she knew, would guide her aright. When she read the 
 letter over, she was rather surprised to find that she had 
 advised Annie to do what was heroic, rather than what 
 was prudent, although she thought she had sat down 
 with the intention of dissuading her from going abroad 
 and deserting her uncle. But she wound up the letter 
 with the one sentence that would exculpate her, if she 
 had proved an unwise counsellor: 
 
 " But in this, dearest Annie, and in all other perplexing 
 questions, there seems but one safe principle to follow; 
 and that is to seek the Will of God, which you may always 
 ascertain by asking what would our Lord do, or what 
 would He wish me to do under such or such circumstances. 
 As to the opinions of the world, they are not to be noticed 
 when the Finger of God points out a certain course. 
 There will be Pharisees to the end, and Vah! Vahs? 
 and wagging of heads. But the victory remains with 
 God and conscience!" 
 
 Here then were conflicting opinions; although the girl 
 felt that there was a singular coincidence in the veiy 
 words with which the Protestant lad appealed to her 
 charity and the words that came from the cloistered 
 CoUettine. But she felt now driven on, on, by some 
 25
 
 370 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 undefined impulse; and, although she had yet to face 
 the worst part of her trial in explaining her intention 
 to her uncle, her mind no longer wavered. She should 
 go! 
 
 The two, nurse and patient, travelled together to their 
 respective homes in the same railway carriage. His 
 father's brougham was waiting for him and he drove 
 Annie to her uncle's house. There, as they parted and 
 shook hands, she said: 
 
 "I have consulted my friends. Jack, and I'm going 
 with you. The sooner our preparations are made, the 
 better for us both." 
 
 He put her hand to his lips and said : 
 "God bless you! Give me one bare week. This day- 
 week we start together." 
 
 It was a sad week for the devoted girl, and yet her 
 decision, now with her strong character unalterable, 
 made the situation more tolerable. During the week 
 her uncle did not relax the severity of his manner towards 
 her. Cold and impassive and reserved, he received her 
 redoubled attentions with a frigid politeness that was less 
 tolerable than bursts of anger. And what she felt far 
 more keenly, the infirmity of almost total blindness had 
 reduced the old man to a condition of helplessness and 
 weakness that was very touching. Watching him gro- 
 ping his way by feeling along the edges of tables or the 
 bookcase; seeing him silently brooding over the fire these 
 dread winter days without the solace of books or other 
 companionship, save the visit of his curate to recite the 
 Divine Office with him; and thinking of his utter lone- 
 liness and abandonment when she, whom he expected to 
 be the prop of his declining years, had turned her back 
 upon him forever; her heart smote her with compassion 
 and remorse and her consciousness murmured: 
 
 " Yes, for an alien in race and religion, you are aban- 
 doning in his helplessness the man who took you into 
 his house when you were a helpless orphan, and who has 
 watched over you with fatherly interest all your life!"
 
 NATURE AND LAW 371 
 
 Coming on to the close of the appointed week, these 
 promptings became so urgent and oppressive that she 
 seemed almost like a distracted being; and once or twice 
 she had actually packed up her Httle belongings, deter- 
 mined to steal away from the house and save herself the 
 agony and shame of parting. But her pride, or native 
 strength of character, compelled her to abandon the idea 
 as cowardly. She should speak and reveal her determi- 
 nation, no matter what it cost. 
 
 It was the last evening before the day fixed for de- 
 parture and she knew she had to face the bitter ordeal 
 before the night closed down. She had spoken to Father 
 Liston in the afternoon when he had closed his daily visit 
 and told him all. He had not reassured her. 
 
 " Probably, if I were in the place of your director," he 
 said gravely, "I should have proffered the same advice, 
 because a director has to consider the spiritual interests 
 of the penitent at his feet and none other. But somehow, 
 if you were to consult me on the general principle — 
 whether it were greater or nobler to go abroad or to remain 
 at home — well, I shouldn't hesitate there. But your 
 uncle can take but one view of it — be prepared for that 
 — and it is not altogether the selfish one. But you know 
 what a stickler he is for law, for propriety, for the necessity 
 of avoiding the least thing that may disedify the ignorant; 
 and there he is relentless." 
 
 She only replied: 
 
 " May God help me. It is the hardest trial of my life." 
 
 And it was. 
 
 It was just after tea that she broached the subject to 
 her uncle. The meal had been suffered by both to pass 
 almost in silence, as if he had a foreboding that it might 
 be the last. Then, gulping down her emotion and sum- 
 moning all her strength, she said: 
 
 " I shall be leaving in the morning, Uncle, and I shall 
 not probably see you to bid you good-bye ! " 
 
 Something in her tone of voice struck him, for he raised 
 himself up into an attitude of attention.
 
 372 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 " You are going back to the hospital? " he said. 
 
 "No!" she rephed. "I am going to South Africa." 
 
 He started with surprise and was silent for a moment. 
 Then he said, as if anxious to reassure himself: 
 
 "You have got an appointment out there as nurse?" 
 
 "No!" she said. "Or rather, perhaps, I should say 
 yes! I am accompanying Mr. Wycherly as nurse. He is 
 ordered to South Africa, as the only chance of saving 
 his life. We both leave in the morning to catch the Cape 
 steamer in London." 
 
 He paused so long that she was beginning to hope that 
 he had taken the matter indifferently, but she was soon 
 undeceived. 
 
 " You see no impropriety in this? " he said. 
 
 " No, Uncle," she replied. " I thought you might object 
 on that ground, so I thought it well to get the fullest assur- 
 ance from our medical staff that it was strictly correct 
 and professional." 
 
 " Your medical staff!" he said, with the old fierce scorn 
 breaking through his apparent calm, "strictly 'correct' 
 and ' professional ' ! And do you think that your medical 
 staff can break through the commandments of God and 
 every instinct of propriety, which you are about to out- 
 rage?" 
 
 The scornful tone which he assumed was lucky for her, 
 because her own temper rose with it and she said : 
 
 " I am not aware that I am about to break any com- 
 mandment of God; and I cannot see the least impro- 
 priety in my accompanying a dying boy any more than 
 nursing him in his own house." 
 
 "I thought," he said with bitter sarcasm, "that I had 
 already conveyed to you my sense of the grave impro- 
 priety — the gross impropriety of which you have been 
 guilty in going to Rohira against my wishes, and exciting 
 the comments of the entire parish." 
 
 " You should have forbidden me, Uncle, to study for 
 the profession at first. You should have foreseen these 
 things. It is not fair to allow me to follow a profession
 
 NATURE AND LAW 373 
 
 and get qualified, and then step in with foolish scruples 
 to thwart me." 
 
 "Foolish scruples?" he cried, turning around until his 
 eyes seemed to bum her through the black spectacles. 
 " And do you mean to tell me that I weigh for one moment 
 the life of that boy, which, as you say, is already doomed, 
 with the scandal you will give to every member of my 
 flock? How can I face the people again? How can I 
 stand at God's altar, where I have denounced vice and 
 every occasion of vice until I had rooted out every possi- 
 bility of sin in my parish? Will not the people have a 
 perfect right to turn round and say: 'Physician, heal 
 thyself! You, who have never spared the feelings of 
 others, when sin was in question, now let us hear what 
 you have to say of your niece? She has eloped, run away 
 with that Protestant gentleman — ' " 
 
 "Uncle! Uncle!" cried the girl, her face crimson with 
 indignation and shame, "for shame! I never thought I 
 should hear such cruel, unjust, and uncharitable things 
 from your mouth. You know perfectly well it is not an 
 elopement — that there's not a single feature of anything 
 so base in it — that I am acting through a pure sense of 
 Christian charity and my duty as a hospital-nurse. 
 Nor do I believe that there is even one in the entire parish 
 that would look at it as you — as you — " 
 
 And here her womanly pride broke down and she sobbed 
 piteously. 
 
 He was not a man to be touched by such a scene; and, 
 even if he were, he felt so keenly that so great a principle 
 and law was at stake that he would be equally relentless. 
 
 " You are gravely mistaken," he said in a serious tone 
 not meant to be severe. " There is not one in this parish ' 
 that will either understand or condone what you purpose 
 doing. The guilt or innocence of the matter concerns 
 yourself. The scandal to my parishioners concerns me. 
 But there is no use in wasting words on such a subject. 
 You have made your decision. And this is mine." 
 
 He paused for a moment and began tapping the table,
 
 374 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 as if to measure his words by that mechanical action. 
 Then he continued: 
 
 " You leave this house on a mission that has neither 
 my sanction nor consent. You cannot return here ever 
 again. The choice is not mine. It is your own. I cannot 
 even seem to condone what I regard as a grave scandal. 
 Furthermore, I do not wish to hear from you ever 
 again — " 
 
 "Uncle!" pleaded the sobbing girl, but she could go 
 no further. 
 
 He rose up and groped his way to the bookcase and, 
 taking out a bunch of keys, he opened a bureau and took 
 out a cash-box, which he placed on the table and opened. 
 He groped and extracted a bundle of notes, which he 
 counted and placed on the table, laying his hand on them, 
 
 "I had kept these few pounds in reserve for you, that 
 you might not be penniless at my death. But as this is 
 death, for henceforth you are dead to me — " 
 
 "Uncle, uncle, stop, stop, or you'll kill me," said the 
 poor girl, flinging herself on her knees before him. " Oh, 
 you're a cruel, cruel man! You have no heart, no feeling 
 for anyone. Oh, for God's sake, take back your money 
 and give me — give me your blessing!" 
 
 She leaned her arms on the table and her head on her 
 hands, and the tears rained hotly through her fingers. 
 Then Nature woke within him and, although he was inex- 
 orable, he felt deeply touched. 
 
 "Sit down," he said, "and listen to me!" 
 
 She rose from her kneeling position and sat down, 
 though she well knew it was only the prolongation of her 
 agony. 
 
 He again tapped the table gently with his hands and 
 said rather gently: 
 
 " Five or six years ago, it matters not which, I received 
 a letter from a priest in Chicago to the effect that my 
 sister had just died and left an orphan girl to my charge. 
 I had not parted from that sister in a very friendly way 
 and had not heard from her for years. And I was a lonely,
 
 f NATURE AND LAW 375 
 
 solitary man, accustomed to quietness and solitude and 
 finding society of any kind irksome. I wrote promptly 
 to that priest to the effect that under no circumstances 
 could I receive the orphan girl into my house; that it 
 was against our statutes to do so; but that out of my 
 limited means I would provide amply for her education 
 in America. I posted that letter without a misgiving, 
 but to make my conscience more at rest I consulted an 
 old woman, a saint in the parish, as to what I had done. 
 She was one of those rare characters who see things from 
 eternity, and she answered at once that I had done rightly, 
 adding that a priest's relatives were the flock that God 
 committed to his care, and that any solicitude withdrawn 
 from them and given to his relations in the flesh was so 
 much taken from God, for which God would exact a cor- 
 responding retribution. I was quite at ease, therefore, in 
 my mind until that Christmas eve, when you, Annie, 
 unexpectedly arrived. I don't know if I betrayed my 
 feelings, but you were decidedly unwelcome — " 
 
 ** You couldn't have been kinder. Uncle," said Annie in 
 her tears. 
 
 "Then I must have prevaricated, for I foresaw that 
 my peace of mind, along with my beloved solitude, was 
 banished forever. But," he continued after a pause, 
 "that was but a momentary feeling. Soon, very soon, 
 I saw in you, Annie, only a ray of sunlight shot by a 
 merciful Providence athwart the gloom of my declin- 
 ing years. I saw in your disposition, your talents, your 
 firmness of character the very ideal of all that an old, 
 forsaken man could dream of as a prop and support for 
 my old age; and I said to myself that my remaining 
 years would be brightened and blessed by your presence, 
 and that my growing infirmity, which I knew could only 
 end in total blindness, would at least be alleviated by 
 such help as a bright, inteUigent girl alone could give." 
 
 He paused again and every word was rankling, like an 
 arrow, in the soul of the girl. 
 
 "But now I know that all that was sin and that it
 
 376 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 should bear its retribution. I broke the law, and the 
 law has its inevitable revenge. Instead of leaning on 
 God in my old age and under the burden of many sorrows, 
 I sought strength and support in a creature. And, as 
 is usual in all such cases, I have leaned on a broken reed. 
 I am abandoned and deceived." 
 
 "Uncle, Uncle!" said the poor girl, "these are hard 
 sayings. How have I deceived you? You made no 
 objection to my adopting a profession. You should not 
 object now to my following it. Besides, it is only a few 
 weeks — at most a few months. Mr. Wycherly cannot 
 live long and I shall be at liberty in any case to return 
 home when I see him firmly and safely established in 
 Africa — " 
 
 "If you mean by returning home, that you shall be 
 at liberty to come under my roof again, I say most em- 
 phatically, Never!" 
 
 And he brought down his clenched hand heavily on 
 the table. 
 
 "I," he continued fiercely, "I, who have ostracized 
 and banished from this parish for twenty-five years 
 everyone that offended against public decency, I say 
 that you shall never darken my door again, or give occa- 
 sion to the impious to blaspheme God." 
 
 She rose up and went to the door. His voice arrested 
 her. 
 
 "Mind," he said, "there is no passion or resentment 
 in what I have said. But Law is Law and I, its repre- 
 sentative. Let us not part in anger, Annie! Come 
 hither!" 
 
 She approached the table again and he pushed the pile 
 of notes toward her. 
 
 "Take these," he said. "They are no use to me and 
 they were intended for you. You will need them." 
 
 "I am in no need of money," she replied. "But I 
 dread a long voyage without your forgiveness. Uncle, 
 can't you relent and forgive? Surely our Lord would not 
 approve — ? ' 
 
 I >>
 
 ^ NATURE AND LAW 377 
 
 She hesitated, but he caught at the word. 
 
 *'No! He would never approve of your conduct and 
 your action. Go and leave me alone ! " 
 
 She went weeping to her room, where she passed a 
 sleepless and sorrowful night. And it was only the loud 
 chiming of the clock at midnight on his mantelpiece in 
 the dining-room that woke up the old man from his 
 reverie. He turned down the lamp, lighted his candle, 
 and groped his way upwards to his bedroom. He never 
 closed his eyes in sleep until the gray dawn was breaking 
 and, therefore, he could not have heard a light footfall 
 stopping outside his door in the early morning, or the 
 sound of sobbing, as the girl knelt and put her lips to 
 the panels of the door. 
 
 Outside in the cold, icy atmosphere of a January morn- 
 ing the brougham was waiting and the coachman had 
 already hoisted her luggage on the top. Jack Wycherly, 
 looking wan and pinched and miserable, even though he 
 was wrapped to the eyes in furs, put out one bony hand 
 and clasped the soft fingers of his nurse, as he drew her 
 into the carriage. She turned away her face after the 
 first greeting, but he saw that she had been weeping. 
 
 "Annie," he said. "I know what a sacrifice you are 
 making. But God will reward you." 
 
 In an hour they were in the train, speeding fast toward 
 the South.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 The Great Artist Again 
 
 The marriage of Kerins to Martha Sullivan was cele- 
 brated with much pomp and expense. The whole Clan- 
 Sullivan and their gossips and neighbours were gathered 
 together, not only for the ceremony and the fun and feast- 
 ing, but also as a demonstration of strength and as a warn- 
 ing to all whom it might concern that henceforth and 
 forever Kerins had allied himself with first-rate powers in 
 the parish, and that an offensive and defensive alliance 
 was now solemnly made, which would be opposed only at 
 the peril of the offenders, 
 
 Kerins had brought home his bride after the festivities, 
 and, having furnished his house at some expense, he was 
 anxious to reciprocate the hospitality of his wife's friends 
 and also to show them that it was not to a cold and inhos- 
 pitable hearth he had brought her. 
 
 It was on the twenty-ninth of January, the evening 
 after Annie O'Farrell and her patient had left for South 
 Africa, that the "house-warming" took place. And it 
 was so complete and the hospitality was so profuse, that 
 it was regarded as a second wedding. Spring-chickens 
 were not to be had, but a few fat turkeys, left over after 
 the Christmas holocaust, were ruthlessly sacrificed, and 
 there was salt meat enough boiled for the whole parish. 
 Vast currant-cakes were ordered up, too, from the neigh- 
 bouring town; there were several dozens of bottled porter 
 and, as a piece de resistance, a keg or cask, containing ten 
 gallons of good Cork whiskey. It was none of your well- 
 watered, washy, pale, and limpid whiskeys either, but 
 rich, brown, sherry-looking liquor that gripped your 
 
 378
 
 THE GREAT ARTIST AGAIN 379 
 
 fhroat and warmed you, inside and outside, and made 
 you at peace, at least for a while, with all mankind. The 
 big barn was cleared for dancing and there were two 
 fiddlers up from the town, although the boys and girls 
 had brought concertinas and accordions enough to make 
 an oratorio. 
 
 Before the short, wintry day had closed in some of 
 the Sullivans had again "walked" the farm, although 
 they had been careful to do so before the match was 
 made. But, when men make a good bargain, they like 
 to reassure themselves that all is right. And so they 
 passed from field to field, measuring the fecundity of 
 each and speculating on the cattle and the sheep that 
 were yearning with their young. When the night fell 
 the fun commenced, and the central power whence all 
 the pleasure radiated was the bright young girl, who had 
 assumed the duties and responsibilities of the household. 
 She was one of those bright, cheery, handsome young 
 girls, who, self-forgetful and unspoiled, seemed created 
 to make everyone happy around her; and this night, 
 when she appeared for the first time as queen and mis- 
 tress of the place, she threw all her energies into the 
 task of making it a memorable occasion by reason of 
 the splendid hospitahty that was being dispensed. There 
 were good wishes galore, too, shed around her, although 
 there were also little hints and suggestions that it was a 
 shame to throw away such a fine young creature on such 
 an old and outworn husband as Kerins. Of course, 
 this, too, was an exaggeration, for Kerins was not old, 
 only in the prime of life, and he was by no means outworn, 
 because he was knit together in nerve and muscle, a 
 hard-grained, coarse, but by no means vulgar man. He 
 followed his young wife with eyes of admiration during 
 all the many events of that long night; and he thought 
 from what an abyss of misery he had been saved by the 
 intervention of the young priest, who had taken him in 
 hand and drawn him back from drink and destitution 
 to which he had been rushing headlong.
 
 380 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Father Liston for many reasons was invited and came 
 to the entertainment. He was pleased to have been in- 
 strumental in placing this poor fellow on his feet and in 
 bringing together certain elements in the parish, which 
 might have been mutually hostile. For now, owing to 
 the blindness of the pastor and his advancing age, Henry 
 Liston found the entire burden of the administration of 
 the parish devolving on his shoulders and he braced him- 
 self to the task by prayer and work, that seemed to be 
 without intermission. 
 
 At the supper, which was held about nine o'clock, 
 although there had been various refreshments dispensed 
 throughout the evening, he thought it his duty to make 
 a little speech, in which he foretold all kinds of happi- 
 ness for the newly-wedded pair, and long years of such 
 buoyant health and increasing prosperity as might excite 
 the emulation, but not the envy of their neighbours. 
 
 He was going on gaily, quite pleased with his own elo- 
 quence, when his eye caught suddenly the sight of the 
 great artist and actor, Delane, who was slowly wiping 
 the froth of bottled porter from his moustache and calmly 
 gazing around the table with his old look of superiority 
 and superciliousness. The young priest, wondering 
 what brought the fellow there and still under the spell of 
 his assumed superiority, lost the thread of his speech, 
 and, after stammering and faltering a little, he sat down. 
 There were thunders of applause, of course, and a second 
 speech, and a third, which, if not very grammatical and 
 consecutive, were at least pretty warm and cordial. A 
 few songs, sentimental and patriotic, closed the ceremony 
 of supper, and the company at once adjourned to the 
 barn. 
 
 Henry Liston was watching the opportunity of speak- 
 ing to the " melancholy Dane" and it came soon, because, 
 whilst the others seemed anxious for such frivolities as 
 dancing, Delane clung to the more substantial pleasure 
 of drinking. It was clear that so long as the bottled 
 porter lasted, so long would he cling to his place at the
 
 THE GREAT ARTIST AGAIN 381 
 
 table. He had one or two boon companions with him, 
 to whom he could dispense the riches of his great intellect, 
 and he was happy. For there is no happier man than 
 such as he, who, surrounded by a circle of admirers, is 
 permitted to drink without interruption and talk with- 
 out contradiction. 
 
 When Henry approached, the admiring audience melted 
 away, much to Delane's chagrin, and it was with some 
 little pique he said, in answer to Henry's abrupt interro- 
 gation, "What brought you here, Delane? You're the 
 last man I expected to see at such a rural feast " : 
 " I am here, sir, in the pursuit of my profession." 
 The little word "rural," however, seemed by some 
 subtle flattery to suggest that he was quite above such 
 things, but was there as a matter of condescension, for 
 he added: 
 
 "My work was really completed, but, by request, I 
 remained." 
 
 "But surely," said Henry in all sincerity, "you had 
 no work to do here? I can hardly imagine you engaged 
 in a farmer's house." 
 
 " Ah, there again," said Delane. " You appear, sir, to 
 have some unhappy talent for touching me where I am 
 most sensitive." 
 
 Henry protested his utter and entire innocence of any 
 desire to give the great man offence. But the great man 
 only shook his head mournfully. 
 
 " It is a fatal gift that some people have," he said, " of 
 always treading on the most sensitive nerve in the con- 
 stitution of others, but where is the use of complaining? 
 Where?" 
 
 He was so melancholy that Henry would have dis- 
 continued the conversation and gone away, but he knew 
 that the artist would develop. 
 
 " You have expressed some surprise, sir," said he, after 
 a deep draught of porter, " at my appearing in my capac- 
 ity as artist amid such humble surroundings, but you 
 must remember that even greater than I painted frescoes
 
 3^ THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRA^ir 
 
 on the walls of monastic cells and on the panels of sac- 
 risties. True, I have been sent here, commissioned by 
 the young lady, to whom you have referred this evening 
 in such eloquent, but perhaps more or less injudicious 
 terms, to decorate what she is pleased to call her draw- 
 ing-room — " 
 
 He stopped, bent his head on his hands, and moaned: 
 
 "Good God! To think that I, the student of Raffaelle 
 and Titian, should have to daub in red and ochre the cup- 
 boards of a farmer's house! Can anyone say after this 
 that the age in which we live is not an age of utter degrada- 
 tion and abasement?" 
 
 It appeared so sad to the young priest that he offered 
 his respectful sympathies and condolences, but asked for 
 further explanations. He was at a loss to know how such 
 an artist could be employed in such vulgar work. 
 
 "You see," said Delane, "that in former days some 
 persons of position may have occupied this place; and 
 they had some taste beyond their times, because they 
 had the panels of their doors decorated by what they 
 considered landscape paintings. The daubs are abso- 
 lutely unearthly — no perspective, no proportion — a 
 swallow, not bigger than a honey-bee, is in the foreground 
 and a sea-gull as big as a gander is in the far offing of 
 the sea. There are green rocks, red rocks, yellow rocks; 
 blue waves, red waves, yellow waves; a boat is heeling 
 over in a position that no boat ever yet assumed without 
 losing its centre of gravity. But I weary you. Suffice 
 it to say that this young woman, ambitious I suppose, 
 wants all this done over again and — in the same style. 
 Imagine my feelings when I am compelled for base lucre 
 to paint a sky like a kitchen and a sunset like a circus- 
 wagon. I who might have been Salvator Rosa and Claude 
 Lorraine in one, if the Fates had allowed!" 
 
 He stooped his head in an attitude of melancholy, but 
 immediately added: 
 
 "I beg pardon. I am always betraying myself. Of 
 course, you have never heard of Rosa and Lorraine."
 
 THE GREAT ARTIST AGAIN 383 
 
 ^ "A little," said Henry Listen. "But you said my 
 remarks a few minutes ago were injudicious. How?" 
 
 "Good heavens, sir," said the artist, "is it possible 
 you didn't perceive that you made every girl in the room 
 green with envy, and every man henceforth a sworn 
 enemy of this peasant, Kerins? If you didn't perceive 
 it, the young lady herself did. I never saw such care 
 and melancholy written on the human countenance be- 
 fore. It was Mrs. Siddons posing for Tragedy, but of 
 course, you never heard of Siddons?" 
 
 "A little," said the young priest, moving away in a 
 thoughtful mood, to the intense relief of the great artist, 
 who instantly gathered around him again his more obse- 
 quious audience, to whom he said with an accent of 
 infinite pity and contempt: 
 
 "You noticed that httle passage of arms? It was a 
 complete rout. He threw down his arms and fled. A 
 most unsophisticated young gentleman! There is no 
 greater greenhorn than a young clerical person, unless 
 it be one of these peasant people. But then sometimes 
 they develop into a truculent old savage like this young 
 person's parish priest — a real, downright, undiluted 
 Bashi-Bazouk, who knows no more about Art than a 
 cow about a hohday, and who probably thinks that 
 Michael Angelo was a country fiddler." 
 
 "I wish he heard you," said one of the audience, but 
 sotto voce so as not to offend the great man. 
 
 "Heard me?" said the latter. "Yes, he did and saw 
 me. And he is not likely to forget it. I heard he took 
 to his bed very soon after my interview with him and that 
 he has lost his eyesight." 
 
 "So he has! That's true!" was the confirmation of 
 several. 
 
 "I'm sorry," said the artist loftily. "But when you 
 provoke genius, you must take the consequences. If 
 you stare at the sun, what's the result?" 
 
 "Why, you run blind, of course," was the reply. 
 
 "Precisely," said the artist.
 
 384 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 It was quite true, however, what the rascal had said 
 about the young bride and mistress of the revels that 
 night. Instead of being exalted by the praises of the 
 young priest, she seemed to have been drawn by his 
 remarks into a pensive mood that sat perhaps on her 
 features even more pleasantly than smiles or laughter, 
 but yet was an indication that beneath the riotousnoss 
 and hilarity of the evening she saw some reasons for 
 sadness — regret for the past, or apprehensions for the 
 future? It was both. Some words the young priest 
 had dropped inadvertently seemed to waken up echoes 
 from a not distant past, when she was all but affianced 
 to another. And, though Dick Duggan was not an 
 Adonis, yet he was twenty years younger than her hus- 
 band, and he was a bluff, blundering, truculent fellow, 
 but yet possessed of that fierce animal courage that will 
 always appeal to the imagination of the young. Not 
 that she regretted what she had done, but these rays 
 of darkness will shoot out from the past and trouble the 
 felicities of the present. She had not met Dick Duggan, 
 nor any of the family, since her marriage. She rather 
 shunned them. But yet this night, when, surrounded 
 by friends and honoured as the queen of these festivities, 
 she felt she had reached the summit of human happiness, 
 a little remorse for her former lover would creep in, and 
 with it, a half-stifled yearning to see him and make a 
 reparation of words to him. The desire seemed to grow 
 stronger in the heart of the girl as the night waxed and 
 the fun grew more furious; and at length, going into the 
 kitchen for some domestic purpose, she chanced to see 
 Cora, the gypsy girl, in a corner, mute, silent, in her 
 favourite attitude of listening — knees bent up and elbows 
 resting on them and her head resting on her hands, and 
 after a while, she beckoned to the girl and went out. 
 
 In gloomy contrast with the light and the fun and the 
 festivities in Crossfields, the cottage where the Duggans 
 resided was sunk in darkness and suUen misery that
 
 THE GREAT ARTIST AGAIN 385 
 
 knight. The family were grouped around the fire, so 
 despondent and enraged that not a word broke the silence. 
 The men smoked and looked at the fire. The women 
 bent forward in melancholy meditation. The sounds of 
 the fiddles, sometimes the echo of a song, and sometimes 
 the pattering of feet crept now and again to their ears 
 to redouble their despondency. 
 
 Late that night and just as they were thinking of retir- 
 ing, the latch of the door was suddenly and unceremo- 
 niously lifted, and Cora, the gypsy girl, without a word 
 of apology, came in, and uninvited took a seat near the 
 fire. For a few moments not a word of greeting or in- 
 quiry was uttered; and then the old man, taking the pipe 
 from his mouth and pointing over his shoulder, said: 
 
 "You have been over there?" 
 
 "Yes!" she said, carelessly looking round and studying 
 the faces that seemed so weird and haggard in the red light 
 of the peat-fire, "There's a goodly gatherin' over there!" 
 
 "And plenty of fun?" 
 
 "Yes. Hark! That is the dancing in the bam. It 
 is a gay scene." 
 
 " I guess their ceol will be changed into keening before 
 long," said Dick Duggan savagely. 
 
 The girl tried to catch his eye and beckon to him, but 
 failed. He was too preoccupied with his savage thoughts. 
 
 "I hope Mr. Wycherly will survive the voyage!" said 
 the gypsy girl meaningly. 
 
 "What voyage? Is he gone?" was the query all 
 round. 
 
 "Yes. He departed for the Cape yesterday morning, 
 but he didn't go alone." 
 
 "Of course, not," said the old woman. "The poor 
 boy couldn't never bear the journey; and I believe 'tis 
 as far away as America." 
 
 "No!" said the girl, looking at the fire and apparently 
 speaking to herself. " He took a companion — a wife, 
 I should say. The parish priest's niece eloped with 
 him." 
 
 26
 
 386 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 The whole family sprang to their feet. Crossfields 
 was forgotten. With savage glee, Dick Duggan said: 
 
 "Divil a betther! I wondher will we hear anything 
 from the althar now? Divil a betther thing happened 
 for many a long day." 
 
 "She couldn't have betther luck," said his sister, who 
 shared the brother's hatred toward the girl. 
 
 "Is it gone abroad a-yet?" said Dick eagerly. 
 
 "Well, 'tis known down along the valley," said Cora. 
 " It's in the mouths of all the people." 
 
 " 'Tis a lie for you, you young hussy," said the old 
 woman in a furious temper. " Get out of me house, ye 
 young haythen, an' never darken the door agen. 'Tis 
 a black day, whin the likes of you can blacken the char- 
 ackther of ivery dacent person in the parish." 
 
 The gesture that accompanied the words was unmis- 
 takable. The girl coolly rose and, as she passed Dick, 
 she gently plucked his coat and vanished in the darkness. 
 He understood and followed. 
 
 "You're stupid," she said. "I beckoned to you and 
 you wouldn't see. You're wantin' over there!" 
 
 "Over where?" he said, mystified and incredulous. 
 
 "Over there!" she said, pointing to Crossfields. "Go 
 down by the ploughed field and into the screen near the 
 house and wait." 
 
 "But who wants me and for what?" he asked. 
 
 "The young missus. She will speak to you herself," 
 said the girl; and so silently she vanished that it was 
 some time before he knew he was alone.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 The Brothers Meet 
 
 High up on the mountain slopes of Kaffraria, within 
 view of the great mountain range of the Drakensberg, 
 and in a little village where a few whites resided and a 
 great many Kaffirs, Jack Wycherly and his nurse had 
 taken up their residence. He had picked up great 
 strength on his sea-voyage and all the terrible depression 
 that was consequent on his illness seemed to have left 
 him, when the good ship "The Dunrobin Castle," after 
 surmounting the huge seas and the fierce tempests of 
 the Bay of Biscay, glided into more tranquil ocean- 
 spaces, and the breezes from the south, laden to the eager 
 imagination of the invalid with healing warmth and the 
 odour of tropical spices, stole over the sunny waters and 
 lingered from dawn to dark. After the first week, he 
 spent all his time, day and night, on deck, sometimes 
 walking up and down the long narrow passages, more 
 often reclining in his hammock, that was swung under 
 the eaves of the upper deck and thus sheltered from sun 
 and rain. He was the object of respectful sympathy 
 during the three weeks' voyage to the Cape; and his 
 nurse, sometimes taken for his sister, sometimes for his 
 wife, received the most unvarying courtesy from captain, 
 crew, and passengers. This became even more pro- 
 nounced, when a little halo of romance was thrown 
 around her, and it became known that she had sacri- 
 ficed a good deal through a spirit of devotion toward 
 the stricken and dying boy. 
 
 They had been advised by experienced persons to go 
 as far up the country and as far inland as possible; and 
 
 387
 
 388 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 hence, instead of remaining at Capetown, they went dn 
 to a further port, East London, whence they plunged 
 at once into the wilderness of veldt and brush and kloof. 
 Their destination now was Aliwal North, a station on 
 the very borders of the Orange River Colony, where the 
 rainfall was comparatively little, and the temperature 
 even, and the air dry and bracing. But the sudden 
 strength acquired during the sea-voyage seemed to have 
 ebbed away in the heat and moisture of the coast; and 
 they closed their journey by breaking off at Amabele Junc- 
 tion and making for the little village of Butterworth. 
 
 Here, in a kind of shanty, half-hotel, half-store, and 
 combining post-office, newspaper depot, saloon, etc., they 
 found themselves at first located. But the ebbing 
 strength of the boy made him irritable and impatient 
 of noises, and nervously susceptible to such inconven- 
 iences as will arise from a mixed and not highly-civilized 
 community. And, after a few weeks, he changed to 
 an improvised sanatorium, hastily constructed by the 
 willing hands of the natives. It was made of shingle, 
 roofed with corrugated iron, that seems to be the most 
 attainable and useful commodity in South Africa, but 
 it was so placed that the thick foliage of the trees sheltered 
 the roof from the burning sun and from the tropical 
 rains when they came. Annie remained at the hotel, 
 visiting her patient several times a day and ministering 
 to his ever-increasing wants. Here she was brought 
 into contact with the most diverse specimens of humanity 
 — Bushmen, Hottentots, Griguas, Zulus, Basutos, Boers, 
 and tribesmen, English speculators, and Dutch veldts- 
 men, Cambridge M.A.'s and Hooligans from the East 
 End of London. But somehow the savageries of civili- 
 zation seemed to have toned down into a broader spirit 
 of humanity, as there was more equality of condition 
 and community of interests. And over this motley 
 commonwealth, Annie O'Farrell assumed in an incredibly 
 short space of time a kind of queenship, undesired, but 
 in its own way delightful to the lonely girl.
 
 THE BROTHERS MEET 389 
 
 For now, at night, when the heavy odours of the masses 
 of arum HHes, that grew in thick profusion down in the 
 deep valleys by the wady, where the kraals of the natives 
 were pitched, came up on the night- wind and filled her 
 little chamber, and the scream of the jackal and the harsh 
 cries of the prowling Cape tiger awoke the echoes along 
 the silent, moonlit street, the thoughts of the young girl 
 would wander back to the lonely old man, sitting sight- 
 less by his fireside, alone with his own thoughts, and 
 these thoughts, she surmised, were bitter. What had 
 happened? Was there grave scandal given to these 
 primitive people; or had they intelligence enough to 
 understand the mission of mercy on which she had staked 
 home and happiness, life, and even reputation? What 
 was said of her at the hospital? Quite true, there was 
 nothing in the least irregular in what she had done. 
 Every day young nurses wont forth to carry their knowl- 
 edge and skill to bedsides, where the old and young, the 
 rich and poor, had to submit to the inexorable law of 
 suffering. But still there was something peculiar in 
 her case; and how would it be interpreted? And the 
 long wail of the jaguar would echo from the veldt as 
 the only answer; and the brilliant southern moon would 
 throw its gold across the white counterpane of her bed; 
 and she would drop to sleep to find broken answers to 
 her questions in strange and inharmonious dreams. 
 
 During the day such thoughts troubled her but little. 
 Three or four times before dinner she would have to 
 visit her patient and take to him from the kitchen of 
 the saloon such little delicacies as she could procure. 
 Then she had to tidy up his cabin, arrange his hammock, 
 read for him, chat with him. And when she was not 
 engaged there very often she was summoned to the 
 bedside of some poor miner, who was stricken down 
 with disease and drink; and by her soothing and simple 
 ways she tried to exorcise the devils that a poisoned or 
 diseased imagination had called up. But more often 
 she found herself down amongst the native kraals,
 
 390 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 where the magnificent physique with which Nature had 
 largely endowed her children had been ruined or impaired 
 even by such slender contact with civilization. Yea, 
 the very vices and diseases of modern life had crept 
 into the very sanctuary of the great Mother; and it was 
 no unusual sight for Annie to see some black Hercules 
 struggling in the throes of delirium tremens, or some 
 Venus in ebony gasping under the suffocation of pneu- 
 monia or diphtheria, names and things unknown among 
 the native hills. 
 
 But her tender and affectionate solicitude, dictated by 
 a kind heart and Christian charity, struck home to the 
 hearts of these poor creatures; and in a short time she 
 was to them their "white queen," enthroned and crowned 
 by their gratitude. 
 
 One day when she was reading under the thick shade 
 of the palms that sheltered the little bungalow or tent 
 where Jack Wycherly was gasping out the feeble remnants 
 of his life, he stopped her suddenly and said : 
 
 "Annie, turn down the leaf there and let us talk." 
 
 "You mustn't talk too much, Jack," she said. "It 
 is distressing and — " she stopped a moment, fearing 
 to alarm him — " you know we cannot get ice or ergo- 
 tine here." 
 
 He understood what she meant, but he went on. 
 
 "I have lost all fear now. The sight of these poor 
 savages and the still more savage whites that are here 
 has reconciled me to death. I want to get away from 
 all this horrible animalism. I can't make out why I 
 clung so fiercely to such a wretched life." 
 
 "Everyone clings to life. It is quite natural," she 
 said simply. 
 
 "Yes, but why? This is what tortures me. I had 
 no idea we were so near the brutes until I came here 
 and saw nature in all its nakedness. It is horrible. 
 I'm dying to die — to get away from all the horror of 
 living." 
 
 "That is morbid. Jack," she said. "And besides, life
 
 THE BROTHERS MEET 391 
 
 is but the outer porch of eternity. You believe in the 
 soul and in God, Jack, don't you?" 
 
 It was the first time she had spoken to him of religion 
 and she did so with all that strange reluctance and half- 
 shame that Catholics feel on such occasions. 
 
 "I didn't believe in Him till I knew you, Annie," he 
 replied. " I believe in Him now." 
 
 The words struck her silent, but he went on: 
 
 "You mustn't mind what a poor devil with one foot 
 in the grave is saying, Annie. But you have brought 
 back to me all that I had ever learned in my childhood 
 about religion and all that I had forgotten in science. 
 It is hard to help thinking when you are probing, and 
 cutting, and tearing open the human mechanism that 
 it is all but a piece of chemistry, animated, of course, but 
 still a chemical compound and no more. But when one 
 sees you and such as you, the question will arise. Whence 
 came all this goodness and truth, and mercy and love? 
 Phosphorus and lime and iron don't possess these things. 
 There is some other principle containing them all, and 
 in perfection; and that is God. There, Annie, see what 
 a controversialist you are without ever opening your 
 lips on religion to me." 
 
 "I think. Jack," she said after a pause, "it would be 
 well if you allowed me to read something for you and to 
 pray for you, as there is no minister of your religion here." 
 
 "The very thing I was going to ask," he said. "But 
 I was shy. And I think I must make my will also. The 
 sands are running out fast." 
 
 And so that afternoon and several times a day from 
 that day forward she read for him chapter after chapter 
 of the New Testament and the Imitation of Christ alter- 
 nately; and a great change seemed to come over him, so 
 gentle and so resigned, so patient and forbearing he 
 became. 
 
 It was about a week after this conversation that, 
 waking up one afternoon in his hammock and finding 
 Annie ever watchful near him, he said abruptly:
 
 392 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "I wonder who is this Ba-as! as the natives call him, 
 about whom they are always speaking." 
 
 "I cannot say," said Annie, who was more solicitous 
 about her patient than eager to hear the gossip of the 
 place. "Some rancher, I suppose, or miner up amongst 
 the hills." 
 
 "Because," said Jack, following his own thoughts, 
 "there is a time in sleep just when the brain is waking 
 up to consciousness, do you know, and you see things 
 by second-sight. Now that happened to me a few nights 
 ago. By the way, did any letters come from home yet, 
 Annie?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 "No!" she said. "You know I wrote father all along 
 the route and I expect he will write. We are not here 
 very long as yet, you know." 
 
 "True," he said musingly. "And Pap was a poor 
 correspondent at best. But he knows now where we 
 are and he must write, if only to acknowledge your 
 letter." 
 
 " But as I was saying," he resumed after a pause, "you 
 know Mackenzie was down here a few nights ago and 
 we had a few pitched battles about Moore and Burns 
 and all that patriotic rot that fools will talk about to 
 the end of time. Then he got on religion, just because 
 he hadn't any. These fellows are always dragging up 
 religion. They are like fellows that have committed 
 some secret crime and they must be hinting at it. He 
 was talking about his atheism and all that, and science 
 and all that. And I was tired, and I could only point 
 up and say, in the old way: 'Messieurs, who made all 
 that?' You know the way the skies look down here, 
 Annie; and just then some of the stars looked so ripe 
 and rich that I thought they would drop down on us. 
 Well, he didn't like it, and said something about cosmic 
 forces and all that. And then he said: 'There's a chap 
 up along here, a rich fellow with a small army of natives, 
 and he's always talking that way to them, and telling 
 them to be decent and clean and sober, because there
 
 THE BROTHERS MEET 393 
 
 are eyes watching them out of eternity. Well, that's 
 not the queer thing. But, as I was saying, when the 
 dawn was breaking behind here and just as I woke up, 
 or rather just before I woke up to consciousness, I thought 
 a man stood by here, dressed in the manner of the Boers 
 or ranchers and with a great long whip in his hand. And 
 he looked at me earnestly and said nothing. And then 
 the thought would occur; and I said to myself, first, 
 That's the Ba-as, the natives are speaking about. And 
 just as I thought this, the figure turned and it was Dion!" 
 
 Annie looked at him curiously and he noticed her 
 incredulity. 
 
 " Never fear," he said, " it is not tuberculous delirium, 
 although I suppose that will come. It was only a dream, 
 yet more than a dream, because I was conscious, at least 
 I think so, and I saw the face and features of Dion." 
 
 " Dion must be dead," said Annie, unwilling to encour- 
 age the delusion. "At least, everyone thinks so. You 
 know he hasn't written for years." 
 
 "Well, we'll let it pass," he said. "But it is strange 
 — that vivid action of the brain just as it is waking up. 
 I wonder shall I get a gHmpse into the future just as I 
 am nearing death?" 
 
 " It may be," she said simply. " But let us not antici- 
 pate all that." 
 
 "Why? How much you are afraid, Annie," he said. 
 "Now, I'm not a bit afraid, only eager to cast off this 
 old and worn-out and patched-up gabardine of a body. 
 Oh, I must make that will to-morrow; and I'm to be 
 buried, not down in that dismal hollow, where the Bush- 
 men are, but on the highest spot of this hill — just where 
 the first rays of the sun will strike in the morning and 
 his last rays linger at sunset. You'll promise that, won't 
 you?" 
 
 But the girl was weeping for the sorrow and loneliness 
 of the thing, and could not answer. 
 
 "Why, you're crying, Annie!" said the boy. "Now, 
 you shouldn't cry. Don't, dearl You shouldn't cry,
 
 394 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 for you'll see Ireland and old Rohira again. But I — 
 never! What matter! Annie!" 
 
 "Well, Jack!" 
 
 "Just say a little prayer for me and I'll listen. What 
 a strength there is in prayer!" 
 
 And she prayed there for the dying boy, who was 
 visibly fading away — prayed there on the lonely veldt, 
 whilst the hot sun tried to peer through the thick lattice 
 of the trees, and gay birds chattered overhead, and the 
 sound of an oath came down from the saloon, or the 
 shrill cries of Basuto women came up from the deep 
 valley beneath. 
 
 " It is good and holy and refreshing," he said, leaning 
 back in his hammock. "I made a little prayer myself 
 last night, when I was watching the stars and saw the 
 Hand of God swinging them in their orbits. Shall I 
 say it?" 
 
 "Certainly," she said. 
 
 And with a faint blush mantling his cheeks, he said: 
 
 Spirit of Light, from Whose dark depths I came, 
 
 Spirit of Darkness, Who hath ever shone 
 
 Around me; Whose Unutterable Name 
 
 I seldom stammered in the life that's gone 
 
 Back to its fountain — Thee, The Eternal Sea, 
 
 Whose waters are not bitter, but most sweet. 
 
 Lo! In the depths I've fought and conquered Thee, 
 
 And victor lay me prostrate at Thy Feet. 
 
 Guide me, O Light! along the weary path 
 That lies still darker than the way I've trod; 
 Wash me, O Fountain, in Thy silvery bath, 
 Make white my vesture, ere I see my God. 
 Thou, the All-Pure, make clean my spotted soul! 
 Thou, the All-Rich, enrich my poverty! 
 Cast round my neck the white and spotless stole. 
 Thy clasp of Love — Thy seal of purity. 
 
 I see Thee swinging those vast orbs of Light. 
 I watch Thee pour into the lily's vase
 
 THE BROTHERS MEET 395 
 
 Odours distilled beneath the noon of night, 
 Plucked with the dew from out the myriad maze 
 Of flowered fancies, each so subtly wrought 
 It needed all Thy Godhead's Science and Sense 
 To fashion in the forms which Thou hast brought 
 Within the orb of Thine Omnipotence. 
 
 Take my frail life, frail as the moth that wings 
 Its rapid flight in one melodious breath, 
 And fashion it anew with all those things 
 Cast in the brazen crucible of Death. 
 Lo! as my pulses flag, my senses die, 
 I feel Thee coming near, and ever near. 
 I hear Thee in my last unuttered sigh: 
 My spirit lingers; but my God is here! 
 
 "Do you like it, Annie?" he said, when he had con- 
 cluded. 
 
 "Very much. It is very solemn and sweet," she said. 
 
 "It is prayer, at least," he said, "if it isn't poetry. 
 I used to read and scribble poetry long ago at the Queen's. 
 But it wasnH like that.'" 
 
 The next morning a letter arrived from Rohira. It 
 was a brief letter, such as the doctor always wrote. It 
 contained some Bills of Exchange, so that money should 
 never be wanting, and one item of news, namely, that a 
 large party, a kind of house-warming, had been given 
 at Kerins's; and that some day during the following week, 
 Kerins had been found murdered. Duggan had been 
 arrested for the crime and committed for trial to the 
 Assizes, the evidence against him being overwhelming. 
 
 After Annie had read the letter twice, the boy answered : 
 
 "How little that fact interests us. I suppose it is a 
 matter of moment there, far away under the dripping 
 skies of Ireland. But it does not interest us any more. 
 Annie?" 
 
 "Well?" she said. 
 
 " I saw Dion again last night. He stood over me and 
 looked keenly and inquiringly at me. Has any stranger 
 been up around the town?"
 
 396 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 " There are so many strangers coming and going every- 
 day," she said, "that one would hardly be noticed. But 
 surely this is some delusion, Jack. Did you question the 
 men, who were on watch?" 
 
 "I cannot get a word out of them," he said. "When 
 I speak to them on any ordinary subject, they talk the 
 usual pigeon-English. But when I ask them about this, 
 they talk a lot of gibberish. If they have seen anyone, 
 they won't tell." 
 
 "They'll tell me," she said. "But I still think it is a 
 delusion, Jack, which you ought dismiss. What shall I 
 say to father?" 
 
 " Write as you deem wisest," he said. " But leave me 
 a space at the end." 
 
 Annie was somewhat disappointed and annoyed, when 
 on interrogating the natives she could only elicit the 
 same undistinguishable sounds in their own language 
 which had so annoyed Jack Wycherly. She thought 
 she had a firmer hold over their affections and she be- 
 lieved all their eloquent protestations of fidelity and 
 affection. But she could get no information on that 
 subject. And, stranger still, when she questioned the 
 people around the hotel, they had as little information 
 to give. Strangers of all kinds rode in and out of the 
 township — rough, strong men, great feeders and drink- 
 ers, And fierce fighters, if occasion offered. They sat and 
 ate, drank and sang, harnessed their horses, paid their 
 bills, and departed. They came and went, fike the 
 sand-storms that blew down from the hills and filled the 
 liquor-measures with fine grit and dust. 
 
 She tried to dismiss the idea and set it down as a delu- 
 sion of the sick boy's, as she tried to persuade him. But 
 somehow, his insistence on the matter staggered her 
 belief and she began to think that stranger things have 
 happened. But then the thought would occur. Why was 
 he so mysterious in his movements? If it were Dion, 
 why not reveal himself at once and come to his brother's
 
 THE BROTHERS MEET 397 
 
 assistance? For it was clear that if Dion were the Ba-as, 
 about whom the natives were always speaking and whom 
 they evidently regarded with a species of adoration, he 
 could do a great deal for his brother in this strange and 
 mysterious country. 
 
 She had written the reply to Dr. Wycherly's letter, 
 leaving a blank space in the end for Jack's few words. 
 These he filled in and closed up the envelope and handed 
 it back to Annie to post. 
 
 Next night, just as she thought the dawn was breaking 
 over the sleepy town, Annie arose and dressed herself 
 hastily and went out. She had been mistaken. It was 
 the strong moonlight, vivid as a summer dawn, that 
 deceived her. The great round globe was slowly falling 
 behind the hills, but its yellow radiance lit up the whole 
 landscape, throwing its golden rays across every hillock 
 and palm-tree and casting the shadows into deeper 
 blackness. 
 
 Swiftly and silently she passed down the moonlit 
 street, undisturbed and unchallenged, except when some 
 restless dog barked behind some thick enclosure, and 
 moved rapidly downward to the sheltered nook, where 
 the consumptive boy was sleeping with easy breathing 
 of the dry and aromatic air. When she came near she 
 heard a low, warning cry, which she recognized as that 
 of the two Griguas or Bushmen, who took their turn 
 in watching the sick boy during the night; and, to her 
 surprise, she saw the two men, standing like ebony statues 
 in the moonlight, each with his assegai resting on the 
 ground at his feet. 
 
 "Missy mus' not go! Ba-as in there!" said one, 
 pointing to the bungalow. 
 
 Annie stood still and waited. Not a sound came from 
 the interior — no sound of word or human language but 
 now again a sharp cough from the patient which seemed 
 to be answered b}^ the bark of the jackal from the neigh- 
 bouring mountam.
 
 398 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 A quarter of an hour — a half -hour seemed to pass. 
 The gray dawn crept up behind the mountain and threw 
 a pale twilight across the valley. 
 
 Then there was a slight rustle and the two Kaffirs 
 straightened themselves; and a tall figure, bronzed and 
 bearded and clothed in rough, hunting costume came out 
 of the hut. Annie stepped forward boldly and con- 
 fronted him. She did not recognize him and he had for- 
 gotten her. But the dream of the dying boy came back 
 to her and she said boldly: 
 
 "Dion Wycherly?" 
 
 " Yes!" he said abruptly. "Tell me, whoever you are, 
 and in God's name, who is that?" 
 
 "Your brother. Jack!" she said. 
 
 "Dying?" 
 
 "Yes, I fear so!" 
 
 He passed his rough hand athwart his forehead, where 
 the beads of perspiration were gathering, and simply 
 said : 
 
 "My God!" 
 
 Then, recollecting himself, he addressed Annie: 
 
 "And you? Forgive me. I should know you, but I 
 cannot remember." 
 
 "I'm Annie O'Farrell," she said. " Your old teacher," 
 
 He grasped her hand in his strong palm. Then, as if 
 a sudden thought struck him, he said eagerly: 
 
 "His wife?" 
 
 "No!" she said, and he thought in an accent of dis- 
 appointment, "His nurse!"
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 A Question and its Answer 
 
 Doubting, wondering, puzzled, pushing forward in the 
 darkness toward Crossfields, then suddenly retracing his 
 steps, angry yet pleased, vindictive but forgiving, Dick 
 Duggan made his way at last to the little "screen" or 
 shrubbery at the rear of the Kerins house. The night 
 was pitch dark, but the whole yard between the screen 
 and the house was illuminated with a flood of light from 
 the open door of the kitchen, where lamps were burning 
 and a mighty fire was blazing, and all the hurry and 
 bustle of a great entertainment showed that this was the 
 centre of the evening's hospitality. Across the glow of 
 light that shone through the door, dark figures came and 
 went, as the servants rushed into the yard for firewood, 
 or turf, or flung out dirty water, or useless remnants of 
 vegetables. But there was always a jest and a laugh, 
 a tiny echo of the hilarious merriment that proceeded 
 within doors. 
 
 For some time Dick Duggan waited and watched, 
 growing ever more angry and impatient, as he contrasted 
 his own loneliness and the dark and gloomy cabin he had 
 left with all this brightness and tumultuous rejoicing. 
 Once or twice the thought occurred that the gypsy girl 
 had made a fool of him and was now probably laughing 
 at him as a victim of a cruel joke. But he argued that 
 this was impossible and that the girl, altogether inde- 
 pendently of her fear of him, could have no motive 
 whatsoever for playing such a foolish and cruel prank. 
 
 At last he was about to go away and return to his 
 home with no pleasant feelings in his heart, when a slight 
 
 399
 
 400 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 figure, quite unlike the sturdy forms of the servant- 
 maids, appeared at the door. He knew instantly who 
 it was and moved a little forward. The figure passed 
 into the darkness of the yard, and very soon he heard a 
 light footfall near him on the dry needles of the fir-trees. 
 He stood motionless, and after a pause, long and painful, 
 he heard his name whispered in the darkness. He waited 
 for a repetition of it and then he stepped forward and 
 confronted the girl. 
 
 "Well!" he said. "I'm here!" 
 
 "Dick!" she said. "Is that you? Then you got my 
 message." 
 
 "I was told," he said, "that you wished to see me. I 
 didn't believe it. But I kem to know what you could 
 want with me." 
 
 " Not much," she said humbly, " but pace and for- 
 giveness. There's no use in keepin' things up forever." 
 
 "What things?" he asked. "And who's keepin' 'em 
 up?" 
 
 "Oh, Dick," she cried passionately, "you know well 
 what I mane. I want you and Ned to be frinds, and 
 to forgive and forget. Sure, 'tisn't right nor raysonable 
 to be keepin' things up forever." 
 
 " Is that what you wanted me for? " he cried passion- 
 ately. "Av it is, go back now to your drinkin' and 
 dancin', and take this from me. That nayther here nor 
 hereafter, in life or in death, will I ever forgive the man 
 who wronged me and mine," 
 
 "That's a hard word, Dick," the girl said and he knew 
 now she was weeping in the darkness, " an' a word you'll 
 be sore and sorry for some day. I was only actin' for 
 the besht. Whin I see all the naybors gethered here 
 and injyin' theirselves, and whin I looked across the 
 fields from the barn and seen your house dark and lone- 
 some, I sed to myself. That's not right ! We must share 
 with the naybors whatever the Good God has given us!" 
 
 "And do you think, Martha Sullivan," said the thick, 
 husky voice, deliberately ignoring her married name,
 
 A QUESTION AND ITS ANSWER 401 
 
 "that I and mine are thramps and beggars, like thim 
 gypsies down at the ould castle, that we should be be- 
 houlden to you and Kerins for a male of vittles? Begor, 
 ma'am, you have become high and mighty in your notions, 
 since you come up from the sayside, where manny a time 
 I seen you with a kish of say-weed on your back, and glad 
 to have praties and cockles for your dinner. Go back 
 now to your party and shtop there; an' if you have any 
 charity to bestow, give it to thim as wants it. The 
 Duggans, plase God, have enough and to waste for the 
 rest of their lives." 
 
 " I see there's no good in talkin' to you, Dick," the girl 
 replied. "The black hatred is in your heart — and all 
 for nothin'." 
 
 "For nothin'?" he echoed, in a sudden blaze of anger. 
 "Is it nothin' that every morning I rise, I must see the 
 land that should be mine and the crops that should be 
 mine and the cattle that should be mine in the hands of 
 a black stranger? Is that nothin'? Is it nothin', whin 
 I stepped over the ditch and was harmin' nobody to be 
 tould to get out of that or that he'd blow me, body and 
 sowl, into hell? Is it nothin' that at every fair, market, 
 and cross it is thrun in my face that I've shown the white 
 feather and that I'm more afeard of Kerins's shooting- 
 irons than of Almighty God? And is it nothin'," he 
 said, lowering his voice to a whisper, in which were 
 mingled affection and fury, "that he tuk from me the 
 girl of my heart, for whom I'd open my veins and shed 
 the last dhrop of my blood?" 
 
 The words touched her deeply, as she heard the despair 
 of the man uttered there in the darkness. But she had 
 to defend herself and she said : 
 
 "But there was never a hand and word betune us, 
 Dick, nor any promise; and sure, it wasn't your fault, 
 but you couldn't expect me to grow up into a withered 
 ould woman, like Annie Reilly and Bride Gallagher!" 
 
 "No-o-o!" he said, prolonging the word, as if he were 
 doubtful whether he ought make the admission, "an' 
 27
 
 402 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 I'm not faultin' you, though you might have spoke to 
 me about it. I'd have released you, av I saw 'twas for 
 your good. But how can I forgive the man that first 
 tuk away from me the place I wanted to bring you, and 
 then tuk you from me in the bargain?" 
 
 "But sure what's inded can't be minded, Dick," said 
 the girl, "an' now can't you make up with Ned Kerins 
 an' let us be frinds and naybors? " 
 
 "Av I was as false as him, I'd say so," said Dick sul- 
 lenly, "and then bide my time. But, because I'm a 
 true man, I'll not lie to you nor God, I've an account to 
 settle with the man you call your husband, an' whin it 
 is settled, there'll be no arrares." 
 
 She heard his footsteps retreating across the dry grass 
 and leaves; she heard him leaping over the ditch and the 
 soft thud of his feet, as he descended into the ploughed 
 field, but she stood still, irresolute and frightened. A low 
 laugh in the shrubbery woke her up to a sense of her 
 position, and, shaking off the stupor in which her inter- 
 view with Dick Duggan had left her, she returned, silent 
 and thoughtful, to the house. 
 
 If there was one subject more frequently debated than 
 another during these revels at Crossfields, it was the 
 sudden departure of Annie O'Farrell with young Wycherly 
 for South Africa. To their unsophisticated minds — un- 
 sophisticated in the sense that they knew nothing of 
 modern life, although they had a strong bias toward 
 regarding things in an unfavourable light — it was nothing 
 short of a grave scandal. "Elopement" means dreadful 
 things to an Irish congregation. It means certain de- 
 nunciation both from the parish priest and from the 
 bishop in his triennial visitation. It means the possi- 
 bility of excommunication. The dread of the thing has 
 come down from the times not very remote, when abduc- 
 tion was a capital offence in the eyes of the law and of 
 the Church. 
 
 That there could be any mitigation, or reason for what
 
 A QUESTION AND ITS ANSWER 403 
 
 they deemed the offence, never dawned upon them, for 
 they could not believe that any young lady could sacri- 
 fice herself at the call of duty, to nurse, or help, or com- 
 i fort what they were pleased to call " a dying kinat." ^ 
 
 Hence it was warmly debated whether the parish priest, 
 with Roman or Spartan determination, would stigmatize 
 the offence on the following Sunday in his wonted manner. 
 Or would he depute his curate to do so, if it were too 
 much for his own feelings? Not one, who knew his char- 
 acter, dreamt for a moment that he would allow the offence 
 to pass unrebuked. 
 
 "Let us see now," said Dick Duggan savagely, "what 
 he'll do. He has spared no one for twenty years. Let 
 us see now will he spare his own flesh and blood. If it 
 was wrong in poor crachures, who had nayther sinse nor 
 ejucation, it was doubly wrong in her who had both." 
 
 The thought that was agitating the parish was also 
 the thought which was uppermost in the mind of the 
 bereaved and desolate man. Whatever excuses he might 
 make for the action taken by Annie O'Farrell and what- 
 ever might be its justification in her own circle, there 
 could be no doubt it was a subject of much talk and a 
 source of much disedification amongst his own primitive 
 people. And how could he pass it over? On the other 
 hand, how could he stand on the altar steps and profess 
 his own shame and the ignominy attached to the conduct 
 of his niece? He never knew till then how deeply he 
 was attached to her, how much he appreciated her talents, 
 her beauty, her singular gifts of mind and person. And 
 he never knew till then how proud he was of her, and how 
 much she reflected upon him all those various excellences 
 that seemed to have grown with her growth and strength- 
 ened with her strength. And now he was face to face 
 with an ordeal that seemed beyond human endurance 
 to encounter. He had to drag her name and his own 
 pride in the dust before a people, some of whom, at least, 
 
 i« 
 
 Gnat" — a term of contempt.
 
 404 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 would rejoice at his humiliation and mock at his sorrow. 
 In a week he seemed to have aged ten years; and when 
 on Saturday afternoon, Henry Liston came down to 
 recite the Office and take directions for the coming week, 
 he found a stooped and wrecked man bent in despair 
 over the wintry fire. 
 
 The good young curate suggested that it would be 
 impossible for his pastor to celebrate his Mass in the morn- 
 ing, he was so broken and wretched; and he requested 
 permission to summon some neighbouring priest to supply 
 the first Mass. But the old man wouldn't listen to it. 
 He was never better in his life. He would drive over as 
 usual and say the Mass of the Blessed Virgin and preach 
 as usual to his congregation. 
 
 But in the evening a hurried message was sent up to 
 the young priest that the pastor would abide by his 
 advice, and that he would be obliged if, even at that late 
 hour, he would invite some other priest to drive over 
 and celebrate in the morning. The depression of the 
 evening and the loneliness of his situation broke down 
 his iron resolution; and for the first time in a quarter of 
 a century a strange priest stood at the altar in Doon- 
 varragh. With a feeling akin to defeat the old priest 
 said Mass in his private oratory. He knew what was 
 expected and what would be said. 
 
 "No matter!" he repeated to himself. "Next Sunday 
 I shall be there and they will hear what I have to say!" 
 
 During the week many and various were the comments 
 that were made. The great bulk of the people were 
 delighted that they were spared the agony of witnessing 
 their pastor's self-humiliation; and they hoped now that 
 the thing was over forever. The malcontents were 
 dehghted. He had shown the white feather. He never 
 spared others. He spared his own and he spared himself. 
 
 Dick Duggan was jubilant. He knew, he said, all 
 along how it would be. The sharp tongue was blunted 
 and the angry voice was stilled, when the question touched
 
 A QUESTION AND ITS ANSWER 405 
 
 himself. In the tap-room of the public house, Dick waxed 
 eloquent on the misdemeanour of which Annie O'Farrell 
 had been guilty, and he scornfully refuted every argu- 
 ment in her favour. He became a fierce zealot of virtue 
 — an indignant defender of morals — a fanatical oppo- 
 nent of everything that could offend the sacred proprie- 
 ties of life. 
 
 "If thim in high places," he said, "are allowed to 
 break the law of God an' no wan can open their lips agin 
 thim, we might as well all become paygans and haythens." 
 
 He repeated the same thing in the family circle several 
 times that week under the Dutch courage which drink 
 gave him. But at last he got the fierce answer from his 
 mother, who was heart-broken at the very idea of her 
 priest's sorrow and shame: 
 
 "Divil a much throuble you'd have, and the likes of 
 you, in becoming paygans and haythens. You needn't 
 turn your coats inside out, begor. For it is writ in big 
 letters over every inch of ye. Go down now to the 
 'Cross,' and shpake to your aiquals in blagarding; but, 
 whilst yere undher this roof, keep a civil tongue in yere 
 head." 
 
 And Dick took his mother's advice literally. The 
 tap-room was his theatre, his pulpit and bench, where 
 to a plentiful crop of ne'er-do-wells and tipplers like 
 himself, he could expound, without contradiction, his 
 views on politics and religion and every subject that 
 came within the bounds of human knowledge. 
 
 He found the place so pleasant, in contrast with his 
 home, that he spent the night there with boon companions, 
 and between speechifying and scandal-mongering and 
 card-playing, the time passed pleasantly by, so that 
 when Dick woke up about one o'clock next day, he 
 hadn't the slightest recollection of the events of the pre- 
 vious night. But his throat was very dry, almost burn- 
 ing, and he asked in a weak and tremulous voice for a 
 "hair of the dog that bit him." It braced him up a 
 little and then, with some difficulty, he swallowed a cup
 
 406 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 of tea and ate an egg. He would now have moved home- 
 ward, having had quite enough eloquence and drink for a 
 month, but there had been a "big fair" that day at the 
 
 market-town of M six or seven miles away, and in 
 
 the afternoon the farmers from that part of the country 
 were returning home and, of course, their horses would 
 persist in stopping at " the Cross." It was a peculiarity 
 in those animals, and it was universal. No horse could 
 pass the house without stopping at least until his owner 
 could alight and ask the time of day. 
 
 Hence Dick Duggan, meeting so many ''frinds," had 
 to take a "thrate" and another and another, under 
 penalty of giving deadly offence, until his old hilarity 
 and pugnaciousness came back to him and the depression 
 and blue devils of the morning had vanished. Hence he 
 became eloquent again on the pusillanimity and cowardice 
 of his pastor; and, when he was rallied, because he was not 
 invited to the "house-warming" at Kerins's, his face grew 
 dark and sullen and he muttered something about a 
 Banshee and a Caoine again. 
 
 "You missed it, Dick," said a jovial farmer, who was 
 reputed to be a grand hand at making a joke and a poor 
 hand at receiving one, " you missed it. There never was 
 such ceoV in the country before. All we wanted was to 
 see you dancin' with the young missus." 
 
 Dick Duggan half -stifled an oath and cried: 
 
 "No more of that, Goggin!" 
 
 But Goggin persisted. 
 
 "I never saw a happier man than Ned Kerins," he 
 said. "An' sure he ought to be. Thade Sullivan tould 
 me he walked the farm twice, and begor, if you threw 
 in a needle, it would grow into a crowbar, so deep is the 
 sile. And, sure, the whole counthry gives it up to Martha 
 Sullivan for beauty. She'd dance on eggs and wouldn't 
 break them." 
 
 "There may be another dance soon," said Dick, seeing 
 all eyes turned upon him with a smile of pitying contempt 
 
 »Fun, amusement.
 
 A QUESTION AND ITS ANSWER 407 
 
 as the victim of circumstances, "There may be another 
 dance soon, and the feet won't touch the ground ayther." 
 
 "Take care of the shooting-irons, Dick," said Goggin, 
 going away. "He'd let daylight into you as soon as 
 he'd say: Thrapshticks!" 
 
 Dick looked after him with bleared and bloodshot 
 eyes. Then, continuing the fun, another farmer said 
 maliciously: 
 
 "There's a lot of talk about the parish priesht's niece 
 and Wycherly, and about his showing the white feather 
 yesterday." 
 
 "There'll be more!" said Dick sullenly. 
 
 "'Tis a pity he'd be left off so aisy," said the man, 
 winking at the crowd. " Only that I belongs to another 
 part of the parish, I'd think nothin' of caUing him to 
 ordher meself." 
 
 "There's no wan here to do it," said a wag, "but Dick. 
 He's the only wan that has spunk in him." 
 
 "Yes! But 'tisn't every wan would face the ould lion 
 in his den," said the other. 
 
 Dick was looking out into the darkness of the February 
 evening, which had closed in gloomy and miserable; but 
 the evil words were rankling in his heart. His pride had 
 been stung sorely by the allusions to the " house-warming" 
 and his own conspicuous, if expected, absence. And now 
 the same evil pride was stimulated by the lying flattery 
 of his tempters. Was he the only man in the parish who 
 would dare face the parish priest? So it was thought, 
 and so it was expected. Half-drunk and wholly mad- 
 dened, he swiftly made up his mind. 
 
 "Give me another half-wan!" he said to the girl at the 
 counter. 
 
 " You've had enough, Dick," said the girl compassion- 
 ately. " You ought go home. Remember, you are out 
 since yesterday." 
 
 "Give it me!" he said fiercely. "I've work to do!" 
 The girl filled his glass half-full of water. He tossed 
 it off in one gulp and went out.
 
 408 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 The old pastor, the learned theologian, was sunk in 
 his arm-chair near the winter's fire. Humbled, chastened, 
 weary of the world, anxious for his final rest, he had tried 
 to banish the spectres of troublesome thoughts by fixing 
 his mind on some subtle theological question, which ad- 
 mitted diversity of opinion and where he could balance 
 with that dialectical skill, of which he was so justly proud, 
 the decisions of different schools. But it was in vain. 
 The everpresent personal troubles would obtrude them- 
 selves and push off the stage of thought the less trouble- 
 some intruders. And then would commence again the 
 anguish and the sorrow, the anger and the bitterness, 
 which he vainly tried to exorcise forever. 
 
 A loud single knock startled him a Httle, as it echoed 
 through the house. 
 
 "I'm in no mood for visitors," he thought. "They 
 ought to know that well enough now." 
 
 And the old housekeeper, ageing with her master, opened 
 the door, and, closing it carefully after her, said: 
 
 "This is Duggan, your reverence — Dick Duggan; an' 
 he's the worse for drink." 
 
 "Tell him I can't see him now," said the priest peremp- 
 torily. 
 
 The woman took the message and soon returned, 
 saying: 
 
 " He says he must see your reverence. He has a ques- 
 tion to ask you!" 
 
 And the priest rose up, felt his way along the edge of 
 the table, and went into the hall. 
 
 " You wish to see me," he said, peering into the darkness, 
 "what do you want?" 
 
 He was quite close to the thickset, wiry form of the 
 man over whom he towered, head and shoulders. 
 
 "I want to ax your reverence wan question, an' only 
 wan," said Dick thickly, as he looked into the black 
 glasses that glared down upon him. 
 
 "Well? Be quick about it," said the priest. 
 
 "I want to ax your reverence," said Dick, looking
 
 A QUESTION AND ITS ANSWER 409 
 
 around him in the effort to frame his question, "what 
 was the rayson you didn't shpake of your niece off 
 av the althar yesterday for running away wid young 
 Wycherly — " 
 
 He stopped, for the terrible grip of the old man was 
 on his throat in an instant and he could only feebly 
 gurgle out: 
 
 "Le' me go! You're chokin' me! What did I say?" 
 
 " You blackguard," said the priest, pushing him against 
 the door of the other room and holding him there, " how 
 dare you come into the house of an old man like me to 
 insult me?" 
 
 "I'm only sayin' what everybody in the parish do be 
 sayin'," said Dick, frantically struggling to unloose the 
 iron grip. "Unhand me! You're chokin' me, or be this 
 and be that — " 
 
 Here, in fury or anger or terror, he struck out wildly 
 and smote the face of the priest between the eyes, smashing 
 the dark glasses. The next moment, as happened so 
 many years ago, he felt himself caught up and swung 
 round and round the hall and then, with the impetus 
 thus gained, cast out into the darkness with terrible 
 violence. He reeled and staggered forward a few paces. 
 Then fell face downward on the sharp gravel. He heard 
 the hall-door slammed with violence and the lock shot 
 and the rattle of a heavy chain. And he remembered 
 no more. 
 
 When he awoke to consciousness and recalled what 
 had happened, his only thought was one of fearful and 
 overwhelming remorse. He had struck a priest! It was 
 the culmination of his life of anger and hatred, and he 
 woke up as a man wakes from the horrible delirium of 
 fever and sees things for the first time in all their naked 
 magnitude. Men feel thus in the pursuit of every vice. 
 They rush forward madly, heedlessly, deliriously, until 
 some crime is consummated, and then there is a sudden 
 and awful consciousness that this was only the terminus
 
 410 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 — the unlooked-for, but inevitable terminus of their life 
 of guilt. 
 
 He rose up and, finding something cold trickling down 
 his forehead and blinding his eyes, he put up his hand 
 and instantly knew by the clammy feel that it was blood. 
 He brushed it aside, smearing his face all over with the 
 ghastly thing. He then looked wistfully towards the 
 house, hoping that a light might be shining to beckon 
 him back to forgiveness. But no ! AH was dark and the 
 outline of the presbytery looked dismal and solemn 
 against the background of the night. Then he remem- 
 bered the slamming of the door, the shooting of the bolt, 
 and the rattling of the chain. 
 
 " May God in heaven forgive me ! " he thought. " There 
 is no longer pardon amongst men!" 
 
 He then began to wonder what time of night it was; 
 but he had no guide. He remembered it was about 
 half-past six when he left the public-house, and it must 
 have been seven o'clock when he stood in the priest's 
 hall. And then he had a faint idea that when the dining- 
 room was opened he had heard amid his drunken excite- 
 ment the clock chiming 'seven' on the mantelpiece. 
 But how long ago was that, he couldn't tell. He had 
 no idea of how long he lay prostrate and insensible on 
 the gravelled walk. 
 
 He made his way slowly homeward in the darkening 
 night. He passed the public-house on the way. It was 
 shut. Therefore, it was late. He pushed toward home 
 more rapidly and began at last to mount the hill, all the 
 time debating in a stupid, dazed manner whether he 
 would make a clear confession of guilt at home. Then 
 he decided that that wouldn't do. It would draw upon 
 him the fierce reproaches of his mother without a chance 
 of forgiveness. The best thing to do now was to get 
 into the byre where the cattle were; to wash himself free 
 of his blood-stains; to see if the family had yet retired 
 to rest, and be guided by that. He turned from the 
 main road into the boreen or bypath that led to his father's
 
 A QUESTION AND ITS ANSWER 411 
 
 house, walking slowly and meditatively. His mind now 
 was fully made up about his guilt and how he was to 
 purge himself of it. He would speak to no man of what 
 k he had done, and he knew well that the priest would never 
 breathe it. Then, the following Sunday, just after the 
 sermon, he, Dick Duggan, would step forward from the 
 midst of the congregation and make a confession of his 
 guilt to the world, no matter if he were excommuni- 
 cated afterwards. He had some dim notion that to strike 
 a priest was punished with excommunication, but he had 
 never heard of the ipso facto, etc. But he heeded nothing 
 now. He would confess his guilt and abide by his pun- 
 ishment. 
 
 He entered the stable-yard. All was still. No light 
 burned in the house. The place was silent and dark as 
 death. He turned into the byre and groped round for 
 the tub of water which he knew was always left there. 
 He found it, took off his coat, and was stooping to dash 
 the water in his face when suddenly the light of a lantern 
 was flashed on him and he was seized roughly from 
 behind. He shouted and struggled until he saw two 
 constables in front ready to give assistance. 
 
 " I arrest you on a charge of wilful murder in the name 
 of the Queen," said the sergeant. " Now don't make any 
 noise, but go quietly; and remember every word you say 
 will be quoted against you." 
 
 As he felt the steel handcuffs slipped on his wrists and 
 heard the click of the lock, he said: 
 
 "My God! Did I kill him?" 
 
 "Well, he's dead!" said the sergeant. 
 
 "I suppose I'll swing for it, but I richly deserve it. 
 Can I see my mother for a minute?" 
 
 "Better not!" said the officer. "They're all in bed, 
 and it would do no good." 
 
 He submitted quietly and was led along, seeing but 
 the hand of God in his misfortune and overwhelmed by 
 the dreadful thought that he had committed a crime never 
 heard of before in Ireland — the murder of a priest.
 
 412 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 As they moved onward in the dark, he heard one of 
 the officers speak of Ned Kerins and a pike and his body 
 taken to the pubUc-house for an inquest. He stopped 
 suddenly and cried to the poHce to stop. 
 
 "Shtop," said he, while the perspiration rolled down 
 his face, " shtop, as ye value an immortal sowl." 
 
 " Well, what's the matter? " said the sergeant. 
 
 "You said now he was dead. Did you mane the 
 parish priesht? or some wan else?" 
 
 "I mean Ned Kerins, who was stabbed to death on 
 
 the M road between six and seven o'clock this 
 
 evening." 
 
 "Ned Kerins — stabbed! Oh! is that all?" said Dick, 
 as he felt an overwhelming weight lifted from his con- 
 science. 
 
 "That's all, and quite enough for you, I should say," 
 replied the officer. "Now say no more, if you have 
 
 sense."
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 A Red Sunset 
 
 It was an hour before the time when Dick Duggan left 
 the public-house to pay his ill-fated visit to the parish 
 priest, that Pete the Gypsy tackled his pony to the cart, 
 which was already loaded with six bales of what pur- 
 ported to be compressed hay carefully packed and roped 
 for transmission to the City. 
 
 " It is the last? " said the old gypsy woman, his mother, 
 coming out of the castle to see. " You're sure you're 
 leaving nothing behind?" 
 
 " Nothing, little mother," said Pete gaily. " It is the 
 last bale, which we have haled up from the cave." 
 
 "Then I'm glad of it," she said. "It was an ill-work 
 from the beginning, especially as you had a coward for 
 comrade." 
 
 "That's true, little mother," he replied. "If he had 
 been one of our own we might have carried on the busi- 
 ness forever." 
 
 "Never mind," she said. "Get back, little father, as 
 quick as possible. I'm always afraid you'll fall into the 
 hands of the engroes." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "That's for fools," he said. "Never fear for me. 
 Keep the fire lighting and the pot boiling. I'll be hungry 
 enough when I return." 
 
 Pete had always managed to get his smuggled cargoes 
 
 into the station at M just as the up goods train was 
 
 due, so that there should be no time for inquisitive porters 
 or detectives to show any unusual curiosity about his 
 property. If he were early, he generally loitered outside 
 
 413
 
 414 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 the gates and crept in in time to push his packages into 
 the van as the train sped forward. 
 
 This evening he was slightly late, and when he got out 
 of the boreen and on the crest of the hill, he whipped the 
 pony smartly forwards. Strange to say, however, this 
 night he took a slightly circuitous route along the road 
 that skirted Crossfields and farther down by the farm 
 occupied by the Duggans. And, as he passed one field 
 in the latter farm, he noticed a pike hanging down from 
 a half-cut rick of hay, and with the instincts of his tribe 
 he instantly appropriated it, laying it athwart the large 
 cubes which were compressed with iron clamps. He 
 chuckled to himself as he thought of Dick's profanity 
 when he discovered in the morning that his pike was 
 gone, and he then pushed rapidly forward. His object in 
 taking the circuitous route was to avoid the farmers who 
 might be coming home late from the fair and who, in 
 the usual spirit of inquisitiveness, might put awkward 
 questions. On these journeys Pete wished for a solitary 
 road and no company. 
 
 He was about two miles from the town when, on turn- 
 ing a bend in the road, he nearly drove into the gig or 
 tax-cart on which Ned Kerins was driving home from the 
 fair. After the usual complimentary curses that are 
 elicited on such an occasion, Pete was passing on, but 
 Ned Kerins was in a more sympathetic mood. He had 
 sold some cattle early in the morning and bought calves 
 which he had forwarded to his farm by his servant. And 
 he had then remained, meeting friends, receiving con- 
 gratulations on his marriage, and passing from public- 
 house to public-house, where, however, he was judicious 
 enough to dispense many "thrates" and take but few. 
 He was quite sober, therefore, but somewhat elated by 
 his success in business at the fair and all the compli- 
 mentary things that were said about his marriage; 
 and, as the evening was long for him, he thought he 
 would like to delay the gypsy with a little kindly con- 
 versation.
 
 A RED SUNSET 415 
 
 Pete, however, was impatient and anxious about his 
 cargo, 
 
 "Glad to hear that you had such a good fair, Mr. 
 Kerins," he said, pushing on his pony. "Well, good 
 night. I must be going." 
 
 "Don't be in such a hurry, Pete," said the farmer, 
 blocking the road. "The gangers aren't out to-night." 
 
 "The gangers? What gangers?" said Pete, angry at 
 the allusion. 
 
 "Oh, what gangers?" said Kerins mockingly. "Come 
 now, Pete, don't you know that every man, woman, 
 and child in the parish is aware of your trade? And 
 sure no one begrudges it to you." 
 
 "I think, Mr. Kerins," said Pete sternly, "the 
 sooner you get back to your wife's company, the better 
 for you and her. Her old spark might be hanging 
 around." 
 
 He again tried to get forward, but Kerins was now 
 furious at the allusion and savagely demanded an ex- 
 planation. 
 
 Pete laughed and threw out obscurer hints. Then the 
 farmer, with an affectation of laughter, turned back the 
 joke upon the gypsy, whilst he swung his heavy whip 
 ominously along the floor of his gig. 
 
 " Give us the filling of one pipe, tinker," he said. " You 
 keep the real thing, I'm tould — only the best Caven- 
 dish and cigars. Give us the filling of one pipe — and 
 I'll pay you." 
 
 And he plunged the handle of his whip towards one 
 of the bales, driving it into the stuff. 
 
 The gypsy uttered a fearful curse and, again returning 
 to the point where Kerins was most vulnerable, he bade 
 him return home at once. 
 
 Whatever was the poignant word he used, down came 
 the heavy whip of the farmer on his shoulders, and the 
 next instant the gypsy, seizing the pike, lunged forward 
 with all his strength and the sharp edge of one steel prong 
 entered the garments and the flesh as easily as a needle
 
 416 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 runs through a pincushion. Without a word, the farmer 
 fell forward dead. 
 
 Not a shadow of remorse crossed the mind of the gypsy. 
 With a few rapid reflections, he concluded that his own 
 best policy was to return home as speedily as possible. 
 He thought of going first into town and notifying the police 
 that he had found Kerins murdered on thr high road, but 
 this might give occasion for awkward questionings. He 
 trusted to his usual luck to get home without meeting 
 anyone who would recognize him, and to bury his own 
 part in absolute oblivion. He carefully drew the gig and 
 horse on which the dead man lay into one of those re- 
 cesses where contractors pile up heaps of road metalling 
 for convenience. He then listened attentively. Not a 
 sound came up along the road to the town, whose lights 
 were twinkling beneath him. Not a sound came along 
 the road he had travelled from the sea. A thick black- 
 ness hung down over the whole landscape, except quite 
 close where the white road shone. He listened once 
 more. Not a sound except the crunching of the grass, 
 where Kerins's horse, unconscious of his fearful burden, 
 was feeding. The gypsy turned his pony's head home- 
 wards and in an hour was in the boreen that led to his 
 house. Here he paused. He had not met a single 
 human being by the way. The road was as solitary as 
 a desert, nothing but the sounds of his pony's feet awoke 
 the echoes. He undid the harness, took out bale after 
 bale of the smuggled goods, which he poised for a moment 
 on the top of the broad ditch which formed a rampart 
 against the dangers of the huge chasm that yawned 
 beneath. Then silently he dropped bale after bale into 
 the gulf, where it was broken to dust in the fall, and then, 
 when all had disappeared, he took to smoking and pon- 
 dering on the singular thing that had occurred. 
 
 The suddenness and swiftness of the thing should have 
 alarmed him and made him reflect. But there was no 
 room for reflection in the man's soul, unless when sud- 
 denly jumping up from the place where he was seated,
 
 A RED SUNSET 417 
 
 he remembered with a pang of soul and a curse on his 
 lips that he had forgotten to rob the murdered man. 
 
 "And he told me he had a splendid price for his cattle 
 that morning; and probably the notes were lying within 
 an inch of my hand. I deserve to be caught and hanged 
 for such bungling." 
 
 A light gleaming far down near the sea reminded him 
 that he was expected to supper. And he accordingly 
 felt hungry by anticipation. A light gleamed in one of 
 the windows of Rohira and he gave a thought to the lonely 
 man, whose race appeared to be extinguished forever. 
 He looked back across the dark fields and saw the lights 
 in Crossfields, where the young widow was even then 
 preparing for the home-coming of her spouse. But these 
 things did not touch him. It was only when he saw far 
 down to the east the solitary candle that broke the gloom 
 around the farm of the Duggans, that he showed some 
 feeling, but it was that of the ape and the tiger. 
 
 "The rope is around your neck, Dick," he said, "so 
 tight that only one man in all the world can loose it. And 
 he won't, Dick!" 
 
 He again harnessed his pony and drove leisurely down- 
 wards to the castle. 
 
 "You're late, little father," said Judith, as her son 
 entered the room, having stabled the pony. "Was the 
 train late?" 
 
 "A little," he said. "But I'm hungry, mother, des- 
 perately hungry. What have you to eat?" 
 
 "You'll get some broiled fish and potatoes," she said, 
 "over there on the table. I put a cloth over them to 
 keep them warm. But you got the goods away? " 
 
 " Never fear, little mother," he said impatiently, " they 
 are now where the hand of the ganger will never touch 
 them." 
 
 "But the money?" she said. "Is that safe?" 
 
 "Safe as the Bank!" he said. "They are in my power 
 and they know it." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" said the old crone. "It is good to have 
 ^8
 
 418 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 people in your power, little father. Is it not? It is 
 good to have people in your power. For then you can 
 crush them, if you like!" 
 
 " It is good ! " he said, with his mouth full of food. " It 
 is a good thing that men should fear you. Fear never 
 changes. Love changes often. It is good to have men 
 in your power!" 
 
 "What's that stain on your right sleeve, little father?" 
 the old gypsy said, touching a dark spot where a tiny 
 stream had trickled down. "Why, 'tis blood. You 
 must be hurt somewhere!" 
 
 The gypsy started up so violently that he almost over- 
 threw the table, and he pulled with his left hand the 
 right sleeve toward him. But he instantly recovered 
 his self-possession: 
 
 " I brushed past some dead meat in the town," he said. 
 "There was a crowd around a ballad-singer, and they 
 pushed him inwards. Ugh! what an ugly thing is cow's 
 blood!" 
 
 And he sat down again, but his appetite seemed to 
 have diminished. 
 
 " Have you got any spirits, mother?" he said at length. 
 "That blood has given me quite a turn. Where's Cora?" 
 
 " Over there asleep ! " said the gypsy woman, rising up 
 and procuring the bottle of gin for her son. " But, little 
 father, was not the pony in danger, and what he carried, 
 when you were pushed away from him in the crowd?" 
 
 "Not at all!" said Pete, who was beginning to think 
 that his mother was more curious than prudent. "I 
 left him for a moment standing at the Post Office whilst 
 I went in to mail something. It was passing by I got 
 jammed in the crowd and got that nasty stain." 
 
 "Throw off your jacket," said Judith, "and I'll wash 
 out that stain. It is before me all the night ! " 
 
 "What is before you?" said her son angrily. 
 
 "Blood!" she said. 
 
 "Blood?" he echoed with some faint alarm rising up 
 within him.
 
 A RED SUNSET 419 
 
 "Yes," she went on, looking intently at the fire. "I 
 have seen that stain everywhere to-night. I saw it in 
 the sun, when he was setting, a dark purple blotch, 
 although the day was dim and cloudy. I took it away 
 in my eyes then and it is before me everywhere. And 
 down there where the peat and pine are glowing, I see 
 it fall, fall, and drop into the ashes and go out in a flare 
 and a hiss of horrid steam. See what a little thing now 
 casts its shadow before it. You go into town on business 
 and by chance rub the sleeve of your coat against that 
 dripping meat, and lo! it haunts me all the evening." 
 
 "Keep that for the farmers and their servant-girls, 
 mother," he replied angrily. "Here, take the old jacket 
 and clean it, or bum it. It is not worth much, and I've 
 got my leather jerkin. Perhaps it will take the ugly 
 vision away from your eyes." 
 
 "No! no!" cried the old dame, handling the jacket 
 curiously. "It is a good garment yet, and we are poor, 
 very poor, little father. We cannot afford to lose such 
 a fine garment, such a handsome garment, such a costly 
 garment. And it is only a stain, a little stain, a tiny 
 little stain of oxen's blood — a mere cow, a dead cow, a 
 worthless cow, and it will come out so nice that no one 
 will ever notice it, or say, ' What is that ugly stain, little 
 Pete, that long dark stain, little Pete, there on your right 
 arm above the elbow?'" 
 
 All the time she was turning over the almost ragged 
 jacket in her hands, studying it carefully, inside and 
 outside, whilst her hopeful son went over and bent down 
 where the children were hived together promiscuously; 
 and Cora, the insolent and the vigilant Cora, was in the 
 midst of them. She appeared to be dead asleep, breathing 
 softly as an infant, one brown arm under her head and 
 one resting softly on the ragged garments which formed 
 the bed-clothes. After a long and careful study he came 
 back, and again the old gypsy challenged him. 
 
 "See here, little father," she said, "across the shoulder 
 is a cut, not a deep cut, nor a severe cut, but such a cut
 
 420 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 as would be made by a stick or a whip. It stretches 
 around the back, and, look! where it leaves a deep furrow 
 amidst the thick dust. I suppose 'tis where you slung 
 your whip across your shoulders as the peasants do, and 
 it left this mark and cut, not a deep cut, but just such 
 as would be made by a knife or a whip. But the whip 
 should be struck deep and strong. Are you hurt, little 
 father? Let me see!" 
 
 She dropped the jacket to examine the shoulder and 
 back of her son, but he drew back and kicked the ragged 
 jacket into the fire, dragging down the blocks of burning 
 timber and stamping them with his foot savagely. 
 
 "There!" he said. "You make such a fuss about 
 nothing. Let the old rags burn now. They are only 
 fit for burning, and you, good mother, are spared the 
 trouble of washing. Good night! and be not troubled 
 in your dreams. The sky will not be red to-morrow!" 
 
 He waited until he saw the last rag in the jacket shrivel 
 up and consume in the flame, even to the horn buttons. 
 Then he kicked the red ashes to and fro and went whist- 
 ling to bed. 
 
 The old gypsy remained crouched over the extinguished 
 fire for at least an hour, wondering, dreaming, guessing, 
 surmising. 
 
 She was roused by a light hand laid on her shoulder 
 in the darkness, and the girl, Cora, whispered in her ear: 
 
 "There hath been some evil thing wrought to-night. 
 I, too, dreamed it. But say nothing. It would not be 
 wise to say anything, good-mother! It would not be 
 wise." 
 
 The dead man lay on his back on a narrow table sup- 
 ported on trestles in a public-house in the town of M . 
 
 A messenger from Rohira, riding posthaste to meet the 
 up-mail was nearly flung off his horse when he shied at a 
 gig and pony near the road. He was too hurried to wait, 
 but he saw that a heavy figure, as of a man in drink, was 
 leaning over the dashboard, almost on the animal's back.
 
 A RED SUNSET 421 
 
 He reported the matter at the barracks, and the mur- 
 dered man was found and brought in, and word was sent 
 to his widow. The dead man lay still, the peace of eter- 
 nity on his face; the weapon, which had let out his strong 
 life, was by his side. There was rushing and weeping 
 and the tumult of terror at Crossfields. Far down in 
 the stable at Duggan's, the officers of the law were waiting 
 and lurking in the darkness for the supposed criminal. 
 But Pete, the gypsy, having destroyed all traces of his 
 guilt, slept the sleep of the just man, there in the old 
 castle by the sea. 
 
 t
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 The Amabele Valley 
 
 The tumult of emotions that swept the soul of Dion 
 Wycherly, the Ba-as, the successful miner and rancher, 
 on discovering his brother under such novel and unex- 
 pected circumstances, is indescribable. Delight at meet- 
 ing him again, for the brothers loved each other; pain 
 at seeing him so emaciated and wasted, and with such 
 little hope of recovery; wonder and admiration at the 
 bravery of the young girl who had sacrificed herself so 
 nobly; and just an incipient pang of pleasure that she 
 was not Jack's wife, were the chief thoughts and feelings 
 that swayed his mind during these days, which he spent 
 there, plotting and speculating for their and his own 
 future. 
 
 The recognition between the brothers was most affect- 
 ing. When Annie O'Farrell had told Dion all that was 
 to be told about his brother, even down to his dreaming, 
 which was not dreaming at all, but perfect consciousness 
 of Dion's presence, they decided it were best that Jack 
 should be told that his dream was a reality, and that 
 his brother had come to seek and find him. When Annie 
 had prepared the way, she retired from the little hut 
 where Jack's hammock swung easily, and Dion entered. 
 
 The poor, pale invalid looked up for a moment at the 
 tall, athletic form that towered above him. Then, stretch- 
 ing forth his bony hand, he said, while his eyes filled with 
 tears : 
 
 " I knew it was you. I knew it could be none other 
 than you." 
 
 For some moments the two brothers continued to gaze 
 
 422
 
 THE AMABELE VALLEY 423 
 
 at one another, holding their hands clasped. Then, 
 realizing the tremendous contrast between them — his 
 own riotous and exultant health, and the sad wreck of 
 the young life that lay beneath him — Dion suddenly 
 dropped his brother's hand and went over to examine 
 some little photos or pictures that were pinned to the 
 wall. Then, brushing aside a tear, he came back and 
 seated himself near the hammock where his dying brother 
 lay. After a few observations, he said: 
 
 "Miss O'Farrell has told me a good deal. Jack; but not 
 all. You were in the same hospital?" 
 
 "Yes!" said his brother. "We were in the same hos- 
 pital. But we seldom spoke, beyond the mere morning 
 or evening salute. But she was watching over me like 
 a sister, and I didn't know it. I say, Dion, do you know 
 anything about women?" 
 
 "Not much," said Dion. "I've seen few here but a 
 few native gins, and they seem to be only one degree below, 
 and yet in another sense far above the animal creation." 
 
 "Yes! That's what I've been thinking. But I have 
 seen a good many; and the strange thing is, they don't 
 know the awful power they have for right or wrong." 
 
 He ceased a moment ; and Dion did not stop the moral- 
 izing, although he wanted to get at facts. 
 
 " But what I'm coming to is this," said Jack, as if 
 communing with himself. " You meet a hundred of them 
 and they're all alike, cut according to the same pattern, 
 turned out and groomed a la mode. Then, one day, you 
 meet another, and you say at once, ' That's not a woman. 
 That's something more. God thought a good deal before 
 he made her. ' " 
 
 He paused for a moment. And then, as if recalling 
 something, he said : 
 
 " You mustn't call her Miss O'Farrell any more, Dion. 
 You must call her Annie. She's our sister." 
 
 "She might be offended," said Dion dubiously. "It 
 isn't usual, you know." 
 
 "Never fear!" said Jack confidently. "But call her
 
 424 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Annie — nothing else — mind ! Well, I was saying, she 
 was watching me, and I didn't know it. Lord bless you, 
 Di, we know nothing. But one day she cut me dead 
 in one of the corridors of the hospital; and, after a few 
 days' agony, I asked explanations. Afraid? I was more 
 afraid of her than of Almighty God, or even old Stani- 
 hurst himself. Well, I got the explanations. Then one 
 night I got a hemorrhage on the streets and was carried 
 to the hospital. Some day before I die, I'll tell you what 
 occasioned the hemorrhage, but not now — " 
 
 "Jack, you are not going to die," said his brother 
 passionately. " You mustn't die. God won't take you 
 away now when I have found you and can give you all 
 you want in this world. You and Annie will come away 
 with me from this infernal hole, and I'll put you in that 
 climate and place where, if you never had a lung, you'd 
 grow one. Cheer up, old man! There are many happy 
 days before us yet!" 
 
 But Jack shook his head. 
 
 "It was a forlorn hope, Di," he said; "a forlorn hope 
 — my coming out here. I know too much. But it was 
 some gain with my torn lungs to get here, if only to breathe 
 a little. But I cannot last long, and I'm not sorry for it." 
 
 To which Dion could answer nothing. 
 
 " I've told Annie where I'm to be buried — high up 
 there on the summit, where the sun will strike first in 
 the morning and rest his last beams at night — " 
 
 "No, no, no, no," said Dion; "you and Annie must 
 come away with me. It is not far — only a couple of 
 hundred miles, and we'll do it by easy stages. If you 
 don't like the train, I can manage to get you taken along 
 by the coolies, so that there'll be no jolting, and we can 
 rest where we please. I'll talk to Miss O'Farrell about 
 it, if you let me. You won't die just yet, Jack, old man! 
 And, if you were to die in a few years or so, I want 
 to put you where I can see your grave and remember 
 you." 
 
 "That's not of much consequence, Di," said the sick
 
 THE AMABELE VALLEY 425 
 
 boy. "You are not going to remain here and give up 
 Rohira and all the old associations." 
 
 " But Ned — you're forgetting, Jack. Ned has Rohira. 
 It is his by every right." 
 
 "Ned won't trouble Rohira," said Jack. "Some day, 
 when I'm better, I'll tell you all. But when I'm gone 
 — well, let us say to Heaven — you and Annie will go 
 back to Ireland and make everything square for poor 
 Pap, before he dies." 
 
 And somehow Dion did not seem to think the project 
 undesirable. 
 
 After some hesitation and doubts as to whether the 
 invalid could bear a long journey inland, they at last 
 decided to go. And as Jack was impatient and irritable, 
 he thought it better to go by rail, instead of being jolted 
 through the bush on the backs of black coolies. It meant 
 two days' weary travelling in slow trains under burning 
 suns and with the fine dust of the tropics filling every 
 nook and crevice of the carriage. But, thanks to the 
 assiduity and skill of his companion, the poor, broken 
 life still held on until it was established in the handsome 
 bungalow on a slope of the Amabele Valley, where Dion 
 had fixed what he thought was his permanent home. 
 
 Everything that wealth, utilized by brotherly love, 
 could do to contribute to the comfort of the patient and 
 his nurse, was now done, for Dion seemed to rule here as 
 a little prince, who commanded the allegiance and ser- 
 vices of white men and black in the region all around. 
 
 And surely, if there were a place on earth calculated 
 to win back to health and vigour a life that was fast pas- 
 sing awa.y, it would be the very spot where Dion had built, 
 in a style of unusual magnificence for those parts, a 
 pavilion, or bungalow, and surrounded it with every 
 aspect and accident of luxury attainable at such a dis- 
 tance from civilization. The house was very extensive, 
 though there was but one story ; but it was so ingeniously 
 arranged that suites of apartments seemed to open in 
 every direction; and in every direction there were visible
 
 426 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 from the high French windows, that opened on a veranda 
 glimpses of mountains, far-away and snow-covered 
 Stormberg or Roggeveld Ranges, taking on themselves 
 hues that varied in the atmospheric changes, but were 
 always clearly Hmned and defined in the pellucid and 
 crystalline air. Through the vast vistas of valleys, too, 
 that opened up the avenues of these mountains were to 
 be seen plumage of palms and foliage of forests, where 
 clustered in the shape and sze of trees plants that are 
 dwarfed in our colder climate. And in the immediate 
 vicinity of the house, vast clumps of pelargoniums and 
 hydrangeas flung out their burning blossoms to the sun 
 and wind, whilst deep down in moist shelters, where the 
 air was always laden with hot vaporous mists, there 
 grew in rich but unhealthy profusion, great bulbous 
 plants of the amaryllidece or irideoe types, luscious and 
 beautiful, but reminding one too much of miasmata and 
 the deadly fecundity of marshlands and the African 
 Campagna. Besides the natural flora of these rich 
 tropical climes, Dion had gathered into a conservatory 
 still rarer specimens of plants and flowers indigenous 
 to India and the Southern Isles; and through forests 
 of imported palms, the many-coloured birds, the secretary, 
 the weaver, the bird of paradise, leaped and swung and 
 hung; and underneath, the httle jerboa and cunning 
 monkeys flashed and chattered, and mocked the lazy 
 lizards and tortoises, that preferred to lie flat and still 
 in the burning sun. Down along the valley a stream 
 flowed perennially; and Dion had brought its waters into 
 his gardens, where in pond and fountain and basin they 
 cooled the atmosphere to sight and touch and hearing. 
 Here Dion ensconced his dying brother; and no modern 
 dread of contagion diminished in the least measure the 
 boundless exercise of fraternal kindness which was shed 
 around the dying boy. And here, too, by daily inter- 
 course and the common love they bore the boy, and by 
 the deeper interpretation of one another's character, 
 there grew up between the great rancher and miner and
 
 THE AMABELE VALLEY 427 
 
 the girl, who had sacrificed so much at the call of charity, 
 that deep, reverential awe of each other, as of something 
 divine, that sooner or later deepens into a holier feeling, 
 which does not expel the divine element, but transforms 
 it into something more human. And Jack saw it and 
 rejoiced ; and in his next letter home, which Annie wrote for 
 him, he put in a postscript before he sealed the envelope: 
 
 " I think it is all right, dear old Pap. When I'm gone, 
 order Dion home at once ; and tell him he must not travel 
 alone." 
 
 And strange to say, from the moment the idea was 
 suggested, Dion's thoughts did turn homeward. For 
 just as the savage, however used to civilization, will, 
 on returning to his tribe, cast off the garments of civilized 
 peoples and refuse to speak their language, and clothe 
 himself again in the blankets of savagery, because all 
 the time he had been dreaming of the forest and the wig- 
 wam and the hunt, so the civilized man casts aside the 
 attractions of the desert and the jungle, of the forest 
 and the veldt, because the mists and vapours of the North 
 come to him in his dreams, and will not let him rest in 
 a soil that never gave him his birthright. And yet, Dion 
 knew it would mean a wrench for him to dissociate him- 
 self so suddenly from all that he had prized these last 
 few years; and prized all the more because he had won 
 his wealth and honour by upright and worthy means. 
 
 One of those lovely days, which are spring with us, 
 but which put on all the splendours of summer in tropical 
 climes, Dion told his brother how he had come to be a 
 wealthy rancher, and to be venerated as a king by the 
 tribes. 
 
 "I couldn't get on with that brute of a captain," he 
 said, with savage reminiscences of seamen's brutality, 
 "The other fellows were all right, but he was a brute. I 
 had all I could do to keep my hands from him. But, 
 when we got to the Cape, I could stand it no longer. I 
 decamped. And to prevent arrest, I pushed into the 
 country as far as I could. I don't think the fellow would
 
 428 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 arrest me, if he could. But I ran no chances. I worked 
 my way up through the interior; and, Jack, old fellow, 
 'tis hard work enough, I tell you. Then I got on to 
 East London, and pushed into the interior again. I was 
 often out of a job, because I had to tell the duffers I was 
 a seaman, not a land-lubber; and they couldn't see what 
 a knowledge of navigation could do for me up on the 
 sands and veldts of Cape Colony. But I pushed on, 
 sometimes hungry, sometimes in rags, but growing hardy 
 and vigorous and athletic — " 
 
 He stopped suddenly, as the terrible contrast with 
 the withered and shrunken form beneath him in the ham- 
 mock arrested his attention and created some compunc- 
 tion for his harmless boasting. But Jack, unheeding, 
 said: 
 
 "Go on, Di! It is getting interesting!" 
 
 " Well at last I struck oil, though at first it was but a tiny 
 well. I got appointed as manager in a store far up the 
 country, away from cities and towns. The fellows that 
 
 ran it were a lot of d d sharpers; and, as they had only 
 
 the poor natives to deal with, they shaved them right and 
 left. They had a lot of old Brummagem stuffs sent out, 
 not worth the carriage paid on them; but they sold, along 
 with trinkets, penknives, mechanical dolls, Jews' -harps, 
 to the poor natives, for what, do you think?" 
 
 Jack couldn't guess. He didn't know where the natives 
 could get money. He at last struck on diamonds. 
 
 "Yes, you Solomon, you're right," said Dion. "But 
 though they had the diamonds, they dared not show 
 them. You know it is dead against such law as we have 
 out here; and they would shoot a native as they'd shoot 
 a dog. But the poor fellows had almost the equivalent 
 of diamonds in ostrich feathers and plumes, plucked 
 sometimes from the living animal. These are of great 
 value, as the Cape merchants know. And sometimes 
 the natives brought in pieces of ivory, red as yonder 
 sunset, for which the honest traders would fight like 
 catamounts."
 
 THE AMABELE VALLEY 429 
 
 "Well, somehow," Dion continued after a pause, "I 
 had pity on the poor devils, seeing them so outrageously- 
 swindled; and by degrees I got them to understand that 
 these feathers were worth ten times, twenty times, a 
 hundred times the value the traders set on them. They 
 were slow to understand; but, when they understood, 
 they held on like grim death. And the poor devils 
 were touchingly grateful. They wanted me to decamp 
 and become their king; they promised me fifty wives 
 and a tent full of ostrich plumes. They promised me 
 everything. I say. Jack!" 
 
 " Well? " said Jack, who was deeply interested. 
 "You may say what you like about civilization and 
 all that. But, by Jove, if ever there is to be a valley of 
 Jehoshaphat, I'll take my chance with the black nigger 
 and not with the white robber and plunderer." 
 
 "Well," he continued, "you know all this couldn't 
 go on. The bosses were getting suspicious, although 
 they still had cent per cent for their money. And I was 
 beginning to think of looking out for another place, or mak- 
 ing tracks for home, when one day I was caught in a 
 thunderstorm, and I had to run for a Bushman's kraal, 
 I was only in when down came deluge number two, to 
 which old Noah's Deluge was but a sprinkling from a 
 waterpot. I heard a whisper amongst the gins, with 
 whom I was a prime favourite, because I gave them little 
 bits of glass jewelry and little bells and such like childish 
 things; and I heard them say: "Tis the Ba-as!' 
 
 "They were shy and frightened, poor devils, but I could 
 see how glad they were to see me. And, after a time, 
 they renewed their offer; and then, to tempt me further, 
 they volunteered to show me some of their ostrich 
 farms and where they found their ivories. I went; and 
 the more I saw, the more I wondered. Of course, every- 
 thing was primitive and savage; but, by Jove, if the white 
 man could put his hungry eyes on what I saw, he would 
 exterminate every black man in Africa. I went home 
 next day, for the distance was great, to find a curt dis-
 
 430 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 missal before me for being absent from duty. I wasn't 
 sorry. I went back to the tribes." 
 
 Dion stopped, as if thinking. Then, he resumed: 
 "Jack, I'm no saint, God knows; but, on my mother's 
 soul, I acted with the strictest honour with these poor 
 devils. I suppose, like all men, I have that devil's 
 hunger of money in my heart; but, if I were going to 
 judgment now, I do not hold a fraction dishonestly or 
 unlawfully obtained. I showed these poor fellows the 
 strict money value of their goods ; I made them reorgan- 
 ize on a newer system their ostrich-farms; I made them 
 store up in secret places their treasures of ivory; and 
 
 — I showed them, but they were mighty slow to believe 
 it, that the bits of glass from Birmingham were useless, 
 and that their own bits of polished stone were of great 
 value. They wouldn't believe me; and they wanted me 
 to take some of these stones, which would have made me 
 a half-a-millionaire. I refused them." 
 
 "Dion," said Jack enthusiastically, "you were always 
 a brick." 
 
 "Did I lose?" continued Dion. "Not a bit! I went 
 to the Cape, negotiated with other feather merchants, 
 feeling my way cautiously. I put these poor devils on 
 to a good market; and they repaid me nobly. And then 
 
 — the white devil got into their hearts; and now, they 
 are becoming mere white men, cunning, avaricious, 
 treacherous, under the yellow curse. But they are loyal 
 to me! In a radius of two hundred miles from here I 
 am master. I command their loyalty and their ser- 
 vices. They would cheat and murder any other white 
 man, if they were provoked by revenge or avarice. They 
 would die for me. But I am not a rich man, thank God! 
 I have this farm and these pretty things, which are 
 valuable; and one thing more, which I shall show 
 you!" 
 
 He went away; and, in the meantime, Annie came in 
 to do some little service. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry you were'nt here, Annie," said
 
 THE AMABELE VALLEY 431 
 
 Jack, " to hear the history of Dion's adventures. I must 
 get him to tell you all again." 
 
 "He appears to be a little king around here," said 
 Annie. "The moment the natives understood you 
 were his brother, they wanted to besiege us with kind- 
 ness." 
 
 "Weren't we lucky, Annie?" he cried, his eyes glowing 
 with pleasure, although the bones around the sockets 
 were painfully visible. "Dion will be here in a moment; 
 and he'll be dehghted." 
 
 Dion was delighted. He came back with a little paper 
 box in his hand, which he opened. Annie moved away. 
 
 " Come here, Annie," he said. " We have no secrets 
 from you." 
 
 He held up the box, and took out a large diamond. 
 It was a bluish-white stone, the two colours blending 
 and alternating as if the light of them was a liquid. Jack 
 took it to examine. 
 
 " I would be afraid to tell you what this will be worth, 
 when cut by a lapidary. I must say it was forced on 
 my acceptance by one of the chiefs for some service 
 which I thought trifling, but which he thought impor- 
 tant. I objected, and explained fully the value of the 
 stone. It was pathetic to see the old chief shaking his 
 head, as he said in his own dialect : 
 
 " ' It is no use to me. I shall soon be with my fathers. 
 It is no use to my tribe. The white man has come to 
 stay. All will be his. Take it, while it is in my power 
 to give. Some day, you will marry a white wife; and let 
 it be her wedding portion. ' " 
 
 Jack was turning it over in his thin frail hands, and 
 holding it against the light. At Dion's last words he 
 became veiy thoughtful, and poised the stone in his 
 fingers. 
 
 "Dion!" he said, at length. 
 
 "Well, Jack?" said his brother. 
 
 "Dion!" said the dying boy, "what is nobly obtained, 
 may be nobly bestowed."
 
 432 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Certainly!" said Dion, astonished at his brother's 
 solemnity. 
 
 "Then I shall make it our sister Annie's wedding por- 
 tion," said the boy. 
 
 "If Annie will accept it as such," said Dion, looking 
 at her questioningly. 
 
 And the tears welled into her eyes; but she did not 
 say Nay!
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 A Farewell Sermon 
 
 When the old pastor turned back to his dining-room, 
 after expelling forcibly the unfortunate man, who had 
 intruded on his privacy to insult him, it may be said that 
 the door closed on the most unhappy being on this planet. 
 Full of disgust, seK-shame, mortification, he threw him- 
 self into his arm-chair, and yielded himself tamely to the 
 torrent of troubles that had suddenly rushed on him. 
 The most acute of all his reflections was that he had 
 been betrayed into an act of violence that degraded 
 himself. He thought with all the poignancy of sorrow 
 and shame of his niece's defection, of the estrangement 
 of his parishioners, of his blindness and future desola- 
 tion. But he cried out in the bitterness of his soul : 
 
 "I could have borne all, all; and conquered all. But 
 to have locked my hand, my consecrated hand in the 
 neck-cloth of a drunken peasant — oh ! " 
 
 The following day, when Henry Liston came down, 
 and told about the frightful murder of the preceding 
 night, he was surprised at his pastor's indifference — 
 still more surprised when the latter bade him take up 
 his pen, and dictated to him the words in which he sent 
 his resignation of the parish to his Bishop. 
 
 The following Sunday, he referred very briefly to the 
 murder that had taken place. He spoke of it, as it re- 
 flected odium on the parish, and as the result of un- 
 bridled passion, or that thirst for revenge, which had 
 come down to the people as an unhappy heirloom from 
 their pagan ancestors. But he did not breathe a word 
 about the unhappy man whose life was now in proxi- 
 29 433
 
 434 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 mate danger on account of the crime. But when he 
 had finished his allusions he did not turn in to resume 
 the reading of the Mass; he remained for some time 
 in the same posture, his fingers clasped in front of his 
 vestments, and the dark glasses, looking quite black 
 in the gloom, staring down at the congregation. 
 
 After some minutes, as if he were trying to conquer 
 his emotion, he said: 
 
 "And now I am about to introduce to your notice 
 another topic, more painful to me than that to which 
 I have alluded, and probably quite as painful to you. 
 Since I became pastor of this parish twenty-five years 
 ago, I have never allowed any infringement, or breach 
 of the moral law to pass without due chastisement fronx 
 this altar. I believed then, and I believe now, that 
 there is no better way of checking vice than bringing 
 public opinion to bear upon it; and thank God, so far 
 at least, public opinion is on the side of God and Chris- 
 tian morality. What the near future may bring, God 
 only knows. People tell mo that things are changing, 
 changing rapidly, changing terribly — that the old, deep, 
 religious sense of the people is dying away; and that the 
 law of God will not be reverenced in the future as in 
 the past. However that may be," he said, raising his 
 voice, and speaking with the old sternness and determi- 
 nation, " I shall never cease to uphold the high standard 
 of morality in my parish that was handed down from 
 my predecessors; and to-day, which marks my last ap- 
 pearance on this altar, I hereby denounce and stigmatize 
 in the strongest manner the conduct of one who was 
 closely connected with me by ties of flesh and blood, 
 and whose departure from this parish took place under 
 circumstances that have been the occasion of great 
 scandal to the whole community. There may have 
 been no sin in her action — nay, I'm sure there has 
 been no sin. But we have to guard not only against 
 sin, but against scandal; and those who are placed by 
 education and otherwise above the crowd are bound 

 
 A FAREWELL SERMON 435 
 
 particularly to avoid everything that could be a rock 
 of offence to their humbler and weaker brethren. I 
 know, of course, the defence that has been made. I 
 know it is said that my niece is a professional nurse, 
 and bound to attend patients, high and low, rich and 
 poor. I know also that her motives are the purest and 
 holiest in sacrificing herself to accompany a dying boy 
 to far-away Africa. But, whatever be thought of these 
 arguments in medical circles, and whatever be the new- 
 fangled principles that have come into being these last 
 few years with what is called the progress of science and 
 education, I have to consider the interests of my flock, 
 which, at least as yet, has not abandoned the old Chris- 
 tian ideas of maiden modesty and prudence. Hence, I 
 gave my niece the alternative of staying at home with 
 me, or leaving me forever. I told her that the moment 
 she left my parish under such circumstances she ceased 
 to be my niece. She took her choice. And," he said 
 fiercely, "I have cut her image out of my heart forever. 
 She shall never darken my door again. She shall never 
 sit at my table. She shall never hear my voice. God 
 knows, it is true I did look forward to the time when 
 she might be a help and a comfort to me in my old age 
 and blindness. The strongest of us will cling to some 
 support in our darkness and descent towards the grave; 
 and I was hoping that in my darkness and sorrow, I 
 would have some one near me to help me to spend the 
 lonely and sorrowful hours of a blind old age. That 
 is not to be. So God has permitted; so she has decided. 
 But, as I have said, I cast her away from me forever. 
 With the strangers she has cast her lot; and her lot shall 
 be with the stranger forever. But when I am gone, let 
 no man say, I spared my own flesh and blood, when the 
 law of God and the welfare of the people required it." 
 
 Here again he paused; and there was the deepest 
 silence in the church, except for the sobbing of the women, 
 who swayed themselves to and fro, under the tragic 
 solemnity of the scene, and who broke into a loud wailing,
 
 436 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 when the priest's voice faltered as he said: "The strong- 
 est of us will cling to some support in our darkness and 
 descent toward the grave." The men looked down, 
 fingering their hats, but their faces were set and pale 
 with emotion. 
 
 "And now," said the parish priest, in a softer voice, 
 "I have to announce to you that I am no longer your 
 pastor. I have sent in my resignation to your Bishop, 
 and he has accepted it. I had hoped," he continued, 
 not noticing the increased emotion of the people, "to 
 remain your pastor to the end, because there is a certain 
 human pride or vanity in dying with the honours of one's 
 profession and in harness. But, an accident, locked up 
 in my breast, that occurred this last week has precipitated 
 matters, and next Sunday, the new parish priest of 
 Doonvarragh, Lackagh, and Athboy will address you 
 from this altar. Hence, my words to-day are my last 
 words to you. For twenty-five years I have tried to 
 serve God and you, imperfectly and feebly, I know, but 
 yet, I think, with honesty and sincerity. I can say 
 with St. Paul, that ' I did not covet your gold or silver.' 
 Probably, you thought I was often exacting about dues; 
 but it wasn't for myself, but because I believed it was 
 a duty I had to discharge. To-day, if my debts were 
 paid, I would not be worth one shilling. In other things, 
 too, you thought me hard; but it was the hardness of 
 the father that seeks the welfare of his child, and puts 
 his eternal salvation before everything else. Hence, I 
 know that I was neither loved nor liked in this parish — " 
 
 " You were, you were, yer reverence," cried a woman 
 passionately sobbing, "but you didn't know the people. 
 You kep' away from 'em; but they loved you in their 
 heart of hearts." 
 
 "An' 'tis God Almighty's truth that the woman is 
 afther spakin'," said a farmer, standing up, although 
 his voice shook with the unusual experience of having 
 spoken in a church. 
 
 A deep murmur of approbation and sympathy ran
 
 A FAREWELL SERMON 437 
 
 through the congregation at these words. It was an 
 inarticulate, but eloquent declaration of love and loyalty 
 that a king might envy. It touched the strong man at 
 the altar so keenly that his whole frame shook with 
 emotion, and his trembling hand went fumbling beneath 
 the chasuble for his handkerchief. And when he took 
 out the old red handkerchief, and lifting up the black 
 glasses, wiped those eyes where the light of Heaven 
 would never shine again, a low, long wail of anguish rose 
 up from the dense mass of people, and many a heart- 
 felt and burning word in Irish reached the ears of the 
 weeping priest. 
 
 It was fully five minutes before he could master his 
 emotion, or subdue theirs. Then he said, hastily hiding 
 his hands beneath his chasuble: 
 
 "There! There! I did not expect this. But what's 
 done can't be undone now. But you have unmanned 
 me; and I must now refrain from saying all that I wanted 
 to say. But it was briefly this! I felt all along that I 
 belonged to a past generation; and that all my thoughts 
 and dreams were out of place now. I thought I belonged 
 to the time when the people were tender and true, were 
 kindly and honourable towards each other, and had a deep f 
 love in their hearts for God and Ireland. All my own love 
 and hope and ambition were centred in these two words. 
 To do God's work, however imperfectly, to serve Ireland, 
 however unworthily, here was my ambition, here was 
 my reward! Then I thought, perhaps unwisely, that the 
 new generation which had arisen did not understand 
 these things — that there was more selfishness, more 
 cunning, more treachery in these days than in the days 
 that are gone. But, somehow, little glimpses into the 
 lives of the people, from time to time, made me suspect 
 that perhaps I misunderstood them; and to-day, as I 
 am leaving you, I most humbly ask your pardon, and 
 that of Almighty God, if I have formed a wrong judg- 
 ment about you. But all that is gone. And in saying 
 Farewell! to you, believe me that I carry with me a
 
 438 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 consolation that I never expected to possess, and that 
 will be a staff and support to my tottering feet in the way 
 I have yet to tread. And all that I will ask of you in 
 return is, to forget, as far as you can, my own failings 
 whilst I was here, and to be merciful to my memory when 
 I'm dead!" 
 
 The acute agony of the people had died away; but 
 there was a deep murmur of prayer and praise, when the 
 priest turned around, and felt his way to the end of the 
 altar. 
 
 When he came forth from the sacristy after his Thanks- 
 giving, the whole congregation were on their knees before 
 him; and the acolyte, who held his hand and led him, 
 had to pick his way through a narrow avenue to the gate. 
 The old priest knew by the instinct of the blind that he 
 was passing through a crowd; and he made the Sign of 
 the Cross over them as he went. But he hardly recog- 
 nized the dimensions of the multitude, until he reached 
 the gate, and heard the noise of the people standing up, 
 and the tumult of exclamation that followed him as he 
 passed down the road to where his horse was standing. 
 Just as he was mounting his car, he felt his coat-tails 
 plucked gently; and, stooping down, he caught the tiny 
 hand of a little child. 
 
 "Father," said she, in her childish way, "won't you 
 come back any more?" 
 
 "Who is this?" he said. "Whom have I got here?" 
 
 "I'm Eileen Hogan — 'Chatterbox,' you know!" 
 
 It was one of his school favourites, whom he had chris- 
 tened with that name. 
 
 He gently stroked the fair hair of the child, and passed 
 his hand over her soft cheek. 
 
 "No! Eily," he said. "But maybe you'll come to see 
 me. Good-bye! and be a good girl! " 
 
 He mounted his car and drove away. 
 
 Mrs. Duggan was not in the habit of going to first 
 Mass to Doonvarragh. She found it easier to attend the 
 
 I
 
 A FAREWELL SERMON 439 
 
 ten o'clock Mass at Athboy, which was equidistant from 
 her house. She was not present, therefore, at the scene 
 just described, which took place in Doonvarragh chapel; 
 but she heard of it, and in the newly-found enthusiasm 
 of the people, it lost nothing in the recital. And, amidst 
 her own profound sorrow and shame, she could not help 
 feeling a little pride in her own loyalty to her pastor, and 
 the way in which her opinions had now been vindicated. 
 
 "Many and many a time I tould ye, ye were wrong 
 — out an' out; but ye wouldn't listen to me. Wid yere 
 ejucation, an' yere dress, an' yere style, ye think ye know 
 more than Almighty God Himself, Glory bo to His Holy 
 Name! But, whin the throuble comes, thin ye opens 
 yere eyes, or rather they're opened for ye! Oh, mavronef 
 if that poor bhoy had only been said and led by his 
 prieshts, he'd have a different shtory to tell to-day. 
 But, sure, no wan, from the beginnin' of the wurruld till 
 now ever knew luck nor grace attindin' anywan, that 
 wint agin their prieshts." 
 
 There was no reply. There never was a reply to any 
 outburst of honest eloquence on the part of the Irish 
 vanithees. They did not reason, nor argue, nor debate. 
 They decreed. And there was no appeal. 
 
 Suddenly, a new idea flashed across the mind of the 
 brave old woman. They had told her that her parish 
 priest was going away. Perhaps, she would never see 
 him again, never have the chance of telling how faith- 
 ful and loyal she was amidst all changes and vicissi- 
 tudes. She instantly gave orders to have the horse and 
 cart brought out again, demanded a new cap, freshly- 
 quilted and frilled, and put on the great cloth cloak with 
 the satin hood, which was the ornament and glory of 
 Irish womanhood, and which not only lasted a lifetime, 
 but was often passed down from generation to genera- 
 tion. Thus attired, she drove down to the parish priest's 
 house with one of her boys, and entered the presbytery 
 grounds. 
 
 The old priest, in his cassock, was walking up and down
 
 440 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 in the sunshine, along the gravelled path that lay along 
 the southern walls of his house. He was thinking of 
 many things, pondering many things in his old, syllo- 
 gistic fashion, wondering, most of all, whether he had 
 not been labouring all his life under the mistake that Law 
 is the finality of Being, and that he had never discerned 
 that there may be something higher than Law, or a Law 
 beyond Law, and that is Love! He had never seemed 
 to doubt before that rigid, inexorable Law was the gov- 
 erning Power of the Universe; and that it was only mute 
 and unquestioning obedience to its behests that saved 
 the Universe and the souls of men from irreparable 
 ruin. 
 
 He would as soon have doubted the conclusions of a 
 proposition in Euclid, or a formal syllogism, as this. 
 It was his Faith — the cardinal principle of his life; and 
 he had always prided himself on the strict and unexcep- 
 tional manner in which he had acted on the principle. 
 It was the bulwark of the Church and State and people. 
 Remove that, or tamper with it, and down comes every- 
 thing in hopeless and irretrievable ruin. But now some- 
 thing higher than mere reason told him that throughout 
 the vast universe there was a something higher and holier 
 than Law — or rather that the highest of all laws — the 
 Supreme Excellence was Love. That murmur amongst 
 the people at Mass; that bold expression of unlettered 
 peasants, when they told him he was utterly mistaken; 
 and his own tears — were the eloquent defenders of the 
 sublime thesis that " Love is Creation's Final Law." 
 And then, by a logical, but painful transition, he suddenly 
 asked himself — After all, was Annie right? Was her act 
 of self-immolation, too, although it seemed to him to 
 transgress the laws of propriety, still in perfect conso- 
 nance with the higher decrees which, in the name of hu- 
 manity, had been confirmed and consecrated by common 
 consent? 
 
 It was whilst he was thus agitated, that he heard the 
 sound of the heavy cart-wheels crunching the gravel
 
 A FAREWELL SERMON 441 
 
 before the door, and his old housekeeper immediately 
 after announcing to him that Mrs. Duggan was waiting 
 to see him. 
 
 She hadn't seen her parish priest for some months; 
 and she was much shocked at the alteration in his appear- 
 ance, and deeply touched when she saw him groping his 
 way in utter darkness. 
 
 " Wisha, yer reverence," she said, "you will forgive me 
 callin' on you in yer throuble; but sure I hard all about 
 your sermon this mornin' — and are you goin' to lave 
 us?" 
 
 "Sit down, Mrs. Duggan," he said, extending his 
 hand bhndly to her, " it is good of you to come and see 
 me; and you having such a weight of trouble on your- 
 self." 
 
 "Well, sure, welcome be the will of God," she said. 
 "It is a sore, hard thrial enough for me in me old age. 
 But sure, nothin' betther could come from the dhrinkin' 
 and the fightin' an' the card-playin'. An' all that was bad 
 enough, if he hadn't turned agin his prieshts." 
 
 The priest said nothing; but waited. 
 
 " An' is it thrue, yer reverence, that you're goin' away 
 from us?" 
 
 " 'Tis, Mrs. Duggan," he said. " You see I am old and 
 now I'm run blind; and 'tis a big parish, and I wouldn't 
 feel easy in my conscience to keep it, when I couldn't 
 do all that I ought to do for the people." 
 
 "Wisha, thin, yer reverence will forgive me for sayin' 
 it; but the people wor sayin' couldn't his reverence get 
 another curate, and resht himself?" 
 
 'Tm afraid not," he said. "The parish is large, but 
 the population is much lessened by emigration. The 
 place wouldn't support three priests." 
 
 " But sure the people, yer reverence, av you only axed 
 them, or put up your finger, 'ud incrase their jues, and 
 give all you want." 
 
 He shook his head mournfully. He was afraid to deny 
 it now, because it would take away the beautiful impres-
 
 442 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 sions left on his memory since the morning. But it was 
 too late. 
 
 "It is too late now to think of it," he said. "Tell me 
 about your own trouble." 
 
 "There isn't much to tell, yer reverence," she replied. 
 "We have done all in our power for this misfortunate 
 bhoy; but I'm afraid 'tis no use. Every thin' is agin him; 
 and he'll give no help himself." 
 
 " Why doesn't he tell his solicitor all he knows," said 
 the priest, "and why doesn't he protest his innocence?" 
 
 "Maybe he can't," said the poor mother, lifting up 
 her hands and letting them fall in her lap. "Maybe 
 he can't; and he knows 'tis no use!" 
 
 "He was remanded last Thursday?" said the priest. 
 "Was he not?" 
 
 "He was, yer reverence, and taken up to Cork Gaol; 
 an' he'll be brought down nixt Thursday with the hand- 
 cuffs on him, and the whole wurruld lookin' at him." 
 
 The thought of her boy handcuffed as a spectacle to 
 the world was too much for her, and she broke into a fit 
 of weeping. 
 
 He let her alone, until she calmed herself, and again asked : 
 
 "Will there be any new, any additional evidence 
 against him, do you think?" 
 
 "Wisha, we don't know, yer reverence," she replied. 
 "I'm tould the police are scourin' the counthry right an' 
 left, and axin' all kinds of questions about the poor bhoy. 
 An' there he is, not a word out of him. He won't say 
 Iss, Aye, or No, to any question he's axed. All he'll 
 say is, ' I'll be hanged, an' I deserved it. ' " 
 
 "That's very bad," said the priest, thoughtfully. "He 
 is sinking into despair. Is there anything new discov- 
 ered?" 
 
 "Nothin', as I tould yer reverence. But they say the 
 police wor down at the ould castle all day on Saturday. 
 And there's no knowing what these haythens may swear, 
 if they are paid for it." 
 
 "Many and many a time I warned the people against
 
 A FAREWELL SERMON 443 
 
 the gypsies," he said in his old tone of complaint; but he 
 suddenly stopped. Complaints and recriminations were 
 no more for him. 
 
 "Thrue for your reverence," said the old woman, 
 catching the word. " But the people had their own way; 
 and much good has it done them." 
 
 After another long pause, he said: 
 
 "I suppose he'll be committed now to the summer 
 assizes. Or, they may remand him again and again. 
 But I wish the boy would break silence. It would help 
 to establish his innocence." 
 
 "And maybe your reverence thinks that he is innocent 
 — that he never done the deed?" she cried, with awa- 
 kened hope. 
 
 "Do you mean Dick?" he said. 
 
 "Av coorse, I do, yer reverence. 'Tis of Dick I'm 
 talkin'." 
 
 "Dick no more murdered Ned Kerins than I did," said 
 the priest. "And God will prove his innocence to the 
 world, as you'll see." 
 
 "Oh thin, may the Almighty God power his blessings 
 down on you every day you live," said the poor woman, 
 from whose heart a mighty load was now lifted. " Sure 
 I don't care what happens now, so long as he hasn't 
 the sin of murder on his sowl. Let 'em hang and quarter 
 him if they likes. Sure many an innocent man was 
 hanged in Ireland before. So long as I know that he 
 didn't sind that misfortunate man to judgment with 
 his sin on his sowl." 
 
 " But," said the priest solemnly, not heeding her words, 
 "you mustn't breathe to man or mortal what I've said 
 to you. The officers of the law are clever; and they would 
 block every effort on your son's behalf if they knew them. 
 So you must promise me now that what has happened 
 here this afternoon will be as secret as the grave." 
 
 " You may depind on me, yer reverence," she said. 
 
 "The life of your son depends on your silence," he 
 repeated.
 
 444 
 
 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Oh thin, oh thin, oh thin," she cried, kissing the 
 priest's hand in an ecstasy of gratitude, " may the Lord 
 forgive him and thim who didn't know what kind of 
 priesht they had, till they lost him." 
 
 "Mind," he said," I didn't say that I, but God would 
 save your son. And remember, God is only moved by 
 prayer; and above all, by a mother's prayers."
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 
 The Moonlight Shroud 
 
 When Annie O'Farrell came out from the sick-chamber 
 after the strange scene with the two brothers, she felt 
 that the great hour of her Hfe had come, and that all her 
 own happiness, as well as that of others, depended on 
 her choice. She was quite aware all along that she was 
 not indifferent to the brave young fellow, who had often 
 amused her by his quaintness and candour in the days of 
 their tuition; and she also felt that she could no longer 
 look upon him as in his pupillage, but as one who com- 
 manded respect and affection from an innate nobility 
 of character, which had been developed under strange 
 and untoward circumstances. The sense of dependence 
 on her, too, which both young men manifested, seemed 
 to give them claims which easily developed into the 
 highest that a girl can give or have; and hence, the tran- 
 sition was so easy from protection to affection, from re- 
 spect to love, that when the final proposal was made so 
 simply, so delicately, so honourably, she could not help 
 feeling gratified and pleased at this last and highest 
 mark of respect that the young can pay to each other. 
 But then — a fatal obstacle to her union with Dion rose 
 up darkly and threateningly before her. She was a 
 Catholic ; and he — ? She had made great sacrifices 
 for these boys; but this she could not make. She had 
 trampled on human opinion without scruple; but this 
 was something more. 
 
 It was in such perplexity Dion found her some time 
 after their interview in his brother's sick-chamber. She 
 was standing near one of the fountains, looking into it 
 
 445
 
 446 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 with a mind preoccupied with doubt. She did not hear 
 Dion approach on the thick grass. It was his shadow 
 cast across the water that trembled in the fountain she 
 first saw. She started and turned, and a faint blush 
 covered her face. 
 
 " You forgot this, Annie," said the young man, holdinq; 
 out the little box in which the diamond lay. "It is 
 yours!" 
 
 "Dion," said she, "I can't take it. Indeed, I can't!" 
 
 "Why, what's the matter, Annie?" he said, in surprise, 
 "I gave it to you. Have Jack and I been blundering 
 badly?" 
 
 "No! no!" she said hastily. "You meant everything 
 that was kind. But I fear, Dion, this is a thing that 
 cannot be." 
 
 "Well, all that depends on yourself, Annie," he said, 
 in a manly way. " I suppose we could have done things 
 more delicately. I see now we were abrupt. But Jack 
 had set his heart on this matter; and you must have 
 known, Annie, what my feelings were this long time." 
 
 Annie hung down her head. She felt somehow that 
 it was from herself the apology was due. 
 
 "I can see," Dion went on, "that there was a certain 
 indelicacy in forcing the subject on you, because, I sup- 
 pose, you feel a certain want of protection away so far 
 from home and friends. But, somehow, you know, 
 Annie, you had become one of ourselves — " 
 
 "Dion, don't!" said Annie, crying. "You and Jack 
 have been everything that was kind and good ; but where 
 is the use? Let me put it plainly to you. I am a Roman 
 Catholic, and I cannot marry anyone outside my own 
 faith." 
 
 "But I am of your faith," said Dion. "You are my 
 religion, because you represent all that is good and noble 
 and honourable; and I don't want any religion but that." 
 
 "If I am all that you think I am," she said gravely, 
 "it is because of my religion." 
 
 "Well, then," he said, "your religion is mine. Look 
 
 I
 
 THE MOONLIGHT SHROUD 447 
 
 here, Annie. When I came up from civilization, from 
 town and cities, I had little faith in God or man left in 
 my heart. But, when I began to understand these poor 
 savages here around, whatever little faith I had revived. 
 Because I said to myself, ' Look now at these poor fellows! 
 They have no education, no books, no schools; and yet 
 they have a code of morals and honour that equals those 
 of advanced peoples; and what is more, they act on it. 
 They are honest, sober, self-denying, abstemious, chaste, 
 obedient. Surely,' I said, 'there must be some Being 
 who implanted such virtues in their hearts.' And the 
 savage taught me to see God. Then you came and I 
 saw something more. No, Annie, I am far from being 
 an irreligious man. All that is holy, all that is pure, 
 all that is noble, in the world, I worship in you. That's 
 my religion! And if there be anything more required, 
 you shall be my priestess; and your people shall be my 
 people, and your God, my God!" 
 
 "You are a good man, Dion," she said. "But I want 
 you to know that behind me is Truth. Can you accept 
 the Truth, when it is shown to you?" 
 
 "Certainly," he said. "And now, Annie, there's no 
 time to lose. I know it would make Jack happier if he 
 knew — if he saw us married before he closes his eyes 
 in death. Shall I tell him all?" 
 
 "Yes!" she said. "I should like to make poor Jack 
 happy." 
 
 "Then," said Dion, "I'll lose no time. I know where 
 there's a Padre, a good old Irishman, too! He is a hun- 
 dred miles off; but one of my men can have him here in 
 two or three days. You tell him everything, and just 
 say, that I and Jack are in your hands, and let him square 
 up everything at once. You know I'm no great hand at 
 praying and all that kind of thing. But you'll do it 
 all for me — won't you, Annie?" 
 
 And Annie had to smile at the simplicity of this big 
 boy — who was just as buoyant and candid as he was 
 when many years ago she cuffed him at his Latin lessons.
 
 448 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 The evening of their marriage, they sat out on the 
 veranda in front of the house, watching the play of the 
 fountains on the still warm air — the long thread of 
 water that shot from the pipes beneath, and then seemed 
 to foliate itself in many-tinted leaves, which fell, drop 
 by drop, or petal by petal, into the foaming basin be- 
 neath. The air was light and buoyant, yet filled with 
 a thousand fragrant odours from flower and bush and 
 shrub; and there was an exquisite stillness all around, 
 unbroken by cry of bird or shriek of beast. There was 
 no sound but the tinkling of the drops of crystal that 
 fell, like musical bells, on the silence all around. 
 
 Jack Wycherly, shriven and anointed, lay in his hammock 
 near the ground; Dion and Annie sat near him; and the 
 Padre was at the other side, joining now and again in 
 the general conversation. Although the occasion was a 
 festive one, there was an air of sadness and subdued 
 melancholy over the group, because they felt that the 
 frail life in their midst was ebbing slowly away, and the 
 shadow of death was upon them. Yet, not one of them 
 could say that he was unhappy, least of all the poor lad, 
 whose very consciousness of the near approach of death 
 seemed to place him beyond human sorrow, and to 
 lift him into new spaces of more spiritual and ethereal 
 being. 
 
 The festivities of the day were over, as they thought. 
 Everything that could be done for the natives in Dion's 
 employment, and in the immediate vicinity, to make 
 the day remarkable, and one to be placed forever in their 
 memory, had been effected by the noiseless benevolence 
 of their master; and they had scattered to their rooms 
 in the vicinity, or down to their kraals near the river, 
 glutted with the happiness of children, who never care 
 to see beyond the present. 
 
 The sun had set in a cloudless sky, and the big moon 
 came up from behind the valley; and the four figures 
 on the veranda never stirred. Two were drinking in 
 the perfect happiness of their union, and whispering to
 
 THE MOONLIGHT SHROUD 449 
 
 each other the nameless nothings that are interesting 
 to them and to no one else besides; one was buried in 
 his own thoughts — of his far-off country, of his solitude, 
 of his work. And one was quite still, counting his heart- 
 beats and measuring his breathing, and gazing with 
 greater love than a brother's on the happiness he had 
 been the unconscious instrument of creating. 
 
 Whilst all was perfectly still and lovely, there seemed 
 to start suddenly from the ground a group of native men 
 and women, who approached gently and with an air of 
 apology in their movements, and formed themselves 
 into a dusky circle around the group on the veranda. 
 Then, one beat gently and slowly with his fingers a flat 
 drum that he held; and, in a florid recitation, he told 
 of the grandeur and the greatness of their master. When 
 he had done, another arose, stepped forward from the 
 throng, and in a similar recitative recounted the many 
 favours the black man had received from their white 
 brother — the little gifts, the wise advice, the guardian- 
 ship and protection he had always extended to them. 
 Then, a young girl, the fairest of their tribe, stepped 
 forward, clothed in white to her ankles; and bringing 
 in her arms a basket such as is woven by the natives 
 out of pampas-grass and reeds, she knelt down, and, 
 kissing Annie's feet with a gesture of absolute humility 
 and subjection, she placed the basket, full of the richest 
 flowers, in Annie's lap. She raised herself, and made 
 a profound inclination to the young "white queen," 
 when Annie, touched by all this affection and love on 
 the part of the poor natives, stood up, and throwing her 
 arms around the girl's neck, she kissed her on both cheeks. 
 The native curtseyed again, and went back beaming 
 with happiness to her people, who were wild with joy 
 at the honour paid one of their tribe. 
 
 "Annie," said Jack, who was watching the whole 
 
 proceeding with great interest, and who now took his 
 
 sister's hand in his own, "that was beautiful. It was 
 
 so like you. Do you know that I feel very happy now? 
 
 30
 
 450 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 In fact, I do not think I was ever so happy in my whole 
 life. I feel quite light, as if I were going to fly. Wasn't 
 it lucky, Annie, for us all that we got away from that 
 murky, misty country and came here to find Dion and 
 — such a scene as this? Oh, yes! I'm awfully happy. 
 I never thought I could be so happy before. But, hist! 
 the natives are singing." 
 
 The whole tribe were singing in a low tone, like the 
 murmur of a far-off sea. They were singing again the 
 praises of their chief and the white queen. They were 
 telling how she came amongst them, as the moon comes 
 out of a cloud by night to enlighten them and throw the 
 cold, pure rays of unselfish love into their kraals and 
 cabins. They told how she nursed their babes and their 
 sick; how she had no dread of fevers, or diphtheria, and 
 how the dreaded pneumonia, caused by the sand-storms 
 of their hills, fled at her approach. They told how she 
 even nursed the lepers, and refused to accept their warn- 
 ings of the dread disease; and every strophe ended 
 with a Hail! or Hallelujah! to the great white queen, 
 who was sent across the seas by the Spirit-Ruler of the 
 universe to lift the black man from death and the deep 
 pit. 
 
 The low, murmured monotone, accompanied by the 
 sound of the falling waters, seemed to lull the listeners 
 in the veranda into a kind of half-wakeful sleep. The 
 priest was the first to rise; and, casting a careless glance 
 at the hammock where Jack was lying, he started and 
 looked closer. Then, he went over, and whispered some- 
 thing to Dion; and all gathered around the hammock. 
 
 Yes! There was no mistaking the peace that slept on 
 the brow of the boy — a peace, unlike that of happiness, 
 or sleep, or anything else that is holy and gentle in the 
 living. It is the peace that cannot be lifted or broken 
 or banished for evermore, by sigh or pain, or tear, or 
 aught else that wrings the soul, and contorts the features 
 of the living. Jack Wycherly was dead! dead in his 
 hammock on the dark veranda with its wreaths of fra-
 
 THE MOONLIGHT SHROUD 451 
 
 grant creepers down there in the South-African "Valley. 
 But in some way, the golden moon had come round in 
 its circuit, and evading the trellised creepers and the 
 pillars, it flooded with light the whole length of the ham- 
 mock where the dead boy lay, and wrapped him in its 
 own silver shroud of pure white beams from the depths 
 of the African skies. His eyes were still wide open, and 
 seemed to be gazing afar like the sightless eyes of a poet 
 or a seer; and his lips were parted, as if they were still 
 uttering the benediction on his beloved sister, that was 
 his loving valedictory and farewell to life. One dead 
 hand fell over the side of his hammock and trailed along 
 the floor of the veranda; and the other lay dead across 
 the heart that was now stilled forever. But the moon 
 shone steadily on the white figure, and seemed reluctant 
 to remove her pearly shroud of pure, white light from the 
 couch of the dead boy. 
 
 "Annie, Jack is dead!" said Dion, after he had bent 
 down and scrutinized the still face. And then he went 
 away, sobbing piteously. 
 
 After a time, Annie beckoned to the chiefs of the natives 
 to come nearer; and when she had shown them the dead 
 boy, she bade them dismiss to their homes all the tribe, 
 except the immediate servants of the household. These 
 latter gathered into the veranda, a silent and reverential 
 group, awaiting orders, and looking on with frightened 
 faces, as if the sight of a white man dead had some name- 
 less terror for them. The others glided silently away 
 into the shadows created by the moonlight; but all night 
 long, the sound of wailing, like the Celtic caoine, came 
 up from the valley, and filled the night with melancholy 
 music; and the howl of the jackal and the jaguar came 
 mournfully across the veldt, a weird accompaniment to 
 human mourning. 
 
 A few days later, the skeleton of the boy, with his 
 chest empty of life-breathing lungs, was deposited deep 
 in the sand and loam in a retired spot of the garden, 
 which his brother had reclaimed from Nature. Still
 
 452 
 
 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 later, a stately marble mausoleum was erected over the 
 grave; and still later, Dion, about to bid farewell forever 
 to African skies and plains, gathered around the place 
 a picked troop of native chieftains, and solemnly entrusted 
 that grave and the sacred dust it contained to their keep- 
 ing. He knew well the trust would be kept; for his last 
 words to the good Padre, when he was leaving, were: 
 
 "Father, by all means, make Christians of these poor 
 heathens; but, for God's sake, don't civilize them."
 
 CHAPTER XLVI 
 
 The Trial 
 
 Dick Duggan had been formally committed for trial; 
 and it came off at the summer assizes at Cork in that 
 year. It was not a sensational case. No element of 
 romance entered into it. It was simply a trial for a 
 very vulgar murder, wrought through hate and revenge. 
 But, as the case had an agrarian aspect, the Crown 
 attached some importance to it; and the Solicitor-General 
 was sent down from Dublin to prosecute. The court 
 was crowded, although the one element that could excite 
 public curiosity was absent. There appeared to be no 
 doubt about the prisoner's guilt; and therefore, there 
 was no room for forensic displays. There was a foregone 
 conclusion as to the prisoner's conviction. Nevertheless, 
 as no loophole of escape can be left on such occasions, 
 but every web must be tightened around the doomed 
 man, the Solicitor-General made a most elaborate opening 
 statement, showing that from the beginning that deadly 
 hate, which was the final cause of the dread tragedy, was 
 not only entertained, but publicly avowed by the prisoner. 
 The first element, therefore, of conviction, the establish- 
 ment of a motive, was evident. Disappointment about 
 the land, rage and hatred at seeing the girl, whom he 
 hoped to make his wife, espoused to his enemy, the public 
 shame of defeat — all these combined to offer the jury 
 every assurance of cogent motive for the dreadful crime. 
 And, as if this were not enough, the learned counsel 
 guaranteed to put before the jury evidence that the pris- 
 oner, again and again, publicly avowed his determination 
 
 453
 
 454 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY | 
 
 to be revenged on his supposed enemy in the one way 
 that such natures seek revenge — that is, by the com- 
 mission of wilful and deliberate murder. M 
 
 The wretched prisoner stood in the dock with bowed 
 head. Streaks of gray showed themselves in his black 
 hair, signs of the terrible conflict he had waged with him- 
 self down there in the narrow cell where he had been con- 
 fined. He never looked up at judge or jury, but with 
 head bent down he seemed the very embodiment of 
 despair, or sullen hate. With the greatest difficulty, his 
 solicitor coerced him to plead : Not guilty ! His own wish 
 was to say Guilty, and to be hanged without delay. The 
 court was crowded with witnesses and police. The aged 
 mother sat back amongst the audience — the only person 
 in that assembly, who felt no fear, nor pity, because she 
 had perfect faith in God and in His priest. 
 
 The first witness called was the Sergeant of Police. He 
 testified that he received information of the murder 
 about seven o'clock on the evening of February 7. His 
 informant was a servant of Dr. Wycherly's. He pro- 
 ceeded at once to the place which was about two miles 
 
 from the town of M . There in a recess in the road, 
 
 the cob or pony was still quietly grazing. The form of 
 a man lay down over the dashboard, his head almost 
 touching the animal. He raised him up, and saw at 
 once that he was dead. There was a blot of blood on 
 his coat. The pike, one prong stained with blood, lay 
 at the bottom of the cart. He at once with the aid of 
 the constable arranged the dead body in the cart, and 
 drove back to town, where the body was deposited at 
 the barracks. From information received, he proceeded 
 at once to take out a warrant for the arrest of Dick 
 Duggan. 
 
 Cross-examined, he testified that the time in which he 
 got notice of the murder could not have been earlier 
 than seven o'clock; and that he was at the scene of the 
 murder at half-past seven o'clock. 
 
 Further cross-examined, he declined to give the name
 
 THE TRIAL 455 
 
 of his informant ; but it was a well-known fact that there 
 was deep hostility — 
 
 But here he was peremptorily called to order by counsel 
 for defence, who was supported by the presiding judge. 
 
 Again, examined by the Solicitor-General, he testified 
 that he had proceeded with the warrant to Duggan's 
 house; but having ascertained that he was absent all 
 the evening, he and his men hid themselves in the cow- 
 house, and waited till Duggan arrived. 
 
 "At what hour did he arrive?" 
 
 "At half-past ten." 
 
 "Did he go straight to his house?" 
 
 "No, he came into the barn." 
 
 "What did he do there?" 
 
 "He commenced washing away streaks of blood from 
 his face and hands, in a huge boiler or cauldron of water 
 that was there." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Then I arrested him for wilful murder, and had him 
 handcuffed." 
 
 "Did he resist?" 
 
 "No, he submitted quietly." 
 
 "Did you warn him?" 
 
 " Yes, I warned him that every word he uttered might 
 be used in evidence against him." 
 
 "Did he make any remark then?" 
 
 " Yes ! His first remark was : ' My God ! did I kill him? ' 
 He then said: 'I suppose I'll swing for it; but I deserve 
 it.' He wanted to go in and see his mother; but this 
 wasn't allowed." 
 
 Dr. Dalton was called and testified that he saw the 
 deceased in the police office. He had the body stripped. 
 There was a slight accumulation of blood on the inner 
 and outer garments of the dead man. On washing the 
 surface of the body he discovered a wound over the heart, 
 such as would be made by a very sharp keen instrument. 
 He then, aided by another surgeon, Dr. Willis, opened 
 the body and traced the wound through the left ventricle
 
 456 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 of the heart, severing many vessels, and terminating in 
 the apex, or first lobe of the lung behind. Death must 
 have been instantaneous. 
 
 The pike was produced, still blood-stained. Yes, that 
 pike was an instrument that would cause such a wound. 
 
 Dr. Willis, called, corroborated the testimony of Dr. 
 Dalton. There could be no doubt as to the cause of 
 death. 
 
 Cross-examined, he admitted that it was perfectly 
 possible the sad tragedy might have been the result of 
 an accident. Such accidents are extremely common; and 
 if the deceased had had a pike with him in the trap, and 
 if that pike had been placed carelessly, with the points 
 upwards, it is quite possible that the deceased, if thrown 
 forward by a sudden lurch, might have fallen on the prongs 
 of the pike, and met his death. The wound was lateral 
 and upward. Examined by the Solicitor-General, as to 
 whether the deceased, if he had sustained such an acci- 
 dent, could deliberately withdraw the weapon from his 
 side, and place it in the bottom of the trap, witness de- 
 clared such a thing impossible, as death must have been 
 instantaneous, 
 
 Pete, the g}"psy, on being sworn testified that he had 
 heard the prisoner say in his own and Mr. Edward 
 Wycherly's presence, " By the Lord God, I'll make such an 
 example of Kerins and all belonging to him, and all that 
 has anything to say or do with him, that it will be remem- 
 bered in the parish, as long as the old castle stands." 
 Mr. Wycherly said: "Take care, Duggan, he carries his 
 six-shooter always about with him; and a bullet goes 
 faster than a shillelagh." Duggan replied: "And there's 
 something that goes faster than a bullet, and it makes no 
 noise." On another occasion, somewhere about the New 
 Year, he heard Duggan say, in allusion to Kerins's mar- 
 riage: "If I thought that Martha SuUivan would have 
 him, I'd think no more of blowing out his brains than 
 shooting a dog." And on another occasion he, the 
 prisoner, asked witness: "Couldn't the ould woman give
 
 THE TRIAL 457 
 
 the girl something to drab, that is, to poison her?" 
 And he replied: "We have a bad name enough, but we've 
 always kept our hands from blood." 
 
 Cross-examined, Pete admitted that the gypsies had a 
 bad name in the parish; but it was not justified. He 
 was a hard-working tradesman, a tinker if you like; but 
 his mother told fortunes, and the people were afraid 
 of her. 
 
 Cora, the gypsy girl, came on the table with the same 
 self-assurance that always characterized her. She tossed 
 back her black gypsy locks, and sitting down, she placed 
 her elbow on her knee, and supported her head on her 
 hand in the old attitude. She testified that on the 29th 
 day of January she was present at the festivities in 
 Kerins's house ; that in the course of the evening she was 
 called out of the kitchen by Mrs. Kerins, and bade to 
 go over to Duggan's and tell Dick that she wished to 
 see him in the screen of firs behind the house; that she 
 went to Duggan's, beckoned Dick from the kitchen, and 
 in the yard told him the message Mrs. Kerins had sent; 
 that she hid herself in the screen; and heard the conver- 
 sation between Dick Duggan and Mrs. Kerins; that the 
 latter begged and implored him to let bygones be bygones; 
 that he replied, "Take this from me, that neither here 
 nor hereafter will I forgive the man that wronged me and 
 mine." Mrs. Kerins said: "The black hatred is in your 
 heart, and all for nothing." He replied : " How can I for- 
 give the man that first took away from me the place I 
 wanted to bring you; and then took you from me in the 
 bargain? FU not lie to you nor God. I've an account 
 to settle with Kerins; and when it is settled, there will 
 be no arrears." 
 
 Cross-examined, Cora said that she beckoned Dick 
 from the kitchen by pulling his sleeve. When the counsel 
 for the prisoner asked her whether she was not unutter- 
 ably mean to play the spy in the screen, she coolly an- 
 swered: "It was her business to know everything"; and
 
 458 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 then she added . " You have just reminded me that Duggan, 
 before he left the kitchen, said in answer to some question 
 about the jolhfication going on at Crossfields: 'I guess 
 their ceol [Music] will be changed into keening soon 
 enough.'" 
 
 The counsel asked no further questions. 
 
 Then came one of the sensations of the trial. The 
 gypsy girl, on being ordered to go down from the witness- 
 table, said solemnly, "I have sworn the truth. But it 
 wasn't Dicky Duggan that murdered Kerins." 
 
 She was instantly ordered back, examined and cross- 
 examined; but she gave no information, beyond repeating 
 her assertion: "Dicky Duggan is a bad fellow enough; 
 but he never murdered Kerins." 
 
 Dan Goggin, a sturdy farmer, testified that he was in 
 the public-house at the Cross the day of the murder. He 
 
 was returning from the fair at M . A lot of farmers 
 
 were drinking and chaffing Dick Duggan, who had taken 
 drink but wasn't drunk. He heard Duggan saying: 
 "There may be another dance at Crossfields soon; and 
 the feet won't touch the ground either." He also spoke 
 of a Banshee and a Caoine. 
 
 The bar-girl at the public-house testified that Duggan 
 had come to the house the day before the murder, had 
 remained there talking and drinking all day. He had 
 ieveral times uttered terrible threats against Kerins and 
 his family. He was too drunk to go home that night; 
 and he slept at the public-house. Next day, he drank 
 again, but not much. The farmers coming home from 
 
 the fair at M^ were chaffing him about the dance at 
 
 Kerins's. He again grew furious and threatening, and 
 demanded more drink. This she refused, and bade him 
 go home. At length, he demanded whiskey peremp- 
 torily, saying: "Give it to me. I have work to do 
 to-night!" He then left the house. 
 
 Cross-examined, the girl said, it could not have been 
 earlier then half-past six when Duggan left the house, 
 because she had heard the Angelus-bell ring some time
 
 THE TRIAL 459 
 
 before. Questioned as to where he went, she declared 
 she had no idea. A second question as to what was her 
 interpretation of Duggan's words: "I have work to do 
 to-night!" was peremptorily challenged by counsel for 
 defence, and the challenge was allowed. 
 
 The Sergeant of Police, recalled, gave evidence that 
 Duggan said something about the parish priest on his 
 way to prison; but seemed to think it a matter of no con- 
 sequence that Kerins was killed. 
 
 Finally, as if to clinch the case against the unfortunate 
 prisoner, the sergeant swore that in the early dawn of 
 the morning following the murder, he had taken the 
 pike to Duggan's house, when it was too dusk to notice 
 the blood-stains on the prong; and that old Duggan had 
 admitted that the pike was their property; and that he 
 had seen it last in Dick's hands the morning of the day 
 previous to the murder, when Dick had been cutting 
 soil from a rick of hay near the road. 
 
 And thus a terrible chain of circumstantial evidence 
 had been drawn around the unhappy criminal, for whom 
 there seemed no loophole of escape. The statement of 
 Cora, the gypsy girl, affected the sympathies of the audi- 
 ence; but had no effect on the legal progress of the case. 
 
 The counsel for defence called no witnesses. He had 
 none to call. The case against the prisoner was over- 
 whelming; and the prisoner positively refused to give 
 the least assistance towards establishing his innocence. 
 His solicitor begged, prayed, implored him to say where 
 he had spent the evening, or to give some evidence that 
 would establish an alibi; or even to declare his innocence. 
 No! He maintained a stubborn and sullen silence; and 
 neither the appeals of his lawyer nor the tearful expos- 
 tulations of his friends had any effect upon him. It was 
 quite clear to lawyer and counsel, to warder and jailor, 
 that Dicky Duggan would die a felon's death. 
 
 Half-ashamed of the wretched defence he had to make, 
 knowing its inutility, and conscious of its hollowness, the 
 senior barrister arose, and after a few words, he rested
 
 460 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 the entire case for the defence on the evidence of the bar- 
 maid, and the untrustworthiness of the witnesses. He 
 seemed to score a point by showing how utterly impossible 
 it was for the prisoner to reach the scene of the murder, 
 which it was averred had taken place before seven o'clock 
 that night, for the barmaid had sworn that he could 
 not have left the public-house before half -past six; and 
 there were four miles at least between the public-house 
 and the scene of the murder. He then raked up in that 
 strong, vituperative manner which characterizes the Bar, 
 the history and antecedents of the gypsies; proved that 
 they were utterly disreputable; and volunteered to show 
 that they had been expelled from Duggan's house again 
 and again for rude language or conduct, and that they 
 had a bias against the family. Finally, he developed 
 the sergeant's evidence, and proved that the words used 
 by Duggan when arrested, manifestly showed his inno- 
 cence of the crime. He wound up his address by warning 
 the jury of the dangers of entertaining merely circumstan- 
 tial evidence; and hinted broadly that it was a matter of 
 public notoriety that judicial murders had been committed 
 on exactly such evidence as was now submitted to the jury. 
 
 The barmaid, recalled again, swore that Duggan could 
 not have left the house before half-past six o'clock that 
 evening, because the Angelus-bell had rung out a con- 
 siderable time before he had departed. 
 
 The learned judge asked rather demurely what was 
 the Angelus-bell to which reference had been made so 
 often during the trial. 
 
 The counsel for defence, who was a Roman Catholic, 
 explained that it was a continuation amongst a conser- 
 vative people, and one tenacious of tradition, of the old 
 curfew-bell, of which his Lordship had read. 
 
 "And at what hour does the curfew-bell ring?" asked 
 the judge. "Does it not change with the seasons?" 
 
 But someone had mercifully passed on a slip of paper 
 to counsel, who now declared with evident consciousness 
 of superior intelligence:
 
 THE TRIAL 461 
 
 "No! my Lord!" he said. "In this country, it is 
 always rung at six o'clock in the evening!" 
 
 The sergeant, recalled, stated that the g5rpsies were 
 utterly disreputable characters; and that charges of 
 stealing fowl, fortune-telling, and other such nefarious 
 practices were often alleged against them. 
 
 "Alleged?" said the Solicitor-General. "Were they 
 ever proved, sergeant?" 
 
 And the sergeant shook his head mournfully. He 
 had never secured a conviction against them. 
 
 He was again interrogated about the prisoner's language 
 when he was arrested; and he admitted that the prisoner 
 seemed surprised that it was Kerins, and not the parish 
 priest, who had been killed. 
 
 Again interrogated, he said he had taken measurements 
 of the distance between the public-house and the scene of 
 the murder; and found the distance to be three miles, 
 seven furlongs, three yards, and two feet. 
 
 "Could the prisoner have possibly reached on foot the 
 scene of the murder, if he had not left the public-house 
 before half -past six?" 
 
 "No!" said the sergeant. "That is, if the murder was 
 actua ly committed in the spot where we found the dead 
 man." 
 
 At which remark, the Solicitor-General smiled. 
 
 The prisoner's father testified that the gypsies were 
 regarded as dishonest and disreputable characters in the 
 parish; and Pete and his daughter had been driven by 
 the old woman from the house for improper language 
 from time to time. 
 
 " Do you believe," asked the junior counsel for prose- 
 cution, "that they cherished any particular animosity 
 against your family, so that they would swear falsely 
 against the prisoner?" 
 
 And the old man had to answer, "No." 
 
 "One more question," said counsel. "I did not intend 
 to ask you to give evidence against your son; but as the 
 opposing counsel, my learned friend opposite, has put
 
 462 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 you in the chair, perhaps you would answer. Is that 
 pike," pointing to the weapon lying on the table, the 
 one prong still rusty from its ghastly work, " your prop- 
 erty?" 
 
 "It is," said the old man. 
 
 "In whose hands did you last see it?" 
 
 "In my son's!" was the reply. 
 
 The old man turned around and paused for a few 
 seconds, looking wistfully at his son. Then, brushing 
 aside a tear, he descended the steps. 
 
 This closed the evidence; and the junior counsel for 
 defence rose up, and pulled his gown over his shoulders. 
 He was a young man, and therefore eloquent; and as 
 he drew on the vast resources of his oratory, a smile 
 rippled over the faces of the older and more prosaic men. 
 He addressed himself to one point only — the danger 
 of convicting on circumstantial evidence, and the awful 
 responsibility entailed on the consciences of the jurors by 
 reason of the fact that only circumstantial evidence had 
 been adduced in support of the case. He insisted 
 strongly that there was some grave mystery hidden be- 
 hind the apparent certainties that had been brought under 
 their notice; and he quoted the saying of Cora, the gypsy 
 girl, and her evident conviction, that notwithstanding her 
 own evidence the prisoner was innocent of the crime. He 
 tried to torture the minds of the jurors by the sugges- 
 tion that if they sent the prisoner to the gallows, the 
 time would come, when, under the light of fresh reve- 
 lations, they would look back with remorse and horror 
 on the terrible miscarriage of justice that would be 
 perpetrated that day, if they brought in a verdict 
 of "Guilty!" 
 
 Then the Solicitor-General arose, and in a few words 
 tore into tatters the little web of oratory which his " very 
 young but learned friend" had spun before their eyes. 
 And with a brevity that was more alarming, because 
 more assured than the lengthiest speech, he marshalled 
 facts and motives, so as to leave no room whatever on 
 
 i
 
 THE TRIAL 463 
 
 the mind of the vast audience that filled the courthouse, 
 of Dick Duggan's guilt. 
 
 The jurors, who shuffled uneasily under the infliction 
 of the speech for the defence, looked relieved at the 
 brevity of the prosecuting counsel's address. Their 
 minds were evidently made up. They seemed to wait 
 impatiently for the judge's final charge.
 
 CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 An Apparition 
 
 During the terrible tragedy, the old woman sat back 
 amongst the benches behind the dock. Her face was 
 nearly covered by the hood of the black cloak that she 
 had worn since her marriage. Her white cap, frilled 
 and ironed, shone beneath it; but her face was shrouded 
 as if with the shame and pain of the ordeal through 
 which she was passing. She was rolling her beads through 
 her fingers during the trial; and seemed, in her communion 
 with God, to be oblivious of all around her. But when 
 the final crisis was approaching, she raised her head, 
 and looked ever and again anxiously toward the door 
 of the court. But her heart fell, when the crowd seemed 
 to thicken, as the trial progressed, and no messenger 
 from God appeared to rekindle her hopes, or reassure 
 her faith. Yet these hopes smouldered on, until the 
 final appeal, absolute and convincing, was made; and 
 the judge, with all the solemnity of his high office in- 
 creased by the gravity of the case, proceeded to reca- 
 pitulate and sift the evidence before him. 
 
 He commenced at once by laying down the law about 
 circumstantial evidence, endorsing the remarks of the 
 prosecuting counsel, that in very few cases was a murderer 
 caught red-handed in his guilt, and that thus justice 
 would be completely frustrated, if convictions could not 
 be obtained on circumstantial evidence. That evidence, 
 however, should be of a nature that would make guilt 
 a moral certainty — a clear, logical deduction from facts 
 and motives converging toward a final issue. If this 
 chain of facts and motives lacked one link, the pre- 
 
 464 
 
 i
 
 AN APPARITION 465 
 
 sumption should be in the prisoner's favour. If the chain 
 were complete, it was equivalent to direct evidence; and 
 the presumption of guilt became a certainty. It was 
 for the jury to consider and weigh the evidence in the 
 present case, with a view of determining whether, in their 
 judgment, the alleged conversations and facts tended to 
 produce not only a prima facie case against the prisoner 
 at the bar; but also an absolute conviction that this 
 brutal murder, by which an innocent man lost his life 
 in a violent and savage manner, was perpetrated by the 
 unhappy man in the dock, and by no one else. 
 
 He then went into the evidence, word by word, and 
 fact by fact, referring to his notes, which he had care- 
 fully taken down. On the question of motive and the 
 repeated declarations of the prisoner that he would seek 
 to be revenged on the murdered man, there appeared to 
 be no room for doubt; for if the evidence of the gypsies 
 were discredited, there was still supplementary evidence 
 that the prisoner did threaten violence, or rather a violent 
 death, against the murdered man repeatedly. The evi- 
 dence again as to the ownership of the pike, the instru- 
 ment of the murder, was unassailable. But there were 
 two points that needed clearing up. These were the 
 strange expressions used by the prisoner to the Sergeant of 
 Police who arrested him, and in which he seemed to have 
 expected the death of his parish priest, and not of Kerins; 
 and the evidence of the barmaid that he could not have left 
 the pubUc-house before half-past six on the night of the 
 murder; and the evidence of the police that it was about 
 seven o'clock when the intimation of the tragedy reached 
 them. It was for the jury to determine whether it was 
 possible for the prisoner to cover four miles of ground 
 and perpetrate an atrocious crime within that interval; 
 or whether they would accept the theory of the Crown 
 that the murder was committed much nearer the public- 
 house, and the body driven towards the town with a 
 view of screening the murderer. It was most unfortunate, 
 the judge added, that no evidence was adduced by the 
 31
 
 466 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 defence to show the whereabouts of the prisoner that 
 night; but the jury would now have to determine whether 
 these varied circumstances brought home guilt to the 
 prisoner in the dock, or whether there was still a grave 
 doubt as to his connection with the murder. The respon- 
 sibility of determining his guilt or innocence was probably 
 the greatest that could be laid on the consciences of men; 
 and he conjured them to bring to their consideration of 
 the case an unbiassed and unprejudiced judgment, not 
 leaning to the side of justice by any presumptions of 
 guilt, nor to the side of mercy by any false notions of 
 pity; but examining patiently and minutely the evidence 
 and arguments on both sides, and bringing in their ver- 
 dict, fearless of any consequences but the violation of 
 their solemn oaths. 
 
 Here the jury retired, and the judge also arose. It 
 was noticed that as he did so, he leaned down, and seemed 
 to be searching for something, or placing something near 
 his hand ; and the whisper ran around the court : 
 
 " He's lookin' for the black cap ! " 
 
 But all public interest was now more keenly aroused, 
 when the prisoner's mother, suddenly standing up in her 
 place in the court, and flinging back the quilted hood 
 of her black cloak, shouted passionately as she stretched 
 her right-hand toward the door: 
 
 "Make way, there: make way there, I say, for the 
 minister of God, who is come to save my child!" 
 
 She stood rigid as a statue, her right-hand extended 
 toward the door, where now was distinctly seen above 
 the heads of the multitude the pale face darkened by 
 the deep-blue spectacles of Dr. William Gray. He was 
 pushing his way slowly through the dense mass of people, 
 who surged around him and helped to block his way in 
 their new excitement. The judge paused, and sat down. 
 The crier yelled: "Silence!" which the police repeated 
 from man to man, till it died away in an echo at the door; 
 and at length by dint of pushing and elbowing, the tall 
 figure of the great priest came round the dock, and
 
 AN APPARITION 467 
 
 approached the place where the counsel and solicitors for 
 the defence were sitting. Here there was a hurried con- 
 ference, pens and pencils flying furiously over sheets of 
 paper, while the deepest silence reigned in court, and the 
 judge looked down interested and curious, and the counsel 
 for the Crown looked anxious and amazed. 
 
 At length, the leading barrister for the defence arose, 
 and said: 
 
 "An unexpected circumstance has arisen in the case, 
 my Lord; and I request permission to have the jury 
 recalled for a few moments." 
 
 The Solicitor-General at once protested vigorously. 
 
 "The case is closed, my Lord," he said. "The fullest 
 time was given to the gentlemen in charge of the defence 
 to summon witnesses in the prisoner's favour. I presume 
 the reverend gentleman, who has just appeared in court, 
 is about to give evidence as to character. That can be 
 done when the jury have brought in their verdict. I 
 '^ totally object to have the case opened again." 
 
 " It is certainly unusual and irregular, Mr. ," said 
 
 the judge, addressing the counsel for the defence, " to 
 have the case reopened when the jury are consulting 
 about their verdict. But, perhaps, you would acquaint 
 the court with the nature of the circumstance to which 
 you have alluded, and its bearing on the case?" 
 
 "Certainly, my Lord," said the lawyer. "This gentle- 
 man, Dr. William Gray, late parish priest of the place 
 where the murder was committed, has come hither at 
 great inconvenience to testify that on the night of the 
 murder, the prisoner was at his house at seven o'clock, 
 and this proves so complete an alihi, that I demand the 
 prisoner's immediate discharge." 
 
 " Why was not the reverend gentleman here at the 
 earlier stages of the trial?" demanded the judge. 
 
 " He was fully prepared to come," was the answer, 
 "but he lost his train, and hastened hither by car. The 
 evidence is so important that it cannot be overlooked." 
 
 It was quite true the old priest had missed his train;
 
 468 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 and in an agony of remorse had hurried hither, driving 
 his horse furiously the thirty miles that lay between his 
 house and the City. Ever since the murder, or rather 
 since the committal of Duggan, his mind had been the 
 prey of unusual emotions. The sense of shame and 
 personal dishonour for having used physical violence 
 toward an illiterate peasant, gradually developed into a 
 feeling of compassion for his victim; and when the latter 
 lay under the frightful charge of murder, this sentiment 
 of pity was deepened and intensified, until it almost 
 took on the aspect of the pity of great love. Duggan's 
 demeanour, too, since the blow fell upon him — his total 
 change of manner, his silence, and, above all, his intense 
 remorse and despair for having struck a priest, touched 
 the old man deeply. His was one of those dispositions 
 that are as hard as granite toward the proud and the 
 obstinate, but are instantly melted into compassion at 
 the first indication of sorrow or remorse. Hence, as 
 reports daily reached his ears of Duggan's manifest con- 
 trition and horror at his conduct, he grew more deeply 
 interested in his case, and what he had originally deter- 
 mined to do through a mere sense of justice, he now 
 determined to accomplish thoroughly through a new- 
 born and affectionate interest in the unhappy man. 
 Perhaps, too, the revelation was opening up wider and 
 wider to his view, that he had badly blundered during 
 life by mis aking the lower laws, which serve to bind 
 society together, for the higher law that sweetens and 
 strengthens all human life; and looking back on his 
 ministry of a quarter of a century, he began to see that 
 its fruits would have been greater, if he had taken more 
 deeply to heart the Divine Words: "A new commandment 
 I give you." 
 
 It is easy, therefore, to conjecture his agitation and 
 terror, when, on the morning of the trial, having dressed 
 with unusual care, he drove to the railway station to 
 find that the only train that would reach Cork for hours, 
 had already departed. He had an idea of going to the
 
 AN APPARITION 469 
 
 City the night before; but the dread of meeting people, 
 and sleeping in a strange room, deterred him. Now, 
 half-mad with the terror of thinking that the life of his 
 unhappy parishioner might be lost through his neglect, 
 for he felt, with a pang of reproach, how inexorable was 
 the law, he determined to drive straight to the City, 
 taking his chances of being in time. 
 
 "She'll never do it, yer reverence," said the jarvey, 
 whose horse he had hired, and who did not relish the idea 
 of driving thirty miles a. a furious rate of speed. 
 
 "If she is killed, I'll pay you," was the answer. And 
 so he reached the courthouse as the jury retired; and the 
 big beads of perspiration on his forehead, and the tremu- 
 lous motions of his hands, showed the tremendous agony 
 through which he had passed. 
 
 After a good deal of forensic sparring, the judge re- 
 called the jury; and the aged priest was helped into the 
 witness-box. He was sworn, and gave his name as Dr. 
 William Gray, late parish priest of the united parishes 
 of Doonvarragh, Lackagh, and Athboy; but now retired. 
 
 " Do you remember the evening of February the seventh 
 in the present year?" he was asked. 
 
 " Yes!" he replied. 
 
 "Would you detail the circumstances that brought 
 you into connection with the prisoner that night?" 
 
 "I was in my room that night, the room which serves 
 me as library and sitting-room, when a single knock was 
 heard at the door. My housekeeper announced that 
 Duggan wished to see me, adding that he seemed under 
 the influence of drink. I went into the hall; and he at 
 once made a most insulting observation — " 
 
 "Would you be good enough to tell the jury what it 
 was?" 
 
 "Is it necessary?" the priest asked, in a pleading 
 manner. 
 
 "Yes! It is necessary!" 
 
 The priest waited for a moment, as if summoning up 
 courage to bear this latest trial; and then said:
 
 470 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "He said: 'I wants to ask you a question. Why 
 didn't you denounce from the altar your niece for eloping 
 with young Wycherly, when you never spared any poor 
 girl before? ' These might not have been his exact words, 
 but they were the equivalent." 
 
 "Very good. And then?" 
 
 " Then I am sorry to say that I lost temper and caught 
 hold of him violently by the neck-cloth, and pushed him 
 against the wall, or the door of the opposite room. In 
 an agony of rage, or perhaps to defend himself, he struck 
 me with his left-hand full on the forehead, breaking my 
 glasses. These are the marks." 
 
 And he raised his blue spectacles to show the faint 
 scars where the steel of the broken one had pene- 
 trated. 
 
 There was some sensation in court here; and the old 
 woman muttered aloud: 
 
 "The blagard! Hanging is too good for him now!" 
 
 "I then swung him round and round the hall," 
 continued the priest, " and finally flung him out through 
 the open door, where he lay face down on the gravel. 
 I locked and bolted the door; and gave the matter no 
 further heed. It was only when I was retiring to rest 
 at ten o'clock, that I heard him raise himself from the 
 gravel before the hall-door, and go away." 
 
 "Can you state exactly the hour when all this oc- 
 curred?" asked counsel. 
 
 " Yes! The clock on my mantelpiece was just chiming 
 seven, when I returned to my room." 
 
 "Is your clock correct?" asked the judge. 
 
 "Absolutely," said the priest. 
 
 "Did you read the dial; for perhaps it might oc- 
 cur that the hours are not struck according to the 
 figures." 
 
 "No! I'm blind!" was the mournful admission; and 
 a murmur of sympathy seemed to run through the court. 
 "But there can be no doubt of the hour. The clock is 
 absolutely correct." 
 
 ! 
 
 I
 
 AN APPARITION 471 
 
 "And presuming that this is so, what is the exact 
 distance between the presbytery and the public-house?" 
 
 "A little over two miles!" he said. 
 
 " And would it be humanly possible for a man to trav- 
 erse the road to M , a distance of four miles, commit 
 
 a murder with all its ghastly details, return to the Cross, 
 and walk two miles towards your house in the space of 
 less than half an hour?" 
 
 ''That question answers itself," said the priest. 
 
 He was then cross-examined. 
 
 " You are no longer parish priest of Doonvarragh, and 
 the other unnameable places?" 
 
 "No! I'm retired!" 
 
 "And you came here to-day to do a good turn for 
 your old friends?" 
 
 "I came to testify the truth. Duggan was my worst 
 enemy." 
 
 "And a thoroughly and essentially bad character, I 
 presume?" 
 
 "No! He is hot-headed and turbulent, especially in 
 drink; and he is a loud boaster. But he is incapable of 
 committing a great crime." 
 
 "Now, sir, you have said that the clock was chiming 
 'seven' when you returned to your room?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "Now, don't you think it very unlikely that in the 
 state of high excitement in which you were after your 
 alleged rencontre with the prisoner, you would count 
 the strokes of a clock?" 
 
 " I didn't count them," said the priest. 
 
 "Then why did you swear the clock was chiming 
 'seven'?" 
 
 "Because the clock had struck six, quarter after six, 
 half -past six, the three-quarters; and I knew I was in 
 the hall only a few minutes." 
 
 " I see. And you also allege that the prisoner remained 
 on your gravel walk prostrate for three hours. Do you 
 think that credible; or were you not deceived?"
 
 472 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Not in the least. He was more than half -drunk; 1 
 swung him and threw him with much violence. No one 
 else could be in the vicinity at such an hour." 
 
 " I have no more to ask," said counsel. " It is for 
 your Lordship to say to the jury, how far they can accept 
 such evidence against the overwhelming case against the 
 prisoner." 
 
 "One question more," said the judge. "You aver 
 that the prisoner fell face downwards on the gravel, and 
 remained there?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "And that he was flung with much violence?" 
 
 "I'm sorry to say, Yes!" 
 
 "There can be no doubt, gentlemen," said the judge, 
 turning toward the jury, "that the evidence of the rev- 
 erend gentleman puts this case in a different aspect. It 
 supplies the information, sullenly withheld by the pris- 
 oner, as to his movements after leaving the public- 
 house. It also goes far towards explaining the nature 
 of the blood-stains which the prisoner was striving to 
 wash away when arrested in the cow-house; and it also 
 seems to explain the strange language used by the pris- 
 oner when arrested, when he expressed his horror on 
 supposing that his parish priest had been murdered, and 
 his subsequent unconcern when he found it was Kerins. 
 When he said: 'Is he dead? I suppose I'll swing for it,' 
 it was clearly under the conviction that the blow which 
 he had struck in the hall of the presbytery had had fatal 
 consequences. And when he said subsequently: 'Kerins? 
 Is that all?' it may have expressed his sense of relief 
 that the death of his priest was not upon his soul. Of 
 course, it is for you to determine the value you place 
 on the reverend gentleman's testimony, which, as you 
 have perceived, involved revelations personal to himself, 
 which must have been very humiliating. You will also 
 notice the trouble and inconvenience to which an old, 
 infirm, and blind clergyman has put himself voluntarily
 
 AN APPARITION 473 
 
 in order to save the life of one who was persistently and 
 cruelly hostile to him. Yet, sympathy with such hero- 
 ism must not blind you to the other facts put into evi- 
 dence by the Crown. The admission that the weapon 
 that caused death was the property of the prisoner, and 
 seen last in his possession by his own father, tells terribly 
 against him — " 
 
 "Maybe the pike was stolen for the purpose?" said a 
 shrill voice from the place where the witnesses of the 
 Crown were marshalled behind the Crown counsel. 
 
 All eyes turned in that direction and saw Cora, the 
 gypsy girl, in her favourite attitude, elbow on knee, and her 
 chin resting on her hand, and her great black eyes calmly 
 surveying the vast multitude that filled the court. 
 
 "Remove that girl instantly!" shouted the judge; and 
 Cora was hustled ignominiously out of court. But the 
 judge was disconcerted, and wound up his address to 
 the jury by briefly saying: 
 
 " AH these things are now subjects for your deliberation, 
 gentlemen. You will please retire again; and may the 
 God of Truth and Justice guide your decision." 
 
 The judge descended from the bench; the jury retired; 
 but in less than ten minutes returned with their verdict. 
 The judge was recalled, and resumed his seat; and the 
 stillness and silence of death fell upon the court. 
 
 " Have you agreed to your verdict, gentlemen? " said 
 the clerk of the court. 
 
 "Yes!" replied the foreman, handing down his paper. 
 
 " You find that the prisoner, Richard, alias Dick Duggan, 
 is NOT GUILTY of the murder of Edward Kerins?" 
 
 "Yes!" was the reply. 
 
 A sigh of relief was whispered through the court. The 
 judge said: 
 
 " I thoroughly agree with your verdict, although the case 
 lies enshrouded in mystery. The prisoner is discharged ! " 
 
 A roar of triumph shook the building, and caught up 
 by the multitude waiting outside, was carried down along 
 the street.
 
 474 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 Dazed and stupid, Dick Duggan was led from the dock; 
 and his arms were half torn from their sockets by hand- 
 shakings and congratulations. Then it was remembered 
 that his mother had the first right to see him and embrace 
 him, and he was led through the crowd to where she was 
 sitting. She had been crying with deHght and happiness; 
 but when her son was brought to her, she looked at him 
 sternly, instead of embracing him on his rescue from a 
 horrible and shameful death, and sternly said: 
 
 "Is it thrue what the priesht said, that you struck 
 him, that you dar lay your hands on the ministher of 
 God?" 
 
 "Lave the poor fellow alone, Mrs. Duggan," said the 
 more compassionate neighbours. " He has gone through 
 enough already." 
 
 But this would not do. She pushed the poor fellow 
 before her rudely, and forced him on his knees before the 
 priest, who was still communing with the lawyers. 
 
 " Go down on your two knees," she said, " and ask 
 pardon of God and the minister of God for what you 
 done." 
 
 The old priest turned around, and groping in the air, 
 he laid his hand at last on the thick black hair of the 
 unhappy culprit. 
 
 "There 'tis all right, now, Mrs. Duggan," he said, 
 "Dick will be a good boy for evermore." 
 
 But the old woman, lifting up her face and hands 
 toward heaven, cried: 
 
 "Oh, vo, vo, vo, vo! And to think the people never 
 knew you till they lost you!" 
 
 And the priest, heard the echo in his own heart: 
 
 "Oh woe, woe! And I never knew the people till I 
 lost them!" 
 
 He would have gladly escaped now from the crowd that 
 still filled the street, but he had to make his way slowly 
 through them ; and he had an ovation a king might envy, 
 as he forged his way with difficulty to the car that was
 
 AN APPARITION 475 
 
 to bear him to the railway station. And as he went, 
 he saw through his bHndness the dark ramparts and 
 sullen fortifications with which society seeks to save it- 
 self from itself, slowly crumble and fall, and above in 
 the empyrean, the Eternal Star of Love shine liquid and 
 resplendent.
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII 
 
 "It is the Law" 
 
 The murder of Ned Kerins, as the judge said, remained 
 shrouded in mystery. Not the slightest suspicion at- 
 tached to the gypsy, although it was commonly surmised 
 from the remarks of the gypsy girl, that the tribe knew 
 more than they cared to reveal. And one morning, 
 Dunkerrin Castle, the old keep down by the sea, was un- 
 tenanted again. In the midnight a strange hulk loomed 
 up over the waters far out at sea; and a couple of boats 
 containing the gypsy family and all their belongings shot 
 alongside. The boats were rowed homewards empty by 
 one man, who soon after disappeared; and a few rags of 
 wretched bedding, and some broken tins alone marked 
 the place where the uncanny people had dwelt. They 
 carried their secret with them. f 
 
 One alone seemed to divine what had happened. That 
 was Dick Duggan, and he held his peace. He was now 
 a changed man. All the fierce violence of his nature 
 had culminated and broken out on that night when he 
 had committed the unpardonable crime of laying hands 
 on a priest; and he was smitten, as we have seen, with a 
 sudden remorse, that seemed to have opened up the dark 
 gulf of his life, and shown him all its horrors. It was no 
 passing contrition, therefore, that made him wish for 
 death, when death stared him in the face; but a desire 
 to make atonement for a great crime, and to escape the 
 odium and shame that attached to it. And now that he 
 was saved from an ignominious death by the very man 
 he had pursued with such hatred during many years of 
 his life, his character underwent one of those sudden 
 
 476
 
 "IT IS THE LAW" 477 
 
 transformations that may be witnessed in strong and 
 turbulent natures under the visitation of great trial. 
 Dick Duggan became a model man. All the riotous 
 fun and fierceness of his disposition gave way under a 
 subdued and solemn melancholy, which would have been 
 a subject for Celtic jests and laughter, but that the tragedy 
 of his life was so well known. He worked late and early 
 at the farm; was assiduous in the performance of his 
 religious duties; was respectful and helpful to the priests. 
 And gradually, the old-time intimacy with Martha Kerins 
 began to be resumed. For she was young and a widow, 
 and inexperienced ; and she needed advice about the buy- 
 ing and selling of cattle, the rotation of crops, etc. ; and her 
 people were far away, and Dick Duggan was so often only 
 on the other side of the ditch, and it became so easy to 
 consult him. And Dick was very obliging and courteous, 
 and had forsworn drink, and therefore had a clear head; 
 and so things went on, until one day it suddenly dawned 
 on him that he might become master of the coveted 
 Crossfields for the asking. And he did ask, and was 
 accepted. There was some reclamation on the part of 
 her friends, not because of Dick's antecedents, but because 
 he had no means or money; but Martha, like every good 
 woman, had a will of her own, and she duly asserted it. 
 Her first husband, by the marriage settlement, had 
 left everything to her; and she used her own discretion 
 in disposing of it. 
 
 So peace settled down on the united parishes of 
 Doonvarragh, Lackagh, and Athboy — peace after a 
 turbulent and trying time. But their priests were gone 
 — and there was shame in the hearts of the people for 
 many a long day. 
 
 Henry Listen, who was in thorough touch and sym- 
 pathy with his pastor during all the troublous time, 
 could not remain in the parish after him. He argued. 
 If one so great and good, one, too, who so loved his 
 people that he would have died for them, found yet but
 
 478 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 disappointment in life and ingratitude in human hearts, 
 what could a weakling, like himself, expect? No. He 
 felt he was not made for the rough play and tumble of 
 life, and he sought peace. Besides, certain letters em- 
 anating from that far-off convent, where the sisters, 
 when they were hungry, pulled the convent bell for food, 
 and sat on the bare floor while eating it, began to reveal 
 to him many things. And amongst the rest! this, That, 
 amidst all the "storm and stress" of modern life, the 
 cries and creaking of the chariots of Progress on their 
 way toward some final goal, which no man sees or fore- 
 sees, and the frantic appeals to the Church and her priests 
 to come out of the sanctuary, and put their shoulders 
 to the chariot-wheels that are forever sinking into the 
 ruts of revolution, perhaps there might be a few souls, 
 who, unpossessed of the physical or intellectual strength 
 that is the first factor in modern progress, might go aside, 
 and help a little by lifting their hands in prayer to the 
 Unseen Powers, that have more to say in the direction 
 of human events than the progressivists and utilitarians 
 of the age will allow. And so, he sought peace for him- 
 self and power for many in a quiet little monastery, 
 where there was no activity, no machinery, no economic 
 problems to solve; only the old-fashioned and completely 
 out of date routine, day by day, and night by night, of 
 fasting, contemplation, prayer. And there, under the 
 name of Father Alexis, he lived as unknown and unno- 
 ticed as the Saint whose name he was elected to bear. 
 
 But the shame on the hearts of the people was greatest 
 for their pastor, whom they felt they had expelled and 
 driven forth from amongst them. He had taken a long, 
 low-roofed cottage in another parish, about a mile to 
 the west of the place where he had ministered for a quarter 
 of a century. A little suite of three rooms ran in front 
 of the house; beyond was a potato-patch badly cultivated 
 and showing but dockweeds and thistles. Beyond the 
 fence of the potato-patch were great sand-dunes, where 
 
 2
 
 "IT IS THE LAW" 479 
 
 the sea-thistles grew in profusion; and these sloped down 
 into a firm, glistening, sandy beach, where the waves 
 thundered at high-tide, and the sea-swallows perched at 
 the ebb of the waters to watch and capture their living 
 food. All the rooms faced the sea; and there he fell 
 asleep on wintry nights, lulled by the soft splash of the 
 waves, or rejoicing in their thunder-voices; and on the 
 long summer days he sat outside on a rude bench, fanned 
 by the sea-breezes, or warmed by the sun. And here 
 one day, there stole across the sands, and across the potato- 
 patch, and into the kitchen that very Annie who, he 
 almost swore in his wrath, should never come under his 
 roof-tree again. 
 
 It was the autumn time, and she and Dion had been at 
 home for a few days only, when the terrible aching at her 
 heart to see her suffering and abandoned uncle compelled 
 her to set aside every feeling of dread, and brave the 
 chances of rejection. For she did not know, how could 
 she? of the mighty change that had been wrought in his 
 heart; and she pictured in her girlish imagination her 
 uncle as she had first seen him, tall and powerful and 
 imposing, his gray eyes scanning her face, and his aqui- 
 line features softening under the tenderness of a first 
 greeting. And in her ears were echoing (they never ceased 
 to echo) the sharp and bitter words with which he pro- 
 nounced the sentence of her expulsion, and bade her never 
 dream of seeing him again. How could she know, that 
 his heart, too, was aching after her? How could she hear 
 him call "Annie!" in the midnight, when no voice came 
 in response save the soft or hoarse whispers of the deep? 
 
 She stood at the kitchen door, and the old housekeeper 
 almost fainted when she saw her. Then there were greet- 
 ings and questions in hushed tones; and there were tears 
 over a past that was sombre enough to the eyes of both 
 women. 
 
 A hundred times Annie asked the old housekeeper, 
 "How is he? Had he everything he required? Was 
 there any lack of the little comforts he would require
 
 480 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY ; 
 
 in his old age? Did the people remember him? Who 
 came to see him?" 'H 
 
 And the old woman could answer that he was well: ? 
 but changed, sadly changed to her eyes. 
 
 "He's almost like a child now, Miss, or perhaps I 
 should say, Ma'am, He sits all day, thinking and pray- 
 ing, but never talking. But, whin any of the prieshts 
 comes, he sees 'em, and talks to 'em in the ould way. 
 The people? Ah, the people! They sees now their 
 mistake, and the crachures are doing their besht. See 
 here. Miss, or maybe, I should say, Ma'am!" 
 
 And she took Annie out and showed her a whole aviary 
 of young turkeys, geese, and hens, cackling melodiously 
 in the yard, or straying for food across the potato-patch. 
 
 "And sure ould Mrs. Duggan comes down every week, 
 — ah! she's the dacent ould shtock, altho' her son was 
 a blagard; but he's all right now; and she doesn't know 
 what she can do for the priesht. But still he's lonesome, 
 Miss, or maybe I should say. Ma'am; lonesome for some- 
 thin' ; and I do be sometimes afeard that maybe the death 
 is comin' on him." 
 
 " I wonder if I could see him, Anne, without his knowing 
 it?" •>. 
 
 " Yerra, sure I'll tell him, Miss, that you're here." 
 
 "Oh, no! not for the world, Anne," she said, in a great 
 fright. "I mean not now, some other time; and don't 
 tell him for your life that I've been here." 
 
 "Faix, I won't, Miss, for he'd kill me if he knew it, 
 and knew I didn't tell him." 
 
 "But I'll come again. Tell me now, when you go in 
 or out of his room, does he know you, or speak to 
 you?" 
 
 " Yerra, no, Miss. Sure he never opens his lips to me. 
 I takes him in his breakfast and dinner; and I removes 
 the things; and he never says, 'Iss, Aye, or No,' no more 
 than if I wor never there at all." 
 
 " And do you think now, if I — that is, supposing 
 that I took your place some day, and went in with dinner,
 
 "IT IS THE LAW" 481 
 
 do you think he would know that it wasn't you that was 
 there?" 
 
 " Yerra, how could he, Miss — Ma'am, I should say? 
 That is, onless you spoke to him." 
 
 " Well, now, I'll come some other day, perhaps to- 
 morrow, and try. You know, Anne, that he is old, 
 and that it would never do to give him a great sur- 
 prise." 
 
 "I suppose so. Miss," said Anne, somewhat incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 " You know old people have sometimes died suddenly 
 from sudden surprises like that. We must go gently, 
 Anne. I wonder could I see his bedroom now? Is 
 there any danger he would know?" 
 
 "Not the laste. Miss," said Anne. "He won't know 
 but you're one of the neighbours come in wid a few 
 chickens." 
 
 They entered the old man's bedroom. It was not too 
 bad. But the heart of the girl sank as her quick eyes 
 noticed the stains on the pillow covers and the counter- 
 pane; and some other aspects of things that showed that 
 the skill of the washerwoman was not often called into 
 requisition. 
 
 But she said nothing, fearing to hurt the feelings of 
 the old domestic. But, as she was going away, she said 
 gaily : 
 
 "There are a lot of linens and things up at the house 
 for which there is no use. I think I'll bring them down 
 to you. And tell me, what does uncle eat?" 
 
 "Oh, wisha. Miss, he doesn't ate as much as a sparrow. 
 He haves a cup of tea in the morning, and a bit of toast 
 about the size of a sixpenny bit. And thin I gets him 
 a chop or i\ chicken for his dinner; but the finest lady 
 in the lana jouldn 't ate less of it. I don't know, I'm sure, 
 how lib lives, at all, at all." 
 
 "Very well, Anne. Now we'll put our heads together, 
 you and I, as we did long ago — do you remember my 
 cooking, Anne?" 
 32
 
 482 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Ah, wisha, Miss, don't I? Sure 'twas you had the 
 light hand — " 
 
 "Very good! Now, we'll commence again; and I'll 
 engage I'll make uncle eat something. Good-bye now! 
 Did I tell you I was married, Anne?" 
 
 "You didn't. Miss; but sure I guessed it. And there 
 was me, like an old fool, callin' you 'Miss' all the time. 
 But sure you looks as young. Miss, as the night you 
 stepped off the car in the rain, and gev us all the fright." 
 
 "Ah me! I was young then. I am older now, Anne, 
 because I have seen a great deal." 
 
 "Wisha thin. Miss, I wish you luck, and may your 
 ondhertakin' thrive wid you. Sure won't the priesht be 
 glad whin he hears it?" 
 
 "Of course," said Annie, dubiously. "But not a word, 
 Anne, not a word that I was here. Remember, I'll come 
 to-morrow again." 
 
 She came, and brought a complete change of linen, 
 etc., for his bedroom; and glided away again without a 
 word with him. The old housekeeper again urged her 
 to go in and speak to her uncle ; but her heart failed her. 
 But his quick senses noticed a change in his bedroom. 
 
 "Anne," said he, half jocularly, "you're becoming 
 quite fashionable. Where did you get the lavender that 
 is in my pillow-covers and bed-linen?" 
 
 Anne coughed behind her hand; and, this seemed to 
 irritate all her bronchial tubes, because she was seized 
 with a sudden paroxysm of coughing and wheezing. 
 When she recovered her breath, she said faintly: 
 
 "I suppose somethin' quare got into the wather; or 
 maybe, 'twas the new soap." 
 
 "Maybe so," he said, and he relapsed into silence 
 again. 
 
 Then one day, Annie summoned up courage, and with 
 a white face and a beating heart, she took the dinner 
 into the old man's room. She nearly fell at the thresh- 
 old; but calling on all her strength, she entered the room, 
 and softly laid the plates and dishes on the table. If he
 
 "IT IS THE LAW" 483 
 
 should speak now, she thought, as her hands trembled! 
 But not a word. And she was able to observe him, as 
 he sat bolt upright in an arm-chair near the window. 
 But her self-possession was near giving way, when she 
 saw the change, which was greater than even she dreaded. 
 For the tall form, though erect, seemed dwarfed and 
 shrunken; the pale face was paler, and she noticed with 
 a gasp of pity that he, who had been so fastidious and 
 particular about his personal appearance, was unshaven, 
 and that his clothes were discolom'ed and soiled. A little 
 rent in the sleeve spoke volumes to her, and the seam 
 of his coat was opened where it fell over his fingers. He 
 held a book in his hand — one of his old calf -bound vol- 
 umes, and his fingers were feeling one of the pages, as 
 if he were striving by the sense of touch to read what was 
 written therein. He made no movement when she entered 
 the room, and seemed not to notice her presence; but, as 
 she was leaving, he gave a little start forward, and seemed 
 to be listening intently. She glided softly from the room, 
 and fell into a chair quite faint and weak with emotion. 
 
 Yet she came every day, always bringing some little 
 article of food or furniture or clothing to make a little 
 happier the lonely life that was now spread before her 
 in all its pathos and solemnity. She didn't seem to know 
 how acute are the senses of the blind; and how the swift 
 intelligence and observation of her uncle were gathering 
 clue after clue from her movements. 
 
 She had now become so accustomed to enter his room 
 unnoticed, that she had become almost reckless, and 
 probably betrayed herself in many little ways. And 
 one day, as she busied herself around the dinner-table, 
 arranging cloths and napkins, she heard her name called 
 softly, and as if by question: 
 
 "Annie?" 
 
 She stood silent, watching him intently. He was 
 leaning forward, as if eager to catch fresh indications of 
 her presence, and yet not quite sure that he was right. 
 But he said again in a louder tone :
 
 484 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Annie, I know 'tis you. Come here!" 
 
 And she went over, and knelt humbly at his feet, 
 placing her clasped hands on his knees. He stretched 
 forth his withered hand, and passed it gently and affec- 
 tionately over her hair, and then more tenderly and rev- 
 erently over the soft lines of her face. She looked up, 
 and saw the tears streaming down the furrowed cheeks, 
 and she knew all. 
 
 "Oh, Uncle, Uncle! and have you quite forgiven me?" 
 
 He said nothing, but drew her more closely to him. 
 Then he found words to say: 
 
 "I knew you'd come. I knew you wouldn't desert 
 me!" 
 
 And that was all. For now in the sunset of his life 
 the clouds had lifted, and were now wreathing themselves 
 in all lovely forms around the little remnant of his life. 
 Annie came every day, and remained with him from 
 luncheon time to dinner. Every day Dion drove her 
 down the four or five miles from Rohira to the home of 
 the lonely priest. At first, he drove back when his young 
 wife had alighted , and came for her again in the evening. 
 But when the great revelation was made he too had to 
 come and stay. When Annie broke to her uncle the fact 
 of her marriage with Dion, he started, and just one flash 
 of the old spirit broke out again. 
 
 "Wycherly? Why, he's a Protestant!" 
 
 But she was able to assure him that she had been faith- 
 ful to her principles, and then she opened up before him, 
 as only a devoted wife could, all the splendours of Dion's 
 character, his fearlessness, his honour, his manliness, his 
 freedom above all from the passion of gain. And many 
 an afternoon was whiled away by Dion's recital of his 
 many adventures by sea and land. And then his voice 
 became softer, as he remembered with just a little touch 
 of conscience, the devotion of his black dependents; and 
 softer still, when he spoke of that grave beneath the 
 African skies, where the stricken brother had found rest. 
 
 "It was poor Jack, sir," he said, "that proposed for
 
 "IT IS THE LAW" 485 
 
 me to Annie. I was too much afraid of her to say all 
 that was in my mind. But Jack, poor fellow, knew 
 it all. And one day, he clasped our hands together 
 above his hammock, and 'twas all done. Of course, 
 Annie told me at once that it could never be, never, 
 never, never! Then I began to find that never meant 
 until — . And then she began to explain to me all about 
 the mysteries of faith; but I had no head for these things. 
 I could box the compass, or shoot a flying fish, or horse- 
 whip a coward; but I couldn't get hold of such slippery 
 things as mysteries and doctrines. So Annie explained 
 to me all about explicit faith. And then the good Padre 
 came; and he said to me, ' Do you believe all the Catholic 
 Church teaches?' And I said, 'If Annie believes all the 
 Church teaches, and I believe all that Annie believes, 
 isn't that the same thing? ' And, by Jove, he was puzzled ; 
 but, of course, he had to say ' Yes!' And I was baptized; 
 and we were spliced. And, by Jove, sir, I hope the Angels 
 will put off my call to glory for some time. I don't 
 want any other heaven just yet." 
 
 At another time in earlier life, the stern old theologian 
 would hardly accept this kind of explicit faith as a pre- 
 liminary to entering the Church; but now he saw by the 
 illumination of sorrow great hidden depths beneath the 
 apparent frivolity of this strong character, and he said 
 nothing. But he asked, with some hesitation, how 
 Dion's father had taken the news of his son's conversion 
 and marriage. 
 
 "Dad? Ah, if you were to see dad. He's twenty 
 years younger since we came home; and when he puts 
 on his velvet jacket, and brushes down his hair on his 
 shoulders, he's quite a beau. One day, we had a funny 
 little scene which explains matters. We were talking 
 about old times, and Jack's terrible illness, and Annie's 
 great tenderness and kindness, and dad said : ' I remember 
 I once expressed a wish that I had a daughter, like you, 
 Annie.' And Annie blushed, and said, ' I heard you, 
 sir!' And that's the reason, I suppose," Dion continued,
 
 486 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 as Annie entered the room, "that Annie set the trap for 
 me; and I, an innocent fellow, fell into it." 
 
 And one day, Annie proposed to her uncle, very mod- 
 estly and gently, that she would read to him some hours 
 each day, at intervals, from his old favourite books, the 
 classics, or the theologians, whom he had never parted 
 with. His face lighted up with pleasure. She took 
 down a Horace, and began to read one of the Odes. The 
 Latin was beyond her own comprehension, for old Horace 
 had a dainty way of saying things. But she had not pro- 
 ceeded far, when he stopped her: 
 
 "Do you think you understand the meaning of that 
 Ode, Annie?" 
 
 "No!" she said. "I recognize a word here and there; 
 and that is all." 
 
 " And 'tis enough," he said. " I think I've had enough 
 of Horace." 
 
 "Well, then, we'll try the magician, Virgil," she said, 
 replacing the Horace, and taking down a Delphin Virgil. 
 
 She read on for some time, opening the pages here and 
 there; but he seemed to be weary of it also. 
 
 " Well, then, here's St. Thomas," she said. " Of course, 
 'tis all Greek to me; but I shall be able to read so that 
 you. Uncle, can follow." 
 
 And she commenced to read slowly and with difficulty 
 from the Summa. He listened more patiently now, and 
 apparently with some pleasure. But, the brain was now 
 less elastic than in former times; and he again showed 
 signs of weariness. 
 
 "I'll tell you what. Uncle," she said gaily, although her 
 heart misgave her, " I'll bring on to-morrow what Dion 
 calls a good rousing novel — lots of fighting and love- 
 making, and thunder and lightning; and I'll put you 
 through a course of them." 
 
 He smiled. He had never read a novel in the whole 
 course of life. 
 
 She kept her word. She brought down not what she
 
 *'IT IS THE LAW" 487 
 
 had suggested; but a tender and gentle tale; but alas! 
 it was full of the tragedy and sorrow of the world. He 
 grew almost angry, 
 
 "Is there not sorrow and trouble enough in real life/' 
 he said, "without wringing our hearts with pictured 
 misery and desolation?" 
 
 And Annie desisted; and looked around her in a hope- 
 less manner. 
 
 There was an old Greek Testament, hidden among 
 his books; and she took it out, and dusted it. 
 
 "Well," she said, "I must keep up my Greek, Uncle. 
 I wonder can I translate this?" 
 
 And she opened the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel 
 of St. John, and began to read. 
 
 This time he did not interrupt her. The soft, sweet 
 music of the Greek, in which are enshrined the solemn 
 messages of the "new Commandment," sank into his 
 soul; and he allowed his niece to read on to the very end 
 of that sublime discourse and prayer for his disciples 
 which the Divine Master uttered under the most solemn 
 circumstances of His life. 
 
 "Take the Douay Testament, and read it for me again, 
 if you are not tired," he said. 
 
 And commencing at the words: "Let not your heart 
 be troubled. You beheve in God, believe also in me," 
 she read uninterruptedly to the end of the seventeenth 
 chapter. 
 
 "That will do!" he said. "That is now my poetry, 
 philosophy, and theology, unto the end. We need no 
 more!" 
 
 And every day, even unto the end, that was his mental 
 food and medicine. He saw at last that the " new Com- 
 mandment " was the " final law " of the universe, although 
 everything in Nature and in Man seems to disprove it; 
 or as that sad poet interpreted it, who, had he lived, 
 would have been the fervent disciple of Him whom he 
 railed against during life:
 
 488 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY 
 
 "Love is celebrated everywhere as the sole law which 
 should govern the moral world." 
 
 It is a doctrine difficult to believe, as the "law" is a 
 difficult one to practise; but the law is final. It is the 
 last word that has been uttered by Divine and human 
 philosophy.
 
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