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THE INTELLECTUALS : An Experiment in Irish Club- Life. 8vo, 6s. LOST ANGEL OF A RUINED PARADISE. A Drama of Modern Life. Crown 8vo, y. 6d. EARLY ESSAYS AND LECTU RES. Crown 8vo, 6*. net. PARERGA. Crown 8vo, 71. 6d. net. LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO., LONDON, NEW YORK, BOMBAY AND CALCl'TTA. The Blindness of Dr. Gray OR The Final Law BY THE VERY REV. CANON P. A. SHEEHAN, D.D. Author of " My A'fw Curate" " Luke Delmege, " ' Glenanaar," " Lt sheen," etc. NEW IMPRESSION LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK, BOMBAY. AND CALCUTTA 1914 Copyright, 1909, by THE DOLPHIN PRESS Copyright, 1909, by LONGMANS, GREEN, AND Co. All rights reserved CONTENTS BOOK I CHAPTER PAGE I. AN AMERICAN LETTER 3 II. A CHANGE OF CURATES . . . .*.- . * i .7 . 14 III. A STRANGE ACCOMPANIMENT . *.'". . . 26 IV. A DEPUTATION ^ : .-\ ... 35 V. ROHIRA i'.v-.,; *a -m.'l A . : / . 117 XIII. UNEXPECTED VISITS <*'- . -fu*" -.a' i'C .'ij,. 126 XIV. A GREAT ARTIST . . . . 4.'.:7 R'C .L . 135 XV. A PEACE-OFFERING . . . ,.*/.,-/ *j . 146 XVI. ROSLEIN ROTH . . . VTTA.I 'XH-UU if I". ,L . 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 "GHosr" IN HAMLET 236 v 2057927 vi CONTENTS BOOK II CHAPTER PAGR 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 . . .> ; . WMMf .-. . 325 XXXIV. THE SEA-SPIRIT VANISHES. .>' V- f '. ' . . 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 XLVIII. "!T is THE LAW" .... 476 BOOK I 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 wintry 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 may 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 cura.tes 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. Listen! 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 O GERALD 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 stern, 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 cairn 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 always 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 their 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 some 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 buildings 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 the 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 OP 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 AGB 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 TVTTTO)?" 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. William 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 Listen 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 Listen 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, "everybody 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 Listen. "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?" echoed 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, Listen, I'll send that on the wings of the wind 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 his 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 every 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 diurnaf '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 av/ay, 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 Listen. " 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 Listen, "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 Hemy Listen, 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 Listen 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?" "All 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 Listen, 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. Gome 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 knowk 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 that 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 Liston thought there were tears in that voice that mocked so freely. 3 ,b:TB ;aid 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 hex 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, raa'ain ! " A STRANGE ACCOMPANIMENT 29 "Where is he now? Is that the bell for the rising 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 hi 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 my 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! 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 "O Thierna! O Thierna! O Thierna!" she received the Holy Communion, and then sank back, silent and happy, on her pillows. What the thoughts and emotions of the grave, stern 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 nighty, 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 hi 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 ringers, 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 34 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY "Yes!" he replied. "On the spur of the moment I wrote, and refused to accept the responsibility 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 modern 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 be warmly carpeted, its walls lined with books, leather- bound, denoting the strength and stress of thought that lay within. There should be a desk, on which writing 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. William Gray had found that care and worry stretch the dura muter 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 lion 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?" "Gome," 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 Garmody 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 your property? " "They're the property of the parish," said the man "Yes! and I'm parish priest," repeated Dr. William 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 sat 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. Garmody 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 wrote 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 liberty, 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 Wycheiiy 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 learn 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 Listen 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 still 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 life, 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 Listoii 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 wcrd 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 Listen, 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 pinch 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 very 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, like 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 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 ringers 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, like 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 livelihood 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 Grossfields. 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 Liston looked up at the ceiling, and around at the bookcases, and finally brought back his wandering gaze to tbe face of his pastor, which was steadily and sternly turned toward the window. "I'm sure I don't know," said Hemy 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, matron, runaway, from Spanish cimarron, wild, unruly, from cima (Fr. time) 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 whining 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 el colitis 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 4iad 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-tinkling? 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, believe 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 everything!" 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 Sinbad 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 Liston 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 hi 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 you'd think it a penance and a punishment to be compelled to read Cooper or Marryat or any of those silly and absurd writers, whose 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 fs, 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 mediaevalism 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 67 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 mediaevalism 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 Altitude! 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 ordinary 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 life. But these things are not absolutely in one's own power, for we cannot control our circumstances; and sometimes the music of life 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 life, would intrude upon his solitude; and with all his brusqueness and asperity, he could not shut the doors of his hospitality against them. But, as one of these visitors irreverently expressed it, "he was like 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 1 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 religion, 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. Ohl 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?" 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 be always get tin' 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 laming 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 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-Ghrist 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, and 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 hid, 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 listened. 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." And 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 '11 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?" 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 'Misa O'FarrelP?" "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 ana 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 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 1 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 thrue, 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 burn down the cow-house, or lame a horse for life and they'd do it!" "Very good," said the priest. "But then the people would get compensation from the court. They wouldn't suffer a penny loss." A QUESTION IN THEOLOGY 89 "Yes, yer reverence. But look at all the throuble. Look at the lawyers, witnesses; and maybe aft her 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 ail, 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 mom- ing," she said. "And now I can't shake hands with you. I am making up some jam-rolls for Anne. 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 doughnut s 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 Listen 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, I'd have taken each of the other fellows in turn, and chucked them out." " 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 tale. 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 cometh forth 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, Father Listen," 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 Listen, 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 Listen 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!" 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 any to your uncle, Miss O'Farrell. They'd shorten his 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. 8 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- ing." " 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 my forefathers lived. You know this old castle belonged to us?" "I know it is called Dunkerrin Gastle," 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, Gora, 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 eveiy 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 lightly; 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 was S T I N G O; 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 nob physicking the pony, although the pony was stamping his "little foot." The "little 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 BLIN 7 DNESS 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 " little 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 little 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 "Good night!" "Good-night!" said Kerbs. "By the way, Pete, I think I'll take that ugly lass of yours in service. I'll 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 ia 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 somethin' 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 transactions. 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 Kellys, 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. Gome 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. 110 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 angry 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 Garmody 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. 9 114 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY He's a hard man, an' you know it. Look at thim poor girls of the Gomerfords 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 Gonway 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 Listen 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 attf" 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 plpce. 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 Italian " 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 / 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 " "Hm!" 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 Csesar 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, "Geetee" There's no such word here. 'Solvite vela citi' that's what 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 ia 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 replied. "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? Gome 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 'Snap! 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 stealing 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 hi 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 '11 never know pace agin here." The same afternoon (it was early in the New Year), one of the leading members of 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 his 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 country, 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 statue, 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 awfid 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 limited 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 political 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 Sonnambida, the little servant, Katie, whom Henry Listen 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 larder] 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 eyes 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! 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 solemn. 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 Listen. " 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 130 '"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 Listen. "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 rum 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 Listen, 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 Listen. "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 Listen. "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 Listen 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 Listen 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 Listen 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 Listen. "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 Listen was abashed in the sight of such genius. Nevertheless, he made his little proposal. 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 politeness, "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 Liston 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 their senses after the fevered feeling at Ghristmastide ; and when the schools reopened after the holidays, 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 individuality, 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 unruffled serenity preluding the eternal calm. 146 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 Caesar 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. Thej'' 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 warns, 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, 1 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." a 'Sh!" said his brother wamingly, 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 knev* 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 Co vent 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 R5SLEIN 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 Listen 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. 166 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 mockeiy 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 slimy 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 eye ! 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 raent 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?" Heniy 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 becaus^ 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 G 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 Collard 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 tho 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 Sdmmtliche Werkef" " 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, RQslein, Rflslein 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 Heidenl" "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 Listen," 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, Rdslein 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 Lai's 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 Den* Sabaothf the words of Goethe's song: RSslein, Rdslein, Rdslein 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 liitherto 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 Listen? 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 linen, 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 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 light 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 Listen 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 bello wings 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 hear 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." 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 ! Whin he wants to drive a poor girl away to America, 'tis the law ! 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 their power." "Tell me something new," said Henry Listen, "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 "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 Listen," 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 Listen, 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 little 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 stern 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 whethor 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. He was bora 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 hi 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 ivines!' Such language from a priest; and such indications of forbidden knowledge. This is worse than Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, Roslein auf der Heiden I ' ' 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 Listen. " 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 Ta.te gallery. All his works are allegorical and symbolic." "They may be," 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 forgetf illness. '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 Listen 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 subptantially 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, Raskin, Roslein roth, Rdslein 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 Listen 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 Liston'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 ! " 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 PROPHECY 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 yet 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 Listen opened?" 200 THE BLINDNESS 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 Listen told me a lot!" "H'm-m-m!" " She's a most delightful girl except Dora Plimsoll, 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 Listen 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 ray 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 I" 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 Listen, 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, denned 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 Listen, 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 hex 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 Listen, Jack!" she repeated; and the two lads shook hands with some reserve toward the stranger. "Now, before the twilight 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. Let 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 eaid, holding out her hand. Dion, who had gone up the hill with Miss Liston, shouted down : 208 THE BLINDNESS OF DR. GRAY " Get away from that old hag, Miss OTarrell. 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 Listen. "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 Listen. "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, I 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 solid 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'Farrell. "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 then* 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 religion?" 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 anny wan 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- bo rs 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 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 compliment, 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. 318 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 Listen 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 Listen 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 peculiar 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 veiy 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 little 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 Listen, 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 goin'. 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 THE BEAST AND THE MAN 223 Listen 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 f 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 thiui by stoppin 1 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 Listen 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 religion. Henry Listen 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 Listen, 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 himsdf! 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 life- 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 like 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 leam the value of words and their meaning? Look at that clock!" Henry 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 i at her 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 acti; 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 proprietor 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 banners kissing the pure mountain air. Did you ever hear it?" "No!" said Henry Listen. "I cannot remember having heard it." "Of course not. But you know: Rdslein, Rdslein, Rdslein 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 Listen, 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 friend/ 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 life, 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 comet; 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 clown 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, Kickharn, and the rest." "You are giving me electric shocks this morning," said Henry Listen 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 cling 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 Listen 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 Listen 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 Listen 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 Listen 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 Listen 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 DOW 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, go 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 loneliness; 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 Listen 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 Listen 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 willing 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 Liston 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 bams, 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 King. 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 Listen 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-fal-la ; your sowl to glory! Welt the flure! your trotters shake! Wasn't it all the truth I told ye Lots of fun at Finigan's wake! 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: "Yebla 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! Here the angry "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 Listen'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 MS 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 Listen whispered to his sister, " Wait for me outside ! " and he leaped up the rud^ steps that led to the stage, and thence to the dressing--oom. The lamp that flared on the wall revealed the perfoimers, more or less in deshabille, as they put off the dnmatic 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 wis bent down between his legs in an atti- tude of mournfii 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 Tiespis in Cork." " They do net ! " said the " Ghost " in an emphatic, but mournful manntr. "So I thought!" aid Henry. "In the name of God, Finigan, what possessed you to take this thing?" He pointed to the vhite 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 'id be your surplus?" said the Ghost. "Shure, you're surplus wouldn't rache to a man's hips. And, beside, wor we goin' to commit a sacrilege by wearin' a prieiht's vestments?" "All I know is," said "}he young priest, "you have committed one in the eyes of the law now, if you cannot get back that article, befre the thing is discovered." "Yarra, make your mine 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 Listen left him in peace. He hastened out to find his sister alone, standhg 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. TVycherly 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 th 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, wre on one wing of the car, Annie and Ned Wycherly Dn the other. The drive was short, barely two miles. Bit 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 p^ay they had just wit- nessed; but it revealed the beast ;hat is in man. But he was unconcerned. Fcr just as they left the priest's gate, a pyramid of flaite shot up into the sky from the summit of the hill, on vhich their father's house was built. "Duggan's rick is on fire!" aid Jack. "No! 'tis Kerins's house ind out-offices," said his brother. "It may be our own!" sai< 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 Listen, 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 quaie thing I found that morning, yer reverence. The Archdayken'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 smiling. 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, Cupps,' sez he. And there'll be no more about it!" BOOK II 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 snowflakes 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 Listen 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 Listen 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 hands 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 beetling and mangling 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 Listen, "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 life," said Miss Listen. "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 Listen, who was struck by this picture of transcendent piety in such a place, "and you must long to lie down and be at 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 life 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 Listen. Their ideas, sentiments, longings seemed to harmonize hi 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 Listen," she said in an aggrieved tone. " Father Listen 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 Listen. "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 Listen 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 18 258 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 life 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 believe 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-sikde 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 Listen 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, Uncle," she said, "you don't, you cannot under- stand. Oh! It is so hard to explain. Believe me, I am not ungrateful 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 counterpleadiugs 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 Listen, 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 hi 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 little 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. 263 264 THE BLINDNESS OP 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- haired 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-red 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 ah 1 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,